Sword of Fire

by Katharine Kerr

“His time’s come, truly. It’s best to go when staying’s become meaningless.” He turned to Rommardda. “But I can’t leave here until—”

  “Of course. I understand that. I’ll come vigil with you tonight.”

  “My thanks.” His voice trembled on the edge of tears. “He’ll be glad of that, too.”

  Someone else arrived not long after to join the vigil for Ebañy Salamonderiel. When Alyssa left the great hall, Trav came with her. In the pleasant sunset light they stood chatting about the journey to Mandra. Alyssa was asking about buying provisions when she heard a strange sound, coming from some distance.

  “What’s that?” she said. “It sounds like a drum.”

  “So it does. Odd.” Trav cocked his head to listen. “Unless it’s a—must be! Drums aren’t that loud.”

  Indeed, the sound had turned to beats like thunder or an enormous hand slapping the air.

  “Must be what?” Alyssa said.

  “A dragon. Look!” He pointed off to the west. “There he is.”

  Flying out of the sunset came a gleaming white beast that could only be a dragon, enormous, his scales glittering, his huge wings drumming the air. All over Haen Marn shouts broke out—greetings, shrieks, cries of “what by the gods is that?” The dragon glided in a vast circle over the complex. Trav tipped back his head and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Devar!” he shouted. “Devar! Outside the gates!”

  The dragon dipped his huge head to acknowledge the request, then flapped his wings twice and turned and headed for the gates. Trav turned and started jogging after him, then paused and glanced back.

  “Ebañy’s nephew!” he called back. “My apologies, but I’d best go tell him how his uncle fares.”

  He turned and ran off again. Alyssa stood watching through the open gates as the dragon landed with a few dainty steps forward until he could come to a full stop. He furled his wings next to his body and waited for Travaberiel to reach him. Now that he was closer, she could see that his scales were more silver than white and touched with pale blue here and there.

  “Lyss!” It was Cavan, running full tilt toward her. “Lyss, are you all right?”

  “Of course I am. The dragon won’t hurt anyone. He’s here to see his uncle, or so I’ve been told.”

  He caught her by the arm and tried to turn her toward the guesthouse. She pulled away.

  “That’s a feeble jest,” he said.

  “It’s not a jest at all.”

  He scowled at her.

  “Haven’t you seen dragons before?” she said.

  “And I suppose you have?”

  “I have indeed. They visit Aberwyn now and then.” She paused to search her memory. “They have some ancient connection to the gwerbretrhyn through the Maelwaedds. The chronicles are truly vague about how and why, though.”

  Cavan started to speak, then merely shrugged. They stood together and watched through the open gates as Travaberiel and the dragon conversed. She could hear the massive rumble of Devar’s voice, though her Elvish was too poor for her to understand more than the occasional word.

  “Very well,” Cavan said at last. “The dragon’s a civilized fellow, and I worried for naught.”

  Travaberiel left the dragon and came hurrying back through the gates. At his shout, three pages ran out of the guesthouse to join him. From what Alyssa could overhear, Trav was giving them orders of some sort. The lads trooped off to the guest cottages. Trav called out to Cavan.

  “Cavvo! Could you lend me a hand? I need your muscle.”

  Cavan trotted off to help with the mysterious errand. Alyssa found a bench and sat down to watch. Not long after the pages and the two men reappeared, carrying a litter. Wrapped in blankets upon it lay Ebañy. They carried him out of the gates and laid the litter down in front of the dragon, who bent his head to speak to his uncle in a soft rumble. Something glistened on the dragon’s face. Alyssa got up without thinking and walked to the gates to see. Indeed, those were tears, and the dragon’s eyes, she realized, were dark blue and oddly human in shape.

  Devar stretched out his neck and laid his head flat on the ground. Cavan and Travaberiel between them lifted Ebañy from the litter and helped him sit between two of the massive flat spikes on the dragon’s shoulders. Trav took a coil of rope from under the blankets on the litter and tied the elder securely in place, then wrapped him in the blankets and tied those down, too.

  “He begged to die at home,” Travaberiel said. “Up on the northern border, that is.”

  “Can the dragon get him free of all those ropes?” Alyssa said.

  “Gordyn’s there at the tower, Ebañy’s apprentice.” Travaberiel’s voice caught. “Or truly, my apprentice now.”

  By then the sunset had faded to the somber blue gloaming. The pages picked up the empty litter and carried it back inside the gates. Devar took a few steps, spread his wings, and ran forward with a leap. The huge drumbeats echoed over Haen Marn as he flew away, heading to the northern sky, where a few stars already glimmered in the darkening night.

  Travaberiel covered his face with both hands and sobbed. Cavan patted him on the back in a useless gesture. Alyssa linked her arm through Travaberiel’s and led him, still sobbing, back to the guesthouse. Its windows gleamed with lantern light, and Rommardda stood waiting, a dark figure against the golden glow through the doorway.

  * * *

  It took a long time that night for Travaberiel to collect himself. Cavan had to admit that he found it easier to accept the presence of a vast dragon than the sight of another man weeping. Grief was understandable, of course, as was weeping over the loss, provided you did it somewhere privately. He remembered being a child, too young to be sent off as a page for his training, when he lost his mother. He also remembered how his father had beaten him for sobbing so loudly at her burying.

  Eventually he left Trav to the ministrations of the two women and fled the guesthouse. He found Benoic, and they went to the stables to tend their horses.

  “Alyssa mentioned summat to me about riding messages but later rather than sooner,” Benoic said. “But I’ll be heading out with you.”

  “Gladdens my heart. She knows her own business best.”

  “She does at that. Frightening, in a way, to see that in a lass.” Benoic grinned at him. “Better you than me.”

  “Huh!” Cavan returned the grin. “I’ve no idea when we’ll be leaving. There’s some delay about that cursed book.”

  They both learned more about Alyssa’s plans that same evening. They’d left the stables and gone for a stroll at the water’s edge, though not too near, when they saw her carrying a lantern toward them. They met at one of the ever-present wooden benches.

  “I’ve been told that the book and the letter should be ready the day after tomorrow,” Alyssa said. “A wait, but a good thing, because we’ll be traveling through Westfolk country, and there aren’t any inns there. I’ll need you lads to go into Dun Sebanna and buy supplies.”

  “Westfolk country?” Cavan said. “Why?”

  “It’ll be safer. Trav’s going with us. Rommardda set everything up at dinner, you see, and this is the first chance I’ve had to tell you. She’s been ever so helpful and kind.”

  “Splendid.” But Cavan had to admit to himself that the thought of Rommardda and Alyssa laying plans together made him profoundly nervous.

  “Benoic,” Alyssa continued, “when it comes time to ride those messages, they won’t be for Lady Dovina. She’s on her way to Cerrmor. They’ll be for other women, like my poor mother. She must be frantic by now. You can ride with us to the coast. It’ll be out of the way, but safer.”

  “Much safer.” Benoic nodded her way in lieu of a bow. “Of course I’ll take them on.”

  “Hold a moment,” Cavan said. “How do you know Dovina’s not going to be there?”

  “Rommard
da told me. I’ve no idea how she knows, but I wasn’t going to argue with her.”

  “Dwimmer. She has it, you know, and I’ll wager that Trav does as well.”

  “Oh, come now!” Alyssa said. “Now who’s jesting? Although—those ravens.”

  “For one thing, truly. Come now! I’m not jesting, and you know it.”

  Alyssa started to make some comment, but Benoic interrupted.

  “I’ll back Cavvo on this. I’ve seen her use it to get horses to accept that leopard of hers. Alyssa, here! Do you really think she tamed that beast with bits of meat and kind words?”

  “It’s no ordinary beast, either,” Cavan said. “I’d bet high on that.”

  “Oh, very well! You’re right, both of you,” Alyssa said. “But dwimmer? It’s so hard to believe.”

  “This whole place stinks of it,” Benoic said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

  “True spoken. I have, truly.”

  “Well then?”

  Cavan had the enjoyable experience of seeing her flustered. For some moments she stayed silent, merely sat scowling in the lantern light. All at once she laughed with a rueful shake of her head.

  “Dwimmer it is,” Alyssa said. “I think me I just didn’t want to admit it could be true. Odd. At the collegium we study Mael the Seer’s works so carefully, and they’re full of hints that such a thing exists. But we’re taught to ignore that. Old superstition, Lady Tay always calls it. This is the modern era, and no one but farm wives believes in that old stuff.”

  “Then the farm wives know a thing or two your school mistresses don’t,” Cavan said. “And that’s that.”

  For all the rest of that evening Alyssa said barely two words to anyone, thinking, he supposed, about dwimmer and his revelations concerning it. Realizing that he knew more about at least one subject than she did pleased him. In the morning, however, when she counted out coins so they could buy supplies, he was back to being the silver dagger, and her, the important person who’d hired him.

  The dwimmer lore in the person of Travaberiel joined Cavan and Benoic while they ate breakfast. He sat himself down at the servant’s side of the hall without the least bit of fuss and grabbed a hunk of bread from a passing basket.

  “I’ve just spoken with Alyssa,” he said. “I’ve arranged a Westfolk escort for us. You’ll have to trust me on this, but there’s danger once we leave the sacred rhan.”

  “Doesn’t take dwimmer to know that,” Cavan said. “But I’ll be glad of the escort.”

  Travaberiel grinned and saluted him with a cup of water. “I take it you’ve seen me for what I am.”

  “You’re not much good at hiding it,” Benoic said.

  “True enough! Very well, then. We’ll ride through the pass on the morrow and meet them on the other side.”

  “Done, then,” Cavan said. “We’ll be off to town in a bit to get what we’ll need.”

  So many travelers passed through Dun Sebanna that Benoic and Cavan found plenty of goods for sale in permanent shops, unlike the situation in most Deverry towns. The prices for food and leather sacks and the like struck him as ridiculously high, but Benoic could haggle like a farmwife, and the coin had ultimately come from Lady Dovina, so Cavan devoted himself to keeping watch outside each shop rather than arguing. They weren’t free yet of that letter of bounty and the trouble it brought.

  What had happened to the mysterious Lannac? Had he really given up the bounty hunt? During the abortive attack in the inn, Cavan had seen the third man only by lantern light. Cavan remembered the fellow mostly as a shape, of average height, thin rather than stout, with a finesword in one hand and a dagger in the other. That dagger—it never caught the light and gleamed the way a true silver dagger would. Wilyn had certainly told the truth about that. When Alyssa started screaming, the fellow had been the first to turn and run. That Cavan did remember—the third lad ran, then Wilyn followed, and finally Renno, cursing them both, bolted for the gate.

  Something else floated to the surface of Cavan’s memory, a feeling only, a twinge in his mind. He made himself remember walking out into the innyard, seeing the three men—he couldn’t quite place it—wait! A twinge indeed, a sharp stab of danger warning, and oddly enough, another warning that came to him like a stench from a privy or maybe rotten meat. Neither out of place in an innyard, of course, but he knew that the innyard was blameless. He’d had warnings of danger come to him in the past, always vague images that formed around his various senses—a shout only he could hear, a flash of light, and now this stench.

  Evil, he thought. Evil on the hoof.

  Benoic emerged from a shop carrying a roll of heavy canvas. “We’re doubtless in for rain this time of year,” he said. “So I bought a lean-to. This town is a marvel! No waiting for a market fair, just ask around for what you need.”

  Cavan smiled and nodded. Benoic dumped the roll at his feet and darted across the street to yet another shop. Should I tell him? Cavan asked himself. Nah nah nah, it sounds like summat from a bard’s tale. But I’ll remember.

  Eventually Benoic had acquired so many supplies that they realized they needed a pack animal. The horse market stood over by the north gate. Under a few trees and some rickety sheds, six sturdy-looking horses and a couple of mules stood tethered for sale. While Benoic examined the stock in the company of a pale-haired man who looked like he had Westfolk blood, Cavan leaned back against the wooden rail fence with their previous purchases piled beside him. He rested his elbows on the top rail and yawned, drowsy in the hot sun.

  The haggling had just reached the second mule when a tall, stout fellow came walking up. He looked young and dressed like a merchant, with checked blue and white trousers and a fine linen shirt, both of which looked newly sewn, as did his plain gray waistcoat. He carried a wooden staff, but so clumsily that Cavan doubted it was a weapon he knew how to use. The oddest thing about him, however, was his hair, a mere covering of black stubble over his skull. Lice, Cavan assumed, and he’d had to shave his head to get them gone. He smiled at Cavan and glanced at his sword belt.

  “A silver dagger, are you?” he said. “Looking for a hire?”

  “I’m not, my thanks,” Cavan said.

  “Ah, too bad. I could use a proper guard.” He hesitated, looking Benoic’s way. “I take it he’s with you?”

  “He is. Also hired at the moment.”

  “Ah.” Again the hesitation. “Oh, wait, you must be with that lass, the one from Aberwyn, I think it is?”

  “I may be, I may be not. Who wants to know?”

  “Just some idle talk around,” he said. “I’ve heard that she’s in trouble with the law down in Eldidd. She’s a guildwoman, right?”

  Cavan straightened up and took a step away from the fence. The merchant took a step back. He gave Cavan a tremulous smile and slid one hand into his breeches pocket. He brought out a couple of coins to rub together when he spoke. Silver glinted between his soft, pink fingers.

  “I was wondering,” the merchant said, “if that was true. This sort of thing can, um, er, affect trade, y’know. So I was just curious, what guild does she represent?”

  “It’s none of your affair.” Cavan kept his voice level. “And silver daggers take only one hire at a time.”

  “I see. Er, well, um, my thanks.”

  The merchant walked away fast, hurrying toward the crowded streets deeper in the town. Cavan crossed his arms over his chest and watched him go. Merchant? My arse!

  “What was all that?” Benoic came up to the fence.

  “I don’t know, but it bodes ill. Someone asking too many questions about our hire. Pretending to be summat he’s not, too.”

  “Huh. We’d best get out of here. I bought the gray jenny mule, by the by. He threw in a decent pack saddle to sweeten the deal.”

  “Good. Let’s load her up and get back to Haen Marn. Alyssa should have that book
by now.”

  And yet, Cavan thought, this fellow had brought no stench of evil along with him. No doubt because he’s a clumsy oaf! It’s the other one that’ll bear watching out for.

  * * *

  Preparing the gwerbret’s retinue for the Cerrmor trip was not as simple as getting two silver daggers and a rebel lass on the road. As a high-ranking nobleman invited by the regent, Ladoic was entitled to bring an escort of twenty-five men from his warband as well as whatever servants and retainers he wished. Dovina, as his daughter, was entitled to a page, a maid, her choice of chaperone, the chaperone’s maid and page, and, if she wished, a groom, two horses, and a ladies’ open carriage. To the chamberlain’s great relief, Dovina was more than willing to forgo the carriage and horses.

  “I shan’t need a maid, either,” she told him. “My page and then my friend Mavva as chaperone will be all I require. Mavva and I are used to caring for ourselves in the collegium, but I’ll need Darro for messages.”

  “Between you and your new betrothed, no doubt,” Lord Veccan said with a wink. “It must be such an exciting time for you!”

  “Indeed.” Dovina arranged a smile for this useful fiction. “Very exciting.”

  “But my lady, if I may offer a bit of advice, truly, you do need to bring a maid.”

  “Why? You know, when I first went to the collegium, I was shocked, and, I’ll admit it, vexed that I couldn’t bring servants. The only token of my rank was that I got a bed to myself in the common sleeping room. But you know, after a few months I understood why. If I’d surrounded myself with all the trappings I was entitled to, I would have set myself apart. I would have missed one of the best things about attending the collegium, the feeling of being part of a community of scholars. I loved that. I still do.”

  Veccan considered all this with a thoughtful twist of his mouth, not his usual smug little smile.

  “I see your point, my lady,” he said at last. “But in Cerrmor you’ll be surrounded with people who take such trappings with deadly seriousness. If you appear without the right number of servants, they’ll wonder why. Are you in disgrace? Is your father short up for coin? Nasty natterings like that.”