Darkspell, Page 3

  “No.” The stranger smiled again. “But I have something for you, a present for one of your sons, young bard, for sons you’ll have. When each is born, consult with someone who knows the dweomer. They’ll be able to tell you which one receives the gift.”

  When he handed over the pouch and the ring, his eyes seemed more blue than black.

  “My thanks, good sir, but who are you?”

  The stranger laughed, then mounted his horse and rode off without another word.

  Over the intervening years Devaberiel had learned nothing more about the ring. All the sages and dweomermasters he consulted told him, though, that the man who gave him the gift must have been one of the Guardians, the semidivine beings whose mysterious ways sometimes crossed those of the elves. No mortal man, or so they told him, could understand the Guardians, who came and went as they pleased and changed their appearance, too, as easily as a man changes his shirt.

  Devaberiel did indeed have sons, two of them to be exact, and when each was born, he’d dutifully taken the ring and the baby both and consulted with a dweomermaster. The omens had fallen wrong both times. Now, however, he had a third son. Holding the ring, he walked to the door of the tent and looked out. A cold, gray drizzle fell over the camp, and the wind was brisk. He was going to have an uncomfortable journey, but he was determined to find the dweomerwoman who seemed to have the most affinity for the ring. His curiosity was not going to let him rest until he found out if it belonged to young Rhodry ap Devaberiel, who still thought himself a Maelwaedd.

  Driven by a bitter-cold wind, the rains slashed down hard in the gray streets of Cerrmor. There was little for Jill and Rhodry to do but hole up like foxes in their inn by the north gate. Since they had enough coin to stay warm and fed all winter, Jill felt as rich and happy as a lord, but Rhodry fell into a black mood that can only be given the untranslatable name of hiraedd, a painful longing for some unobtainable thing. He would sit in the tavern room for hours, slumped down and staring into a tankard of ale while he brooded over his dishonor. Nothing Jill could do or say would rouse him out of it. Eventually, though it ached her heart to do it, she let him have his silence.

  At least at night, when they went up to their chamber, she could use kisses and caresses to change his mood. After their lovemaking he would be happy for a while, talking with her as they lay tight in each other’s arms. When he drifted off to sleep, often she would stay awake and look at him as if he were a puzzle to be studied out.

  Rhodry was a tall man, heavily muscled but built straight from shoulder to hip, with long, sensitive hands that hinted at his elven blood. He had the raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes so typical of Eldidd men, but there was nothing typical about his good looks. His features were so perfect that he would have looked girlish if it weren’t for the various small scars and battle-nicks on his face. Since she’d met some of the Westfolk, the name that Deverry men had given the elves, Jill knew that they too were as handsome. She would wonder over that trace of elven blood in his clan, which had, or so Nevyn assured her, merely all come out in him, a throwback. Logically, it seemed improbable.

  One night her long pondering brought her the answer to the problem. Every now and then Jill had true dreams, which were actually dweomer-visions beyond the control of her conscious mind. Generally they came, as this one did, when she’d put a lot of time and effort into thinking over a problem. On a night when the rain beat upon the shutters and the wind howled around the inn, she fell asleep in Rhodry’s arms and dreamed of the Elcyion Lacar. It seemed that she flew above the western grasslands on a day when the sun broke through clouds only to vanish again. Far below her in a green sea of grass stood a cluster of elven tents, glowing like many-colored jewels.

  Suddenly she stood on the ground among them. Bundled in a red cloak, a tall man strode past her and into a purple-and-blue tent. On a whim she followed. The tent was elaborately decorated with woven hangings, embroidered wall bags, and Bardek carpets used as floor cloths. Sitting on a pile of leather cushions was an elven woman, her pale-blond hair bound into two braids that hung behind her ears, which were as long and delicately pointed as seashells. Her visitor pressed his palms together and bowed to her, then doffed the cloak and sat down on the carpet nearby. His hair was as pale as moonlight, and his dark-blue eyes were, like all elven eyes, slit vertically with a pupil like a cat’s. Yet Jill thought that he was as handsome as her Rhodry in his alien way and also oddly familiar.

  “Very well, Devaberiel,” the woman said, and though she spoke in Elvish, Jill could understand her. “I’ve been studying my stones, and I have an answer for you.”

  “My thanks, Valandario.” He leaned closer.

  At that point Jill realized that a cloth, embroidered in geometric patterns, lay between them. At various points on the web of triangles and squares lay spherical gems: rubies, yellow beryls, sapphires, emeralds, and amethysts. In the middle of the cloth lay a simple silver ring. Valandario began moving the gems along the various lines, finally bringing one of each color into the center to form a pentagon around the ring.

  “Your son’s Destiny is encircled by this ring,” she said. “But I know not what that Destiny may be, except to say that it lies somewhat in the north and in the air.”

  “In the air? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Doubtless all will be revealed in time.” Valandario waved a vague hand. “But I know the ring is his.”

  “As god and Guardian wish it, then so be it. You have my solemn thanks. I’ll see to it that Rhodry gets the ring, then. I might ride to Dun Gwerbyn myself to have a look at this lad of mine.”

  “It would be unwise to tell him the truth. Very, very unwise.”

  “Of course. From what Calonderiel tells me, he stands to inherit a lot of property from his supposed father, and I don’t want to meddle. I just want to see him. After all, it’s quite a surprise to learn you’ve got a full-grown son you never even knew existed. Though Lovyan could hardly have sent me word, of course, with her still married to that other fellow. He was a very powerful man, one of high rank, too.”

  “I see your point.” Valandario suddenly looked up, right at Jill. “Here! Who are you, to come spying upon me in the spirit?”

  When Jill tried to answer, she found that she couldn’t speak. In exasperation Valandario threw up one hand and sketched a sigil in the air. All at once Jill found herself awake, sitting up in bed with Rhodry snoring beside her. Since the room was cold, she lay down and hurriedly snuggled under the blankets. That was a true dream, she thought, oh, by the Goddess of the Moon, my lover’s half an elf!

  For a long while she lay awake, thinking over the dream. Of course Devaberiel would look familiar since he was Rhodry’s father. She was honestly shocked to find out that Lady Lovyan, whom she much admired, had put horns on her husband’s head, but then, Devaberiel was an exceptionally handsome man. She had the brief thought of telling Rhodry about the dream, but Valandario’s warning stopped her. Besides, finding out that he was no true Maelwaedd, but a bastard, would only drive Rhodry deeper into his hiraedd. She could barely tolerate his dark fits as it was.

  And then there was the silver ring. Here was another proof of something that Nevyn had told her the summer past, that Rhodry’s Wyrd was deep and hidden. She decided that if ever she saw the old man again, she would tell him of the omens. As she was drifting back to sleep, she wondered if her path would ever cross his again. For all that his dweomer frightened her, she was very fond of Nevyn, but the kingdom was very large, and who knew which way the old man would choose to wander?

  On the morrow the full significance of the dream came to her as she and Rhodry sat in the tavern room. Yet once again, the dweomer had irrupted into her mind, taken her over with no warning. For a moment she shrank into herself, just as when the hare hears the dogs baying and crouches frozen in the bracken.

  “Is something wrong, my love?” Rhodry said.

  “Naught, naught. I was just … oh, thinking about l
ast summer.”

  “It was a strange thing, sure enough.” He shuddered as if a cold draft had run down his neck. “That fellow Loddlaen and his stinking magicks! It’s a hard thing, knowing someone wants to kill you, and here you don’t even know why.”

  “Well, Nevyn said he was a madman. Right out of his head, the old man told me, stark raving.”

  “He said somewhat of the same to me.” Rhodry dropped his voice to a whisper. “All that cursed dweomer! It’s enough to drive anyone mad! I pray to every god we’re never touched by sorcery again.”

  Although she nodded her agreement, Jill knew that he was praying for the impossible. Even as he spoke, her little gray gnome manifested onto the table and sat down by Rhodry’s tankard. All her life Jill had been able to see the Wildfolk, and this particular skinny, big-nosed creature was a close friend. Oh my poor Rhoddo, she thought, you ride with dweomer all around you! She felt both angry and frightened, wishing that her peculiar talents would go away, fearing that they never would.

  Yet once, last summer, Nevyn had told her that if she refused to use her talents, they would eventually wither and be gone. Although she hoped that the old man was right—and certainly he knew far more about the matter than she did—she had her doubts, especially when she considered how dweomer had swept her into Rhodry’s war and Rhodry’s life last summer. She’d been an utterly obscure person, the bastard daughter of a silver dagger, until her father had taken what seemed to be a perfectly ordinary hire, guarding a merchant caravan that was traveling to the western border of Eldidd. Yet from the moment that the merchant had offered Cullyn the job, she’d known that something unusual was going to happen, felt with an inexplicable certainty that her life had reached a crossroads. How right she’d been! First the caravan went west to the land of the Elcyion Lacar, the elves, a people who were supposed to exist only in fairy tale and myth. Then, with some of the elves in tow, they’d returned to Eldidd and ridden right into the middle of a dweomer war.

  Just in time for her to save Rhodry’s life by killing a man who, or so the dweomer seemed to declare, was invincible—Lord Corbyn will never die by any man’s hand, or so a prophecy declared. Like all dweomer-riddles, this one had two sharp sides, and a lass’s hand had slain him sure enough. As she thought about it, it all seemed entirely too neat, too clever, as if the gods shaped a person’s Wyrd the way a Bardek craftsman shapes a puzzle box with its precise little workings that mean absolutely nothing in the long run. And then she remembered the elves, who were not men in any true sense, and Rhodry himself, who was only half of one. She saw then that Rhodry might have slain his enemy himself, if only he’d believed he could, and that her coming, while convenient, need not be foreordained anymore than a snowstorm that appears in winter could be said to be a mighty act of dweomer.

  Yet dweomer had brought her to him; that she was sure of, if not to save his life, then for some obscure purpose. Although she shuddered at the thought, she also found herself wondering why dweomer should frighten her so badly, why she was sure that following the dweomer road would lead to her death. Suddenly she saw it: she was afraid that if ever she tampered with dweomer, it would bring not only her death, but Rhodry’s. Even though she told herself that the idea was stupid, the irrational fear seemed to hang round her like smoke, acrid and choking. For a moment, in fact, she thought she could see gray tendrils, curling through the room. When she leaped up, ready to shout fire, the smoke disappeared—a dweomer-vision.

  She had no way of knowing that the smoke of her vision came from a fire that burned some three hundred years in the past, when she and Rhodry both had lived another life, as all souls have many lives, as many as the moon, cycling from light into darkness and back to the light yet once again.

  DEVERRY, 733

  All men have seen the two smiling faces of the Goddess, She who gives good harvests and She who brings love to men’s hearts. Some have seen Her stern face, the Mother who at times must chastise her erring children. But how many have ever seen the fourth face of the Goddess, which is hidden even to most women who walk the earth?

  —The Discourses of the Priestess, Camylla

  The rider was dying. He slid off his horse to the cobbles, staggered once, and fell to his knees. Gweniver flung herself down and grabbed him by the shoulders before he fell on his face. Warm blood oozed through his shirt onto her hands.

  “Lost, my lady,” he gasped. “Your brother’s dead.”

  Blood welled into his mouth and broke in a bubble of death. When she laid him down, his foundered horse tossed its head once, then merely trembled, dripping gray sweat. She got to her feet just as a stable lad came running.

  “Do what you can for that horse,” she said. “Then tell all the servants to pack up and flee. You’ve got to get out of here or you won’t live the night.”

  Wiping her hands on her dress, Gweniver ran across the ward to the tall broch of the Wolf clan, which would burn that night beyond her power to save it. Inside the great hall, huddled by the honor hearth, were her mother, Dolyan, her younger sister, Macla, and Mab, their aged serving woman.

  “The Boar’s men have caught our warband on the road,” Gweniver said. “Avoic’s dead, and there’s an end to the feud.”

  Dolyan threw back her head and keened out a wail for her husband and three sons. Macla burst into moist sobs and clung to Mab.

  “Oh, hold your tongues!” Gweniver snapped. “The Boar’s warband is doubtless riding here right now to claim us. Do you want to end up as trophies?”

  “Gwen!” Macla wailed. “How can you be so coldhearted?”

  “Better coldhearted than raped. Now, hurry, all of you. Get the things you can carry on one horse. We’re riding to the Temple of the Moon. If we live to reach it, the priestesses will give us refuge. Do you hear me, Mam, or do you want to see me and Maccy handed over to the warband?”

  The deliberate brutality forced Dolyan silent.

  “Good,” Gweniver said. “Now, hurry, all of you!”

  She followed the others as they puffed up the spiral staircase, but she went to her brother’s chamber, not her own. From the carved chest beside his bed she took a pair of his old brigga and one of his shirts. Changing into his clothes brought her a scatter of tears—she’d been fond of Avoic, who was only fourteen—but there was no time for mourning. She belted on his second-best sword and an old dagger. Although she was far from being a trained warrior, her brothers had taught her how to handle a sword. Finally she unclasped her long blond hair and cut it off short with the dagger. At night she would look enough like a man to give any lone marauder pause about attacking her party on the road.

  Since they had over thirty miles to go to reach safety, Gweniver bullied the other women into riding fast, trotting, walking, then occasionally galloping in short bursts. Every now and then she would turn in her saddle and scan the road for the dust cloud that would mean death chasing them. Shortly after sunset the full moon rose to shed her holy light to guide them. By then her mother was swaying in the saddle with exhaustion. Gweniver saw a copse of alders off to one side of the road and led the others there for a brief rest. Dolyan and Mab had to be helped down from their saddles.

  Gweniver walked back to the road to stand guard. Far away on the horizon, in the direction from which they’d come, a golden glow flared like the rising of a tiny moon. It was most likely the dun burning. She drew her sword and clutched the hilt while she stared unthinking at the glare. Suddenly she heard hoofbeats and saw a rider galloping down the road. Behind her in the copse the horses nickered a greeting, unknowing traitors.

  “Mount!” she screamed. “Get ready to ride!”

  The rider pulled up, then dismounted and drew his sword. As he strode toward her, she saw his bronze cloak pin glittering in the moonlight: a Boarsman.

  “And who are you, lad?” he said.

  Gweniver dropped into a fighting crouch.

  “A page of the Wolf, from your silence. And what are you guarding so faithfully? I hate
to kill a slip of a lad like you, but orders are orders, so come now, turn the ladies over to me.”

  In utter desperation Gweniver lunged and struck. Taken off guard, the Boarsman slipped, his sword swinging up wildly. She cut again and sliced him hard on one side of his neck, then struck back on the other, just as her older brother Benoic had taught her. With a moan of disbelief the Boarsman buckled to his knees and died at her feet. Gweniver nearly vomited. In the moonlight the sword blade was dark wet with blood, not shiny clean as in the practice sessions. Her mother’s shriek of terror brought her back to her senses. She ran for the Boarsman’s horse, grabbed the reins just as it was about to bolt, then led it back to the copse.

  “That it would ever come to this!” Mab sobbed. “That a lass I tended would be forced to turn warrior on the roads! Oh, holy gods all, when will you have mercy on the kingdom?”

  “When it suits them and not a minute before,” Gweniver said. “Now, get on those horses! We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Deep in the middle of the night they reached the Temple of the Moon, which sat at the top of a hill with a stone wall around its compound. Along with his friends and vassals, Gweniver’s father had given the coin to build the wall, a farsighted generosity on his part, since it would now save his wife and daughters. If any battle-drunk warrior were insane enough to break geis and risk the Goddess’s wrath by demanding entry, the wall would keep him out until he’d come to his senses. At the gates Gweniver screamed and yelled and kept it up until at last she heard a frightened voice call back that its owner was on the way. A priestess draped in a shawl yanked the gates open a bare crack, then shoved them wider when she saw Dolyan.

  “Oh, my lady, has the worst come upon your clan?”

  “It has. Will you shelter us?”

  “Gladly, but I don’t know what to do about this lad with you.”

  “It’s only Gwen in her brother’s clothes,” Gweniver broke in. “I thought we’d best pretend to have a man with us.”