The Dragon Revenant (23 page)

Every now and then he looked over to his right, where his wife headed up a table of her own. Since by then Canyffa’s pregnancy was showing noticeably, he worried about her overtiring herself, but she was chatting with her guests and laughing like a lass, very much at her ease and apparently surprised at how well everything was going, just as if she hadn’t spent frantic days planning every detail of the feast with the chamberlain, steward, and head cook. To make sure that the drink was as good as the meat, Canyffa had hired a temporary servitor, too, Twdilla the alemaker. Two days before the feast, the snow had suddenly stopped, much to everyone’s surprise, and Twdilla and her husband had triumphantly driven their wagonload of barrels into town.

At the moment, over in the curve of the wall by the riders’ hearth, Twdilla presided over several of those by-now nicely settled barrels, dipping out tankard after tankard full for the serving lasses to pass around. Since Blaen very badly wanted a word with her, he mentally cursed the finely woven web of noble privilege that kept him over on his side of the great hall, but curse or not, he was forced to wait. After the honeycake and the last of the year’s apples were served, the bard played, presenting his newly composed declamation in Blaen’s honor while the guests were still overfed into quiet, then switching to the well-known tale of King Bran’s founding of the Holy City when they began to chatter, and finally giving up poetry altogether as the talk rose high. With a wave of his arm, he brought in another harper, a horn player, and an apprentice with a small, squishy goat-skin drum. When they began playing, servants and noble-born alike rushed to shove the tables back against the wall to clear the space for dancing.

In this confusion Blaen could finally slip away from his guests and find the ale mistress. She was supervising a group of pages as they brought in another barrel on a wheeled handcart.

“Don’t joggle it so, lads!” she was saying. “It’s barely had time to calm down after its trip here. Careful, careful now!”

Blaen had to wait until the full barrel was standing safely near its empty fellows, and Veddyn had appeared to open it and take his wife’s post for a little while. Together the gwerbret and the dweomermaster walked down the back corridor that curved round the great hall until they found a private if draughty niche. Although Twdilla had grabbed her shabby old cloak as they left, Blaen merely shivered and ignored the cold by force of will.

“Is there any news, good dame?”

“None from Bardek, and there won’t be any till spring, Your Grace. But Nevyn says that things are … well, restless in Eldidd.”

“No doubt. Ye gods, I wish I knew if Rhodry were alive!”

“Your Grace, I believe with all my heart that Nevyn would know if Rhodry were dead. So, for that matter, does Nevyn.” She gave him a reassuring, if half-toothless, smile. “The question is, will he stay that way when our Jill brings him home in the spring? We may know Rhodry’s alive, but most of Eldidd’s got him buried already. The men who want his rhan are spending a lot of coin and calling in wagonloads of favors to further their schemes. How are they going to take it when the rightful heir blithely rides in to claim what’s his?”

“Badly, no doubt, the weaseling bandits! What shall I do, ride to Eldidd as soon as the weather breaks?”

“It might be best, Your Grace, but then, it might also be far too early. Who knows when they’ll come back across the Southern Sea? I hate to ask you to leave your own affairs only to wait upon your cousin’s.”

“Well, if Rhodry’s inheritance were the only thing at stake, I might grumble, but it’s not. Look, if Eldidd goes up in open war, the High King will be forced to intervene. What if our liege were slain or wounded or suchlike? Or what if the war drags on for years and starts bleeding him white? I’m the King’s man first and always, good dame. Allow me to put myself and my men at your disposal.”

“We’d all be ever so grateful if you did, Your Grace.” She made him a remarkably graceful curtsey. “And Lord Madoc would be pleased if you stopped and had a bit of a chat with him, since Dun Deverry’s more or less on your way and all.”

“A bit less than more, but he’ll see me as soon as the roads are passable anyway.” Blaen paused, struck by a sudden thought. “I had hoped to be here when my lady came to her time.”

“Oh, you will be, Your Grace. The son she’s carrying will be born a few weeks early, but he’ll be healthy in spite of it, and she’ll have an easy time because he’ll be on the small side.”

“Well, splendid! I … here, how do you know … are you having a jest on me?”

“Not in the least, Your Grace. I was worried about the Lady Canyffa myself, so I asked the Wildfolk. They know these things—I don’t know how—but they do. Trust me.”

And in spite of himself, Blaen had to admit that trust her he did.

There was a different sort of feast held that day as well, all the way across the kingdom in Eldidd and right up at the northern border of Rhodry’s gwerbretrhyn in the holdings of the powerful Bear clan. Tieryn Darryl of Trenrydd was sitting down to table with two close and trusted friends, Gwarryc of Dun Gamyl, who was the younger brother of Gwerbret Savyl of Camynwaen, and Talidd of Belglaedd, and with them was a man from Bardek who’d given his name as Alyantano but who was willing to be known as Alyan here in Deverry, to make things easier all round. So important was the conversation at this dinner that Darryl’s wife Amma was entertaining the other women privately up in the women’s hall. Since Talidd’s wife had stayed at home, and Alyan claimed to have none, Amma was presiding over an intimate meal indeed, for herself, her serving women, and Vodda, Gwarryc’s wife, who was her elder sister. A sleek blonde, Vodda was one of those sleepy-eyed women who cultivate an air of sensual stupidity to cover a roiling mind. She was one of the chief organizers of the faction that was pushing her husband into making a bid for Aberwyn, but to pay her her due, her motives went far beyond some petty wish to spend its taxes on Bardek silk. Their mother, Linedd, had once led a miserable life creeping through Dun Aberwyn’s corridors and chambers as the often-ignored mistress of Gwerbret Tingyr and the overmatched rival of Lady Lovyan. Although Linedd was dead—unkind wags joked that she’d died to get away from the lord and the wife equally—the sisters remembered their days in the court very well indeed.

“Lovyan was always so kind,” Vodda remarked as the roast haunch of boar was served. “I think that was the worst thing of all, her kindness.”

“Especially after Mam died.” Amma picked up a long-bladed dagger and flipped it point upward. “Shall I carve?”

When the rest of the boar appeared at the men’s table, the chamberlain sliced up a platterful and served it round, then retired to head up his own table for the noble-born servitors some distance away. The men at Lord Darryl’s table ate grimly, barely tasting their food, as they went on talking.

“The thing is,” Darryl said. “We’ll never raise enough riders to take Aberwyn. There aren’t enough men or horses here in the north.”

“If things come to war,” Talidd interposed, and he could hear how nervous he sounded, even to himself.

“Well, of course, if.” Darryl shot him a grin and wiped his mustaches on the back of his hand. “What’s wrong, Tal? You’re the one who broke this stag out of cover. Getting worried now that the hunt is up?”

“I never thought we’d be arming a pack of cursed farmers to do our fighting for us.” Talidd shot a murderous glance at Alyan, whose eyes went blank and bland in return. “I don’t like this.”

“My lords.” Alyan rose, towering over them, his dark skin glinting bluish in the firelight. “I’m only one of the Bear clan’s servitors, not one of the noble-born. Let me leave you to discuss this in private.”

Darryl hesitated, then motioned for a servant to carry the Bardekian’s trencher and goblet to the chamberlain’s table.

“Satisfied, Talidd?” Gwarryc said, sniffing a little. He had a bad cold, and his pale gray eyes and his long rabbit’s nose were both more than a little moist.

“Darro, I didn’t mean to insult your man, but I meant what I said. I don’t like this idea of arming a pack of rabble with pikes and teaching them to fight like the cursed islanders.”

“Well, what other hope of winning do we have? You’re not having a lot of luck getting us allies in the south.”

“True enough, but it’s early yet, early. Once the autumn’s here, and there’s no gwerbret in Aberwyn, then we’ll see men coming over to us.”

“Maybe so,” Gwarryc snuffled. “But here, Tal, don’t look so grieved. If I’m the only serious candidate, it’s likely the Council of Electors will settle the matter nice and peacefully.”

“The Council has every right to turn you down and call for other candidates.”

“And will you accept the Council’s vote, then,” Darryl snapped. “If it goes against us?”

“I will, and I’d advise you, my friend, to do so, too. I know how much getting that territory means to you, but …”

“The gwerbrets hold it unjustly!” Darryl slammed his fist onto the table and made the tankards jump.

“And they have for hundreds of years,” Talidd said. “So it won’t shatter your clan’s honor if they keep it a few more.”

“Indeed? I don’t hear you being so reasonable about Dun Bruddlyn.”

Talidd felt his face flush hot, but he kept himself under control.

“I intend to abide by the Electors’ vote even if it costs me what should have been mine.”

“All because of my pikemen, eh?”

Rather than answer, Talidd let out his breath in a sharp puff and had a long pull from his tankard to settle his nerves. Gwarryc blew his nose heavily into a scrap of rag.

“What I don’t understand,” the would-be gwerbret said, “is why we’re squabbling like this. It seems to have come on suddenly, like this cursed catarrh.”

“True spoken,” Talidd said. “My apologies, Darro. Lately I’ve been as jumpy as a cat by a pitch-pine fire.”

“So have I.” Darryl considered the problem with a slight frown. “And my apologies to you, Tal.”

“There’s no use in fighting over hiring a jockey until we’re sure we’ve got a horse race,” Gwarryc went on. “I know you’re both keen on seeing me in the gwerbretal chair, and my wife talks of little else these days, but I’m not convinced Rhodry Maelwaedd is dead.”

“He’s dead, sure enough.” Darryl spoke with a quiet conviction, and his eyes strayed to the other table, where Alyan was joking with the bard. “Before he left Bardek, Alyan heard the story. Rhodry offended some powerful man in the islands, and over there, they have ways of eliminating people who offend them. There’s some sort of paid guild, or so I understand.”

“Bloody barbarians,” Talidd muttered.

“Maybe so, but useful at times,” Darryl said. “Anyway, Rhodry’s death is why Alyan came here in the first place. The story of what happened to the Maelwaedd was common gossip on his island. When his enemies at home got Alyan exiled, he came to Aberwyn because he figured there’d be a lord or two who might need a proper military man’s services. He had old connections there, too, and one of the merchants put him on to me as a favor, like, to both of us.”

“Proper military man, indeed! Common-born men sticking the noble-born like pigs, and you call that proper?”

“Hold your tongues!” There was an impressive snap of command in Gwarryc’s voice. “Naught’s going to happen for months, anyway. Whether Rhodry’s alive or dead, the King’s decree said he had a year and a day to come claim his inheritance, and until then, the Council can’t even begin meeting.”

“And he had his gall, truly, the King I mean, interfering with the Council.” Darryl’s eyes turned dark. “Hundreds of years that treaty goes back, saying the King had better keep his greedy paws off the doings of the Council. Huh, it’s galling all round, how many laws get bent for the wretched Maelwaedds. The High King always favors them.”

Although Talidd couldn’t think of another such incident more recent than ninety-odd years previous, he held his tongue. Once Darryl got to brooding on his clan’s ancient wrongs, there was no reasoning with him. That night, as they drank silently together, Talidd felt an ugly truth pushing itself into his reluctant mind. When he’d gone scurrying around, testing feeling against the Maelwaedds just because he was so furious over the apportioning of Dun Bruddlyn, he’d raised a lot more dust than he’d intended, enough, perhaps, to choke them all.

He found himself watching Alyan, too, with his polished manners, easy way with a jest, and complete lack of airs, and wondered why the man rubbed him so raw. The Bardekian had commanded regiments back in his own country, but he knew that he was a hired drillmaster now and naught more, existing, as so many exiles had before him, on the charity of a noble lord who had some use for him. Even when it came to training pikemen, Talidd had to admit that Darryl was hardly the first desperate lord who’d swelled his ranks with spearmen when there weren’t enough riders to carry his cause. When the emergencies passed, the spearmen always seemed to disband and the noble-born to revert to the traditional and honorable way of carrying out their feuds, face-to-face on horseback.

Yet, despite all these reasonable thoughts, deep in his heart Talidd despised Alyan. That night something else occurred to him. Maybe Alyan would have heard about Rhodry’s death through some kind of ordinary channel since they were both in Bardek at the time. But how had he known, so far away and so late in the sailing season, that Rhodry’s brother Rhys had died without an heir? Yet, Talidd’s honor stopped him from following the thought down. As Darryl said, he was the one who’d flushed this stag, and he’d sworn to his friends that he’d support them in their chase after it, and that, as far as he was concerned, was an end to it.