Daggerspell (12 page)

At last the riders were gone, and the street silent again. With a constant eye out for trouble, Galrion made his way down to the riverbank and waded out to the deep part of the channel. As he let the current take him, he saw, far above, guards pacing back arid forth on the city wall. Closer, closer—the river was sweeping him along fast to the point where they might look down and see him. He held his breath and plunged deep. In the murky water it was hard to see, but he thought he saw the darker stone of the arches sweep by him. His lungs ached, began to burn like fire, but he forced himself to stay down until the desperate pain drove him, panting and gasping, to the surface. He swung himself over on his back like a seal and barely swam while he breathed in the blessed air. The guards and city both lay far behind him, and no one else was out on the riverbank.

Galrion made his way to the bank and crawled out under a copse of willow trees. Free, he thought. Now all I’ve got to do is get to Brangwen. Galrion wrung the worst of the water out of his clothes and put them back on damp. The sky told him that he had about five hours till dawn. His page wouldn’t find Mae for about another hour after that, and there was bound to be another hour’s confusion before the King’s warband rode out to hunt him down. It wasn’t much of a lead, but if he could only reach the wild forest, they would never find him. He knew the tracks through it, while the riders would be blundering around, making too much noise to surprise any kind of game.

Galrion set off across the meadows to the neighboring farms and the horse he had in mind to steal. It was an easy theft; he’d often ridden this way and stopped to admire
the sleek bay gelding, who remembered his kind words and pats. When Galrion approached, the bay came right up and let him take its halter. Since there was no lead rein and no time to steal one, Galrion tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of his shirt and prayed that it would hold. The bay was well trained, responding to the touch of this improvised rein along its neck. Galrion set off at a gallop down the east-running road. If the King’s messenger wasn’t already with Gerraent, he would reach the Falcon on the morrow.

After a few minutes he slowed the bay to a walk to save its strength. Alternately walking and trotting in short bursts, they traveled all night and reached, just at dawn, the border of the King’s personal demesne. Galrion turned south, heading for the wild heath to avoid the well-traveled road. On this roundabout route, it would take longer to reach the forest, but he had no choice. By noon, the horse was weary and stumbling under him. Galrion dismounted and led it along until they came to an unkempt woodland on the edge of pasture land. He found a stream and let the bay drink. It was when the bay began grazing on the grassy bank that Galrion realized he was starving. In his hurry, he’d forgotten to bring any coin, not so much as a copper. He could no longer ride up to a noble lord’s door and expect to be fed simply because he was a prince.

“I’m not quite as clever as I need to be,” he said to the horse. “Well, I wonder how you go about stealing food from farmers?”

The horse needed to rest, and Galrion was weaving with exhaustion. Letting the improvised halter rope trail for want of a proper tether, he left the horse to its grass, then sat down with his back to a tree. Although he told himself that he would rest only for one watch of the day, when he woke, it was late in the afternoon, and he heard voices nearby. He jumped to his feet and pulled the dagger out of his shirt.

“I don’t know whose it is,” a man was saying. “A stolen horse, from the look of this bit of cloth.”

Galrion crept through the trees and came upon a farmer and a young lad, who was holding the bay by the halter. When the horse saw Galrion, it nickered out a greeting. The farmer spun round, raising his heavy staff.

“You!” he called out. “Do you claim this horse?”

“I do.” Galrion stepped out of cover.

The lad started urging the horse out of the way, but he kept frightened eyes on his father and this dirty, dangerous stranger. When Galrion took a step forward, the farmer dropped to a fighting crouch. Galrion took another step, then another—all at once, the farmer laughed, dropped the staff, and knelt at the prince’s feet.

“By the sun and his rays, my liege,” the farmer said. “So you’re out of the palace. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“I’m out indeed. How do you know so much?”

“What’s better gossip than the doings of the King? Truly, my prince, the news of your disgrace is all over the marketplace. Everyone’s as sad as sad for your mother’s sake, her such a good woman and all.”

“She is at that. Will you help me for her sake? All I ask is a bit of rope for this halter and a meal.”

“Done, but I’ve got a bridle to spare.” The farmer rose, dusting dead leaves off his knees. “The King’s warband rode by on the east road today. The tailor’s daughter saw them when she went out to pick violets.”

The farmer was even better than his word. Not only did he give the prince the bridle and a hot dinner, but he insisted on packing a sack with loaves of bread, dried apples, and oats for the gelding—more food, no doubt, than he could truly spare. When Galrion left at nightfall, he was sure that the King’s men would hear nothing but lies from this loyal man.

It hardly mattered what the farmer would have told them, if indeed they did ride his way, because by mid-morning of the next day, Galrion led his weary horse into the virgin forest. He found water, gave the horse a meager ration of oats, then sat down to think. He was tempted simply to go to Rhegor and let Brangwen think what she
liked about him, but he had the distinct feeling that Rhegor would be furious. For the first time in his pampered life, Galrion knew what it was to fail. He’d been a fool, dishonorable, plain and simply stupid—he cursed himself with every insult he could think of. Around him the forest stretched silent, dappled, with sunlight, indifferent to him and his short-lived human worries.

Husbanding every scrap of food, scrounging what fodder he could for his horse, Galrion made his way east through the forest for two days. He stayed close to the road and tried to calculate where the Falcon’s party might be, because he’d made up his mind to intercept it. Late one afternoon, he risked coming out onto the road and riding up to the crest of a low hill. Far away, hanging over the road, was a faint pall of dust—horses coming. Hurriedly he pulled back into the forest and waited, but the Falcon’s party never rode past. With Brangwen and her maidservants along, they would be making early camps to spare the women’s strength. As it grew dark, Galrion led the bay through the forest and worked his way toward the camp. From the top of the next hill he saw it: not just Lord Gerraent and his retainers, but the King’s entire warband.

“May every god curse them,” Galrion whispered. “They knew she’d be the best bait to draw me.”

Galrion tied his horse securely in the woods, then ran across the road and began making his cautious way to the camp. Every snap of a twig under his foot made him freeze and wait. Halfway downhill, the trees thinned somewhat, giving him a good look at the sprawling, disorganized camp. In the clearing along the stream, horses were tethered; nearby, the warband was gathered round two fires. Off to one side among the trees stood a high-peaked canvas tent, doubtless for Brangwen’s privacy, away from the ill-mannered riders.

The true and dangerous question, of course, was where Gerraent might be. The firelight below shone too dim for Galrion to make out anyone’s face. He lay flat in the underbrush and watched until after about an hour a blond
man came out of the tent and strolled over to one of the fires. No man but her brother would have been allowed in that tent in the first place. As soon as Gerraent was safely occupied with his dinner, Galrion got up, drawing his dagger, then circled through the underbrush, moving downhill and heading for the tent. The warband was laughing and talking, making blessed noise to cover his approach.

Galrion slit the tent down the back with his dagger, a rip of taut cloth. He heard someone moving inside.

“Galrion?” Brangwen whispered.

“It is.”

Galrion slipped back into cover. Wearing only her long nightdress, her golden hair loose over her shoulders, Brangwen crawled out the rip and crept to join him.

“I knew you’d come for me,” she whispered. “We’ve got to go right now.”

“Ah, ye gods! Will you come with me?”

“Did you ever doubt it? I’d follow you anywhere. I don’t care what you’ve done.”

“But you don’t even have a scrap of extra clothing.”

“Do you think that matters to me?”

Galrion felt as if he’d never truly looked at her before: his poor weak child, grinning like a berserker at the thought of riding away with an exile.

“Forgive me,” Galrion said. “Come along—I’ve got a horse.”

Then Galrion heard the sound, the softest crack of a branch.

“Run!” Brangwen screamed.

Galrion swirled round—too late. The guards sprang out of the trees and circled him like a cornered stag. Galrion dropped to a fighting crouch, raised the dagger, and promised himself he’d get one of them before he died. A man shoved his way through the pack of guards.

“That’ll do you no good, lad,” Adoryc said.

Galrion straightened up—he could never kill his own father. When he threw the dagger onto the ground at Adoryc’s feet, the King stooped and retrieved it, his smile
as cold as the winter wind. Galrion heard Brangwen behind him, weeping in long sobs, and Gerraent’s voice murmuring as he tried to comfort her.

“Nothing like a bitch to bring a dog to heel,” Adoryc remarked. “Bring him round to the fire. I want to look at this cub of mine.”

The guards marched Galrion round the tent and over to the bigger campfire, where the King took up his stance, feet spread apart, hands on hips. When someone brought Brangwen a cloak, she wrapped it round her and stared hopelessly at Galrion. Gerraent laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and drew her close.

“So, you little whelp,” Adoryc said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Naught, Father. I’ll only ask you for a single boon.”

“What makes you think you have the right to ask for any?” Adoryc drew his own dagger and began to fiddle with it as he talked.

“No right at all, but I’m asking for my lady’s sake. Send her away out of sight before you kill me.”

“Fair enough. Granted.”

Brangwen screamed, shoved Gerraent so hard that he stumbled, and ran forward to throw herself at the King’s feet.

“Please, please,” Brangwen went on. “For the sake of his mother, I beg you. If you must have blood, take mine.”

Brangwen clutched the hem of the King’s shirt and turned her throat up to him. She was so beautiful, with her hair streaming down her shoulders, with tears running down her perfect face, that even the King’s riders sighed aloud in pity for her.

“Ah, ye gods,” Adoryc said. “Do you love this lout as much as that?”

“I do. I’d go with him anywhere, even to the Otherlands.”

Adoryc glanced at the dagger, then sheathed it with a sigh.

“Gerraent!” the King bellowed.

Gerraent came forward, took Brangwen by the shoulders, and tried to lead her away, but she shook him off. Galrion was so sick he could barely stand. He was unworthy of her, or so he saw it, and this second failure shattered him.

“Well, by the hells,” Adoryc said mildly. “If I can’t slit your throat, Galrion, how am I going to solve this little matter?”

“You could let me and my lady go into exile. It would spare us all much trouble.”

“You little bastard!” Adoryc stepped forward and slapped him across the face. “How dare you!”

Galrion staggered from the force of the blow, but he held his ground.

“Do you want me to tell everyone else what this quarrel between us is all about? Do you, Father? I will.”

Adoryc went as still as a hunted animal.

“Or shall I just accept exile?” Galrion went on. “And no man need know the cause of it”

“You bastard.” Adoryc whispered so low that Galrion could barely hear him. “Or truly, not a bastard, because of all my sons, you’re the one most like me.” Then he raised his voice. “The cause need not be known, but we hereby do pronounce our son, Galrion, as stripped of all his rank and honor, as turned out of our presence and our demesne, forever and beyond forever. We forbid him our lands, we forbid him the shelter of those sworn to us as loyal vassals, all on pain of death.” He paused to laugh under his breath. “And we hereby strip him of the name we gave him at his miserable Birth. We proclaim his new name as Nevyn. Do you hear me, lad? Nevyn—no one—nobody at all—that’s your new name.”

“Done! I’ll bear it proudly.”

Brangwen shook herself free of Gerraent’s arm. She smiled as proudly as the princess she might have been as she started over to her banished man. Galrion held out his hand to her.

“Hold!” Gerraent forced himself between them. “My
liege, my King, what is this? Am I to marry my only sister to an exile?”

“She’s my betrothed already,” Galrion snapped. “Your father pledged her, not you.”

“Hold your tongue, Nevyn!” Adoryc slapped him across the face. “My lord Gerraent, you have our leave to speak.”

“My liege.” As he knelt before the King, Gerraent was shaking. “Truly, my father pledged her, and as his son, all I can do is honor the pledge. But my father betrothed her to a good life, one of comfort and honor. He loved his daughter. What will she have now?”

As Adoryc considered, Galrion felt the dweomer-warning like ice, shuddering down his back. He stepped forward.

“Father!”

“Never call me that again.” Adoryc motioned to the guards. “Keep our no one here quiet.”

Before Galrion could dodge, two men grabbed him and twisted his arms behind him. One of them clapped a firm hand over his mouth. Brangwen stood frozen, her face so pale that Galrion was afraid she would faint.

“I beg you, my liege,” Gerraent went on. “If I allow this marriage, what kind of a brother am I? How can I claim to be head of my clan if I have so little honor? My liege, if ever the Falcon has paid you any service, I beg you—don’t let this happen.”