“Bear! The Bear! For Standyc! Get the archers!”
Dust rose and plumed across the road. A futile charge formed itself out of the mob and rushed forward, as sudden as rain breaking from a swirl of dark cloud. At its head rode Standyc himself. The Cerrmor archers nocked, raised, and loosed. The arrows flew. The shadow of death darkened the road as the volley curved down into the charging riders. Standyc himself died fast and first, pitching over his horse’s neck. The arrows came again and again. Out in the road the retreats became routs. Caddalan’s other allies and their men peeled off as fast as they could and fled. Some scattered into the fields with their lords in pursuit. Others turned and galloped back toward Cerrmor.
“Enough!” Prince Gwardon was screaming at the archers, the silver horn forgotten in his hand. “Stop! Curse you all! Stop!”
Merryc grabbed the royal bridle just in time to keep the prince from riding right into the archers’ line of flight. Delber had a horn of his own, and he alternately blew and yelled orders. The rain of arrows stopped.
Out in the road Caddalan’s warband had dwindled to his own escort. They clustered around their gwerbret, sabers drawn, ready to defend him or die with him, even though they all must have known the outcome would be disastrous. Between the two lines lay dead men, dying men, dying horses, dead horses. No one could have survived that steel-sharp rain. The dust and the shouting both settled and died as well, leaving naught but blood behind, staining the corpses and the road.
Prince Gwardon let the silence hold for some moments. He urged his nervous horse a little forward and called out.
“Caddalan! For the love of every god, look what your cursed miserliness has caused! Send your stupid arse of a son over now, and I’ll stand surety for some of the blood prices on these dead men. Otherwise . . .” He stopped and waited.
Caddalan must have heard, because he turned to Careg and began talking, his words too low to hear. Careg shook his head and talked right back. Finally Caddalan yelled out an order to his men. His captain grabbed the reins out of Careg’s hand and tugged. Careg’s horse followed him, ignoring the squawling, complaining lord on his back, as the captain led them around the edge of the welter of blood and mayhem in the road.
Caddalan followed them for a few paces. “Gwardon!” he screamed. “Forget your cursed surety! I’ll pay the lot myself. And may your balls freeze in the hells a thousand years for every coin!”
Gwardon responded with a long peal of berserk laughter. His men stayed on alert, sabers in hand, as the captain led his captive up to the group around the prince. Merryc rode a few paces forward and caught the reins when the captain tossed them over. Careg started to speak, then merely glowered, sitting slumped in his saddle, and stared at his horse’s neck.
“Enough murder, milord,” the captain said. “Ye gods.”
“My thanks,” Merryc said. “Not murder. Suicide. The temples will have to lay aside their dream of that pound of gold. I’m bitterly sorry that he took his men with him.”
“So am I, milord. I’ll pass that remark on to His Grace, if I may.”
“Please do.”
The captain made half-bows from the saddle to the prince and Merryc both, then turned his horse and rode back to Caddalan and the warband. Without so much as a glance at his son, Caddalan gathered his men around him and led them away, heading east toward home.
Once they were out of sight, the archers hurried forward to loot the dead. At a signal from Gwardon, his personal escort walked their horses forward to protect the Cerrmor men in case of some trick on the part of the enemies. The archers held the right to loot by charter. They worked silently and fast—out of respect for the dead, or so Merryc preferred to assume.
The captain of the contingent from Dun Deverry detailed men to pull the dead free and arrange them decently in the road. They needed an armed guard against a different sort of scavenger. Already ravens were gathering overhead. Out in the fields, farmers and their families had come out of hiding and stood watching from a long distance. Gwardon turned to his herald.
“Tell them they can have the horsemeat when we’re finished.”
“Done, Your Highness. Shall I send a messenger to the supply train? I’m assuming, at least, that the reinforcements have one.”
“Do that, and messengers to Cerrmor. Have one pair go to the mayor, another to the Bardekian ambassador. The mayor can round up carts or river boats to take these men back for burial.”
The herald rode off. For a little while more Gwardon and Merryc sat on horseback and watched the grim work out in the road. Finally Gwardon shuddered with a toss of his head.
“Suicide indeed,” the prince said. “I’ll be having a word with the Dun Deverry temple about this affair. We’ll see what His Most Exalted and Supreme Holiness has to say about it and their cursed pound of gold.”
“If the gods are as great as they all say, he won’t be pleased about it.”
“If.” Gwardon glanced at Careg. “Let’s take this rat back to the cage ready for it. If its kin want it back, they can pay the fines and ransom it out.”
* * *
Alyssa and Cavan heard the news of the battle back at the embassy guesthouse. With the long cuts on his ribs and shoulder still fresh, he was bandaged so tightly and dosed with so many herbs that he could do little but lie still unless he was desperate for a chamber pot. That afternoon, he was awake and more alert than he’d been the day before—a good sign, Edry told her.
Alyssa was sitting at Cavan’s bedside and reading to him from her legal notes for want of anything more entertaining when Hwlio himself came in. He repeated what the messengers had told him and shook his head over the slaughter in the road.
“A ghastly sort of battle,” Hwlio said.
“Don’t dignify it by that name, sir,” Cavan said. “Ye gods, more men dead because of my wretched brother! Red-tongued, indeed.”
“Lord Merryc called it suicide. And it does sound to me like Standyc was determined to spare his family the weight of that fine.” Hwlio glanced at Alyssa. “What do you think?”
“I agree with you. Gods, what a horrible choice!”
With one last sad shake of his head, Hwlio left to attend to embassy business. Alyssa rearranged Cavan’s pillows and helped him settle himself. As he shifted his weight, he winced, his face paled, and he bit his lower lip to squelch the pain.
“You called me a sword of fire once,” she said, “but we forgot one thing. Wielding a sword of fire is a cursed good way to get burned.”
“So it was.” He managed a smile. “Wound does ache a bit.”
“Do you want a sip of this stuff Edry left?” She held up the bottle of cordial, a sticky dark wine-like liquid.
“I don’t. It makes me sleep. Here, Lyss. This morning I heard summat I’d missed before. You killed a man that night. Do you regret it?”
“Not half as much as I’d regret being raped and murdered. A year ago I’d have been all tears and moans and apologies, but it’s an odd thing, this journey we’ve been on. I’m not the same lass, and truly, I don’t regret it.”
“I do love you.” He smiled again, more easily this time. “I’d ask for a kiss, but the way I ache, it might not be such a fine idea.”
“I can manage it if I lean over just so—oh, curse it! What is it?”
A maidservant had appeared in the doorway. She curtsied before she spoke.
“Lord Merryc, my lady. Should I let him in?”
“By all means,” Cavan said.
Merryc strode in, bowed to Alyssa, then stood by Cavan’s bed and considered him.
“They tell me you’re going to live,” Merryc said at last. “Good.”
“My thanks. It gladdens my heart, too.”
Merryc turned to Alyssa. “Is he well enough to talk for a bit?”
“Edry said so this morning.”
“Go
od.” Merryc turned back to Cavan. “I spoke with the Prince Regent. He wonders if you know why your father’s so dead-set against a justiciar in the west. It’s several hundred miles from Lughcarn.”
“I don’t know for certain,” Cavan said. “Except maybe he’s afraid of the legal precedent.” He paused for a smile. “My wife’s been educating me about things like that.”
“I suppose that’s reason enough, then.”
“He—my father—hated the Cerrgonney justiciar. I do know that. The court there had ruled against our clan over some matter. I was but a lad at the time.” Cavan paused, thinking. “We need to remember that the iron ore comes from Cerrgonney. Any change in the way things are run could look like a threat.”
“Of course.” Yet Merryc sounded doubtful. “I suppose he’d be concerned with what happens up there.”
“No doubt we’ll all find out soon enough,” Alyssa said. “And we’ll be sorry we know.”
Merryc winced and nodded. “True spoken.”
Cavan sighed and leaned back into the pillows.
“I’d best let you rest,” Merryc continued. “But I had another reason to come see you. My father-in-law’s giving me coin to maintain ten riders. I’m going to need a captain for my new warband. I can’t think of a better man for the job than you.”
Cavan’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re jesting,” he whispered.
“I’m not.” Merryc turned to Alyssa. “Ladoic says he told you that he’ll renounce the charge against Cavvo as soon as he gets back to Aberwyn. So you both can go back when your man’s fit to travel.” He grinned. “I thought I’d best figure out some way to keep him out of trouble. Who knows what he’d get up to if I didn’t?”
“You have my thanks, my lord, my most humble thanks,” Alyssa said. “I’m most truly grateful.”
“But I can’t—” Cavan began.
“Of course you can,” Merryc said. “Don’t be a dolt, Cavvo. Everyone knows now that your brother’s a lying little bastard. Why should they hold the silver dagger against you? Besides, there are precedents, and right in Eldidd, too. Mavva looked it up and told me so.”
Cavan wiped his eyes with a shaking hand. “Done, then. And my thanks.”
“I should warn you that we’ll be stuck in this little town on the edge of the kingdom called Cannobaen. Probably alone there for months while our wives finish up their scholar’s badges. It’s right on the border with the Westfolk. They’ve got that town out there. Mandra.”
Cavan opened his mouth to speak, but no words came to him. Alyssa reached out and grabbed his hand.
“What’s wrong, my love?”
“Naught wrong.” He took a deep breath. “Good tidings. An omen.” He gave her a grin. “A very good omen indeed.”
Alyssa assumed he was merely speaking generally, but later, after Merryc had left, Cavan explained.
“I’ve been given the chance to study summat I’ve longed for my whole life,” he began. “Lyss, I hope to every god this won’t offend you, but while you’re off in your collegium, I’m going to study dwimmer.”
“Dwimmer?”
“Just that. With the Westfolk master we met, though mostly I’ll be in Cannobaen.”
“I’m not offended. I’ll admit to being well and truly surprised.”
“Are you?” He grinned at her. “Good. I was afraid you’d tell me you’d known it all along.”
For the first time in years, Alyssa found herself without a thing to say. He laughed in delight, not mockery, and in a moment, she joined him.
“So we’re going home after all,” she said. “Here I was afraid I’d never see Aberwyn again.”
“You’ll be able to see your family.”
“True. I—oh, ye gods, what am I going to say to my mother? About you, I mean. I don’t even know where to start!”
“Hah! I never thought I’d see a time when you couldn’t think of summat to say. This is a grand day indeed.”
They laughed again and shared a few kisses before Cavan’s wound forced him to rest. For the remainder of that afternoon, Alyssa sat by the window and looked idly out at the trees bobbing and bowing in a rising wind. The wind’s at our backs indeed, she thought, but who knows what it’s bringing with it?
THE HONOR OF THE THING
DEVERRY AND PYRDON
1423
A couple of years ago I wrote this short story. If you’re curious about Rommardda, Cathvar, and Benoic, read on!
“IF THAT’S THE SORT of book you’re looking for, my lady,” the priest said, “you need to go to Haen Marn, but it’s a long ride from here.”
“Quite so,” I said.
He laid one hand on the blazon on his shirt, the orange pelican of the god Wmm, while he considered the problem. We were sitting on plain wooden chairs in the small, bare reception chamber of the temple of Wmm in Dun Trebyc, a town known for its book dealers. Sooner or later, any book copied for sale anywhere in the far-flung kingdom of Deverry would turn up here, or so I’d always been told. Unfortunately, the volume I was looking for, a medical treatise on healing burns and other such blacksmithing injuries, had decided to arrive later.
“Truly,” he said, “I can think of nowhere but Haen Marn.”
“The road there runs through some dangerous territory,” I said. “I’ve heard much about it.”
“True spoken, alas.” He paused for a glance at the leopard who lay by my feet like a dog. “Now, your friend there could doubtless fend off one thief, but not a band of them.”
Cathvar raised his head and yawned to expose his fangs. I could feel his amusement at the skinny little man’s burst of fear.
“Indeed,” I said. “I have my page, but he’s only a lad.”
“Just so, my lady.” He paused again, one eyebrow raised. “Is your clan nearby?”
“It’s not, but up in Gwingedd. My name is Rommardda, but no need to call me ‘my lady.’ I’m not noble-born.”
“Ah, I see.” He smiled and nodded.
He knows not what that name means. Cathvar spoke in mind speech, the only way that he could speak, and of course, only I could hear him.
It doesn’t matter, I answered. I don’t need to trumpet who I am.
Cathvar thwacked his tail once against the wood floor in agreement. The priest flinched at the sound.
“Now, Haen Marn has an immense library,” the priest continued. “They allow anyone who wants to hire a scribe to make copies of most of the books. There are a few so old that they keep them in glass boxes and won’t let anyone touch them.”
“The sort of book I’m looking for should be reasonably new. I’m a healer, you see, for the Blacksmiths Guild. I gather none of the canals run by Haen Marn.”
“They don’t, and the mail coaches don’t travel that particular route, either. Too much wild country, they tell me, ruled by lords who don’t care to stand the coin to keep the coaches in fresh horses. Very old-fashioned men.” He shook his head. “Things are changing all over the kingdom, but there’s plenty of the noble-born who are trying to turn the wind around by huffing and puffing in its face.”
“That’s true, and a nuisance as well.”
“What I’d recommend is you hire yourself a silver dagger or two. They have a sort of guildhall here in town.” He shrugged and smiled. “Very much of sorts. A tavern, but what else would you expect from men like that?”
“Naught, truly. We see a fair many silver daggers back home. Now, your guildsmen here, are they reliable?”
“Very. They’ve nothing left but their reputation, after all, and their band treats anyone who soils that reputation very harshly.” He drew a finger across his throat. “The Prancing Ram, down by the river. I’d suggest you send your page to inquire rather than going yourself.”
“Doubtless that’s good advice. Well, my thanks, Your Holiness. I’ve very much apprec
iated your help. May I make a small donation to the god to thank you further?”
“Never would I slight one who wishes to honor our god.”
I took three silver coins from the leather pouch at my belt and laid them into his outstretched hand. He smiled and bowed. I curtsied and left with Cathvar, a hundred and some pounds of wariness, padding along next to me—on the same side as I wore the pouch. Thanks to him, no thief had ever tried to rob me, not once in all my travels. Bandits were a different matter. If we were going to travel through the wild country of southern Pyrdon, we would need some sort of guard.
My lad, young Waryn, was waiting back at the inn, where he was keeping watch over our goods and horses. I called him my page to distinguish him from an ordinary servant, but in truth he was common-born, a lad I’d rescued from a brutal father when he was but three years old. I’d rescued Cathvar as a cub as well, in his case from a sleazy gerthddyn who kept the poor creature in a wooden cage on a cart. Both of them had talent, each in their own peculiar way, for the craft that was my true calling, the dweomer.
If you’ve never seen a leopard, and they are very rare in the kingdom of Deverry, they’re a species of large cat. Cathvar has the usual coat of his tribe, a honey-gold dotted with black rosettes, and wide gold eyes brimming with intelligence. My human lad has hair of an auburn red, typical of a Cerrgonney person, and the usual freckles and green eyes to go with it. Even though I’d been feeding Waryn well, at that time he had the skinny, rangy look of a lad who’s going to turn into a very tall man one day.
Despite the priest’s well-meant advice, I decided to go look for those silver daggers in person. I did, however, collect Waryn first. We were staying at Dun Trebyc’s best inn, the Red Rose, a two-story affair with whitewashed walls and a newly thatched roof. The three of us shared two good-sized rooms with windows that looked out over the stableyard. The town as a whole was remarkably clean, at least in the neighborhood where the temples and bookshops stood. Its folk took pride in their tidy houses and well-tended kitchen gardens.
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