Daggerspell (21 page)

“I do. How do you read it?”

“It was a true murder, sure enough. It happened when I was a tiny lad, so I remember somewhat of it. You saw
Lord—oh, was it Caryl? I can’t remember, but the head of the Boar clan he was, cruelly murdered by the Falcons. But truly, just as your White Lady said, it was avenged, twice over, some would say. The gods had justice, and I see no reason for Great Bel to be displeased.”

“Well, then, there’s no curse on the land, because that’s all my lady could show me.”

“Just so. We will perform the horse sacrifice at the waning of the moon.”

Until the sun rose, Gweran rested at the temple. He was so tired he was yawning, but sleep refused to come to him. His mind raced, reproducing bits of the vision or seeing flecks of the white mist, then simply babbling to itself. The ritual always left him this way. Though some bards develop a lust for the strange white lands and the marvels therein, a madness that eventually takes over their minds, Gweran felt mostly disgust, based on a healthy fear of losing himself forever in the swirling mist. Yet as he thought it over, this particular vision seemed to have a message for him: he knew that murdered lord, knew him like a brother. Was it vengeance enough? he thought. Truly, it should have been. When the sun came in pale shafts through the temple windows, he shook off these incomprehensible thoughts and went to fetch his horse for the ride home.

Gweran slept all morning, or rather, he tried to sleep. It seemed that someone was always coming in: one of the children, chased away by the maidservant; or Lyssa, fetching a bit of her sewing; a page, sent by the lord to make sure the bard was resting. Finally, the maidservant, Cadda, who seemed more than usually dim-witted that morning, crept in to find a clean pair of brigga for one of the lads. When Gweran sat up and swore at her, she cowered back, sniveling, her big blue eyes filling with tears. She was, after all, only fifteen.

“Ah, by the gods, I’m sorry,” Gweran said. “Here, Cadda, run and tell your mistress that her grouchy bear of a husband has given up trying to hibernate. Go fetch me bread and ale, will you?”

Cadda beat a hasty retreat with an awkward curtsy. She had no time to shut the door before the boys raced in, shouting Da, Da, Da, and scrambling up on the bed to throw themselves at him. Gweran gave them each a hug and sat them down on the end of the bed. He was in no mood for a wrestling match. Aderyn, just seven, was a skinny little lad with huge dark eyes and pale hair. Acern, two and a six-month, was chubby, always laughing, and always, or so it seemed, running around half naked.

“Acern, where’s your brigga?”

“Wet.”

“He did that again, Da,” Aderyn announced.

“Ah, ye gods! Well, I hope your mother wiped you off before you got on the bed.”

“Of course, dearest”, Lyssa said, strolling in. “If you hadn’t been so mean to Cadda, she would have had the lad dressed by now.”

Gweran nodded in a meek admission of guilt. Pieces of his dreams and of his vision were floating in his mind. He wanted to compose a song about them; he could almost feel the words in his mouth. Lyssa sat down next to him—the whole family, settling in.

“What’s wrong with Cadda, anyway?” Gweran said. “She’s so cursed touchy these days.”

“Oh, she’s got a man on her mind. And not much of a man at that.”

“Indeed? Who?”

Lyssa looked significantly at Aderyn, whose little ears grew bigger every day, and changed the subject.

As soon as he’d eaten, Gweran went out alone for a long walk through the fields. He wandered vaguely, hardly aware of where he was, stumbling occasionally in the long grass as he worked out his song. He would sing snatches of it aloud, changing the words around, working over every line until it was perfect. A stanza at a time, he memorized it, linking it together in his mind with chaining images and alliteration. He would never write it down. If a bard learned to read, learned so much as the names of
the letters, his Agwen would desert him. Without her, he could never compose a song again.

His mind finally at rest, Gweran came back to the dun just at twilight. In the cooler gray air, the servants and riders were sitting around in the ward, talking softly together and resting after the long, hot day. As he walked toward the broch, Gweran saw Cadda, perched on the edge of a horse trough and giggling up at one of the riders. Remembering Lyssa’s snide comment about Cadda’s man, Gweran paused to look the lad over: tall, blond, good-looking in a rough sort of way with the narrow blue eyes and high cheekbones of a southern man. Although Cadda seemed besotted with him, the rider listened numbly and halfheartedly to her chatter—surprising, because Cadda was a beautiful girl, all soft curves and thick blond hair.

Although Gweran would have preferred to ignore thé matter, his wife was concerned, and for good reason: riders were prone to getting serving lasses pregnant and then doing their best to weasel out of marriage. Gweran walked round the ward until he found Doryn, captain of the troop, who was sitting idly on a little bench and watching the twilight fade. Gweran sat down beside him.

“Who’s that new rider in the warband?” Gweran said. “A southern lad, and my wife’s lass is making a fool of herself over him.”

Doryn grinned in easy understanding.

“Name’s Tanyc. He rode in here a while back, and our lordship took him on. He’s a good man with his sword, and that’s all that should count, truly.”

“Should?” Gweran raised an eyebrow.

“Well, now, he’s an odd lad.” Doryn considered, struggling with this unfamiliar kind of thought. “Keeps to himself, and then he’s dead quiet when he fights. When we rode that raid on Lord Cenydd’s cattle, Tanno was as quiet as quiet in the scrap. Creeps a man’s flesh to see someone make his kill without even a cursed war cry.”

The mention of the cattle raid reminded Gweran that he had yet to sing about it. Although songs about raids were his least favorite, this one deserved the honor as part
of the new feud between the Wolf clan and Lord Cenydd’s Boars to the north.

“I don’t suppose this Tanno’s thinking of honorable marriage and suchlike,” Gweran said.

“Ah, by the hells, keep little Cadda away from him if you can! He flies alone, Tanyc. One of the lads started calling him the Falcon, you see, just as a jest, but it’s stuck. I was sure there’d be trouble over it, but Tanno just smiles and says the name suits him well enough.”

“Well, here, Cadda’s mother is a good sort, and she trusted her daughter to my care. If you want to do a bard a favor, have a word with this falcon, will you? Tell him to course for another field mouse.”

“What man wouldn’t do a bard a favor? Done.”

With this tedious matter disposed of, Gweran went back to the tower. His mind was running to thoughts of cattle raids. He could piece a song easily out of bits of standard praise lines and other songs. Just mention everyone’s name, he reminded himself, none of these drunken louts know one song from another, anyway.

Early in the morning, while it was still halfway cool, Tanyc fetched his saddle, a rag, and a bit of saddle soap from the tack room and took them outside to a shady spot by the well. He drew himself a bucket of water, then sat down to clean his tack. Although some of the other riders were gathering in the tack room to do the same thing, he preferred to be alone, where it was quiet. He was always painfully aware that he was the new man in the warband, still on trial and working his way in. He was just working the soap up into a lather when Doryn came strolling over and hunkered down in front of him.

“Wanted a word with you, lad,” Doryn said.

“Of course, captain, is there trouble?”

“Not yet, and there doesn’t have to be. What do you think of the bard’s little servant lass? Our Gweran doesn’t like the way you’ve been hanging around her.”

“She’s hanging around me, captain. She’s a stupid little bitch, as far as I’m concerned.”

Doryn considered this in his slow way. Although he was telling the sincere truth, Tanyc expected to be disbelieved, simply because no one ever trusted him.

“Surprised to hear you say that,” Doryn said. “I was afraid you’d lain her down in the straw already. She seems to want it bad enough.”

“What honor she has is safe from me. She gets on my nerves. Babbles all the time.”

“Well, a man could keep her too busy to talk.”

“No doubt. You bed her if you want her.”

With a shrug, Doryn got up, setting his hands on his hips and looking over the saddle.

“Well and good. Then you won’t have any trouble doing what the bard wants and leaving her alone.”

“None at all, I swear it.”

Satisfied, Doryn walked off toward the barracks. Tanyc went back to soaping his saddle leather. Do what the bard wants, he thought, that stuffy little bastard of a nightingale, prattling all the time. He was tempted to meddle with Cadda just on the principle of the thing now, but he had already nocked his arrow for more dangerous game. He worked slowly, taking his time, and keeping a constant watch for the bard’s woman. Usually she came down with her lads to let them see the horses.

Tanyc’s patience was rewarded in a few minutes, when Lyssa came along with the boys. As they went into the stable, Tanyc sat back on his heels and watched her. There was just something about Lyssa, a soft sway of her hips when she walked, the way she had of smiling while she tossed her head, those eyes of hers that promised a very different kind of thing in bed than a scared young lass could offer. Watching her was as warm and pleasant as the sun on his back. He wondered if she were bored with her stuffy older man. What the bard wants, indeed, Tanyc thought, we’ll just see about that.

At noon, Tanyc made a point of watching Lyssa as she ate with her husband. The bard and his family, the chamberlain and his, had a privileged table next to Lord Maroic’s by the hearth of honor. Tanyc took a place at one
of the rider’s tables where he could see her easily. While she ate, Lyssa seemed far more concerned with her children than her husband, who seemed lost in one of his usual fogs somewhere, idly nibbling bread and looking across the room. It was such a good sign that Tanyc began considering ways to get a word alone with Lyssa. One of the other riders elbowed him in the ribs.

“What’s all this?” Gennyn said. “Looks to me like you’re watching a doe in someone else’s woods, my friend.”

“What’s the danger in hunting a doe when the stag doesn’t have horns?”

“The stag doesn’t need horns when there’s a keeper to watch out for poachers. Lord Maroic would turn you out if you stuck your thumb in the bard’s ale.”

“Indeed?” Tanyc turned to give him a slow stare. “Are you going to run to the captain with the tale?”

Gennyn cringed in a satisfying way and shook his head no, but Tanyc paid strict attention to his food. There was no use in giving the game away. If he wanted Lyssa, he was going to have to fight to get her, but then, he was used to fighting for everything he wanted. Nothing in my whole cursed life ever came easy, he thought, no reason for it to start now.

Late on a drowsy-hot day, Nevyn rode into Lord Maroic’s village of Blaeddbyr. It wasn’t much of a place—a handful of houses, a blacksmith’s forge, not even a proper tavern—a problem, since he was going to have to find somewhere to stay. He’d come to banish the unnatural drought, but such major dweomer-workings took time. Camping out in the forest, though possible, would be wearisome. After fifty years of traveling the roads as an herbman, he was old, stiff, easily tired, and at heart, sick of his constant solitude. Round the village well stood three women, holding their water buckets while they gossiped. When Nevyn led his pack mule and horse over, they smiled and greeted him with the aching curiosity of
the perennially bored. At the news that he was an herbman, the smiles grew even broader.

“Now, that’s a welcome thing,” one woman said. “Will you be staying long, good sir?”

“I was thinking of it. I need to search the woods and fields for more herbs, you see. Do you know of anyone who’d take in a lodger? I can pay, of course.”

The three women thought hard, running over their own domestic arrangements aloud and finally reaching the reluctant conclusion that they had no room.

“Now, there’s Banna,” one of them remarked. “She’s got that little hut in back of her house.”

“She’ll talk the poor man’s ear off,” said another.

“But who else has a hut?” said the first.

When the conclusion was reached that no one else did, Nevyn got directions to the farm where Banna, a widow, lived with her only son. Nevyn found the farmstead about a mile down the road, a big enclosure behind a low, packed-earth wall. Since the gate was open, he led his horse and mule inside and looked round. In the muddy yard stood a big stone round house, a cow barn, various sheds for chickens and suchlike, and off to one side, a shabby wooden hut in the shade of a poplar tree. When Nevyn called out a halloo, a young, sandy-haired man hurried out of the cow barn with a rake in his hands.

“Good morrow, are you Covyl?” Nevyn said. “The villagers told me you and your mother might take in a paying lodger. I’m a traveling herbman, you see.”

“Ah.” Covyl leaned on the rake, looked Nevyn over, turned his attention to the horse and mule, considered Nevyn a bit more, then nodded. “Might. Depends on what Mam says.”

“I see. Can I speak to your mother?”

Covyl considered for a long slow moment.

“In a bit. She’s out picking berries.”

Covyl turned and walked back to the barn. Nevyn sat down on the ground by the wall and waited, watching flies drift in air scented with cow. He was just making up his mind that he’d be better off in the forest when a stout
woman, with wisps of gray hair peeking under her widow’s black headscarf, came hurrying in. Behind her a beautiful blond lass, too nicely dressed to be living on the farm, led a small skinny lad with the biggest eyes Nevyn had ever seen. All of them carried wooden buckets, and the lads mouth was a predictable purple stain. Nevyn bowed to the widow and ran through his tale once again.

“An herbman, good sir?” Banna said. “Well, the gall of my son for making you wait out here! He should have had the decency of offering you a bit of ale. Come in, come in.”