“That would have solved nothing, and made you feel like you’d made amends when you hadn’t.” Rhegor hesitated on the edge of anger. “Ah, well, what’s past is past. Tell me the tale.”
While Nevyn told him, Rhegor listened quietly, but his hands clasped his tankard tighter and tighter. At the end, Rhegor swore under his breath.
“Truly, we’d best look into this. Here, old Ynna can practically smell when a lass is with child. There’s no chance the babe’s yours, it it?”
“Not unless longing for a woman can get her with child.”
His eyes still dark, Rhegor smiled.
“And what will you think of your Gwennie, if she’s big with another man’s child?”
“If he’s a good man, let her go with him. If he’s not, then I’ll take her, child and all.”
“Well and good. First we’ll have to see if that child’s Blaen’s. If it is, there’ll be a wedding, and that’ll be the end to it. If not, I still have hope we can get her away.”
“Here, my lord, why are you so concerned with Brangwen? Is it just the honor of the thing?”
“Now, that I can’t tell you just yet.”
Nevyn waited, hoping for at least a word more, but Rhegor merely looked away, thinking.
“I’ll ride down to the Boar early tomorrow,” Rhegor said at length. “Out of courtesy, I should let Lady Rodda know there’s an herbman nearby. You stay here. Blaen would hate to kill you if he saw you, but his honor would make him do what the King ordered. I should reach the dun by noon, so you might make yourself a fire and see if you can follow me that way.”
On the morrow, Nevyn spent an impatient morning digging stones out of their little field for the hearth. So far, most of his training was just this sort of menial labor in the summer heat. Often it galled him: what was a prince doing, sweating like a fleabitten bondman? Yet in his heart, he knew that humbling the princes pride was the real work. There is only one key to unlock the secrets of the dweomer: I want to know in order to help the world. Anyone wanting power for its own sake gets only dribs and drabs, hard-won, harder to keep, and not worth having.
Yet here and there, Rhegor had given Nevyn work bearing more directly on dweomer-lore. Although Nevyn had always had the second sight, it came and went of its own will, showing him what it chose to show and not a jot more. Now he was learning to bring the sight under his will.
Nevyn made a circle of stones outside on the ground and built a small fire, which he lit like any other man with a tinder box and flint. He let the fire burn down until the logs were glowing caves of coals. Then he stretched out on the ground, pillowed his chin on his hands, and stared directly into the fire caves. He slowed his breathing to the right rhythm and thought of Rhegor. At last the fire cave stretched, widened, and turned into the sheen of sunlight glowing on a polished wood chamber. In the flames, he made out Rhegor, a tiny image. Nevyn summoned his will and thought of Rhegor, imaged him clearly, and forced his mind to him. The vision swelled, turned solid, swelled again, and became as clear as though Nevyn were looking into the women’s hall from an outside window. With one last effort of will, Nevyn went in, hearing a little rushy hiss, a dropping sensation in his stomach, and at last he was standing beside Rhegor on the floor.
Lady Rodda was sitting on her chair, with Ysolla perching on a footstool nearby. With his shirt off to reveal a bad case of boils, a page was kneeling in front of Rhegor on the floor.
“These will have to be lanced,” Rhegor said. “Since I don’t have my tools with me, I’ll have to ride back tomorrow with your lady’s leave.”
The boy gave a miserable squeak in anticipation.
“Now, don’t be a silly lad,” Rodda said. “They’ve been hurting you for weeks, and if the herbman lances them, they’ll be over and done with. Don’t you go hiding in the forest all day tomorrow.”
The lad grabbed his shirt from the floor, made Rodda a bow, then fled unceremoniously. Smiling, Rodda shook her head at him, then motioned Rhegor to a chair next to hers.
“Sit down and rest, good sir,” Rodda said. “So, you say you’re from the south. Have you any interesting news?”
“My thanks.” Rhegor bowed and took the chair. “Well, no true news, but a fair bit of evil rumor.”
“Indeed?” Rodda said unsteadily. “How fares Lord Gerraent of the Falcon?”
“I see the rumors have reached my lady’s ears. Badly, alas, and of course the locals insist on talking of witchcraft.”
Ysolla leaned forward, clasping her arms around her knees, her eyes half filled with tears. When he remembered the happy night of her betrothal, Nevyn felt such a stab of pity for her that the vision broke. It took him a long time to retrieve it.
“Mourning is understandable,” Rhegor was saying. “But after all, the natural order of things is for the son to lose his father sooner or later.” He glanced at Ysolla. “Once he has you at his side, no doubt the black mood will lift.”
“If he ever marries me,” Ysolla burst out.
“Hold your tongue, lamb,” Rodda said.
“How can I?” Ysolla snapped. “After what Blaen said—”
Rodda raised her hand as if to slap her. Ysolla fell silent.
“Kindly forgive my daughter, good sir,” Rodda said. “She’s worrying her heart, thinking that what happened to poor Brangwen might happen to her.”
“A sad, sad thing that was,” Rhegor sighed. “Let’s hope she finds a better man soon. The villagers tell me that your son hopes to announce his betrothal to the lady.”
“Well.” Rodda’s voice went flat. “I’ll pray that such happens.”
So, Nevyn thought, that babe’s not Blaen’s. True enough, Rhegor answered, I’d hoped so much it was! Nevyn was so shocked that he lost the vision again, and for good, this time.
Rhegor returned at sunset. He tended the mule, then came into the hut where Nevyn, steaming with curiosity, was laying out their evening meal. Rhegor took a silver coin out of his brigga pocket and tossed it onto the table.
“Our Lady Rodda is generous,” Rhegor remarked. “Little does she know whom this will feed, but she’d be glad. We talked a bit more after you left us, and she still honors you, Prince Galrion.”
“The prince is dead.”
Rhegor smiled and sat down, picking up a slice of bread and butter.
“I think I’ll risk getting Nevyn’s throat cut tomorrow. Lord Blaen will be at the hunt when I ride back to tend that lad’s boils, so you can come with me.”
“Well and good, my lord. Here, why did you wish that child was Blaen’s?”
“Think, lad. If Blaen’s not to blame, well, then, who is? What men live in the Falcon’s dun? A couple of twelve-year-old lads, a grubby stableman, and the old chamberlain, so aged that he can barely lift his hand to a maid, much less anything else. So who does that leave?”
“Well, nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Oh, by the hells.” Nevyn could barely say it. “Gerraent.”
“By the hells indeed. This is a terrible dark thing to accuse any man of doing, and I won’t make a move until I’m sure.”
Nevyn picked up the table dagger, twisting it in his fingers for the solid comfort of the metal.
“If it’s true,” Nevyn said, “I’ll kill him.”
“Look at you! Your father’s son indeed.”
Nevyn stabbed the dagger hard into the tabletop and let it quiver.
“And would killing him be such a wrong thing?”
“It would—for you.” Rhegor took a calm bite of bread and butter. “I forbid you to even think about it.”
“Done, then. His blood is safe from me.”
Rhegor considered him carefully. Nevyn picked up a slice of bread, then flung it back onto the plate.
“You said you’d take her, child and all,” Rhegor said. “Is that still true if she’s carrying her own brother’s bastard?”
“I’m the man who left her there. Of course it is.”
“You’re a
decent enough lad at heart. Truly, you might redeem yourself yet.”
On the morrow, by keeping his hood muffled around his face, Nevyn managed to avoid being recognized by any of the servants in the Boar’s dun. When he and Rhegor went up to the women’s hall, Nevyn kept the cloak on and busied himself with unpacking Rhegor’s herbs and implements. Ysolla was mercifully gone, and Rodda was occupied with Rhegor and one of the pages.
“What do you mean, you don’t know where Maryc is?” Rodda said to the page. “I told him to be here when the herbman came.”
“He’s scared, my lady. But I can look for him. It’s going to take a long time.”
“Then run and start right now.”
As soon as the page was gone, Nevyn took off his cloak and tossed it onto the floor. Rodda stared, her eyes filling with tears.
“Galrion! Oh, thank the holy gods! It gladdens my heart to see you well.”
“My humble thanks, my lady, but my name is no one.”
“I know all about your father’s spite. You’ve got to be gone when my son rides home.”
“I had to come. I’ll beg you for news of my Brangwen.”
Rodda’s face went slack as she looked away.
“Our poor little Gwennie! I wish the gods had allowed her to marry you. I swear, maybe she should have ridden into exile with you.” She glanced Rhegor’s way. “Here, good sir, I can trust you, for bringing my prince if nothing else, so I’ll speak freely. Blaen rode down to the Falcon not long ago, and he came home in a rage. He’s sure Gwennie will never have him, he said. She walks round like she’s half dead and barely speaks. I tried to get her to come here, but she refused. She’s still mourning you in her heart, my prince, or so I hope.”
“So we all may hope,” Rhegor said drily. “How often has Gerraent ridden here to see his betrothed?”
As startled as a cornered deer, Rodda glanced this way and that.
“It’s all nonsense,” she burst out. “I won’t believe that they’d do such a thing, not Gwennie, not Gerro! Blaen and Ysolla are just working themselves up with silly suspicions, because they’re so disappointed and eager. I won’t believe it!”
“What?” Rhegor said. “Tell me, my lady. Get these dark fears out of your heart.”
Rodda hesitated, fighting with herself, then gave in.
“All the servants at the Falcon say that only Brangwen stands between them and Lord Gerraent’s rage—just as if she were his wife. And Ysolla, my own child, has been working her brother up like a little scorpion. Gerro was always so fond of Gwennie, she says, it’s not fair—Gwennie even has the man I want. It’s Gwennie this and Gwennie that, and all because poor Ysolla’s always envied little Brangwen’s wretched beauty.”
“Wretched indeed! You say you can’t believe it—is that true? Or do you only want to turn away from an unclean thing? Ye gods, I couldn’t blame you.”
Rodda broke and wept, covering her face with her hands.
“He’s always loved her too much. Why do you think I worked so hard on Lord Dwen to let Gwennie marry so young? She had to get out of that cursed household.”
“Cursed indeed. Twice cursed.”
Nevyn paced restlessly back and forth while Rhegor helped the lady into her chair.
“Tell me somewhat, my lady,” Nevyn said. “If I steal her away from her brother, will you blame me?”
“Never! But if you do, Gerraent will call on his friends, and they’ll hunt you down like the gray deer.”
“I’d die for her, and I’m more clever than the gray deer.”
That very evening, Nevyn took his bay gelding and headed south for the Falcon’s dun. He was going to have to be clever. He could never risk riding straight into the fort, even if Gerraent were gone. He would be of no use to Brangwen if Gerraent returned and killed him at her feet. Though Galrion had never been particularly good with a sword, Nevyn had a few tricks of dweomer at his disposal. He was sure that if he could only get a few minutes alone with Brangwen, he could easily convince her to steal out of the dun and escape with him. Once they were on the road, Gerraent would never find them.
When Nevyn reached Ynna’s hut, he told her that Rhegor had sent him to keep an eye on things. As he’d hoped, Ynna was so glad of it that she offered him shelter with her.
“Here, the women down in the village are starting to whisper that Brangwen’s carrying a bastard,” Ynna said.
“Are they? Well, that betrothed of hers swore he’d come back for her, you see. Rhegor says to tell you that he’s been seen sneaking round this part of the country.”
When Ynna raised her eyebrows and smiled, Nevyn was sure that this delicious gossip would soon be all over the village. He could only hope it would give the truth no room to spread.
For three days, Nevyn kept a close watch on the Falcon dun. Down at the edge of the forest, close to the road, he found a large spreading oak. By climbing up into the crown, he could lie hidden and see the fort, just a mile away across the meadowland. Drawing on all his will, he sent his thoughts across and tried to reach Brangwen’s mind, calling her, planting the thought that she should come out to the forest. Once, he felt that he reached her; he also felt her brush the irrational thought aside. He kept trying, begging her, but failing, until he was desperate enough to consider sneaking into the dun the next time Gerraent rode out to hunt.
On the fourth afternoon, as he was lying on his perch, Nevyn saw a man and a page riding slowly up the hill to the dun. He recognized the horse and the set of the rider’s shoulders. Blaen. He climbed down and ran for the hut.
“Ynna, for the love of every god, I need your aid. Can you give me an excuse to get into the Falcon dun? A message I can deliver, anything to tell the servants.”
“Well.” Ynna thought for a maddeningly long time. “Here, I made a love philter for Ludda, Brangwen’s serving lass. She’s got her eyes set on a lad in the village. You can fetch it to her.”
While Ynna got the packet of herbs, Nevyn rubbed dirt into his hair and face—a poor disguise, but then, no one had ever seen the prince the least bit dirty. He muffled himself up in his cloak, then galloped up to the dun. As he led his horse into the ward, he saw Blaen’s page leading the lord’s horses to the stables. Brythu came running and looked Nevyn over coldly.
“And just what do you want?”
“A word with Ludda, if you please. Ynna gave me somewhat to fetch to her.”
“I’ll go ask her. You wait here, and don’t try to come in.”
When Ludda appeared, she looked the unkempt stranger over nervously.
“I brought you some herbs from Ynna. She said you might give a poor man a drop of ale, too.”
At the sound of his voice, Ludda started, laying her hand at her throat.
“My prince!” she whispered. “Thanks be to the Goddess herself!” Then she raised her voice. “Well, I will do that, because you’ve spared me a long, hot walk to her hut.”
Nevyn tied his horse up by the door, then followed Ludda inside to the servants’ hearth in the great hall. He sat down in the straw in the curve of the wall, out of the way of the other servants, who were busy preparing dinner. They gave him hardly a look; Ludda had the privilege of being generous to a stranger if she chose. Down at the far side of the hall, Gerraent and Blaen were drinking at the honor table. From his distance, and because they talked in low voices, Nevyn couldn’t hear their words, but it was plain enough that Blaen was furious from the way he leaned forward in his chair and clutched his tankard like a weapon. When Blaen’s page returned, he gave his master an anxious glance and sat down by his feet in the straw. Ludda brought Nevyn his ale and knelt down beside him with a nervous look at the lords.
“Where’s your lady?” Nevyn whispered.
“Hiding from Lord Blaen. But she’ll have to come out sooner or later, or Lord Gerraent will take it amiss.”
“No doubt. Oh, no doubt.”
Ludda winced and began to tremble.
“I know the truth,” Nevyn said. “
I don’t care. I’ve come to take her away.”
Ludda wept in two thin silent trails of tears.
“I’ll help if I can. But I don’t know what good can ever happen now.”
On the pretense of keeping out of the cook’s way, Nevyn moved from the hearth to a spot nearer the two lords. At last Brangwen slipped into the hall, pressing against the wall and watching her brother. Nevyn was shocked at the change in her. Her cheeks were hollow and pale, her eyes deep-shadowed, and her stance that of a doe poised for flight. She glanced his way and allowed herself a tremulous smile. Nevyn rose slowly, fighting with himself to keep from rushing to her side. Then Brangwen shrank back against the wall.
Nevyn had forgotten Blaen and Gerraent, who were leaning forward in their chairs and staring each other down. Slowly and deliberately Blaen rose, his hand on his sword hilt.
“May the gods curse you,” Blaen said. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
Gerraent rose to face him, his hands on his hips, and he smiled in a calm that made Nevyn’s blood run cold.
“Answer me,” Blaen said, his voice ringing in the hall. “You’ve taken your sister to your bed, haven’t you?”
Gerraent drew, the sword flashings swung and struck before Blaen could get his blade half out of the scabbard. Brangwen screamed, one high note, as Blaen took one step and staggered, the bright blood pouring down his chest. He look at Gerraent as if he were bewildered, then crumpled at Gerraent’s feet. His page began inching for the door. Gerraent turned and went for him.
“Gerro!” Brangwen rushed in between. “Not the lad!”
Gerraent hesitated, and that moment gave the page his life. He dashed outside without looking back. Just as Nevyn ran forward, the boy grabbed the bay gelding and swung himself into the saddle. Screaming and weeping, the servants rushed for the door. The bloody sword still in his hands, Gerraent began to laugh, then saw Blaen’s body on the floor and came to himself. Nevyn could see the reason return to his eyes as he fell to his knees and started keening. Nevyn grabbed Brangwen by the arm.
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