The Spirit Stone (12 page)

‘My thanks.’ She pulled up the hem of her skirt and blew her nose on the frayed and stained brown cloth. ‘Ah ye gods, my thanks.’

Gwairyc silently cursed him. He’d been hoping they’d get free of the farm straightaway and camp somewhere clean.

After several doses of herbs, Nevyn finally got Anno to fall asleep. The old man changed into a fresh pair of brigga, handed the soaked ones to Gwairyc, and told him wash them out.

‘And you’d best do yours while you’re at it,’ Nevyn said. ‘You’ve got a spare pair, haven’t you?’

‘I have.’

‘There’s a stream out back,’ Ligga said. ‘Here, I’ll get you some soap.’

A scrap of soap in one hand, the dirty clothes in the other, Gwairyc strode out of the house into the relatively clean air of the farmyard. Ligga followed him out and pointed. ‘Go straight out the back gate. You’ll see my pounding rocks on the stream bank.’

‘Pounding rocks?’

‘Now, here, haven’t you washed clothes before?’ She gave him her half-toothless grin. ‘Get them wet first. You work the soap in good, then put them on the flat rock and beat the soiled bits with the round rock.’

Cursing under his breath, Gwairyc took the brigga down to a tiny streamlet, meandering through wild grass. He found the rocks, knelt down, and tried to follow her instructions. His rage built and flamed until he could barely see what he was doing. How could he be here, him, the hero of the Cerrgonney wars, washing some farm-brat’s piss out of a pair of old brigga? He considered waiting till dark and running away, but a bitter truth stopped him. If he broke his vow, he’d have nowhere to go, unless of course he wanted to sink to the level of a silver dagger. Even being a herbman’s servant would be better than that.

All at once, he realized that he was weeping, a final blow of shame. He threw the wet brigga onto the grass and sobbed aloud until he heard footsteps rustling through the grass. He wiped his face on his sleeve and looked up to see Nevyn, standing there with his hands on his hips.

‘Oh here, lad. This is a good bit harder on you than I thought it’d be.’

The old man’s sympathy delivered the worst cut of all. Gwairyc wanted to kill him.
I’m doing this for the king,
he reminded himself. With a sigh, Nevyn sat down next to him in the grass.

‘The lad’s going to live. Do you care one jot?’

‘I don’t. Ye gods, how can you do things like this? With your skill, you could be the king’s own physician or suchlike.’

‘There’s many a man who wants to physic the king. How many want to help folk like these?’

‘Well, and why should they? This lot is hardly better than bondfolk.’

‘I treat bondfolk who need me, too.’

Gwairyc stared at him.
Daft and twice daft!

‘I’ll admit to being surprised when you looked so ill,’ Nevyn continued. ‘After all, you’ve ridden to many a battle. You must have seen the dead and dying, the wounds and suchlike.’

‘I don’t understand it, either. You’re right enough about the things I’ve seen.’ Gwairyc thought for a moment. ‘But you expect that, in a battle. You’re used to it. And you don’t let yourself dwell on it, like. This—’ He paused and suddenly saw the answer. ‘In battle, you’re fighting for your clan or your king. So much hangs on the outcome of a war. So all the death and the cuts and suchlike—they’re in a good cause, like. They matter.’

‘And this lad doesn’t matter?’

‘Why would he? Folk like these—one dies, there’s always more. They breed like rabbits.’

Nevyn cocked his head to one side and considered him for a long moment. Although the old man’s face displayed no particular feeling, Gwairyc began to wonder if he’d somehow shamed himself.

‘Well, um, mayhap, they’re more like horses.’ Gwairyc tried again. ‘You appreciate a good one, but if you lose him, you can get another.’

Nevyn blinked a few times, quickly.

‘It’s shameful!’ Gwairyc burst out. ‘I’m noble-born, but now I might as well be a farrier or a stablehand.’

‘Ah. Treating the sick is shameful.’

‘Well, not for you.’

‘But for you it is.’

‘Of course. You’re not a noble-born man.’

‘You’re quite sure of that?’

Gwairyc suddenly remembered the king, pouring the old man ale with his own hands. In a kind of panic he tried to speak but found he could only stammer.

‘It appears you see the flaw in your argument.’ Nevyn smiled in a twisted sort of way, then stood up. ‘You might think about all this a bit. Now, wring the water out of those brigga. Then spread them out flat on the grass to dry. I’m going back to the house.’

Once the brigga were drying, Gwairyc returned to the cow-barn. He unsaddled the pair of riding horses and unloaded the mule. He found a reasonably clean spot in a corner to pile up the gear, then looked over the various stalls. He had no idea if these folk brought the cows in at night or left them out. A skinny youngish man with a weatherbeaten face and cropped brown hair, slick with grease, came into the barn.

‘Be you Nevyn’s apprentice? I’m Myrn. Ligga’s man.’

‘I’m Gwairyc.’

Myrn nodded in what might have been a greeting. ‘I’ll put them horses up for you. My thanks for saving my lad.’

‘That was Nevyn’s work, not mine, truly.’

Myrn nodded again and took a pitch-fork from the floor. Gwairyc hurried out and left the horses to him.

On the morrow, Anno seemed to be recovering, but Nevyn left various packets of herbs for his care just in case. When Ligga tried to offer him her few saved coppers as payment, Nevyn refused. That gesture Gwairyc could understand. Taking coins from folk like these would be as ignoble as stealing a hunting dog’s food.

They left the farm and took up their slow road west again. Mile after mile, village after village, farm after farm—Nevyn seemed to know every commoner in the kingdom, and all of them were, in Gwairyc’s opinion, filthy. Gwairyc saw more injuries and illnesses than he’d ever known existed, with disgusting symptoms all: cuts gone septic, clustered boils, fevers, vomiting, loose bowels, swellings, foul dark urine, and dropsies, to say naught of the ever-present diseased teeth. He tried at first to shut the symptoms out of his mind, but the sights and smells haunted him. At times he dreamt about them.
It’s the shame of the thing,
he told himself.
Why else would they sicken me so much?

Yet one afternoon, as they rode down a lane between two fields pale green with sprouting wheat, he remembered the first battle he’d ever seen, or rather, its aftermath, the dead men, the dying horses. Once the battle-rage had worn off, he’d felt a stomach-churning disgust far stronger than any of Nevyn’s patients aroused in him. He’d been not much more than a lad, then, and he would rather have died than let any of the men around him see his feelings. And in time, he’d learned how to armour his soul.
I’ll grow used to this, too,
he told himself.
After all, I’ve got no choice.

Late one hot afternoon, when rain clouds were boiling up from the south, they came to a sprawling village on the banks of a broad but shallow stream. The place was too small to offer an inn, but the tavernman, who knew Nevyn well, let them shelter in his hayloft. After Gwairyc stabled the horses and mule, Nevyn bought them each a tankard of ale. They sat outside the tavern on a little bench across from a market square, empty except for a couple of brown dogs, lying near the public well. In the stiff wind the poplars growing all round the town shivered and bowed.

‘We’re in for a storm, all right,’ Nevyn pronounced.

‘I’d say so, my lord. I hope to the gods that the stable roof doesn’t leak.’

Nevyn nodded his agreement and had a sip of his ale. With the clatter of hooves and the jingle of polished tack, a squad of five horsemen came trotting down the village street and up to the inn. As they dismounted, Gwairyc saw the swords at their sides and the blazon of a red hawk on their shirts.

‘Must be the riders of our local lord,’ Gwairyc said.

‘Just so. I don’t remember his name.’

The lads tied their horses up at the side of the tavern, then came strolling around to the door. Gwairyc envied them. Once he’d been free to enjoy a tankard in the company of men who understood him, men who were true companions and fellow-warriors. One of the riders paused, looking Nevyn over.

‘Good morrow, sir. You look new to our village.’

‘Just passing through. I’m a herbman, you see.’

The rider nodded pleasantly and went inside with his fellows. In a bit, Nevyn finished his ale and handed the tankard to Gwairyc.

‘Take this back in. One’s enough for me, but buy yourself another if you’d like, lad.’

‘My thanks. I will.’

Gwairyc took the copper for the ale from Nevyn and carried the tankards back to the tavernman. While the tavernman was dipping him a second tankard from the barrel, Gwairyc realized that the Red Hawk riders were looking him over. As Gwairyc started back outside with his full tankard, a beefy blond fellow got up and blocked his way.

‘What are you doing with a sword, lad?’

‘What’s it to you?’ Gwairyc said.

‘You’re naught but the servant for that moth-eaten old herbman. You’ve got no right to carry a man’s weapon.’

Gwairyc threw the tankard of ale full into his face. With a howl of rage, the fellow staggered back and swatted at the ale running and foaming down his chest. Shouting, the other lads jumped up, hands going to their hilts. Gwairyc drew and dropped into a fighting stance. He could ask for naught better than a chance to kill someone and wash away his shame with blood.

‘What’s all this?’ Nevyn yelled. ‘Stop it!’

No one paid him the least attention. The nearest two riders drew, dropping into their stance, and edged cautiously for Gwairyc. Gwairyc waited, judging distance. All at once a crash and crackle like thunder boomed around him. Blue fire leapt up, surrounding his enemies in one enormous flame, blinding him as well as them. He heard the lads yelling and cursing as another fire came with the thunder close behind.

‘Get out!’ Nevyn’s voice said calmly. ‘All of you—out now!’

Still half-blind, Gwairyc staggered back, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his sight. He could just barely see the Red Hawk riders, equally blind, stumbling as fast as they could, shoving each other to be the first out the door. In the corner the tavernman was laughing in long peals while he hugged his own middle. Nevyn strolled over to Gwairyc and pulled the sword from his limp hand.

‘Did you do that?’ Gwairyc heard his voice squeaking like a lad’s.

‘And who else would it have been?’ the tavernman broke in. ‘Ye gods, Nevyn, you’re a marvel, you are—and at your age, too.’

‘Oh, the old horse can take a jump or two yet,’ Nevyn said, grinning. ‘Now listen, Gwarro. I won’t have you killing anyone. Do you understand me?’

‘I think I finally do understand you, my lord. You’re dweomer.’

‘Just that. What did you think I did to earn the king’s favour? Lance his boils?’

Shaking too hard to speak, Gwairyc leaned back against the tavernroom wall. Nevyn looked at the sword.

‘You won’t be carrying this from now on. Take off that sword belt, lad, and hand it over. I’m not giving it back to you until I see fit.’

For a moment Gwairyc’s rage flared up like dweomer-fire. Taking his sword away was the worst dishonour in the world. Nevyn’s cold blue gaze caught and pinned him to the wall. Slowly, silently cursing himself for doing it, Gwairyc unbuckled his belt and handed it to the old man, then turned and ran outside rather than watch another man sheath his blade. He threw himself down on the bench and watched the clouds darkening the sky while he trembled so hard he could no longer tell if the cause were rage or terror.

The rain clouds had turned as dark as cinders when Nevyn came out to join him. He stood, his hands on his hips, in front of the bench and look Gwairyc over. ‘Well?’ Nevyn said.

‘Well what?’

‘What have you made of all that?’

‘The blue fire and the like? I’ve not made anything out of it, except you called it down from wherever it came from. Isn’t that enough?’

‘Most likely. Do you remember what I told you that very first day at the temple of Wmm? There was a thing I told you to remember.’

Gwairyc thought for a long moment. ‘You told me you were doing this to benefit the king.’

‘I didn’t.’ Nevyn suddenly grinned. ‘I told you I was doing it to benefit you.’

‘Ye gods! That ran right out of my mind.’

‘I thought it might have.’

‘But how by all the ice in all the hells—I mean, benefit me how?’

‘Only you can know that.’

‘What? I—’

‘If I explained, you’d only miss it.’

Gwairyc thought up a nasty reply, but the memory of the blue fire leaping through the tavern stopped him from voicing it.

‘I’m not talking in riddles to tease you,’ Nevyn continued. ‘Some things truly can’t be made clear.’

‘Well, since it’s dweomer, I’d be a fool to argue.’

Gwairyc had the rare pleasure of seeing Nevyn taken utterly aback.

‘Come to think of it,’ the old man said at last, ‘I would have thought you’d be alarmed at the very idea of dweomer, but you’re not.’

‘I’m one of the Rams of Hendyr, aren’t I? Most lords mock the dweomer. Can’t be true, they say. But not us, and we won’t let anyone of our rank or below mock it in our presence. It’s one of the things that makes us Rams. That’s what my father and my grandfather tell all of us.’

‘Indeed?’ Nevyn considered this for a moment. ‘May I ask why?’

‘Of course, you being what you are. It’s because of Lady Lillorigga of the Ram. One of our ancestors, she was, back in the Time of Troubles.’

‘I’ve heard her name, truly.’ Once again Nevyn looked startled, and Gwairyc began to enjoy the effect he was having. ‘Go on, lad, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. She was a sorceress, and the bards have passed down the tale. She made a prediction of some sort, I think it was.’ Gwairyc paused, frowning over details—he’d not heard the story for a good many years now. ‘They’d been loyal to the cursed Boars, but thanks to her, The Ram recognized the true king in the nick of time and went over to his side. It’s all a bit muddled in the tales, my lord, when it comes to exactly how she did it, but she did, and that’s been good enough for us.’