Authors: Katharine Kerr
“My humble apologies, my fair sorceress.” Rhodry made her a mocking sort of bow. “But if you’d been good enough to appear and warn us that we’d be set upon by bandits, I’d have—”
“Not bandits. But there’s no time. Get to Gwerbret Cadmar. Tell him you met up with the raiders, and tell him you’re a friend of mine.”
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Otho broke in.
“Not exactly.” She allowed herself a brief smile. “But I’ll be there soon enough.”
Carra remembered the bird, dropping gracefully from the silver sky, and shuddered.
“My lady, you must be half-frozen,” Otho said. “Let me get your cloak.”
Once she was mounted and wrapped in the heavy wool cloth, Carra turned to say farewell to Jill only to find her already gone, slipped off into the forest, apparently, when none of them were looking. But all during that long and miserable ride down the wooden road, Carra would look up every now and then to see or think she saw a bird-shape sailing in the moonlight, high above them as if it were on guard.
The rest of the ride as well crossed over into that mental land where everything could be either real or dream. At times she drowsed, once so dangerously that Otho woke her with a shout; he grabbed the reins from her and led her horse along after that. At other times she felt that she’d never been so wide-awake in her life. She would see some detail of the forest around them, a spill of moonlight on a branch, say, or a carved stone slab rising out of a clearing, so plainly and precisely that the image seemed burned into her consciousness to last forever. Yet, when she would try to place that image into a context, she would realize that she’d been half-asleep again and for miles.
Toward dawn they stumbled free of the forest to the relative safety of open and cultivated land, a roll of ripening wheat over long downs, striped green with pastures where white cows with rusty-red ears were lurching to their
feet in the brightening sun. A few more miles brought them to a spiral of earthwork walls enclosing a round, thatched farmhouse. Much to Yraen’s surprise, Otho—Rhodry’s coin still lay in the dirt among the boulders—spent some of his precious coin to get a hot meal for them all. The farm wife, a stout woman missing half her teeth, clucked over Carra and brought her a steaming cup of herbed water.
“To warm your innards, like. You look to me like you need to sleep, lass.”
“I do, truly, but we’ve got to get to the gwerbret. On top of everything else, I’m with child, you see.”
“Well, may the Goddess bless you!” The woman smiled, all brown stumps but good humor. “Your first, is it?”
“It is. Well, if I don’t lose the poor little thing, anyway, or die myself or something.”
“Now, now, don’t you worry. I’ve had six myself, lass, and don’t you go listening to them ever-so-fine town ladies, moaning and groaning about how much pain they felt and all that. Why, no reason for it to be so bad, say I! My first one, now, he did give me a bit of trouble, but with our last, our Myla that is, I had her in the morning and was out digging turnips that night.”
Late that day, when the horses were stumbling weary and Carra herself so tired that she felt like sobbing aloud, they wound their way past one last farm and saw the rough stone walls of Cengarn, Gwerbret Cadmar’s city, circling round to enclose three hills. Above the walls, she could see roofs and towers climbing up the slopes; at the rocky crest of the highest hill a tall stone broch rose in a flutter of gold-colored pennants. As they rode up, they found a river flowing out through a stone arch, guarded by a portcullis, in the walls. Although Rhodry and Yraen had been worrying about the sort of reception they’d get, at the city gates the guards hailed them with an urgent friendliness.
“Silver daggers, are you? Is that young woman with you her ladyship Carramaena of the Westlands?”
“Well, I’m Carramaena, sure enough.” Carra urged her horse a little forward. “How do you know—”
“Your husband’s waiting for you up in the dun, my lady. Come along, if you please. I’ll escort you there straightaway.”
Although the men dismounted to spare the horses their weight on the steep slopes, Rhodry insisted that Carra ride whether Gwerlas was tired or no, and she was too exhausted, shivering with worry about her unborn child, to argue with him. As the guard led them along, she clung to the saddle peak with both hands and barely noticed the crowds of curious townsfolk who scurried out of their way. Their route took them round and about, looping round half the town it seemed, yet always leading them higher and higher, up to the gwerbret’s dun.
Even though it was a rough sort of place at that time, Cengarn was already the strangest city in all Deverry, as much green with trees and gardens as gray with stone. At first glance the round, thatched houses, set randomly on curving streets, seemed ordinary enough, but here and there on the flanks of the steep hillsides little alleys led to huge wooden doors set right into the slopes themselves. Not only did the river, spanned by a dozen wooden bridges, wind through the valley between the hills, but right in the center of town a tiny waterfall cascaded down the steepest slope of all. Their escort pointed it out with a certain pride.
“There’s a spring up in the citadel,” he remarked. “Cursed handy thing for a siege.”
“And more than passing strange,” Rhodry said. “A spring at the top of a hill like that, I mean.”
The guard merely winked and grinned in a hint of secrets.
The dun itself was all carved stone and slate tiles, set behind a second rise of walls and gates of oak bound with iron. At the entrance to the main tower, Carra allowed Rhodry to help her dismount—in fact, she nearly fell into his arms. As she stood there, trying to collect her energy for the last little walk into the broch, she heard an elven voice yelling her name and looked up to see Dar, racing toward her with an escort of ten men of the Westfolk trailing after. In the sun his dark hair gleamed, flecked with bluish highlights like a raven’s wing. He never goes anywhere alone, was her muddled thought. I should have known he was a prince because of that.
Lightning leapt in between them and growled, tail rigid, ears flat.
“It’s all right.” Carra caught the dog’s attention and signaled him back to her side. “He’s a friend.”
Dar laughed, striding forward, throwing his arms tight around her, and she could think of nothing but him.
“Oh, my love, oh, my heart!” He was stammering and weeping and laughing in a vast confusion of feeling. “Thank the gods you’re safe. Thank the gods and the dweomer both! I’ve been such a dolt, such an imbecile! Can you ever forgive me?”
“What for?” She looked up, dazed by the flood of words, ensorcelled by warmth and safety.
“I never should have left you for a moment. I’ll never forgive myself for making you ride after me like this. I should have known your pig-faced Round-ear of a brother would try to marry you off.”
“Well, I didn’t let him. Please, Dar, I’ve got to sit down. Can’t I forgive you and all that later?”
He picked her up like a child and carried her toward the door, but she fell asleep in his arms long before he reached it.
As soon as Dar appeared in the doorway to the great hall with Carra in his arms and Lightning trotting faithfully behind, a flurry of womenfolk sprang up like a whirlwind and surrounded them, blew them away in a storm of practical chatter. Rhodry stood at the foot of the spiral staircase and watched Dar carry her up, the elven lad as surefooted as a goat on a sloped stone roof as he navigated the turns. After him went the women, the elderly serving women puffing and talking all in the same breath, the gwerbret’s lady giving calm orders.
“Silver dagger?” A page appeared at his elbow. “His grace wants to speak to you.”
“What about our horses?”
“Oh, the stable lad’s taken them already. Don’t worry. They’ll get plenty to eat and a good grooming. The gwerbret’s a truly generous man.”
To prove his point the page led them straight to the table of honor, where a serving lass brought them ale and a big basket of bread. While they were stuffing that in, a platter of cold roast pork appeared to go with it. Yraen and Otho ate steadily and fiercely, like men who wonder if they’ll
ever eat as well again, but Rhodry, hungry though he was, picked at the food and sipped the ale sparingly. He was preternaturally awake, drawn as fine and sharp as a steel wire from his hunger and the danger of the night just past, and for a little while he wanted to stay that way. He slewed round on the bench and considered the circular great hall, the entire ground floor of the gwerbret’s broch. On one side, by a back door, stood enough tables for a warband of well over a hundred men; at the hearth, near the table of honor itself, were five more for guests and servitors. On the floor lay a carpet of fresh braided rushes. The walls and the enormous hearth were made of a pale tan stone, all beautifully worked and carved. Never had Rhodry seen a room with so much fine stonework, in fact: huge panels of interlacement edged the windows and were set into the walls alternately with roundels of spirals and fantastic animals, and an entire stone dragon embraced the hearth, its head resting on its paws, planted on the floor, its winged back forming the mantel, and its long tail curling down the other side.
“Nice bit of work, that,” Otho said with his mouth full.
“The dragon? It is. Did one of your people carve it?”
“No doubt.” Otho paused for a long swallow of ale. “Think our lady’s in safe hands?”
“I do. Jill told us to bring her here, didn’t she?”
“True. Huh. I suppose she knows what she’s doing.”
“Ye gods!” Yraen looked up from his steady feeding. “You
suppose
she knows … the woman’s a blasted sorcerer, isn’t she? Ye gods! Isn’t that enough for you?”
“Why should it be? The question is, is she a competent sorcerer?”
“After the way she carried us across the river, I’d say she is.”
“Well, maybe. Hum, you’ve got to realize that I’ve known her ever since she was a little lass, and it’s hard to believe that sweet little child’s up and grown into a—”
“Hold your tongues, both of you!” Rhodry broke in. “Here comes his grace.”
Even though he limped badly on a twisted right leg, Gwerbret Cadmar was an imposing man, standing well over six feet tall, broad in the shoulders, broad in the hands. His slate-gray hair and mustaches bristled; his face
was weather-beaten and dark; his eyes gleamed a startling blue under heavy brows. As he sat down, he looked over Rhodry and Yraen for a moment, then turned to Otho.
“Good morrow, good sir, and welcome to my humble dun. I take it that you’re passing through on the way to your homeland.”
Yraen choked on his ale and sputtered.
“I am at that, Your Grace,” Otho said. “But I’ll beg your leave to spend a while in your town. I have to send letters to my kin, because I’ve been gone for many a long year now, and I’ve got no idea if I’m welcome or not.”
“A family matter, then?”
“It was, truly, and I’d prefer not to speak of it unless your grace requires me to do so.”
“Far be it from me to pry into the affairs of another man’s clan. But by all means, good sir, make yourself welcome in my town. No doubt you’ll find an inn to suit you while you wait.”
Yraen recovered himself and stared at Otho in an angry bafflement.
“Now, silver daggers,” the gwerbret went on. “I owe you thanks for bringing the lady Carramaena safely here. No doubt the prince will reward you with something a bit more useful than mere thanks.”
“Prince?” Yraen snapped. “Your Grace, you mean he really is a prince?”
“Of course he is.” Cadmar favored him with a brief smile. “And his good favor’s important to all of us here on the border, I might add. I don’t have the land to raise horses. No one does in these wretched hills. If the Westfolk didn’t come here to trade we’d all be walking to battle soon enough.”
“One up for you, Rhodry. I’ll admit I didn’t believe you when you started talking about elven princes and suchlike.”
“Maybe it’ll teach you to listen to your betters. Your Grace, I’ve somewhat to tell you. One of the southern villages was destroyed by raiders, and we were nearly killed on the road here.”
All attention, the gwerbret leaned forward to listen as Rhodry told the tale of their ride north and the ambush by the ford. When it came to their escape, though, Rhodry
hesitated, wondering how he was going to hide the dweomer in it.
“How did you get out of that little trap, silver dagger?”
“Well, Your Grace, this is the strangest bit of all, and I’ll beg your grace to believe me, because truly, if it hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t believe it myself.”
“Ah. Jill got you out of it, did she?”
It was Rhodry’s turn for the surprise. He stared open-mouthed, searching for words, while Cadmar laughed at him, a grim sort of mutter under his breath.
“She showed up here last fall, just in time to save this leg.” The gwerbret laid one hand on his twisted thigh. “The chirurgeon was going to cut it off, but our traveling herbwoman makes him stay his hand and then, by the gods! if she doesn’t go and cure the fever in the blood and set the thing in such a way as I can actually walk. Not well, truly, but it’s better than stumbling around on a wooden stump. And so needless to say, I was inclined to treat her generously. All she wanted was a little hut out in the wilderness, and I was more than glad to give her that and all the food she could eat and wood for warmth as well. She’s done many a fine thing for my folk over the winter. And of course, they all say she’s got the dweomer, and truly, I’ve seen enough now to believe it myself.”
“Well, Your Grace, I think she does, because she got us clear of the raiders and got us our horses back as well, and then she told us to come and tell you our tale. And so we have.”
Nodding a little, Cadmar leaned back in his chair and looked out over the hall. Off at their side his warband sat drinking in silence, straining to hear the story that these strangers were telling their lord.
“And did she say when she’d return to my dun?”
“She didn’t, Your Grace.”
“Imph, well.” Cadmar thought for a long moment. “Well, silver daggers, we’ll wait the day, at least. You need to sleep, and I’ve got to summon my vassals. Then we’re riding out after these bastards. Want a hire?”