Bristling Wood (38 page)

“Now this is passing strange,” Salamander announced. “Rhodry’s still heading south, but by the ears of Epona’s steed, why is he taking every rotten cow path and village lane instead of riding on the king’s good roads?”

Jill turned to look at him. They were sitting on the bow of a river barge, and Salamander was using the foaming, sun-flecked waters as a focus for scrying. Since she still was seeing with power, the water seemed like solid, carved silver, but she could remind herself now that what she was seeing was only illusionary. She refused to believe that she was seeing a hidden reality no matter how often Salamander insisted on it.

“Does he seem to be looking for a hire?”

“Not in the least, and I’ve been watching him for two days now. It seems that he knows where he’s going, but he’s being cursed careful on the way.” With an irritable toss of his head, he looked away from the river. “Well, I’ll spy out the esteemed brother again later. How are you feeling this morn?”

“A lot better. At least things are holding still most of the time.”

“Good. Then my unpracticed cure is actually working.”

“You have my heartfelt thanks, truly.”

For a while she idly watched the southern horizon, where Lughcarn’s smoke hung like a tiny cloud. She wished that she could simply forget about Perryn, that Salamander had some magic that would wipe her mind clean of his memory, but she knew that the shame she felt would nag at her for years. She felt as unclean as a priestess who’d broken her vows and was somehow to blame, too, for her abduction. If she’d only told Rhodry, or called to Nevyn earlier, or—the “If only’s” ran on and on.

“From the hiraedd in your eyes,” Salamander said abruptly, “I think me you’re brooding again.”

“Oh, how can I not brood? It’s all well and good to chase after Rhodry, but I imagine he’ll only curse me to my face when we find him.”

“Why? You were no more at fault than one of the horses Perryn stole.”

She merely shook, her head to keep tears away.

“Now, here, Jill, my turtledove. Your mind’s back, you can think again. Let me tell you somewhat. I’ve been thinking about our horse-stealing lord, and I’ve talked with Nevyn, too. There’s somewhat cursed peculiar about that lad. He has what you might call a wound of the soul, the way he pours out his life at will.”

“But I’m the one who fell right into his wretched arms. Ah, ye gods, I never dreamt that I was as weak-willed as some slut of a tavern lass.”

Salamander growled under his breath.

“Haven’t you listened to one blasted word I said? It’s not a weak will. You were ensorceled, dweomer-bound and dweomer-muddled. Once his life force swept over you, you had no will of your own, only his will. All his lust ran to you like water through a ditch.”

For a moment she wanted to vomit as she remembered how it felt to have him smile at her in his particular way.

“Why do you call it a wound?” she said.

“Because it’s going to kill him, sooner or later.”

“Good. I only wish I could be there to watch.”

“And no one expects you to feel differently, my delicate little lass. But can’t you see, Jill? You’re as blameless as if he’d tied you down and raped you by force.”

“Ah ye gods, and that’s what I hate most. I felt so beastly helpless!”

“You
were
helpless.”

“Oh, true enough. It’s a cursed hard thing to admit.”

“Boils need lancing, on the other hand.”

When she threw a fake punch his way, he smiled.

“Truly, you’re coming back to your old self. But don’t you see the curious thing? Given that Perryn has no true dweomer, then where by all the hells does this power come from? What gave him the wound?”

“As much as I hate to talk about the worm-rotted bastard, I’ll admit the question’s of some interest.”

“Of great interest, especially to Nevyn. Unfortunately, at the moment, there is no answer.”

“Well, if anyone can find it, it’s Nevyn.”

“Precisely. Especially once he gets his hands on him.”

“Is he planning on hunting Perryn down?”

“Not truly. I’ve been waiting to tell you this until you were stronger, but I think you can bear it now. Perryn’s been following us.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Salamander caught her hand and held it between both of his.

“You’re in no danger now, none at all.”

“Not now, maybe, but what about when we’re out on the roads again, following Rhodry?”

“By then Perryn will be on his way to Eldidd under armed guard. Here, there’s a dweomerman at court named Lord Madoc. Have Perryn arrested as soon as he enters the city, then send him to Nevyn. From what you told me, that rambling scribe in our lordling’s saddlebags is more than enough reason for the king’s wardens to take him under arrest.”

“So we’re going to Dun Deverry?”

“We are. And we may not have to leave it, either. Do you know Rhodry’s cousin Blaen of Cwm Peel?”

“I do.”

“The good gwerbret’s at court at the moment. Nevyn wants us to speak with him. It seems that the king’s sent out the word that he wants to see Rhodry. Apparently the various gwerbrets are keeping watch for him, and when they find him, they’ll send him straight to Dun Deverry.”

“The king? What—”

“I don’t know, but I think me we can guess. The king knows Rhys won’t be getting any more heirs for Aberwyn.”

“Recall.”

“Just that. So soon enough, Jill, you’ll be having a splendid wedding.”

“Oh, will I now? You sound like a village idiot. Think! They’re never going to let the heir to the most important rhan in Eldidd marry a silver dagger’s bastard. The best I could hope for is being his wretched mistress again, living in his court and hating his wife. Well, if he even wants me anymore. What do you think this is, one of your tales?”

“I have the distinct and revolting feeling that I was thinking just that. Jill, please, forgive me.”

She merely shrugged and watched the farmland gliding by. A herd of white cattle with rusty-red ears were drinking from the river, watched over by a lad and two dogs.

“Do you forgive me?” he said at last.

“I do, and my apologies, too. I’m all to pieces still.”

“So you are. After you’ve baited our trap for Perryn, you could just ride away without seeing Rhodry, if you wanted.”

“Never. Maybe he’ll curse me to my face, but I want to tell him that I always loved him.”

Salamander started to speak, but she covered her face with her hands and wept.

The king’s palace in Dun Deverry was enormous, six broch towers joined by a sprawling complex of half-brochs, surrounded by outbuildings, and protected by a double ring of curtain walls. As an honored guest, Blaen, Gwerbret Cwm Pecl, had a luxurious suite high up in one of the outer towers, so that he had a good view of the gardens that lay between the pair of walls. In his reception hamber were four chairs with cushions of purple Bardek velvet well as a table and a hearth of its own. Although Blaen cared little for such luxuries as things in themselves, he appreciated them as marks of the king’s favor. Besides, his wife, Canyffa, was accompanying him on this trip, and he liked to see her surrounded by comfort. A tall woman with dark hair and doelike brown eyes, Canyffa was as calm as he was excitable. Although their marriage had been of the usual arranged sort, Blaen privately considered that he’d been exceptionally lucky in his wife. At moments, he could even admit to her that he loved her.

This particular morning Canyffa had been called to wait upon the queen in Her Majesty’s private chamber—a signal honor, but one that had come her way before. Blaen perched on the window-sill in their bedchamber and watched as she dressed with special care. After one of her serving women laid out several dresses on the bed, she sent the lass away and studied the choices, finally picking a modest one of dove-gray Bardek silk, a color that showed off the reds and whites of her husband’s clan’s plaid to advantage.

“I think Gwerbret Savyl’s wife is going to be attending the queen this morning as well,” she remarked. “I assume that my lord would like me to keep my ears open.”

“Your lord would like naught better, truly. What’s the wife like, anyway?”

Canyffa considered before answering.

“A weasel, but a lovely one. I gather that they’re well suited.”

“In weaselhood, perhaps. No one would call Savyl lovely. Cursed if I know why he’s sticking his oar in this particular stream! Camynwaen’s a long way from Belglaedd. What use can Talidd possibly be to him?”

“I believe they’ve got blood kin in common, but still, the point’s well taken, my lord. I shall see if I can cultivate the lovely Lady Braeffa.” She paused for a quick smile. “But if I’m going to sacrifice myself this way, I shall expect a handsome present from our Rhodry when he’s recalled.”

“Some of the finest Bardek silver, no doubt. I’ll make sure he honors you properly. Well—if we can get him recalled, anyway.”

While Canyffa was off with the queen, Blaen had a guest of his own, a powerful man who was worth another sort of cultivation.

He had his page fetch a silver flagon of mead and two glass goblets, then sent the lad away. The gwerbret filled the glasses with his own hands and gave one to his guest, who took an appreciative sip. The recently ennobled Lord Madoc, third equerry to the king, was a slender man of about forty, with neatly trimmed blond hair barely touched with gray, and humorous blue eyes. He was also, or so it was said. Nevyn’s nephew. Indeed? Blaen thought to himself. But I’ll wager he’s another sorcerer, nephew or not. Since he’d been a successful horse breeder in Cantrae province before his recent court appointment, Madoc certainly did his job well, and he had a plain yet decent sort of manners that allowed him to fit into the court as smoothly as any minor lord—if not more so. Yet, every now and then, there was something about the way he looked or smiled that implied that the power and pomp of the court failed to impress him.

“My thanks for the invitation to visit you. Your Grace,” Madoc said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Simple hospitality, in a way. I know your uncle well.”

“Of course. I had a letter from him recently. He’s quite well.”

“Splendid. Is he still in Eldidd?”

“He is, Your Grace. Lovyan, Tieryn Dun Gwerbyn, has taken him into her service.”

I’ll just wager, Blaen thought to himself. More like he’s taken her into his, whether she knows it or not.

“That’s good news,” he said aloud. “Our Nevyn’s getting a bit old to travel the roads with a mule.”

“His health’s a marvel, isn’t it, Your Grace? But then my mother is still alive and sharp as a sword, and her past seventy.”

“Let’s hope the gods grant that you inherit their stamina, then.” Blaen gave him a friendly grin. “Lovyan’s kin to me, of course, my mother’s sister.”

“So I’d heard, Your Grace, but then, there’s been quite a bit of talk of late of your cousin Rhodry.”

“No doubt. Trying to keep a secret at court is generally a waste of time. The gossip started buzzing, I’ll wager, the moment our liege summoned me here.”

“A bit sooner than that, truly.” Madoc shook his head in mock sadness. ”The first rumors, Your Grace, were that the king might summon you.”

“I’ll wager you, know, then, that our liege is looking for my scapegrace cousin.”

“I do, at that, and the gossip is that the king means to override his sentence of exile.”

“Well, I can’t really tell you if that’s true or not. I haven’t been worn to any secrets, mind—our liege hasn’t told me, that’s all. I’ll guess that he’s not sure yet.”

“Most like, Your Grace. Overriding a gwerbret’s decree is naught to be done lightly.”

“Just so.” Blaen paused for a long swallow of mead. “But curse it all, the king can’t do one thing or the other until Rhodry’s been found.”

“Still no news, Your Grace?”

“Not a shred. By every god and his wife, what’s wrong with those packs of idiots that the gwerbrets call riders? The kingdom’s big, sure enough, but they should have found one silver dagger by now.”

“So you’d think, Your Grace.” For the briefest of moments, Madoc looked troubled. “I truly thought they would have tracked him down quite quickly.”

“So did I.” Here was the crux, and Blaen paused briefly. “In fact, I was wondering if perhaps you’d help with the hunt.”

“Me, Your Grace? Well, I’d certainly do anything that my duties here allow, but I’m not sure what I could do.”

“I’m not truly sure either, but I suspect a man known as Nevyn’s nephew might see things hidden from others.”

Madoc blinked twice, then smiled.

“Ah, Your Grace. You know about the old man’s dweomer, then.”

“I do. He went out of his way to let me know, last summer, it was. He seemed to find it strangely easy to see things a long way away.”

“So he can, Your Grace. Let me be blunt. If I could scry Rhodry out, I would, but I’ve never seen him in the flesh, and so I can’t.”

Blaen had a gulp of mead to hide his surprise. He’d been expecting a lot of fencing before Madoc admitted the truth, but here the man had just spat it out.

“I see,” Blaen said at last. “Pity.”

“It is. I may be able to get you news some other way. His Grace is right. Things are growing worrisome. Rhodry really should have been found by now.”

“Just so. Do you know what my worst fear is? That some of the men whose clans stand to inherit Aberwyn when Rhys dies may have taken steps to have the legitimate heir removed.”

“Ye gods! Would they stoop so low?”

“Aberwyn is one of the richest rhans in the kingdom, and it’s going to grow richer. Just a year ago the king gave the city a more liberal charter. One of the terms was that Aberwyn would have a share in the royal monopoly on trade with Bardek.”

Madoc nodded, a grim little smile twisting his mouth.

“His Grace’s point is well taken. Well and good, then. If His Grace will excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course.”

Blaen was expecting Madoc to leave the chamber, but instead he went to the window and looked up at the sky, where white clouds billowed and tore on the edge of a summer storm. He stood there while Blaen downed two more goblets of mead and wondered what the man was doing; finally he turned back, looking troubled.