Bristling Wood (23 page)
“You!” Owaen snapped. “I see by your blazon that you used to ride for the Eagle clan of Belglaedd.”
“I did. What’s it to you?”
“Naught, except for one small thing.” Owaen paused for an insolent sip of ale. “You’ve got the clan device all over your gear. I want it taken off.”
“What!?”
“You heard me.” Owaen touched the yoke of his shirt, which sported an embroidered falcon. “Those eagles look too much like my device. I want them gone.”
“Oh, do you now?” Slowly and carefully Branoic swung free of the bench and stood up to face him. Dimly he was aware that the hall had fallen silent. “I was born into that clan, you piss-proud little mongrel. I’ve got every right to wear that device if I want, and want it I do.”
Like dweomer Caradoc materialized in between them and laid a restraining hand on Branoic’s sword arm.
“Listen, Owaen,” the captain said. “The lad’s gear will get lost or broken soon enough, and the eagles fly away of their own accord.”
“That’s not soon enough.”
“I won’t have fighting in our prince’s, hall.”
Then let’s go out in the ward,” Branoic broke in, “Let’s settle it, Owaen, with a fistfight between the two of us, and the winner gets the device.”
“For a new man, you’re an insolent little bastard.” Then Owaen caught the grim look on Caradoc’s face. “Oh, very well, then. You’re on.”
Nearly everyone in the great hall trooped after them to watch when they went out. While a couple of pages ran off for torches, the combatants took off their sword belts and handed them to Maddyn. Wagers went back and forth between the onlookers. When the torches arrived, Branoic and Owaen faced off and began circling, sizing each other up. Since Branoic had won every fistfight he’d ever fought, he was confident—too confident. He plunged straight in, swung, and felt Owaen block his punch, at the same moment that a fist jammed into his stomach. Gasping he dodged back, but Owaen was right there, dancing in from the side, clipping him on the side of the jaw. Although the blow stung more than hurt, Branoic went into a berserker rage, swinging back, punching, feeling nothing but a swelling dizziness as Owaen hlocked and danced and hit in return.
“Enough!” Caradoc’s voice sliced through the red haze surrounding him. “I said hold and stand, by the Lord of Hell’s balls!”
Arms grabbed him and pulled him back. With a gasp for breath Branoic tossed his head and saw blood scatter from a cut over his left eye. Owaen was standing in front of him, his nose running blood. He smiled as Branoic took a step back and felt his knees buckle under him. When the men holding him lowered him gently to the cobbles, all he could do was sit there, gasping for breath, feeling his face and stomach throb with pain and the blood run down his cheek.
“This had better end it,” Caradoc said. “Owaen gets the little chickens since he’s so fond of them, but I don’t want anyone mocking Branoic for this, either. Hear me?”
There were mutters of agreement from the other silver daggers. In a flood of good-natured laughter the crowd broke up, settling wagers as they drifted back to the great hall. Branoic stayed outside; he felt so humiliated that he was sure he could never look another man in the face again. Maddyn caught his arm and helped him stand.
“Now look, lad, I’ve never seen a man before who could give Owaen a bloody nose.”
“You don’t need to lie to spare my feelings.”
“I’m not. If you can keep Owaen from knocking you out cold on the cobbles, then you’ve won a victory of sorts.”
It was so sincerely said that Branoic felt his shame lift. Stumbling and staggering, he had to lean on Maddyn as they headed for the barracks. About halfway there they were stopped by the old man whom Maddyn had pointed out earlier as the prince’s councillor. Nevyn held up the lantern he was carrying and peered into Branoic’s bleeding face.
“I’ll tell Caudyr to get out to the barracks. This lad needs a couple of stitches in that cut over his eye. Make sure you get him to lie down, Maddo.”
“Oh, I’ll wager he won’t be wanting to dance the night away.”
Although Branoic tried to smile at the jest, his mouth hurt too badly. Suddenly Nevyn looked straight into his eyes, and the gaze caught him like a spear, impaling deep into his soul. In his muddled state he felt as if he’d been trying to find this man all his life for some reason that he should remember, that he absolutely had to remember. Then the insight vanished in a flood of nausea.
“He’s going to heave,” Nevyn said calmly. “That’s all right, lad. Get it all out.”
Branoic dropped to his knees and vomited, his stomach burning from Owaen’s fist. Never in his life had he felt so humiliated, that Nevyn would see him like this, but when he was finally done and looked up to apologize, the old man was gone.
Nevyn returned to his chamber, lit the ready-laid fire with a wave of his hand, and sat down in a comfortable chair to think about this blond, young Eldidd man that Caradoc had brought in from the road like a stray dog. Nevyn had recognized him the moment he’d seen him, or rather, he knew perfectly well that he should recognize the soul looking out through those cornflower-blue eyes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite remember who he’d been in former lives. While Maddyn felt well disposed to the lad, Owaen had hated him on sight, a mutual feeling, it seemed. Logically, then, in his last life Branoic might have been a loyal member of Gweniver’s warband, still bearing his old grudge against the man who had tried to rape a holy priestess. Since Nevyn had never paid any particular attention to the warband, it was also logical that he wouldn’t remember all its members. On the other hand, he’d felt such a strong dweomer touch at the sight of the lad that surely he had to be someone more important than one of Gwyn and Ricyn’s riders.
“Maybe her brother-in-law?” he said aloud. “What was his name, anyway? Ye gods, I can’t remember that either!! I must be getting old.”
Over the next few days, his mind at odd moments worried over the problem of Branoic’s identity like a terrier in front of a rat cage—it growled and snapped but couldn’t get the rat out. He did decide, however, that the lad’s arrival was an omen of sorts, a true one rather than another faked and theatrical glamour such as those that he and the priests were spreading about the coming of the king. One or two at a time, men he had trusted in lives past were coming to help him bring peace to the kingdom.
Soon enough, he had news of an ominous kind to occupy his attention. Some weeks past, he had sent to the temple of Bel at Hendyr for copies of two important works on Deverry common law, and when the messenger returned he also brought a letter from Dannyr, the high priest down in Cerrmor, a letter that was twice sealed and written in the ancient tongue of the Homeland few could read.
“King Glyn has fallen ill,” Dannyr wrote. “Everyone whispers of poison, although such seems doubtful to me. The king’s chirurgeons have diagnosed a congestion of the liver, and truly, it is no secret that the king has indulged himself with mead in unseemly quantities ever since he was old enough to drink. Yet I thought it wise to inform you of these rumors nonetheless, for we cannot have it said that the true king poisoned one of his rivals. Any counsel you might send would be appreciated, but for the love of every god, write only in the ancient tongue.”
When he finished, Nevyn swore aloud with vile oaths in both the ancient and the modern tongues. Dannyr was exactly right; no one would believe Maryn the true king if they thought he’d used poison to gain a throne. All the blame—if, indeed, blame there were—had to be cast onto the other claimant up in Dun Deverry, or rather, onto the various minions of the Boar clan that surrounded the eighteen-year-old king. At that point Nevyn remembered Caudyr, and he thanked the Lords of Light with all his soul for giving him the weapons he needed to win this battle. The chirurgeon’s evidence about the circumstances surrounding the death of the last king would no doubt throw any suspicion firmly where it belonged. Smiling grimly to himself, Nevyn went to his writing desk and drafted a letter to Dannyr straightaway.
Yet when he was done, and the letter safely sealed against the off chance that there was someone around who could read it, he sat at his desk for a long time and considered this matter of poison. Even though it seemed that Glyn was dying of self-induced natural causes, there was no doubt that poison had become available in the torn kingdoms. Who was brewing it? What if there were followers of the dark dweomer around, waiting their chance to plunge the country deeper into chaos? And did they know about Maryn? He went cold all over, cursing himself for a fool, for a proud, stupid dolt to think he could keep such a crucial secret from those who made it their business to ferret out secrets. He would have to see if his suspicions were correct, and if they were, mere scrying through a fire would be useless.
He barred the door to his chamber, then lay down on his bed, lying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. First he calmed his breathing, then summoned the body of light, seeing the glowing man shape first in his mind, then pouring his will into it until it seemed to stand beside him in the chamber. He transferred his consciousness over, heard a rushy click, and floated in the air looking down at his inert body. Slipping out a window, he flew up high until he could look down on the dun, a black, dead lump in the throbbing silver mist of elemental force arising from the lake Although the mist made it difficult for him to hold his place—he was forced to fight against some truly dangerous currents—still he was glad to see it, because its presence would make scrying into the dun difficult indeed. The lake had turned the dun into a safe fortress on more planes than one.
Navigating carefully, Nevyn got clear of the lake’s aura and flew over the sleeping countryside, a dull red-brown now that autumn was sapping the energies of the plant life. In their true forms, beautiful, ever-changing crystalline structures of colored light, the Wildfolk swarmed around and accompanied him on his flight. About five miles from the dun he had his first warning of evil when the spirits paused, shuddering, then disappeared in silver flashes and long winking-outs of light. He stopped and waited, hovering above a patch of woodland to take imperfect shelter in its ebbing glow. None of the Wildfolk returned. Whatever had frightened them had done so badly. He flew up higher until the blue light was as thick as fog, ever swirling and drifting, hiding the landscape below. When he visualized light flowing from his fingertips, light appeared, the volatile mind-stuff responding instantly to the form he imposed upon it. With glowing lines of light he drew an enormous sigil of protection in front of him. Since it would be visible for a great distance, it was the perfect bait to draw the attention of any other travelers on the etheric that night.
For a long while he waited there like a hunter near a snare until at last he saw another human-shaped body of light far off from him in the blue mists. He drew another sigil, this one of greeting and friendship, and was rewarded by seeing his fellow traveler first go stock-still, then turn and flee at top speed. Instinctively Nevyn started after, only to stop himself before he’d gone far. He had no idea of how strong the enemy was or even if he were alone. He was certain, however, that an enemy it was. Any servant of the Light would have answered that sigil with a similar one and then come to meet him.
Rather than risk some foolhardy battle, Nevyn returned to the dun and his physical body. Stretching, he sat up on the bed and looked into the fire on the hearth.
“Bad news. I think me that someone’s spying on us.”
In alarm the spirits of fire flared up, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
“If you see anything the least bit unusual, tell me.”
Within the flames the gleaming salamanders nodded their agreement. Nevyn got up, took his heavy cloak, and left the chamber. He went up the spiral staircase to the last landing of the broch, where a trapdoor gave access to the roof. After a quick glance round to make sure that no servants were there to see this eccentric behavior on the part of the learned councillor, he pried it up and climbed out onto the roof. He had a strange sort of guard to post.
First he raised his arms high and called upon the power of the Holy Light that stands behind all the gods. Its visible symbol came to him in a glowing spear that pierced him from head to foot. For a moment he stood motionless, paying it homage, then stretched his arms out shoulder high, bringing the light with them to form a shaft across his chest. As he stood within the cross, the light swelled, strengthening him, then slowly faded of its own will. When it was gone, he lowered his arms, then visualized a sword of glowing light in his right hand. Once the image lived apart from his will, he circled the roof, walking deosil, and used the sword to draw a huge ring of golden light in the sky. As the ring settled to earth, it sheeted out, forming a burning wall around the entire dun. Three times around he went, until the wall lived on the etheric of its own will.
At each ordinal point, he put a seal in the shape of a five-pointed star made of blue fire. Once the four directions were sealed, he spread the light until it was not a ring but a hemisphere over the dun like a canopy. He made two last seals at zenith and nadir, then withdrew the force from the astral sword until it vanished. To signify the end of the working, he stamped three times on the roof. The dome, however, remained visible—that is, visible to someone with dweomer sight. Although he would have to renew the seals five times a day, whenever the astral tides changed, everyone within the dome would be safe from evil, prying eyes.
Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, for the air nipped with the promise of winter, he went to the wall and idly looked down into the ward. Someone was walking there, and the way he moved was suspicious: taking a few steps, pausing to look carefully round, then walking slowly on again. With his mind full of thoughts of spies, Nevyn left the roof and rushed down the inside staircase so fast that he nearly ended his physical existence there and then. When he ran out into the ward, the mysterious figure was no longer in sight. Muttering under his breath, he summoned Wildfolk, among them a large mottled gnome who had indeed seen the prowler. The gnome led him straight around the main broch and toward the stables with absolutely no sign of fear, which made Nevyn think he’d been overly dramatic to assume that the dark dweomer had a spy right in the dun. Sure enough, when he saw his quarry, he realized it was Branoic. Even in the dark the lad’s sheer size and the straight-backed way he stood were recognizable.
