Daggerspell (59 page)

“I haven’t, but my thanks.”

“Good, good. At least your lord was a merciful man, eh? Well, put your horse in the stables. My name’s Gadd.”

“And mine’s Rhodry.”

Just in time, he stopped himself from calling himself Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd. That he only had part of his name left gave him a cold feeling, but at the same time, he was relieved at Gadd’s easy assumption that he was a disgraced rider. Outside of Rhys’s gwerbretrhyn, no one but the noble lords would know who he was, and once he left Eldidd, few of them would recognize him either. Without his name and his plaid, he would only be another silver dagger.

Apparently Gadd had a higher opinion of horses than he did humans, because while the stable was clean and well tended, in the tavern room the battered tables were slick with grease and the straw on the floor smelled like kennel bedding. The stew, however, that Gadd put in front of Rhodry was thick with meat and turnips, and the bread that went with it was fresh-baked. Rhodry gobbled while Gadd brought him a tankard of dark ale and pointed out where the open barrel stood.

“Dip out what you want. No doubt you’ll be drinking yourself blind tonight. Just do your puking out in the stableyard.”

Yet Rhodry stayed reasonably sober. As the place filled up with local farmers and their wives, he saw them watching him with the hungry curiosity of those to whom a fallen tree is a village event. Even though Gadd told everyone to leave him alone, Rhodry felt as vulnerable as if he were walking naked through city streets. He nursed a couple of tankards and huddled by the warmth of the hearth while he wondered if Cullyn truly would be able to get him some coin and a sword. Without a weapon, he couldn’t fight, silver dagger or no. The irony struck him hard. Before, he’d been the great lord, able to load Cullyn
with honors; now, if he stayed alive, it would be only because Cullyn had befriended him. Out on the long road, Cullyn’s name meant as much as Maelwaedd did in the world he’d irrevocably left behind.

Rhodry had no hope at all that Rhys would ever recall him. The more their mother pressured him, the more stubborn Rhys would become—Rhodry was sure of it, and with good reason. If he’d been the gwerbret and Rhys the exile, he never would have relented. Locked in their hatred, he and Rhys shared a core where they were twins, not merely brothers, and when they reached that core, they understood each other better than anyone else in the world could ever do. No matter how much his kin schemed and begged, Rhodry would live and die a silver dagger. He knew it there, in that core.

Idly he pulled the dagger from his belt to look at Cullyn’s device. At his touch the blade ran with silvery light. He sheathed it fast and glanced around, but fortunately no one had noticed. You’re worse than just an exile, Rhodry told himself, you’re half an elf, too. All at once he felt dizzy, just from seeing that he no longer fit anywhere in his world, not among the Westfolk, not among men, a half-breed with no clan, no rank, no place to call home, nothing but the silver dagger to give him the identity he’d always taken for granted. He laid his hand on the dagger’s hilt and understood why, scum of the kingdom that they were, silver daggers clung to their name and their band. He got up and dipped himself out another tankard, drank it fast, and went out to the hayloft over the stable. He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted simply to go to sleep and wipe the world away.

Yet he had a restless night of it, because he was cold. He had no blankets, he was too proud to ask Gadd for some, and the chill autumn night had driven away the false summer warmth of the day. He wrapped himself in his cloak, burrowed into the straw like a dog in a kennel, but every time he drowsed off, he would wake shivering. Finally he sat up to ease the cramps in his back and wondered
if he could stand the stink of his saddle blanket. It was small, but it would be something.

Then he heard a horse trotting into the stableyard. Since it was highly unusual for anyone to travel at night, he hoped that this traveler was Cullyn’s messenger, sent to him as fast as possible to make sure that Rhys never knew. His mind mostly on warm blankets, Rhodry climbed down the ladder and hurried out into the moonlight. He recognized the horse before he did the rider, who was just dismounting. Sunrise tossed a weary head and nickered in greeting.

“There you are, my love,” Jill said. “I’ve got your sword. Da and Lord Sligyn bribed the guards, and we nipped it out right under your stinking brothers nose.”

In sheer disbelief, Rhodry stood stock-still. He was sure that he was having a desperate dream and nothing more until Jill walked over and laid her hands on his chest. They were solid and warm.

“Oh, here! Did you think I’d let you go into exile and not follow?”

“I did. Forgive me. You’d even leave your father for me?”

“I would.” She went tense, and he could hear tears under her words. “But it’s hard. I won’t lie and say otherwise. But I had to go, and oh, ye gods, Rhoddo, I love you so much.”

Rhodry threw his arms around her and kissed her. Tight in each other’s arms, they laughed and wept by turns until a grumbling Gadd ran out to see who was making all that noise in his stableyard.

Since Lord Petyn, the cousin who was sheltering Lovyan’s men, paid direct fealty to Gwerbret Rhys, there was no doubt that it was awkward for him to have the Clw Coc warband under his roof. Just at dawn, Cullyn woke the men, got them fed, and told them to start saddling their horses so that they could meet their lady on the road and spare Petyn the further sight of them. He was just finishing
with his own horse when a worried-looking Nevyn jogged over to him.

“Cullyn, where’s Jill? I can’t find her anywhere.”

“No doubt. She rode out last night to follow her Rhodry.”

Nevyn froze, staring at him openmouthed.

“You let her go?” the old man said at last.

“And what choice did I have? She could have sneaked off like a thief, but she paid me the honor of coming to me and telling me the truth.” Afraid that he would weep, he busied himself with adjusting the bridle, which needed no adjustment. “Besides, the lad needs her. He’s never ridden anywhere without a pack of servants. Do you think he could even tell green wood from dry if he wanted a fire?”

“Doubtless not, truly. You know, my friend, you’re a cursed strong man.”

“I’m not, just one who knows enough to send his weakness far away from him.”

When he risked a look, he found the old man smiling in a friendly kind of disbelief. He was surprised at how much having Nevyn’s honor meant to him.

“I’ve had one of the lads ready your horse. We’ll be riding soon.”

“My thanks, but would you mind if I rode after Jill? I want to say farewell to her.”

“Mind? Not in the least, and besides, it’s not for me to say anymore what she does or doesn’t do.”

Cullyn escorted Nevyn down to the gates and held the bridle of his horse while the old man swung into the saddle.

“Tell Lady Lovyan that I’ll return to Dun Gwerbyn soon,” Nevyn said. “If naught else, I have to claim my mule and my herbs.”

“Done, then. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

“Will you, now?” Nevyn shot him another smile. “And I’ll look forward to seeing you. Do you have any message for your silver dagger of a daughter?”

“Naught. I told her I love her last night. There’s naught else to be said.”

Cullyn leaned back against the wall and watched him ride off into the brightening dawn. He felt himself trembling like a beggar in the snow.

“Jill. Oh, ye gods, Jill, Jill, Jill.”

Yet now she would never learn of his shame, never have to know that he’d been tempted to dishonor them both. Cullyn was smiling as he walked back into the ward, where his men were waiting for him.

Since Nevyn often stayed in the Gray Goat when he was doctoring the local farmers, Gadd knew him well. When he rode up that evening, Gadd waddled out, all smiles and bows, to take his horse for him.

“What? No mule? You haven’t given up herbcraft, have you?”

“I haven’t. I’m just here to look for someone—a young silver dagger and Cullyn of Cerrmor’s lass. Which way did they ride when they left you?”

“Left me? Hah! They’ve been up in my hayloft all day, they have. Ah, young lads! A man just doesn’t have that kind of stamina when he gets on in years.” Gadd shook his head mournfully. “It’s a cursed good thing that custom’s slow this time of year.”

“I see your point, truly. Well, I’ll wait in the tavern until they get hungry enough to come down.”

Nevyn was just settling down to a bowl of Gadd’s good stew when Jill walked into the smoky firelight of the tavern. As tense as a hunted deer, she paused just inside the door and watched him warily.

“Have you come to fetch me back? You’ll have to ensorcel me or suchlike to do it. Maybe Rhodry’s an exile and a dishonored man, but I’d follow him anywhere.”

It stabbed like fire, remembering the time when she’d said those same words about Prince Galrion. But she’s no longer Brangwen, Nevyn reminded himself, and cursed if you’re going to play Gerraent.

“I know you would, child. And it’s your choice. I only wanted to bid you farewell, but would it ache your heart
if our roads crossed again? I might find myself wandering the same way you wander at times.”

“Ache my heart? What? Never! Here, what would ache my heart would be never seeing you again.”

And she ran to him and hugged him. For a moment, he stood as stiff as a swordblade with surprise; then he gave her a grandfatherly pat on the head.

“Then we’ll meet again. I’ll promise you that.”

“Splendid.”

Jill spoke so sincerely that Nevyn felt his hope flare. She liked him, she trusted him, and someday he would make her see where her true Wyrd lay. After all, by following Rhodry, she’d set herself free for the dweomer. No longer would she be caught and buried by the intrigues of a powerful court, and the dangers of an unsettled life would keep her latent talents alive. He thought of broaching the subject of her dweomer talent then and there, but the time was still unripe. She would only react with panic this soon after having seen dweomer gone mad and turned to evil ends. He would have to wait, but by letting her go, he was not losing but keeping her.

As they were sitting back down at Nevyn’s table, Rhodry came in. With his sword at his side, he strode over as if he were still a lord, but Nevyn could see the change in his eyes, so haunted and weary that he seemed to have aged several years.

“I think I owe you my life,” Rhodry said.

“Because of Rhys’s men yesterday, you mean? Well, indeed, I had a hand in that. Huh. No doubt your brother would have wept and wrung his hands when your body was found—at least in public.”

“No doubt, the piss-proud drunken sot.” Rhodry sat down next to Jill. “Well, good sir, it looks like Eldidd will have to work out her Wyrd with no help from me.”

“Perhaps so. We’ll have to see what the gods have in store.”

While they ate, mostly in silence, Nevyn pondered what the Great Ones might want done, now that the lad had been sent away from the province he was born to
serve. He also wondered whether Rhodry were in danger. Now that he no longer held political power, he might well be of no further interest to the dark dweomer, but the hope seemed an idle one. Yet as he considered the problem, not one single dweomer warning came to him, only the generalized and normal fear that silver daggers, after all, often died young in battle. The lack of warnings made it plain that at least for now, Rhodry was in no danger from the masters of the black craft. It would be safe, then, for Nevyn to let them go on their way and to keep watch from a distance while he tried to influence Rhys to recall the exile.

“You know, Nevyn,” Rhodry said finally, “I’m cursed lucky that Jill loves me so much, or I’d have died soon enough on the long road.”

“Oh, hogwash!” Jill broke in. “You’re not a half-wit. You would have learned how to fend for yourself.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Rhodry’s voice went cold and flat. “In every battle I rode, I would have been volunteering for the point of the charge, or riding into the worst mob. There’s more than one way for a man to end his exile.”

It was a confession, quietly said. Jill grabbed his arm.

“But not now,” he went on. “Not when I’ve got you to live for.”

Jill flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. Nevyn sighed aloud at the irony of it, that by keeping Rhodry alive, Jill was already serving the dweomer, though she knew it not.

The next morning, Jill woke just at dawn and found Rhodry’s arms tightly round her. Gray light filtered in through the cracks in the stable walls, and the sound of rain drummed on the roof. She rested her hand on Rhodry’s chest and listened to the rain song mingling with his steady breathing, while she smiled at herself for finding Gadd’s hayloft more to her taste than her feather bed back in Dun Gwerbyn. When she thought of Cullyn, she had to close her eyes tight to force back her tears. Da,
Da, I’m sorry, she thought, but you know I had to go. At least she’d left him in a safe place, where he’d never have to sleep in the rain again, no matter what happened to her. Bitterly she wondered if she would ever see him again, but she had made her choice, and she would follow Rhodry forever if the gods allowed.

And the gods could do what they wanted, she decided. She’d always lived a single day at a time, simply because she’d never had any choice but to live that way. The long road stretches into mist, Cullyn always said, and no one can see the end of it. She had Rhodry and her freedom to ride. As she fell back to sleep, she decided that they would do splendidly for now.