Daggerspell (17 page)

“And what are you doing? Starving the baby inside you? The poor little thing is cursed indeed if its own mother won’t feed it.”

Her eyes brimming tears, Brangwen raised her head. She looked at him, then took a piece of bread and began to nibble on it. When Nevyn gave her cheese and an apple, she ate it all, but she never spoke a word. He gathered more wood for the fire, then made her lie down near it
where she could be warm. When he went through their meager provisions to see what was left, he found, wrapped in a piece of cloth, every courting present he’d ever given her. Ludda had sent them all along. Nevyn looked for a long while at the jeweled brooch in the shape of a falcon and thought of Gerraent.

When the night turned dark, and Brangwen had fallen fast asleep, Nevyn finally gave in to his wondering and built up the fire to scry. With so much terror and pain behind it, the vision built up fast, showing him the great hall of the Falcon. Blaen’s body was laid out by the hearth, with a pillow under his head and his sword on his chest. When Nevyn sent his mind to Gerraent, the vision changed. Out in the ward, Gerraent was pacing back and forth with his sword in his hand. He. had refused to flee his Wyrd.

Nevyn never truly knew how long he kept that last watch with Gerraent. Once, the fire burned so low that he lost the vision, but when he laid more wood in, he scried Gerraent out immediately, pacing, pacing, pacing, his sword swinging back and forth, the blade glittering in the torchlight. At last, Nevyn heard the sound, just as Gerraent did, tossing up his head like a stag. Horses, a lot of them, clattering up the hill. Gerraent strolled to the gates and positioned himself between them with his sword raised at the battle-ready. With his warband behind him, Lord Camlann rode into the pool of torchlight while Gerraent stood and smiled. When Camlann drew his sword, the warband did the same.

“Where’s my brother’s body?”

“By my hearth. Bury one of my horses with him, will you?”

His young face troubled, Camlann leaned forward in the saddle to stare at the friend who had become his enemy. Then the troubled look disappeared, swept away by the cold, honorable rage of the avenger. He flung up his sword, keened once, and spurred his horse forward. The men charged and ringed Gerraent round. In the mob, Nevyn saw Gerraent’s sword flash up, bright with blood
in the torchlight. A horse reared; men shouted; then the mob pulled back. Gerraent was lying dead on the ground. His cheek bleeding from a sword cut, Camlann dismounted and walked over to kneel beside him. He raised his sword two-handed and cut Gerraent’s head off. He rose, swinging the head by the hair, and with a howl of rage, he flung it hard against the wall.

The scream broke the vision—Brangwen’s scream. Nevyn scrambled up and ran to her just as she rose, sobbing.

“Gerro! He’s dead. Gerro, Gerro, Gerro!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Camlann—ah ye gods—he cut—he, ah, ye gods! Gerro!”

Nevyn flung his arms around her and pulled her tight. Brangwen struggled, throwing herself back and forth in his arms while she keened for her brother and the father of her child. Nevyn held on tightly and grimly until at last she fell silent.

“How did you know? Gwennie, tell me! How did you know?”

Brangwen only wept, an exhausted tremble of her body. Nevyn stroked her hair and held her until at last she seemed calmed. When he let her go, she threw her head back and keened again.

And so it went for hours. He would just soothe her when something would make her remember and she would keen, struggling with him. Slowly her struggles grew weaker. He got her to lie down on the cloaks, then lay down next to her and let her weep in his arms. When she at last fell asleep, he watched the fire burning itself out until he, too, drifted off, as exhausted as she.

But he woke not an hour later and found her gone. Nevyn jumped to his feet and ran for the river. He could just see her there, poised on the bank, a dark shape against the sky.

“Gwennie!”

She neither turned nor hesitated, but flung herself into the river before he could reach her. Weighted by her long dresses, she went down, swirling away into the darkness.
Nevyn dove in after her. Black—the cold shock of the water—he could barely breathe or see. The current swept him along, but as he broke the surface and came up, he saw nothing but black water, scouring ahead of him. If she’d sunk already, he could easily be swimming over her.

Yet, though he knew it was hopeless, he kept diving, kept swimming back and forth across the river like a dog seeking a water bird. All at once, the current swirled him and rammed him hard against a sharp something in the dark. A rock. With his shoulder aching like a fire, Nevyn managed to pull himself to the riverbank and out, but only barely. He lay gasping and weeping on the bank for a long time.

Just as the gray of dawn lightened the sky, Nevyn got up and walked downstream. He was too mad with grief to know what he was doing; he merely walked, looking for her. As the sun came up, he found her where the current had washed her into a sandy shallows. She lay on her back, her golden hair sodden and tangled, her beautiful eyes wide open, staring sightlessly at the brightening sky. She had fulfilled her vow to the gods. Nevyn picked her up, slung her weight over his uninjured shoulder, and carried her back to camp. All he could think was that he had to get Gwennie home. He wrapped her in both cloaks and tied her over the gray’s saddle.

It was close to nightfall when Nevyn reached the hut in the forest. Rhegor came running out and stopped, looking at the burden in the saddle.

“You were too late.”

“It was too late from the first day he bedded her.”

Nevyn brought her down and carried her inside, laid her down by the hearth, then sat down beside her. While the light faded in the hut, he looked at her, simply looked as if he were expecting her to wake and smile at him. Rhegor came inside, carrying a lantern.

“I’ve tended the horse.”

“My thanks.”

Slowly, a broken phrase at a time, Nevyn told him the tale, while Rhegor listened with an occasional nod.

“The poor lass,” Rhegor said at last. “She had more honor than either you or her brother.”

“She did. Would it be a wrong thing for me to kill myself on her grave?”

“It would. I forbid it.”

Nevyn nodded vaguely and wondered why he felt so calm. He was dimly aware of his master leaning over him.

“Lad, she’s dead. You’ve got to go on from here. All we can do for Gwennie is pray that she has better afterwards.”

“Where?” Nevyn spat out the words. “In the shadowy Otherlands? How can there even be gods, if they’d let her die and not kill a wretch like me?”

“Here, lad, you’re mad from your grief, and truly, I’m afraid you might stay that way if you keep brooding. The gods have nothing to do with this, either way. That’s true enough.” Rhegor put a gentle hand on Nevyn’s arm. “Come, now, let’s sit at the table. Let poor little Gwennie lie there.”

Nevyn’s habit of obedience saved him. He let Rhegor haul him up and lead him to a table, sat down when the master told him to, and took a tankard of ale, as well, just because the master had handed him one.

“Now drink some of it right off. There. That’s better, lad. You think she’s gone forever, don’t you? Cut off from life, forever and ever, and her a lass who loved life so much.”

“And what else would I think?”

“I’ll tell you the truth to think instead. There’s a great secret to the dweomer, one that you can never tell any man unless he asks you point-blank. They never do ask, truly, unless they’re marked for the dweomer themselves. But the secret is this, that everyone, man and woman both, lives not once, but many times, over and over, back and forth between this world and the other. What looks like a death here, lad, is but birth to another world. She’s gone, truly, but she’s gone to that other world, and I swear to you, someone will come to meet her.”

“I never thought you’d lie to me! What do you think
I am? An infant that can’t bear grief without some pretty tale to sweeten it?”

“It’s not a lie. And soon, when your training allows, you’ll do and see things that will prove the truth of it. Until then, believe me blind.”

Nevyn hesitated on the edge of trust.

“And in a while,” the master went on, “she’ll die to that other world and be born again to this one. I can’t know if ever your paths will cross again. That’s for the Great Ones, the Lords of Wyrd, to decide, not you and me. Do you still doubt my sworn word?”

“Never could I doubt that.”

“Then that’s what you have.” Rhegor gave a long weary sigh. “And since men believe the bitter easier than the sweet, I’ll tell you somewhat else. If you do meet again, whether in this life or the next, then you have a great debt to make up to her. You failed her, lad. I’m half minded to turn you out, but that would only mean I’m failing you. You’re going to make this up to her, and the burden won’t be an easy one. Maybe it sounds pretty, saying you’ll meet again, but think about what you owe her. You little fool, you should have recognized her! You thought of her as a jewel or a fine horse, the best woman to ever come your way, better like a prize. Ye gods, under that god-cursed beauty lay a woman to match you in the dweomer. Why do you think I hung around the Falcon keep? How could she ever leave to study the dweomer except through the right man? Would her father have ever so nicely let her go off on her own to study her birthright? Why do you think you fell in love with her the moment you saw her? You knew, you dolt, or you should have known—you were a pair, calling to one another!” Rhegor slammed his hand down on the table. “But now she’s gone.”

Nevyn turned cold, a sick ripple of shame.

“And someday soon she’ll have to start all over again,” Rhegor went on remorselessly. “A little baby, blind, unknowing, years before she can even speak and hold a wretched spoon to feed herself. She’ll have to grow up all over again, while the kingdom needs every dweomermaster
it can get! You dolt! By then, who knows where you’ll be? You fool!”

Nevyn broke, falling onto the table to weep on his folded arms. Hastily Rhegor got up, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, here, I’m sorry, lad. There’ll be time to talk when you’re done mourning. You don’t need vinegar poured on your wounds. Here, here, forgive me.”

Yet it was a long hour before Nevyn could stop weeping.

In the morning, Nevyn and Rhegor took Brangwen into the woods to bury her. As he helped dig her grave, Nevyn felt a deathly calm. He lifted her up for the last time and laid her in, then put all the courting presents in with her. Other lives or no, he wanted her to have grave goods, like the princess she should have been. Working together, they filled in the grave and built a cairn over it to keep the wild animals from digging her up. Around them the forest stretched silent and lonely, far from her ancestors. When the last stone lay on the cairn, Rhegor lifted his arms to the sun.

“It is over,” Rhegor called out. “Let her rest.”

Nevyn fell on his knees at the foot of the cairn.

“Brangwen, my love, forgive me! If we ever meet again, I swear I’ll put this right. I swear to you—I’ll never rest until I set this right.”

“Hold your tongue! You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I don’t care—I’ll swear it anyway. I’ll never rest until I put this right!”

From the clear sky came a clap of thunder, then another, then another—three mighty hollow knocks, rolling and booming over the forest. His face white, Rhegor stepped back.

“The Great Ones have accepted your sacrifice.”

After the thunder, the silence rang unbearably loud. Nevyn rose, shaking like a man with a fever. Rhegor shrugged and picked up his shovel.

“Well, there you go, lad. A vow’s a vow.”

• • •

When the forest was turning gold and scarlet, and the winds whipped down from the north, Gwerbret Madoc rode their way. Nevyn came back from gathering firewood to find His Grace’s black horse, shield hanging at the saddle bow, standing in front of the hut. He dumped his armload of wood into the bin and ran inside to find Madoc drinking ale with Rhegor at the table.

“Here’s my apprentice, Your Grace. Since you’re so interested in meeting him.”

“Have you come to kill me?” Nevyn said.

“Don’t be a dolt, lad. I came to offer my aid to Brangwen, but now I hear Fm far too late.”

Nevyn sat down and felt his grief welling up heavy in his heart.

“How did you find me?”

“By asking here and there. When you were banished, I stayed at court and tried to convince His Highness to recall you. I might as well have tried to squeeze mead out of turnips. So your most noble mother let it slip to me that you’d gone for the dweomer, and that there was no hope at all. Then when I rode to Lady Rodda after Blaen’s murder, I heard a tale or two from the servants about this strange herbman and his apprentice. Worth a look, think I, but I haven’t had the time till now.”

“Nicely done,” Rhegor said. “The gwerbret keeps his eyes open wider than most men.”

Madoc winced as if he’d been slapped.

“Here, Your Grace, just a way of speaking.”

“You can’t know how deep that cuts,” Madoc said. “About Gerraent and his god-cursed passion? I saw it, and here, like a fool I held my tongue, hoping I was wrong.”

“If it’s any comfort, there’s not a soul in the kingdom who would blame you.”

“No comfort at all when a man blames himself. But then I heard that our prince had gotten her away in the end. Well, think I, the least I can do is find the lass before winter and make sure she and child will be warm.” His voice broke. “Too late now. I’ll never make it up to her.”

A cold silence hung in the room.

“How fares Lady Rodda?” Rhegor said at last. “I grieve for her, but I haven’t dared to ride her way.”

“Well, she’s a warrior’s wife and the mother of warriors. Her heart will heal in time. By every god in the sky, I failed Blaen, too! A piss-poor excuse for a man I am, taking a man’s fealty and then letting things sweep him to his death.”

“And the Falcon no longer flies. It’s a hard thing to see the death of a clan.”

“And death it is, truly. The King has given the Falcon’s lands to the Boar as a blood price for Blaen’s murder. What lord will ever take that device again, cursed as it?”