Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

  Devaberiel, therefore, wasn’t surprised when the guards at Dun Gwerbyn’s gates first stared at him, then looked quickly away. They did the same to the others with him, Jennantar and Calonderiel, but they managed to take a good look at the two packhorses dragging travois, and finally, a string of twelve riderless horses.

  “Have you come here to sell those?” the guard asked. “There’s taxes to pay if you have.”

  “I’ve not. I’m bringing them as tribute to the tieryn.”

  “Ah. Go on through, then.”

  Although Jennantar and Calonderiel had been in Eldidd before, they’d never been inside the town, and Devaberiel noticed them looking scornfully at the grimy round houses, dripping smoke-stained thatch, and the narrow streets, curving in a seemingly aimless pattern. Devaberiel himself felt faintly uneasy about the way everything was crammed in together. You simply couldn’t get a clear view in a human town, no matter which way you looked.

  “We’re not going to stay here long, are we?” Calonderiel muttered.

  “Not very. You can leave straightaway, if you like, after we get the horses to the dun.”

  “Oh, no. I want to see Rhodry again, and Cullyn, too.”

  Cullyn they saw immediately, because he happened to be standing in the open gates of the dun when they puffed up the hill. With a shout of greeting he trotted down to meet them. Although Devaberiel had heard a good bit about the man who was considered the best swordsman in all Deverry, he was unprepared for the sight of him. Well over six feet tall, he was broad-shouldered and hard-muscled. An old scar slashed down his left cheek, and his blue eyes did nothing to dispel the grim impression. They were as hard and cold as a winter storm, even when he smiled and shook Calonderiel’s hand.

  “Now, this is a gift from the gods,” Cullyn said. “It gladdens my heart to see you again.”

  “And mine to see you,” said the warleader. “We’ve brought tribute to Lady Lovyan and young Rhodry.”

  “Well, the lady will be glad to receive it.” His eyes turned even grimmer. “But Gwerbret Rhys of Aberwyn sent Rhodry in exile last fall.”

  “What?” All three elves spoke at once.

  “Just that. But come in, come in. I can tell you the tale over a tankard of the tieryn’s hospitality.”

  As they led the horses up to the dun, Devaberiel felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “Cullyn?” he said. “Then where’s Rhodry now?”

  “Riding the long road as a silver dagger. Do you know what that means, good sir?”

  “I do. Oh, ye gods, he could be anywhere in the wretched kingdom!”

  As they came into the ward, servants and grooms came running, exclaiming over the horses. The elven breed, known as Western Hunters in Deverry, stood sixteen to eighteen hands, with broad chests and delicate heads. Although they were usually gray, buckskin, or roan, a few were a rich golden color, and those were the most prized. Although Devaberiel had brought a golden mare for his son to use as breeding stock, now he was tempted to take her back again. Come now, he told himself, I owe Lowa something for giving me a son.

  The clatter and the shouting outside had apparently aroused Lovyan’s curiosity, because she came out of the broch and strolled over. Wearing a dress of red Bardek silk, kirtled with her clan’s red, white, and brown plaid, she walked as lithely as a young lass, but when she came close, Devaberiel’s heart was wrung for the second time that day. She was growing old, her face slashed by wrinkles, her hair heavily streaked with gray. She glanced his way, stiffened slightly, then looked at him as blandly as if they’d never met. His heart ached for her, and he cursed himself as a fool or worse for coming. She was growing old, while he still looked like a lad of twenty. It was one of those rare times in his life when he could find nothing to say.

  “My lady Lovyan,” Calonderiel said with a bow. “Your Grace, tieryn of Dun Gwerbyn. We come to bring you tribute to your power and dominion.”

  “My thanks, good sir. I’m most pleased to receive such a splendid gift. Come in and take the hospitality of my hall.”

  Since he couldn’t refuse, Devaberiel followed. As a favor to Cullyn, Lovyan allowed him to join her and the guests at the honor table. Once they’d all been served mead, the captain told the story in detail of Rhodry’s exile. Although Calonderiel and Jennantar constantly interrupted to ask questions, Devaberiel found it hard to listen. He kept cursing himself for coming and causing such pain to both himself and to the woman he once had loved. When the tale was finished, everyone drank in silence for a moment. Devaberiel risked another glance at Lovyan only to find her looking at him. When their eyes met, for a moment her composure wavered, her eyes so haunted, her mouth so tense, that he feared she would weep. Then she looked away, and the moment passed.

  “Well, good men of the Westfolk,” she said, “will you shelter in my dun awhile?”

  “My humble thanks for the honor, Your Grace,” Devaberiel said. “But my folk are used to wandering through grassland and forest. It makes us uneasy to be within stone walls. Would it displease Your Grace if we camped outside the town tonight, and then went on our way?”

  “How can I refuse a favor to men whove just brought me such a splendid gift? Just two miles north I have a game preserve. I’ll give you a token for my forester, and you may camp there for as long as you please.”

  And her eyes thanked him for taking himself away.

  Yet they had a chance for a few private words while the servants brought the elves’ riding mounts and packhorses. Cullyn and the other two stood on the dun steps and talked among themselves with the earnestness of old comrades, but Lovyan gestured at the bard to follow her some paces away.

  “Did you come here just to bring me horses?” she said.

  “I didn’t. I came to see our son.”

  “So. You know the truth about that, then?”

  “I do. Lowa, please, forgive me. I never should have come, and I swear to you that you’ll never have to see me again.”

  “It would be for the best. Rhodry must never know the truth. Do you realize that?”

  “Of course. I only wanted a look at the lad.”

  She smiled briefly.

  “He looks much like you, but he has the raven-dark Eldidd hair. He’s a handsome lad, our Rhodry.”

  He caught her hand and squeezed it, then let it go before anyone could see.

  “I wonder if I’ll ever lay eyes on him,” he said. “I don’t dare ride any farther east. They haven’t learned how to ignore our eyes and ears in the rest of the kingdom.”

  “True spoken. You know, I’d always heard that your folk were long-lived, but I didn’t realize how young you stayed.” Her voice caught. “Or is the tale true, and you live forever?”

  “Not forever, but for a truly long time. And we do age, but not until we’re ready to die. That’s how we know it’s time to prepare for our last ride.”

  “Indeed?” She looked away and unconsciously touched the wrinkles on her cheek. “Perhaps we have the best of it, then, because while we age early, we’re never burdened with knowing when we’ll die.”

  He sighed, remembering his grief when his father’s hair began to turn white and his vigor fade.

  “Truly,” he said, “you may have the better bargain.”

  He walked quickly away, because tears were gathering in his throat.

  When they rode out, Devaberiel said not a word to the others, and they allowed him his silence until they reached the hunting preserve. Lovyan’s forester took them to an open dell where a stream ran and there was good grass for the horses, remarked that there were plenty of deer this year, then rode off fast to avoid spending time with Westfolk. They pitched the red tent, tethered the horses, then gathered a few sticks of firewood to add to their stock of dried manure for a fire, and still Devaberiel said nothing. Finally Calonderiel could stand it no longer.

  “Coming here was a really stupid thing to do,” he remarked.

  “The warleader is known far and wide fo
r his graceful tact,” Devaberiel snapped. “By the Dark Sun herself, why do you have to pour bitter gall into a man’s cup when he’s thirsty?”

  “Well, sorry, but—”

  “You’re forgetting the rose ring,” Jennantar broke in. “The dweomer said Rhodry should have it.”

  “Now, that’s true,” Calonderiel said. “So I suppose Dev had some excuse.”

  Snarling under his breath, Devaberiel went to unpack a skin of mead from the travois. Jennantar followed, squatting down next to him.

  “Don’t take everything Cal says to heart. He’s always like that.”

  “Then I’m cursed glad I don’t march in one of his squadrons.”

  “It takes some getting used to. But I was wondering, how are you going to get that ring to your lad? Do you have any idea?”

  “I was thinking about that on the ride here. I’ve got another son, you know, who had a Deverry mother. He looks more like her folk than he does ours.”

  “Of course—Ebañy.” Jennantar looked worried. “But are you really going to trust him with the ring?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I have my own doubts. Ye gods, he’s a wild lad! Maybe I never should have taken him away from his mother, but the poor lass couldn’t support a child on her own, and her father was livid with rage that she had one. I don’t understand these Deverry men sometimes. They don’t have to carry the baby, do they, so what business of theirs is it if their daughter’s got one? But anyway, if I lay a father’s charge on Ebañy to get the ring to his brother, he’ll doubtless do it. It’s just the sort of wild escapade that would appeal to him.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? You never know with that lad. I’ll just have to put out the word that I want to see him and hope that it reaches him, sooner rather than later.”

  By this time, the eleventh century after the Great Migration, Cerrmor had grown to a city of some hundred thousand people. Not only did it stretch far up the river, but rich merchants had built splendid houses on the cliffs above, far away from the noise and dirt of the town. The dun where once Glyn had ruled as king had been razed a hundred years before, and a new, even larger, one built for the gwerbrets of Cerrmor. Down near the waterfront, however, was a section of town that had nothing splendid about it. Brothels, cheap inns, and taverns stood close together in a maze of winding streets and alleys that decent citizens never entered, except for the gwerbret’s wardens, who entered there far more frequently than the inhabitants would have liked. It was called the Bilge.

  Whenever he went to the Bilge, Sarcyn always walked quickly, kept his eyes moving, and wrapped his aura tight around him, a dweomer that made him very hard to notice. He wasn’t truly invisible—anyone walking straight toward him would have seen that he was there—but rather he caught no one’s attention, especially when he walked close to walls or in shadows. That particular afternoon it was overcast, and several people nearly bumped into him as they strode past, unmindful that they shared the street with someone else. Still, he kept his hand on his sword hilt.

  Since it was late in the day, the streets were growing crowded. Sailors with pay to spend strolled along through street vendors hawking cheap food and cheaper trinkets. A few whores were already out, the kind known as “cobblestones” because they had only the dark back alleys to take their clients to. Here and there he saw a group of Bardek sailors, their brown faces neatly painted, their dark hair oiled for their night of liberty. Once six city wardens marched past, keeping a tight formation and carrying their quarterstaves at the ready. Sarcyn ducked into a doorway and stayed there until they were well past. Then he went on his way, moving quickly through the confusing maze. Although he hadn’t been in Cerrmor for some time, he knew the Bilge well. He’d been born there.

  Finally he reached his destination, a three-story stone roundhouse with a freshly thatched roof and neatly whitewashed walls. Gwenca could afford to keep up her whorehouse because she catered to a better class of clients than mere sailors. He paused at the door, released his aura, then stepped into the ground-floor tavern. Arranged around the central spiral staircase were wooden tables, standing on clean straw. A peat fire smoldered on the hearth to take off the chill, because the young women sitting on cushioned benches were either naked or wearing only gauzy Bardek shifts. A lass wearing nothing but a square of black silk tied around her hips hurried over. Her blue eyes were lined with Bardek kohl, and her long blond hair smelled of roses.

  “We haven’t seen you in ever so long, Sarco,” she said. “Do you have any?”

  “I do, but your mistress is the one who’ll be handing it out.”

  A drop of sweat ran down between her breasts. He reached over and wiped it off with the side of a lingering hand. She simpered and moved closer.

  “Where’s Gwenca?”

  “In the cellar, but can’t you let me have a little bit right now? You can come fish in my bucket if you do.”

  He took one slow kiss, then pulled away, grinning at her.

  “I’ll give you naught until your mistress says so.”

  The tavernman moved aside two ale barrels from the curve of the wall, then pulled up the trapdoor to let him go down into what seemed an ordinary cellar. Ale and mead barrels stood in profusion; hams hung from the ceiling amid nets of onions. But on the far side was a door, and when he knocked, a gravelly woman’s voice snarled, asking who he was.

  “Sarcyn, back from Bardek.”

  At that the door opened, and Gwenca stood smiling at him. About fifty, she was a stout woman with hennaed hair and brown eyes that looked out from a web of lines and pouches. On every finger she wore a jeweled ring, and round her neck a chain with a blue-and-silver charm against the evil eye. Sarcyn smiled inwardly; she knew him only as a drug runner and had no idea that he was exactly the sort of man who could cast the evil eye.

  “Come in, pretty lad. I take it you’ve got somewhat to offer me.”

  “I do, at that, and good quality it is.”

  Gwenca’s private chambers were oppressively stuffy. Although there were vents near the ceiling, the room reeked of scent and stale opium smoke, as if the tapestries and cushions exhaled the smell. She sat down at a small table, inlaid with glass in a gaudy spiral of red and blue, and watched while he unbuckled his sword belt, laid it close to hand on a chair, then pulled his shirt over his head. Slung from his neck like saddlebags were a pair of flat leather pouches. He took them off and tossed them down in front of her.

  “Five silvers the bar. You’ll see why when you open them.”

  With greedy fingers she untied the pouches and brought out the first bar, about three inches long by two wide. She unwrapped the oiled parchment and sniffed at the smooth, black opium.

  “It looks good,” she pronounced. “But I’m not saying a word more until I smoke some of it.”

  A burning candle lantern stood on the table, next to a long white clay pipe and a stack of splints. She shaved off a pipeful with her table dagger, laid it in, then set fire to a splint. First she heated the pipe bowl, then coaxed the sticky opium to burn. The first mouthful made her cough, but she kept sucking at it.

  “It’s splendid,” she said with a spew of smoke and another hacking cough. “What’s the price if I buy ten bars?”

  “Fifty silvers.”

  “What? Naught less at all?”

  “Naught.”

  “Well, then, maybe I won’t buy a jot.”

  He merely smiled, waiting.

  “You’re a hard man, Sarco.” Reluctantly she laid the pipe down to let it go out. “I’ll get the coin.”

  While Sarcyn counted out the bars, she disappeared into another chamber, finally returning with the heavy handful of silver.

  “Do you want one of the lasses while you re here?” she handed the coin over. “Free, of course.”

  “My thanks, but I can’t. I’ve other business to attend to.”

  “Come back tonight if you want.�
��

  “I will, then. That blond with the kohl round her eyes—tell her to be ready. Will you remember the price you just set?”

  Gwenca smiled, all gap-toothed.

  “For you I’ll remember. Huh. Someone told me your tastes ran to lads. Did they lie?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Naught. Just an idle wondering. What are you, like some of them Bardek merchants, rolling your dice with either hand? They get their good time out of both cheeks and fur that way.”

  Sarcyn stared straight at her.

  “Old woman, you go too far.”

  Gwenca flinched back. While Sarcyn finished dressing, she crouched in a chair and fingered her amulet.

  When he left the Bilge, Sarcyn walked upriver, keeping off the main streets whenever possible. Although to avoid attention he was staying at an inn in another poor section of town, he refused to lodge anywhere near the Bilge, which held too many painful memories for him. His mother had been an expensive whore in a house much like Gwenca’s. On some whim she’d actually borne two children out of her many pregnancies, Sarcyn and his younger sister, Evy. She alternately spoiled and ignored them until she was strangled by a drunken sailor when Sarcyn was seven and Evy three. The brothel keeper kicked them out into the streets, where they lived as beggars for months, sleeping under wagons or in broken ale barrels, scrounging what coppers they could and fighting to keep the bigger boys from stealing their food.

  Then one day a well-dressed merchant stopped to give them a copper and asked them why they were begging. When Sarcyn told him, he gave them a couple more, and that day their bellies were full for the first time in months. Naturally, Sarcyn began to keep an eye out for this generous fellow. Every time he saw Alastyr, the merchant would give him more coins and stop to talk with the lads, too. Even though Sarcyn was a prematurely wise gutter rat, slowly Alastyr won his confidence. When the merchant offered to let the children come live with him, they wept in gratitude.