Daggerspell (23 page)

Aderyn began to sob aloud. Gweran threw his arms around him, pulled him into his lap, and let the child bury his face against his father’s shirt. He was wise to hide his eyes as the priests began dismembering the horse with long bronze knives. From his bard-lore, Gweran knew that in the Dawntime, the victim would have been a man, and that this horse represented the god’s growing mercy to his people, but the knowledge would have been no comfort to his tender-hearted Aderyn. The horns blew again as the priests worked, their arms bloody to the elbows.

At last Obyn cut a strip of bleeding meat and wrapped it in thick fat from the horse’s thigh. With a long wailing chant, he laid the sacrifice in the midst of the flames. The fat sputtered and caught, flaring up with a smoky halo.

“Great Bel,” Obyn cried. “Have mercy.”

“Have mercy,” the crowd sighed.

The young priest blew a great blare on the horn.

The rite ended soon after. Since Aderyn was weeping as if his heart would break, Gweran picked him up and carried him as he looked desperately around for Lyssa in the scattering crowd. Instead he found Nevyn, who was leaning against a tree and watching the flame-lit altar with a sour smile.

“Oh, here, here, Addo,” Nevyn said, the smile disappearing. “It’s all over now. It’s a pity, sure enough, but the poor beast is dead and beyond suffering.”

“They shouldn’t have,” Aderyn sobbed. “It won’t even do any good.”

“It won’t. But what’s done is done, and you’d best not talk of it right here, where the people can hear you. They need to think it will help.”

Slowly, Aderyn sniffled himself to silence, wiping his face on his sleeve. Gweran kissed him and set him down, taking his hand and drawing him close.

“Well, bard?” Nevyn said. “Do you think this will bring rain?”

“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But either way, the god will be pleased.”

“True spoken. And pious of you, truly.”

The old man walked off, leaving Gweran puzzled and more than a bit uneasy. As the crowd dispersed toward the village, Gweran finally saw Lyssa, hurrying to meet them. Just behind came Cadda, with one of the riders who was carrying the still-sleeping Acern. When Gweran recognized Tanyc, he was annoyed. Here he’d told Doryn to keep this young lout away from Cadda. As he thought about it, he realized he’d seen a lot of Tanyc lately, still hanging around the lass, sitting near her when she and Lyssa were in the ward, or walking conveniently to meet them when she and Lyssa were leaving the dun.

That very next morning, Gweran sought Doryn out when he came down into the great hall for breakfast. He waved the captain over to the side of the hall where they could be private and put his complaint to him. Doryn looked honestly surprised.

“Well, curse the little bastard! I did talk to him,
Gweran, and here he managed to convince me he didn’t give a pig’s fart for Cadda.”

“There’s nothing like lust to make a man lie. Here, I’ll have a word with the lad myself later.”

It was afternoon before Gweran could get away from his lord’s side long enough to go look for Tanyc, but when he found him, he found Cadda with him. Out in the ward, Tanyc was grooming his horse while Cadda stood beside him. She was telling him some long complex tale about her elder sister while Tanyc listened with an occasional nod. As Gweran strode over, Cadda made him a hurried curtsy.

“I’m sure your lady wants you,” Gweran said.

With one last smile in Tanyc’s direction, Cadda ran for the tower. Tanyc looked up, the currycomb in his hand.

“My thanks,” Tanyc said. “By the hells, doesn’t that lass ever hold her tongue?”

“Every now and then. You can’t find it as displeasing as that. You seem to seek out her company whenever you can.”

Tanyc looked at him with a barely concealed contempt.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. What’s it to you?”

“Maybe nothing at all—as long as you fancy yourself as a married man someday. I warn you, if Cadda ends up with child, I’m speaking to Lord Maroic about it. I don’t care how many men in the warband you get to lie and swear they’ve had her, too. She’ll be your wife.”

Tanyc’s hand tightened on the currycomb so hard that Gweran was surprised the wood didn’t crack. Rather than push things to a formal exchange of insults, Gweran turned and walked away. If things ever came to a fight, doubtless Tanyc could cut him to pieces with a sword. Tanyc, of course, knew it, too. When he told Lyssa that he’d spoken to Tanyc, she smiled, remarking that since she didn’t care for the man, she’d be glad to have him stop turning up constantly at her servant’s side.

Over the next few days, Gweran made a point of keeping his eye on the situation. At first Tanyc seemed to have taken the warning to heart, but the morning came when
Gweran saw Lyssa, Cadda, and the boys walking across the ward and Tanyc hurrying over to walk with them. Gweran hurried downstairs and ran to catch up with them. At the first sight of him, Tanyc made the woman a hasty bow and went back to the barracks.

“Now, ye gods, Cadda,” Gweran snapped. “Your mistress has spoken to you, I’ve spoken to you—can’t you get it through your pretty head that he’s the wrong sort of man for you?”

Cadda sniveled, grabbing her handkerchief from her kirtle and dabbing at her eyes. Lyssa patted her gently on the arm.

“Gweran’s right,” Lyssa said. “Here, let’s go up to the chamber where it’s cool and have a nice talk.”

“I want to walk with Da,” Aderyn said. “Can I, Da?”

“You may.” Gweran held out his hand. “We’ll have a nice stroll and let the women have their chat.”

They walked down to the river, a trickle of water in mud, and sat down in the rustling dry grass. Without a breath of wind, the heat clung round them. Aderyn stretched out on his stomach in the grass and plucked a dead stalk to play with.

“Da? You don’t like Tanyc, do you?”

“I don’t. Do you?”

“I don’t. He scares me.”

“Well, the captain tells me he’s a hard man.”

Aderyn nodded, twisting the grass stalk into a loop.

“You know what, Da? He doesn’t bother us to see Cadda. When we walk, you know? He comes to see Mam.”

Gweran felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Aderyn tried to tie a knot in the slippery stalk, then gave up and started chewing on it.

“Are you sure about that?” Gweran asked.

“I am. You told me to watch what people do, remember? So I was watching Tanyc, because I don’t like him, and I wondered why I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he looks at Mam. And he always bows to her so nice, and he talks to Cadda, but all the time, he’s looking at Mam.”

“Oh, he is, now?”

Aderyn started slitting the grass stalk with his fingernail and trying to braid the pieces. Gweran looked at the sluggish river and felt his rage flaring, just as when a spark gets into dry grass—it creeps along, smokes, then flares to a sheet of flame, racing along the meadowland. That bastard, Gweran thought, and does he think I’ll back down without a fight over this?

“Da? What’s wrong? Don’t look like that.”

“Oh, naught, lad. Just worrying about the cursed drought.”

“Don’t. Nevyn’s going to fix it.”

Gweran forced out a smile. He had no time to worry about silly prattle about the herbman.

“Let’s get back to the dun. It’s a bit hot out here, and there’s a thing or two I want to keep my eye on.”

“What I want to know is this,” Aderyn said. “Why do herbs work on fevers and stuff?”

“Well, now,” Nevyn said. “That’s a very long question to answer. Do you want to listen to a talk?”

“I do. This is all splendid.”

They were kneeling on the floor of Nevyn’s hut and working with the herbs, turning them over to dry them evenly. Almost every day, Aderyn came down to help and study herbcraft. After his long loneliness, Nevyn found the boy’s chatter amusing.

“Very well,” Nevyn went on. “There are four humors, you see, in every human body. They match the four elements: fire, water, air, and earth. When all the humors are in perfect balance, then a person is healthy. Each herb has more or less of the various humors; they balance things out if someone is sick. If someone has a fever, then they have too much fiery humor. A febrifugal herb has lots of cool watery humor and helps balance the fiery out.”

“Only four humors? I thought there should be five.”

Nevyn sat back on his heels in sheer surprise.

“Well, so there are. But only four in the body. The fifth rules the others from the spirit.”

Aderyn nodded, carefully memorizing the lore. More and more, Nevyn was wondering if the lad was meant to be his new apprentice. The wondering made him weary. Since a dweomerman could have only one apprentice at a time, he could never take Aderyn on while bringing Brangwen to the dweomer to fulfill his vow.

At times, in the hope of seeing Lyssa, Nevyn would take Aderyn back to the dun on horseback. Often in the hot afternoons, the various members of the household would be sitting on the grassy hill. Since Nevyn was now well known, one or the other of them would come over to ask him some medical question or to buy a few herbs or suchlike. It was there that he met Tanyc one afternoon and saw his Wyrd tangle around him like a fisherman’s net round its prey.

Leading the horse, Nevyn and Aderyn were walking up the hill when Nevyn noticed Cadda sitting with one of the riders, a hard-eyed southern man. Aderyn noticed it, too, and went skipping over.

“Cadda, I’m going to tell Mam on you. You shouldn’t be here with Tanyc.”

“Hold your tongue, you little beast!”

“Won’t. Won’t, won’t, won’t. I’m going to tell.”

Tanyc got up, and something about the way he looked at Aderyn frightened Nevyn into hurrying over.

“Slapping a bard’s son is a good way for a man to get his name satirized,” Nevyn remarked.

“And what’s it to you, old man?” Tanyc swung his head round.

As their eyes met, Nevyn recognized Gerraent’s soul in the arrogance blazing out of his eyes.

“You better not insult Nevyn,” Aderyn said. “He’s dweomer.”

“Hold your tongue! I’m in no mood to listen to nonsense from a flea-bitten cub.”

Tanyc started to swing open-handed at the boy, but Nevyn caught him by the wrist. The Wildfolk flocked to him and lent him so much raw strength that no matter how Tanyc struggled, he couldn’t break the herbman’s
grip. Nevyn pulled him close, caught his gaze, and stared deep into his eyes while he let his hatred burn—and dweomer lay behind it. Tanyc went dead white and stopped struggling.

“I said leave the lad alone,” Nevyn whispered.

Tanyc nodded in terrified agreement. When Nevyn released him, he turned and ran for the gates of the dun.

“Cadda, take Addo back to his mother,” Nevyn said. “I’m going back to the farm.”

So all the actors in their grim little farce were there, even Gerraent, face to face again in a way that Nevyn had never foreseen. He realized that he’d fallen into a last vestige of royal pride, which values only the prince and princess and sees those around them only as supernumeraries. For the next few days, Nevyn stayed away from the dun and his old enemy, but in the end, Lyssa came to him, turning up at the farm one day with the plausible excuse that she’d come to fetch Aderyn home. Nevyn sent the boy out on an errand and offered Lyssa the only chair he had, a wobbly three-legged stool. She perched on it and looked idly around at the hanging bunches of drying herbs.

“The smell in here is so lovely. It’s kind of you, sir, to be so patient with my Addo. You should hear him chatter about it at dinner—today we learned about dog’s tooth herb, today we dried the comfrey roots. His father hardly knows what to think.”

“Does it vex Gweran? Most men want their sons to show an interest in their own calling.”

“Oh, it doesn’t, because my man is the best-hearted man in the world. I think he’s glad to see Aderyn taking such an interest in something. He’s been a strange child from the moment he was born.”

Nevyn smiled, quite sure of that.

“I’m surprised you don’t have more children. You seem to love your lads so much.”

“Well, I hope and pray to have more soon.” Lyssa looked away, her eyes dark. “I had a daughter, you see, between the two lads, but we lost her to a fever.”

“I’m truly sorry. That’s a hard thing for a woman to bear.”

“It was.” Her voice went flat from remembered grief. “Well, doubtless it was my Wyrd, and my poor little Danigga’s, too.”

Nevyn felt a cold touch as he wondered if indeed it was her Wyrd, since she’d drowned a child with her on that terrible night. So she had. The dweomer-cold ran down his back as he realized who that child might have been if it had lived to be raised with himself and Rhegor: a great master of dweomer indeed. Lyssa smiled, looking out the door.

“Here comes our Aderyn now,” she said.

Although she was only speaking casually, “our” Aderyn meaning only the “Aderyn we both know, not some other Aderyn,” her words turned Nevyn cold to the heart. I swore I’d raise the child as my own, he thought. A vow’s a vow.

That night, Nevyn went down to the ash tree by the riverbank and sat down to watch the slow water run. As it came clear, his Wyrd lay heavy on him. In this life, Brangwen was gone from him; she would have to repay Blaen for the hopeless love of her that had led him to his death, and repay Aderyn, too, for cutting short his previous chance at life. Nevyn owed Blaen and Aderyn a debt as well, since his scheming had left Brangwen there with her brother’s lust. Only once those debts had been repaid could he take her away for the dweomer. Yet Aderyn would be under his care for the next twenty years, because the dweomer is a slow craft to learn. In twenty years, Nevyn was going to be over ninety. And what if he had to wait for her to be reborn again? He would be well over a hundred, an unthinkable age, so old and dry that he would be helpless in a chair, like a thin stick or drooling babe, his body too old for the soul it carried, his mind a prisoner in a decaying lump of flesh. At that moment Nevyn panicked, shaking cold and sick, no longer a master of the dweomer but an ordinary man, just as when a warrior vows to die in battle, but as the horns blow the
charge, he sees Death riding for him and weeps, sick of his vow when retreat is impossible.