Daggerspell (48 page)

The letter from Rhys was brief and maddening.

“My lady,” it ran. “I understand that your cadvridoc still holds the siege of Dun Bruddlyn. Since Lord Talidd has brought me proof of Lord Corbyn’s continuing treachery, I will let you settle the matter by the sword if you prefer. Let me warn you that even your eventual victory may not quiet all the grumbling against you as long as Rhodry is your heir.”

Lovyan crumpled the parchment into a little ball. She was tempted to throw it into the messenger’s face, but after all, it wasn’t the young rider’s fault that his lord was an arrogant, pig-headed fool.

“I take it my lady is displeased?” Nevyn said.

With a little snort Lovyan smoothed the parchment out and handed it over.

“You may go,” she said to the messenger. “Have some ale with my men. I’ll have an answer for you soon.”

The lad scrambled up and made his escape from her wrath. Nevyn sighed over the message, then handed it back.

“Rhys is dead wrong about the grumbling,” Nevyn said. “Rhodry’s proven himself in this war.”

“Of course. He just wanted to infuriate me to salvage some of his wretched pride, and he’s done it quite successfully, too.”

They were sitting in the great hall, which was peculiarly silent. Only ten men, some of the recovering wounded, sat in a room fit for two hundred.

“Do you think I should ask Rhys to intervene?” Lovyan said. “It aches my heart to think of more men dying over this.”

“Mine, too, but if Rhys does disinherit Rhodry somehow, then all the men who’ve come to admire him will start grumbling. It might lead to another rebellion, and even more men will die in that.”

“True spoken.” Lovyan folded the parchment up neatly and slipped it into the kirtle of her dress. “I’ll calm myself, then send Rhys an answer, saying his intervention will not be required.”

Up at Dun Bruddlyn, the besiegers slipped into a routine that crawled by, tense and tedious at the same time. Since Corbyn might have sallied at any moment, everyone went armed and ready, yet there was nothing to do but polish weapons that were already spotless, ride aimless patrols to exercise the horses, and wager endlessly on one dice game or another. Although Jill tried to leave Rhodry strictly alone, it was impossible to avoid him in so small a camp. At times she would go to draw rations only to find him among the carts or come face to face with him as she walked back to camp after tending Sunrise. At those
chance meetings he said very little and made no effort to keep her at his side, but every now and then, when they looked at each other, she would feel that she was drowning in the blue of his eyes.

By the seventh day of the siege, Jill felt that she just might go mad from this endless waiting for battle. As she admitted to Aderyn that night, she was quite simply afraid.

“Da says that anyone with any sense is always afraid before a battle. So I suppose I can take comfort in that. At least I’ve gotten used to the stinking mail. I was sparring with Amyr today, and it doesn’t slow me down anymore.”

“Well and good, then. I’ve been waiting for that.”

Jill felt a cold shiver run down her back.

“Loddlaen is the key to everything,” Aderyn went on. “Corbyn’s been ensorceled so long that without Loddlaen, his nerve will break, and he’ll either surrender or sally. I’ve already asked Jennantar and Calonderiel to help me kill Loddlaen. Will you come with us when we go hunting the hawk?”

“I will, truly, but how are we going to get at him?”

“I’m going to make him fly. I wager I can lure him out, because I know him very well indeed.” He got up slowly. “It may take some time, mind, but I’ll just wager he comes to us in the end.”

After Aderyn left her, Jill sat by the campfire and wondered what strange dweomer Aderyn would use to lure his enemy out. She was still musing over it when Rhodry stepped out of the shadows as silently as one of the elves and sat down next to her. At an inadvertent touch of his sleeve on hers, Jill’s heart began to pound.

“Tell me somewhat. Are you sure that Nevyn spoke the truth about my Wyrd being Eldidd’s Wyrd?”

“I am. Rhodry, are you aching your heart again over having a lass fight for you?”

“Well, what man’s heart wouldn’t ache? But it’s not just the honor of the thing. I can’t bear to think of you being harmed. I think I’d rather have bards mock my name than to risk you getting one little scratch.”

“Has his lordship been drinking mead?”

“Oh, don’t be all my lady Haughty with me! You know I love you, and you love me, too.”

Jill got up, threw a branch on the fire, then watched the Wildfolk dancing along the dry bark in a long flare. After a long moment she heard Rhodry get up behind her.

“Jill? I know I can bring you nothing but harm. You’re right enough to be cold to me.”

Jill refused to answer.

“Please?” Rhodry went on. “All I want is to hear you say you love me. Say it just once, and I’ll be content with that.”

Rhodry slipped his arms around her from behind and pulled her back to rest against him. The simple human comfort of his touch went to her head like mead.

“I do love you. I love you with all my heart.”

His arms tightened around her; then he let her go. She stared into the fire while he walked away, because she knew that she would weep if she watched him go.

“We’ve got one last hope, the way I see it,” Nowec said. “Rhys hates his cursed brother so much that he might intervene just to shame him.”

“He might, truly,” Corbyn said.

When they both looked at him, Loddlaen merely shrugged. They had been besieged for eight days now, eight stinking days in the hot, dry autumn weather, eight days of living behind stone walls—a torment for a man used to riding with the Elcyion Lacar. He wanted to make them share his torment by telling them the bitter truth, but he wanted to have a plan of escape laid by before he did. If he could find a plan of escape.

“I’ve been working on the gwerbret’s mind, of course,” Loddlaen lied smoothly. “But the situation’s vexed for him. He has councillors who argue against intervention.”

“Ah, ye gods!” Nowec said. “We’ve got to think of morale. Can’t you do somewhat faster?”

“The dweomer has its own times of working.”

“Oh, indeed, you piss-proud beggar? You were quick enough to get us into this mess.”

Loddlaen stared straight at him. From his own aura he sent a line of light and struck at Nowec, spinning the lord’s aura. Nowec’s eyes went glazed.

“I do not care to be cursed.”

“Of course,” Nowec whispered. “My apologies.”

Loddlaen spun the aura once more, then released him.

“Besides, I assure you that the question of morale is very much on my mind. No doubt I can keep the men confident of our eventual victory.”

Loddlaen rose, bowed, and swept out of the chamber. He had to be alone to think. All he wanted to do was to call forth fire and burn that stinking dun to the ground. He would escape; he’d pack his clothes and a few coins in a sack, then fly away alone and free. Somewhere he’d find another lord to ensorcel, somewhere far to the east where Aderyn would never find him.

“I’ll follow you, lad,” Aderyn said. “Even to the ends of the earth.”

With a yelp, Loddlaen spun around, but the corridor was empty. Aderyn’s presence lingered like the scent of smoke in an empty hearth.

“Sooner or later,” Aderyn’s voice went on. “I’ll come in after you, or you’ll have to come out. Sooner or later, you’ll look me in the face.”

The feeling of presence vanished. Loddlaen hurried to his chamber and slammed the door behind him. He couldn’t escape; Aderyn wasn’t going to let him escape, as somewhere in his heart he’d been sure his father would do, as he’d always done before.

“Then I’ll have to win.”

If only Aderyn were dead, Loddlaen could do much more than merely carry messages to the gwerbret. He could send fire into Rhodry’s tents, rot into his provisions, disease to his men and horses, and stir Rhodry’s army to such a panic that the men would desert like snow melting in the sun. If only Aderyn were dead. If.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, Loddlaen went to
the window and tried to call up a storm. If nothing else, it would soak Rhodry and his cursed army and give Loddlaen something to brag about to Corbyn and Nowec. He called upon the elemental spirits of Air and Water, invoked them with mighty names, and saw clouds begin to swell and thicken in the sky. Wave after wave, the storm rushed in at his command as the wind picked up strong. All at once, the wind died, and the clouds began to dissipate. Loddlaen swore and struggled and cursed the spirits, until at last he saw one of the elemental Kings striding across the sky. Huge and storm-tossed, the King was a vaguely elven shape of silver light surrounded by a pillar of golden light as fine as gossamer. The King waved one hand, and the spirits fled, far beyond Loddlaen’s power to call them back.

Loddlaen leaned onto the windowsill and wept, knowing that Aderyn had summoned the King. Once he had stood at Aderyn’s side and been presented to those mighty beings as Aderyn’s successor. Now he was an outcast and beneath their contempt.

It was over an hour before Loddlaen felt strong enough to leave his chamber. As he was going down the staircase, he saw Aderyn walking up. Loddlaen stood riveted, his hand tight on the rail, as his father came closer and closer. Aderyn gave him a faint smile of contempt, as if he were showing Loddlaen that he could break Loddlaen’s seals anytime he wanted and enter anywhere he wished. Then the vision vanished.

Loddlaen hurried to the noise and company of the great hall. While he ate his dinner, he was brooding murder.

Late that evening, Jill and the two elves were swearing over a game of dice when Aderyn came to them. He was carrying two long arrows.

“It’s time. Which of you archers wants these arrows?”

“I do,” Jennantar said.

“The revenge belongs to you, sure enough,” Calonderiel said. “I’ll have steel-tipped arrows ready to back you if need be.”

Only then did Jill realize that the two arrows had silver tips.

“Jill,” Aderyn went on. “If Jennantar can bring the bird down, you might have to finish it off on the ground. Use your silver dagger and only your silver dagger.”

“I will. So, the old tale’s true, is it? Only silver can harm dweomerfolk?”

“Oh, steel can cut a dweomerman as easily as it can other flesh, and steel would harm the hawk, too. But if the silver kills him, his body will come back to man-shape when he’s dead.”

Aderyn led them about a mile from the camp down a road dimly lit by the first quarter moon. They passed two farmhouses, tightly shuttered against Rhodry’s army, and came to a meadow bordered by a line of oaks.

“Hide under the trees,” Aderyn said. “I’m going to go throw the challenge. Be ready, will you? He could always outfly me.”

Aderyn climbed the lowest tree and steadied himself against the branches to take off his clothes. Jill could just dimly see him, a dark shape among the leaves, as he crouched there. She thought she saw the indistinct, shimmering image of an owl beside him; then suddenly a glow of blue light enveloped both the shape and Aderyn. The old dweomerman was gone. In his place was the silver owl, spreading its wings for flight. With one soft cry, the bird leapt and flapped off steadily in the darkness. Jill caught her breath.

“It always creeps your flesh,” Calonderiel remarked. “No matter how many times you see him do it.”

Jennantar nocked the first silver arrow in his bow. Slowly the moon rose higher. Jill kept a watch on the starry sky in the direction of the dun, but Calonderiel saw them first.

“Look!”

Jennantar raised the bow and drew, but it was another good minute before Jill saw a dark speck moving against the stars, the owl, flapping and gliding as fast it could. All at once she saw another bird, dropping down from
high above, plunging, stooping, nearly catching the owl. Flying straight and steadily, the owl and the hawk raced for the trees, and the hawk was gaining. Muttering under his breath, Jennantar stood tense, waiting for the hawk to come in range. Nearer and nearer they flew, and the hawk was getting far too close to the owl. Jennantar swore and loosed, but the arrow fell short. The hawk plunged down and caught the owl, grappling with him in the air.

They fought exactly like real birds of prey—closing with each other high in the air, grappling and clawing as they fell, then breaking apart to fly up, circling each other to gain height again. Jill heard the hawk shriek with rage every time the weary owl twisted free. Every now and then, one great feather would fall to earth, flashing silver in the moonlight. Jill and Jennantar ran out into the meadow under the fight, but Jennantar didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting the owl.

As they wearied in this unnatural battle, the two birds dropped, swooping closer to the ground, rising less high when they broke to grapple again. Shrieking and clawing at each other, they came down low, only to break apart and flap up again. The owl was tiring badly and rose slowly.

“Aderyn!” Jill screamed. “Drop low! Cursed low!”

Indifferent to her voice, the hawk stooped, plunged, and caught the owl. Down and down they dropped, and this time the owl made little effort to break free, merely slashed with its beak as they fell. Jill ran off to get a start, and waited tensely with the dagger in her hand—she would have only one chance at this—then raced across the meadow and leapt up, stabbing at the hawk. Its shriek of agony told her she’d made her strike as she dropped to her knees in the grass. She felt the rush of wings as the owl broke free and flew just in time to save itself from plunging into the ground. Jill staggered up just as Jennantar’s bowstring sang out.

Pierced to the heart, the hawk shrieked once and began to fall. In a flash of blue light it changed, so that for one hideous moment Jill saw something that was half hawk,
half man, feather and flesh oozing into one another. Then it fell to earth with a sickening, perfectly ordinary thud. The owl called out a long cry of mourning and settled into the grass. It vanished cleanly, leaving Aderyn sitting there, bleeding from long claw slashes all over his body. Jill ran to him.