The Dragon Revenant (54 page)

“Has it really been three years, Da?”

“And a bit more. It’s a stupid thing to say, but I’ve got to say it, anyway: you’ve changed, my sweet, changed a fair bit, and I don’t think it’s just the passing time.”

“It’s not. Da, there’s somewhat I’ve got to tell you. I’m studying the dweomer.”

She’d been expecting some dramatic gasp or oath, but he merely nodded in a thoughtful sort of way.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. You were always such a strange child, Jill, talking to the Wildfolk, having strange dreams, seeing omens in every wretched cloud or fire.” He shuddered a little, remembering. “But this is no place to talk about that. There’s Lord Rhodry, mounted already and waving at us. We’ll have a bit of a chat later.”

Yet, with all the confusion of arriving at Sibyr’s dun and getting so many riders settled for the night, it was after sunset before Jill got a private moment alone with her father. By then the evening meal was over, a patchy affair that was little more than a cold promise of a feast to come, and she’d been to her chamber to strip off her dress and put on her comfortable old shirt. Borrowing a tin lantern from the porter, they went out to the earthwork and climbed up to sit on the grassy mound in the mild spring night. For a long time they said nothing, merely enjoyed each other’s company in the silence.

“Your old da’s got somewhat to tell you,” Cullyn said at last. “I’ve married again.”

“Da! How splendid! Who is she? What’s she like?”

“Her name’s Tevylla, and she’s in the tieryn’s employ. She was widowed a while back—her first husband was a blacksmith, but he died of a fever—and she’s got a son that I’m training for the warband. He’s a good lad. Tewa’s a sensible sort, strong-minded, but then, she needs to be since she’s gone and married me.”

“Is she pretty?”

Cullyn considered for a moment, smiling a little.

“She is,” he said at last. “Truly, you could say so.”

“I’m so happy for you.”

“You do sound it, truly.” He turned a little to study her face in the flickering lantern light.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” For a moment she was puzzled; then she realized his drift. “Well, truly, once I would have been writhing with jealousy—I’ll admit it—when we were still on the long road together and all, but not now. After all, I’m about to marry, too.”

“So you are. You know, my sweet, it’s an odd thing. I’ve heard you mention that marriage a couple of times now, and …” He let his voice trail away.

“And what?”

“Ah, you won’t be wanting your old father’s advice anymore. None of my cursed business. I’ve got to learn to keep my long nose out of your affairs.”

“Come on, tell me. What is it, Da?”

“You never sound very happy about it, that’s all. There’s just somewhat in your voice.”

Tears threatened, hot and shaming. He threw his arms around her and pulled her close, her same old comfortable father, smelling of sweat and horses like he always had.

“Are you frightened?” he said softly. “All those fine ladies mincing around, waiting to get their claws into the gwerbret’s favorite? Or is it the intrigue, the noble lords and their feuding and jockeying for favor and all?”

“Both. I’m not like Lovyan or Blaen’s wife. They were born to all this. I wasn’t. But … but … it’s not that I’m frightened.” Safe in his arms she could think clearly for the first time in weeks. “It’s that I’m going to hate it. Courtly affairs look so petty, Da, after you’ve started studying dweomer. The noble-born are just children squabbling over toys, and smashing things when they don’t get their way, and them all with their noses in the air, thinking they’re the favorites of the gods themselves.” She drew a little away so she could look up at him. “Do you remember Tieryn Braedd, and the war over pig food, all those years ago—the first summer you took me with you?”

He thought for a long moment, then laughed.

“I do at that,” he said, chuckling. “You know, my sweet, you always were a cursed lot like me. I hope it’s your boon and not your bane, I truly do.”

At first she laughed; then she went a little cold as she realized that he wasn’t going to contradict her, that, in fact, he agreed with her opinion of court life. She would have said more, but all at once he let her go and listened, his head cocked to one side. She’d spent so many weeks living in fear of assassins that she automatically reached for her sword, but it was only Nevyn, calling to them as he hurried out to the earthwork wall.

“Cullyn, Jill, is that you up there?”

“It is, my lord,” Cullyn called back. “Is aught wrong?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Have you seen Perryn?”

“Not since the evening meal.” Cullyn glanced at Jill, who shook her head in a no. “No more has Jill, my lord. Here, we’ll come down. Has the little bastard escaped?”

“It certainly looks like it, although I wouldn’t call it an escape. He isn’t a prisoner anymore, not as far as I’m concerned.”

“But did he know that?” Jill put in.

“Most likely not. It would be just like him to slip away in the night like a cursed weasel!”

For about an hour the three of them hunted round the dun, but they never found a trace of him or his bedroll. Finally Jill thought to check the postern gate, and sure enough, it was standing open, unlatched from the inside and never shut again. A quick check by an equerry and a head groom showed that a horse was missing, too.

“Well, that’s torn it,” Nevyn said in some disgust. “He was free to go, of course, but he might have given me a few more days to study him.”

“Good riddance, say I,” Jill muttered under her breath.

“You know,” Cullyn said. “I never did know what charges had been laid against him.”

“Well, he was a horse thief. At one time I thought him a spy from the dark dweomer.” Jill answered him to spare Nevyn the lie. “But I was wrong. He’s just a man of no importance.” All at once she smiled. “Truly, now, of no importance at all.”

“News, all sorts of news,” Blaen said abruptly. “Things are moving fast, cousin, now that you’re home.”

“Good,” Rhodry said. “The sooner this matter’s settled, the better for Aberwyn.”

Ceredyc, Sibyr, Nevyn, Calonderiel, Aderyn, Cullyn, a couple of minor lords that Rhodry didn’t recognize—all the men at the table of honor nodded gravely. After much too heavy a breakfast for Rhodry’s liking, they were all sitting in Sibyr’s sun-streaked great hall and drinking ale while they discussed the troubled situation in the rhan of Aberwyn.

“It’s time for you to ride home, and this message is as good a reason as any.” Blaen held up the thin roll of parchment that had arrived some hours earlier. “Four days from now Lord Talidd’s holding a tourney, and every single one of the would-be rebels will be there. In this letter Lord Edar says he’d be honored to shelter me and mine if I should choose to attend, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he were glad to see you, too.”

Rhodry tossed back his head and laughed.

“Never have I been more pleased with an invitation, cousin. Good old Edar! Let’s see, his dun’s about sixty miles from here, if I remember rightly. Three days ride—perfect.”

“You’d best not take all of these men, though,” Sibyr put in, leaning forward. “You want to prevent a war, not start one.”

“Just so.” Rhodry nodded his way. “Just twenty-five apiece for me and Blaen, the escort we’re entitled to under the holy laws, and Calonderiel, too, and Gwin, and a few other retainers. The rest can go on to Aberwyn and wait for us there.”

“Sounds like a solid plan to me,” Blaen said. “One last question. Do you want to go openly or try to keep things quiet?”

“Quiet, I’d say. For all I know, our would-be rebels have spies all over Eldidd, but if they don’t, I wouldn’t mind giving them the surprise of their ugly little lives.”

Whether or not the rebels had spies, Lord Peredyr and Lord Sligyn, two of Rhodry’s most loyal vassals, certainly did, though they were hardly the professional sort who pop up during long wars. Peredyr’s head groom had a brother who worked a free farm near Belglaedd, and Sligyn had blood kin himself in that part of the rhan. Through the fast-flowing channel of gossip, both lords learned about Talidd’s tourney at the same time and decided to attend, just to scrape Talidd’s conscience raw if nothing else. In a rather clumsy attempt to pretend that they weren’t acting together, they also decided to arrive at separate times, Peredyr first and quite deliberately, while Sligyn would pretend that he’d been visiting his kin and just happened to hear of the tourney.

Since his sister’s husband’s dun was some miles from Belglaedd, it was an hour or so after noon when Sligyn and his escort of five men arrived. As they rode up to the dun, which was set on a low artificial hill, they found Peredyr waiting for them outside the gates.

“Ye gods, it’s disgusting!” Peredyr burst out without even a good morrow first. “Wait till you see Gwarryc, prancing around as if he were gwerbret already, with the flatterers there to lick his hands.”

“Oh, is he now? Listen, man, I promised you I’d hold my tongue, and I’ll do my best, but—”

“And if we get cut down here, there’s two fewer loyal men to fight for Aberwyn. Can you remember that? This tourney is swarming with rebels.”

“You’re right enough, eh? Very well, I’ll hold my tongue.”

Even in his state of rage, Sligyn had to admit that Talidd had outdone himself on the tournament. The dun itself was hung with Belglaedd’s banners of silver and yellow, and there were more banners, in the colors of the various noble guests, hung from trees or mounted on poles in the area set aside for the festivities. The area around Belglaedd was known for its beautiful ash trees, and there was a particularly fine grove in back of Talidd’s dun, where a small stream wound through a broad meadow. Among the trees the servants had set up table after table of food: sliced spiced meats, cheeses, fresh bread by the chunk and stale bread turned into puddings, pickled vegetables in the Bardek manner, roasted glazed larks and squabs, and as a centerpiece an entire roast boar. There was ale by the barrel and mead by the skin, and no one was turned away, not even the scruffiest beggar in Talidd’s village, which had come in force not just to eat, but to watch the combats. Sligyn even saw a couple of silver daggers mingling with the crowd and helping themselves to the lord’s bounty without anyone saying a harsh word to them.

Across the meadow, a good safe distance from the spread, were two combat grounds, marked out with ribands of green and gold—Gwarryc of Dun Gamyl’s colors, interestingly enough. On one ground the main series of mock combats had taken place that morning, fought by riders from the various warbands, mostly, though a couple of impoverished younger sons of the local nobility had put aside their pride and taken a place in the series. The three hosting lords had put up generous prizes, trophy daggers and silver coins for the winners of every round, and for the grand prize a beautiful bay gelding, battle-trained, with some Western Hunter blood in him to judge by his deep chest and long legs. By the time Sligyn arrived, though, all the preliminary rounds of this splendid contest were over.

“They’ll fight the final round on that other field,” Peredyr said. “They’ve kept it untouched, so the finalists will have perfect footing. Then any of the lords who want to show off can join a mock tourney. No prizes, but it should be amusing to watch.”

Sligyn snorted in a puff of disgust.

“Amusing? Only if the right men break their necks, eh?”

“If we say the right prayers, maybe the gods will take a hand. Gwarryc’s in the lists, of course. I think me the idea is for him to come off the victor. The man’s a splendid swordsman, mind, without any help, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see some of his opponents staying their hands a bit. Just to ensure the show goes their way, like.”

Although Sligyn had been given to fits of blustering, cursing, arm-waving anger all his life, never before had he felt cold fury, that preternaturally calm state where all the world seems very clear yet very far away, and what a man must do is equally clear but quite immediate. He did feel it, then, and he rather liked it.

“Where’s the steward? The one keeping the lists?”

“Over by the ale barrels, last I saw. Lord Amval. Here, though—you’re not going to enter, are you?”

“I am. No doubt I’ll be eliminated in the second or third round, but by every god in the sky, I’m going to try to spoil that piss-proud excuse for a noble lord’s fake victory even if I ride home covered with bruises and shame both.”

When he predicted that he’d be eliminated in the second or third round, Sligyn was not being modest but precisely describing his usual level of skill at mock combats with blunt blade and wicker shield. The rules were simple, but artificial enough to hamper a man like him, used to banging and hacking his way through a scrap. The contestants began at either end of the contest ground, approached and circled for position, then fenced and feinted until one or the other had either scored three touches or driven his opponent into the ribands that marked the ground. Although bruises were ignored, hitting hard enough to break his skin gave your opponent the victory. Holding back on anything had never been Sligyn’s style.

But Sligyn had no idea of how useful cold fury can be to a man. He won his first round easily, since it was against the clumsy Lord Cinvan, then went on to win the second as well. For the third, in a state of controlled bloodlust he took the field against the formidable Lord Gwion, who had royal trophy daggers won in Dun Deverry itself hanging over his hearth. When Sligyn beat him handily, everyone, including Sligyn, assumed that Gwion had been stupidly overconfident. There was no such excuse in the fourth, when he beat an equally skilled lord who also happened to be a close friend of Gwarryc’s. At that point the crowd began to grow uneasy. When the next batch of fourth-round contestants took the field, many spectators made no pretense of watching them; little clots of men formed to mutter among themselves and look Sligyn’s way every now and then with troubled eyes.

As for Sligyn, he felt as if his whole body had become a weapon in the hands of his righteous rage. While he waited for his turn at the fifth round, he drank cold water instead of ale and glared at Gwarryc, standing a good fifty yards from him in a press of followers. Yet, in spite of the distance, it seemed that Gwarryc was aware of him, because at intervals he would look up, and his eyes would search out Sligyn the way a tongue searches out a chipped tooth. Sligyn also noticed the pair of silver daggers, one blond, one dark enough to have some Bardek blood in his veins, watching him, but from their hard and indifferent faces it was hard to tell what they might have thought. Peredyr, on the other hand, who was by then acting as Sligyn’s second, bringing him damp rags to wipe his face and water by the flagonful, was beside himself with holy joy.