Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

  Salamander, or Ebañy Salomonderiel tranDevaberiel, to give him his full Elvish name, was staying in one of the most expensive inns in Cerrmor. His reception chamber was spacious, with Bardek carpets on the polished wood floor, half-round chairs with cushions, and glass in the windows. When his visitors arrived, he poured them mead from a silver flagon into glass goblets. Both Elaeno and Nevyn looked around them sourly.

  “I take it that your tales pay well these days,” Nevyn said.

  “They do. I know that you’re always chastising my humble self for my admittedly vulgar, crude, extravagant, and frivolous tastes, but I see no harm in it.”

  “There’s not. It’s just that there isn’t any good in it, either. Well, it’s none of my affair. I’m not your master.”

  “Just so, though truly, I would have been honored beyond my deserving to have been your apprentice.”

  “That’s true enough,” Elaeno broke in. “The bit about ‘beyond your deserving,’ that is.”

  Salamander merely grinned. He enjoyed bantering with the enormous Bardekian, though he doubted if Elaeno liked the game as much as he did.

  “I know my talents are modest,” Salamander said. “Here, if I had the power of the Master of the Aethyr, I’d be as dedicated as he. Alas, the gods saw fit to give me only a brief taste of the dweomer before they snatched that honey-sweet cup from my lips.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Nevyn said. “Valandario told me that you could easily make more progress—if only you’d work for it.”

  Salamander winced. He hadn’t realized that his mistress in the craft had told the old man so much.

  “But that’s neither here nor there right now,” Nevyn went on. “What I want to know is why you’re in Deverry.”

  “The real question is: Why not be in Deverry? I love to wander among my mother’s folk. There’s always somewhat to see along your roads, and I’m also far, far away from my esteemed father, who is always and in the most perfect prose berating me for some fault or another, both real and imagined.”

  “Mostly the former, I’d say,” Elaeno muttered.

  “Oh, no doubt. But if I can be of any service to either you or the Master of the Aethyr, you have but to ask.”

  “Good,” Nevyn said. “Because you can. For a change, your wandering ways might come in handy. I have every reason to believe that there are several dark dweomermen abroad in the kingdom. I don’t want you trying to tangle with them, mind. They’re far too powerful for that. But they’re also supporting themselves by smuggling drugs and poisons. I want to know where the goods are sold. If we can choke off this foul trade, it will hurt our enemies badly. After all, they have to eat like other men—more or less like other men, anyway. I want you to be constantly alert for signs of this impious trade. A gerthddyn’s welcome anywhere. You just might overhear an interesting thing or two.”

  “So I might. I’ll gladly poke my long Elvish nose into the matter for you.”

  “Don’t poke it so far that it gets cut off,” Elaeno said. “Remember, these men are dangerous.”

  “Well and good, then. I shall be all caution, wiles, snares, and deceits.”

  About ten miles east of Dun Deverry lived a woman named Anghariad, who’d been pensioned off on a little plot of land after many years of service in the king’s court. None of her neighbors were sure of what she’d actually done there, because she was the closemouthed sort, but the common guess was that she’d been a midwife and herbwoman, because she knew her herbs well. Often the folk of the village would trade chickens and produce for her doctoring rather than make the long trudge into the city for an apothecary. Yet when they visited, they usually crossed their fingers in the sign of warding against witchcraft, because there was something strange about the old woman with her glittering dark eyes and hollow cheeks.

  Apparently the noble-born hadn’t forgotten the woman who once served them, either. It was a common sight to see a pair of fine horses with fancy trappings tied up by her cottage, or even a noble lady herself, talking urgently with Anghariad out in her herb garden. The villagers wondered what the noble-born could possibly have to say to the old woman. If they’d known, they would have been appalled. To the farmers, whose every child was a precious pair of hands to work on the land, the very idea of abortion was repellent.

  Besides her abortifacients, Anghariad had other strange things for sale to the right customers. That afternoon she was extremely displeased at the paucity of goods that Sarcyn had to offer her.

  “I can’t help it,” he said. “One of our couriers was taken with all his goods down in Cerrmor. You’re cursed lucky that Tve got any opium at all.”

  The old woman picked up the black lump and scored it with her fingernail, then carefully examined the way it crumbled.

  “I prefer it better refined than this,” she snapped. “The noble-born have more fastidious tastes than some sot of a Bardek dockworker.”

  “I told you: you’re cursed lucky to get any at all. Now, if you do me a favor, I’ll give it to you for free.”

  Suddenly she was all smiles and close attention.

  “I know who some of your regular customers are.”

  Sarcyn leaned closer. “And one of them particularly interests me. I want to meet him. Send Lord Camdel news of the delivery and tell him to come out here alone.”

  “Oh, ye gods,” Rhodry grumbled. “We finally find a tavern with decent mead, and now you tell me that we can’t afford it.”

  “Well,” Jill said, “if you weren’t too beastly proud to take a hire guarding a caravan—”

  “It’s not just pride! It’s the honor of the thing.”

  Jill rolled her eyes heavenward to ask the gods to witness such stubbornness, then let the matter drop. Actually, they had a fair amount of coin left from the winter, but she had no intention of letting him know it. He was just like her father, drinking the coin away or handing it over to beggars with never a thought for what might lie ahead on the long road. Just as she’d done with Cullyn, therefore, she let Rhodry think that they were close to being beggars themselves.

  “If you spend coin on mead now,” she said, “how are you going to feel when we’re riding hungry without even a copper to buy a scrap of bread? I’ll wager the memory of the mead will taste bitter enough then.”

  “Oh, very well! I’ll settle for ale.”

  She handed him four coppers, and off he went to get the ale. They were in the tavern room of the cheapest inn in Dun Aedyn, a prosperous trading town in the middle of some of the richest farmland in the whole kingdom. When they left Cerrmor, they’d ridden there because they’d heard rumors of a feud brewing between the town’s lord and one of his neighbors, but unfortunately it had been settled by the local gwerbret before they arrived. Dun Aedyn was too important to the rhan for the overlord to sit by while it was ravaged by war. Rhodry returned with two tankards, set them down on the table, then sat next to her on the bench.

  “You know,” she said, “we could ride east to Yr Auddglyn. There’s bound to be fighting there this summer.”

  “True spoken, and it’s a lot closer than Cerrgonney. Shall we ride straight through the border hills?”

  Since the road through the hills was shorter than turning south to take the road along the seacoast, Jill was about to agree when she suddenly felt as if an invisible hand had clamped over her mouth to silence her. Blindly and irrationally she knew that they should head for Dun Mannannan before going to the Auddglyn. Dweomer again, curse it! she thought. For a moment she struggled against it, decided that they’d blasted well go through the hills if they wanted to, but she knew stubbornly and fiercely that something of importance would meet them in Dun Mannannan.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Rhodry snapped.

  “I did. My apologies. Uh, here, my love. I want to take the coast road. I know it’s longer, but—ah, well—there’s somewhat I want to ask Otho the Smith.”

  “Very well, then. But do we have enough coin to take the longer wa
y?”

  “We would if you’d take that caravan job. They’re going to the coast.” She put her hands on his shoulders and smiled up into his eyes. “Please, my love?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  She stopped the grumble with a kiss.

  “Oh, very well,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll go look up that merchant straightaway.”

  After he left, she sipped her ale and wondered about the strange thought that had come into her mind of its own will. She also wondered why she’d given in to it, but that answer came easy: simple curiosity. If they hadn’t gone to Dun Mannannan, she would have been always wondering what would have been there.

  Since the High King would have been furious to find his noble-born retainers meddling with Bardek opium, those few who’d acquired this dangerous taste never indulged it inside his dun. Down in the city of Dun Deverry itself was a luxurious inn, the top floor of which was reserved for noble patrons who needed a chamber for some private reason. Many a pretty lass from the town had lost her virtue in that inn, and many a pipeful of opium had tainted its air. For his second meeting with Lord Camdel, Master of the King’s Bath, Sarcyn had rented a chamber there.

  Now the young lord was half sitting, half reclining against a pile of cushions on a Bardek-style divan and twirling an empty clay pipe between his long fingers. About twenty, Camdel was slenderly built, with a thick shock of brown hair, deep-set brown eyes, and the most arrogant smile Sarcyn had ever seen pasted upon a man’s face. During their first meeting he’d treated Sarcyn as a servant, snapping his fingers as he demanded drink or a better chair.

  “His lordship seems to be the kind of ambitious young man we’ve been looking for,” Sarcyn said. “It could be quite profitable for you to join us.”

  With a little nod Camdel looked up, his dilated eyes heavy-lidded.

  “I wouldn’t mind being shed of Anghariad altogether,” Camdel said. “The stuff’s cursed dear.”

  “Just so, and if you began marketing it yourself, you’d get a much better price from us. I’m sure I can trust you to be discreet, my lord.”

  “Of course. My own neck’s in this noose, isn’t it?”

  Sarcyn smiled, thinking the image all too apt.

  “But before I agree to anything,” Camdel went on, “I insist on speaking to someone more important than a common courier.”

  “Of course, Your Lordship. I was sent only to find out if his lordship would be interested. I assure you that the man who commands us will speak to you personally. He’ll reach Dun Deverry in another week.”

  “Good. You may tell him that he may arrange a meeting here.”

  Sarcyn inclined his head in a little gesture of humility. He’d been wondering how to get the lord together with Alastyr. How nice of Camdel’s arrogance to do the job for him!

  It took the slow-moving caravan four days to reach Dun Mannannan, but at last the long line of men and mules straggled into the town’s central, open space that did service as a market square. After Rhodry got his hire, he and Jill led their horses down to the cheap little inn by the river where they’d stayed the fall before—only to find it burned out. A few black withes poked forlornly into the sky where once thatch had lain. A passing townswoman volunteered the information that a couple of the local lads had got into a bit of a fight, which had ended when a candle lantern got knocked into the straw on the floor.

  “Oh, blast it,” Jill said. “Now we’ll have to camp by the road.”

  “What?” Rhodry snapped. “There’s a perfectly good inn on the other side of town.”

  “It’s expensive.”

  “I don’t care, my miserly love. After camping in the midst of those stinking mules, I want a bath, and I’m going to have one.”

  After a brief squabble she gave in and allowed him to lead the way to the other inn. A stout innkeep came bustling out to meet them as soon as they walked into the yard.

  “No silver daggers in my inn!” he snarled.

  Jill stepped smoothly between him and Rhodry.

  “My good sir,” she said, “there’s nowhere else we can stay in town. Oh, please, don’t make us sleep out in the rain.”

  “A lass, are you?”

  “I am, and please, sir, can’t we sleep in your hayloft? That way we won’t trouble your other guests.”

  “Ah, well, why not, then? A couple of coppers a night, say, and the feed for your horse.”

  “Oh, gladly. And our thanks, truly.”

  With a curt nod Rhodry’s way, the innkeep strode off and went inside.

  “I’ll wager you’re pleased with yourself,” Rhodry said to Jill. “It’s disgusting, begging favors from scum like that.”

  “Well, we have to sleep somewhere, don’t we? And the hayloft will save us a couple of coppers, too.”

  “I should have known! Ye gods.”

  Even Jill had to admit that, expensive drink or not, it was pleasant to sit in a tavern room that didn’t smell of moldy straw and unwashed dogs. They had a table to themselves, because when customers entered, they took one look at Rhodry, another at the pommel of his silver dagger, and sat elsewhere, a double insult when one considered that they were smugglers themselves.

  In a few minutes, though, someone entered who seemed to be a traveler, judging from the suspicious way that the locals looked him over. He was dressed in a fine green cloak, gray brigga of the softest wool, and a shirt thick with embroidery; he tipped the innkeep’s lad a couple of coppers to bring in his gear, when one would have done. He also insisted that the innkeep show him the best chamber he had. As he followed the innkeep up the spiral staircase, Jill studied him curiously. Tall and slender, he had the pale hair and handsome features of someone with more than a touch of elven blood in his veins. He also looked oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place where she’d seen him. The innkeep’s lad noticed her interest and hurried over.

  “That fellow’s name is Salamander,” he said. “And he’s a gerthddyn.”

  “Is he, now? Well, then, we’ll have a splendid time listening to his tales later.”

  Jill supposed that at some point on the long road, she’d seen him perform somewhere. Later, however, he came back downstairs, paused, and looked at Rhodry with a small puzzled frown, as if he were thinking that he should know this silver dagger. Seeing the pair of them in profile made her realize the truth: the gerthddyn looked enough like her man to be his brother. At that point she remembered the strange thought that had driven her to Dun Mannannan, and she shivered.

  “Here, good sir,” she called out. “Come join us if you’d like. A gerthddyn’s always welcome to a tankard.”

  “My thanks, fair lady.” Salamander bowed to her. “But allow me to stand you a round.”

  Once the ale was fetched and paid for, Salamander settled in companionably at their table. He and Rhodry considered each other for a moment, both puzzled. They only looked in a mirror once a day when they shaved, after all, and bronze mirrors never showed a man a good picture of himself.

  “Here,” Rhodry said, “have we met before?”

  “I was just wondering the same myself, silver dagger.”

  “Were you ever in Aberwyn?”

  “Oh, many a time. Do you hail from there?”

  “I do, so maybe I watched you tell a tale in the marketplace. My name’s Rhodry, and this is Gilyan.”

  Salamander laughed and saluted him with his tankard.

  “Then well met indeed. I’m a good friend of old Nevyn the herbman.”

  Rhodry went a bit white about the mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” Salamander said.

  “How do you know who we are?”

  “I just saw the old man over in Cerrmor. Why?”

  “Did you, now?” Jill broke in. “Have you seen him lately?”

  “Just six days ago, over in Cerrmor. He looked as fit as always. I swear, he’s the best advertisement for his herbs that ever a man could have. If I see him again, and I might well do so, I’ll tell him that you’r
e both well.”

  “Our thanks,” Rhodry said. “Have you heard anything about local wars in this part of the kingdom? A gerthddyn always knows what news there is.”

  While Rhodry and Salamander talked over the local gossip, Jill paid little attention. Although it seemed that Salamander had no idea that Nevyn was dweomer, which made it unlikely that the gerthddyn possessed it himself, Wildfolk clustered around him. They sat on the table, they climbed in his lap, they perched on his shoulders and affectionately patted his hair. Every now and then his eyes moved as if he could see them. Of course, all elves could see the Wildfolk, and he was at least half an elf, she was sure of it. Rhodry, however, couldn’t see them. It was a puzzle, and she studied the pair of them carefully, noting all the little points of resemblance: the curve of their mouths, the way the corners of their eyelids drooped slightly, and above all, the shape of their ears, a sharper curve than normal for human beings. She remembered her true dream of Devaberiel, and certainly they both resembled him. Her curiosity stopped irking her and began to gnaw.

  In a while, when Rhodry left the table to fetch them more ale, her curiosity bit hard enough to force her to give in.

  “Salamander,” she said, “did you know I spent a lot of time once out in the west.”

  “Nevyn mentioned somewhat like that. Why?”

  “Is the name of your father Devaberiel by any chance?”

  “It is, at that. Fancy your knowing that!”

  “Well, I just guessed.” She found a convenient lie. “A man named Jennantar once mentioned in passing that a bard he knew had a son who was a gerthddyn, here in Deverry I mean. Well, think I, it’s not likely there’d be two men like you, half-an-elf and all.”

  “By the gods, you have sharp eyes! Well, I have to confess, now that you’ve ferreted out my parentage so neatly, that I am indeed the son of that esteemed bard, for all that it seems to vex him deeply at times. I know Jennantar well, by the way. I hope he’s well. I haven’t been in the elven lands for—oh, two years now.”

  “He was well the last time I saw him, last summer.”