Daggerspell (25 page)

Nevyn sighed. His last doubt that Aderyn was his apprentice vanished.

“I was invoking the wind and asking it to blow. The King of Air was quarreling with the King of Fire, and the King of Earth asked me to settle the quarrel. It’s like the High King of Deverry giving a judgment to warring lords.”

“And are you the High King, then?”

“I’m not. Just a way of speaking to make it clear.”

“Were the Kings angry at us, too?”

“They weren’t. Why did you think so?”

“Because we could have starved if there wasn’t any rain. Da said so.”

“Oh, Da was right, but the Kings of the Wildlands don’t know that, you see. Truly, I doubt if they’d care. They have so little to do with us that we look to them
like the field mice do to us, say. If you found a starving field mouse, you’d feed it, but do you course the fields to see if mice need your help?”

Aderyn laughed aloud.

“Now, listen carefully,” Nevyn went on. “I’ve come to speak to your father. You need to decide if you want to come with me in the spring and learn all the things I know. It’s a big thing. Someday we’ll leave Blaeddbyr, and you won’t see your Mam and Da again for a long time.”

“But will we come back someday?”

“We will, for visits.”

Aderyn balanced on one foot and twisted the other around behind it. He chewed on his lower lip, a skinny little boy, suddenly frightened. But when he looked up, a man’s soul—the man he would someday be—looked out of his eyes for the briefest of moments as the two levels of his mind merged to make the most important decision of his life.

“I don’t want to go. But I know I will. I want to know things so much, Nevyn. It’s like wanting water when it’s all hot outside. You’ve just got to get some.”

“So it is. Done, then.”

The great hall was crowded and smoky with torchlight in the rain-dark day. At the front of the hall, Gweran sat cross-legged on a table, his harp in his lap, and sang with sweat running down his face. The men gazed up at him attentively while he recited a tale of a cattle raid and named member after member of the warband in decorated stanzas.

“We’d better just go see Mam,” Aderyn said. “She’s upstairs.”

As they went up the spiral staircase, Gweran’s pure liquid tenor followed them, chanting of glory. In the bard’s chamber, it was mercifully cool and quiet. One of the shutters hung open to let in a streak of gray light. Lyssa sat near it with sewing in her lap. Although she smiled as she greeted them, Nevyn saw that she was troubled—about Tanyc, he assumed. For a few moments they chatted idly, while he studied her with a real greed, not for her
pretty body, but for the soul looking out of her eyes, for the company she would have been, the end to his loneliness.

“Well, here,” Lyssa said at last. “Surely you didn’t come all this way to talk about the rain.”

“I didn’t, but about Aderyn. He shows a real talent for the herbman’s trade, and I was wondering if you and your husband would consider apprenticing him to me.”

“I want to go, Mam!” Aderyn broke in.

“Hush! We’ll have to talk this over with your Da. Here, Nevyn, I know perfectly well this means he’d have to travel with you. I’m not sure I can let him go.”

“Mam!” Aderyn wailed.

“Out with you, then, if you can’t sit quiet. Go listen to your father for a while.”

Whining, reluctant, Aderyn dragged himself out of the chamber and slammed the door behind him. Lyssa settled back in her chair and looked Nevyn over thoughtfully.

“I’ve already lost one child. Two seems a bit much to ask.”

“I know, but he’ll be leaving you anyway for some kind of apprenticeship, sooner or later. I doubt me if he’ll ever be a bard like his father. Here, do you doubt that I’ll take good care of him?”

Lyssa considered, and as their eyes met, she remembered again, a little flicker of puzzled recognition.

“Well, I don’t. But will I ever see him again?”

“Of course. We’ll ride back regularly for visits.”

“That’s some comfort, I suppose. Here, I’ll tell you somewhat, because you’re the only man I’ve ever met who might understand it. When Aderyn was born, I had the strangest feeling about him. I knew that someday he’d leave me for a truly strange Wyrd indeed. It was my first time, of course, and truly, I was so tired and sick, just glad it was over. So the midwife laid Addo to my breast, and he looked up at me with eyes that saw. Most babies are like puppies, nuzzling at your breast with cloudy little eyes, but Aderyn saw. I knew he knew just where he was,
and he was glad of it. And I thought then that he was marked out for a strange Wyrd. Do you think I’m daft?”

“I don’t. I’ve no doubt it’s the plain truth.”

Lyssa sighed and looked out the window, where the rain fell soft and steady.

“Herbs?” she said. “Is that all you’ll teach him?”

“A bit more than that, truly. Tell me, what do you think of dweomer? A tale, fit for one of Gweran’s songs and nothing more?”

“A bit more than that, truly.” Lyssa smiled as she consciously echoed his words. “So I thought. If that’s the truth of it, well, there’s no way I can stand between him and his Wyrd.”

“It would be a harsh thing if you tried—for all of us.”

Nodding, Lyssa stared at the rain.

“Will you wait until spring?” she said, her voice catching. “He’s such a little lad.”

“I will. And we won’t ride far the next summer. You’ll see him in the fall.”

The tears ran down her cheeks. Nevyn wanted to kneel at her feet, to call her Brangwen and beg her to forgive him. He decided that he could stay in Blaeddbyr, never take her son away, never leave her. The dweomer-warning hit him like a slap. Just as he did, she had a Wyrd to fulfill that he could no more soften than he could his own. And what will happen if you stay? he told himself. You’ll hate Gweran for having her.

“Shall I leave you alone?”

“Please. My thanks.”

Nevyn went down the spiral staircase and lingered in its shadow to watch the great hall. Over by the servant’s hearth, Aderyn was playing a game of Carnoic with one of the pages. Gweran was singing a ballad from the Dawntime, the sad tale of Lady Maeva and Lord Benoic and their adulterous love. Adultery. Nevyn felt the dweomer-warning and looked around for Tanyc, who was sitting with the riders and watching the bard with a tight, insolent smile. Every now and then, Gweran would glance his way with a smile of his own. Ah, ye gods, Nevyn
thought, I’m too late—Gweran knows. Stanza after stanza reeled out until Gweran came to the climax: Benoic lying dead at the outraged husband’s feet. Tanyc got up and strode out of the great hall.

With a sigh, Gweran set the harp down and wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. He got off the table, took a tankard of ale from a waiting page, and wandered over to Nevyn.

“I need a bit of rest. Cursed smoky in here, and it affects your voice.”

“So it must. You sing beautifully, bard, though I wonder about your choice of tales.”

Gweran raised one eyebrow.

“Lord Benoic’s sad end fell upon some ears that are doubtless raw from hearing it,” Nevyn said.

“I only wish I could cut them from his head, if you mean the man I think you mean.”

“It takes a great deal of skill with a sword to bring the falcon down as he flies, my friend.”

“And that’s what all men think, isn’t it?” Gweran’s voice turned cold and flat. “That I’m to grovel in fear before this lout of a rider, because he can swing a blade and I can’t. I tell you, I’d rather die than be that kind of coward.”

“I only pray your words never come to the test.”

Gweran shrugged and had a long swallow of ale.

“Now, here,” Nevyn said, “If you mentioned to Lord Maroic that Tanyc was sniffing round your woman, the lord would turn him out. Maroic honors a bard the way he should be honored.”

“So he does, but that would only dirty Lyssa’s name. I can hear the old gossips wagging their heads and saying where there’s mud, there’s water below, and the stinking warband looking at her and wondering. What kind of a man am I if I can’t protect my own?”

“A dead man protects nobody.”

“Oh, don’t trouble your heart. I’ve no desire to die and leave my poor Lyssa a widow. This is all a warning, like,
for our falcon. I truly think the lout didn’t know I knew. Well, he does now. It’ll put him in his place.”

It was perfectly reasonable, but Nevyn knew, with an icy touch of dweomer, that somehow Gweran was lying.

As he went over his stock of story songs, laid up in his mind where no thief could steal them, Gweran was surprised at just how many tales had adultery for a theme. It seemed to be a common pastime among the noble-born, like hawking, though with an even bloodier result. Every night, Gweran would sing one song about adultery and watch Tanyc when he came to the predictable doom at the end. From the tightness of his jaw and the cold flicker in his eyes, there was no doubt that Tanyc was listening. Tanyc wasn’t the only man with sharp ears. After a week of this sport, Doryn came up to Gweran one night for a private talk.

“Here, bard, how about a pleasant tale or two? I’m as sick as I can be of all this lusting after other men’s wives.”

“Are you, now, captain? So am I.”

Doryn winced, tossing his head like a fly-stung horse.

“Do you think I’m blind?” Gweran said.

“My apologies. It’s a shameful thing, truly, wanting another man’s woman.”

“Just that. I’m glad to see you share my opinion. Is there anything wrong with making a shameful man feel shame?”

“Nothing at all, and it’s a bard’s prerogative at that.”

The next time Gweran sang one of the tales, he had the satisfaction of seeing the rest of the warband avoiding Tanyc’s eye at the mention of adultery. For the next few nights, Tanyc glowered into his tankard and barely breathed during the crucial song. When he judged the time was right, Gweran sang a bawdy song about an adulterous miller, who thought he was close to seducing the tavernman’s wife. All the time, the wife had been confiding in her husband, who was there with two strong friends to greet the would-be swain. They clapped the miller into an empty barrel, rolled him down the village street, and
set him adrift in the river. When the other riders howled with laughter, Tanyc’s face went dead white.

The very next morning, Tanyc met Gweran face to face out in the ward.

“You little bastard,” Tanyc growled.

“Am I, now? And what injury have I ever done you?”

Trapped. Tanyc could hardly admit his own guilt by mentioning the choice of songs.

“If you have an injury,” Gweran went on, “by all means, lay it before Lord Maroic for judgment. I’ll gladly accept his decree.”

Tanyc turned scarlet, spun on his heel, and strode off. Gweran smiled after his retreating back. You fool, he thought, a bard has weapons stronger than steel. Although he knew that Maroic would settle this matter quietly if only he asked, Gweran wanted more. Getting rid of Tanyc wasn’t enough vengeance.

That very night, after still another tale of adultery gone wrong, Gweran begged Maroic’s leave to sing a new song of his own composing about hunting in the summer. Since he loved hunting, of course the lord agreed. As Gweran tuned up the harp, he saw that Tanyc was relaxed over a tankard of ale and doubtless thinking his mockery over for the night. Gweran began to sing about flying hawks out in the meadow, where the falcon flies the highest of all and swoops down on pretty birds for sport. The warband fell silent, watching Tanyc, whose hand gripped the tankard so hard his knuckles were white. Gweran went on singing about the pretty white dove whom a little lad in the town loved for a pet, but the cruel hunter launched his falcon for her. Greedy to rend her in his claws, the falcon chased her all over the field, while her little heart was breaking in fear as she fluttered pathetically ahead. Just as the falcon was about to strike, up from the hedgerow sprang the lad who loved her and shot the falcon through the heart with an arrow.

“And the pretty white dove fluttered safe to her love,” Gweran sang, then broke off in midline.

White as the dove, Tanyc sprang from his seat and
strode down the hall. Gweran set his harp aside and gave him a mild smile.

“You bastard,” Tanyc whispered. “That’s enough!”

“Enough of what? There’s a fair bit more of the song to come, my friend.”

Tanyc drew his sword and swung in one smooth motion, but Gweran was ready. He threw himself backwards off the table as the hall broke into shouting. Gweran tumbled inelegantly into the straw and scrambled up in time to see the warband mobbing Tanyc. They tackled him, threw him down, and disarmed him. Lord Maroic was on his feet, yelling for order as the maidservants screamed. At last the hall was quiet. The servants pressed back against the wall; a few women were weeping. Twisting his arms tight behind him, three men hauled Tanyc to his feet.

“What’s all this?” Maroic snapped. “Have you gone daft? Drawing your sword on a bard, and him unarmed at that!”

In his comrades’ arms, Tanyc was shaking too hard to answer. Gweran stepped forward and did his best to look bewildered.

“If you disliked the song as much as all that, you might simply have told me.”

“You bastard!” Tanyc shouted. “You little bastard! You planned all this. You’ve been working on me for days!”

“Hold your tongue,” Maroic snarled, stepping closer. “And why would the bard do such a thing?”

The last piece of the trap sprung shut. Desperately Tanyc looked this way and that, as if he were begging someone to help him. Afraid to earn a bard’s revenge, the white-faced riders stayed silent.

“Ill temper is one thing, impiety another,” Maroic went on. “I hate to do this, but the laws are the laws. Take him out and hang him. Do it now. I want it over with.”

Tanyc went as limp in his captor’s arms as if he were going to faint. By the hearth, Cadda screamed, burst out weeping, and went running for the staircase.

“It’s a hard thing, truly,” Maroic remarked to all and sundry. “But no man draws on my bard and lives to boast
about it. Does anyone here dare quibble over my judgment?”

When everyone shook their heads in a terrified no, Maroic nodded in satisfaction.