Daggerspell

by Katharine Kerr

  “Is the temple suitable for the working?” Obyn said.

  “It is, if the god will allow my goddess to share his abode.”

  “I have no doubt that Great Bel will allow everything that will aid his people.” Obyn’s eyes blinked and fluttered. “Since he is, after all, the lord of all gods and goddesses.”

  Rather than engage in religious controversy at the wrong moment, Gweran smiled and knelt down by the pile of sheepskins. He spread them out to make a rough bed, then lay down on his back and crossed his arms over his chest. He let himself go limp until he felt like a corpse, laid out for burial. Obyn knelt down by his feet. The old man moved slowly and stiffly as he sat back on his heels.

  “Can His Holiness kneel there all night?”

  “His Holiness can do what needs to be done.”

  Gweran stared up at the ceiling and watched the candle-thrown shadows dancing. It had been a long time since he’d performed this ritual last, to talk to the spirit of an ancient bard of the Wolf clan to clarify a confusing point of Maroic’s genealogy. Now a great deal more than a lord’s vanity depended on the working. He let his breathing slow until he seemed to float, not rest, on the soft fleece. The candle-thrown shadows danced in silence, broken only by the soft rhythmic breathing of the old priest.

  When he was on the drift point of sleep, Gweran began to recite in a dark murmur under his breath. He spoke slowly, feeling each word of his Song of the Past, a gift from his Agwen, the gate to the rite.

  I was a flame, flaring in the fire,

  I was a hare, hiding in the briar,

  I was a drop, running with the rain,

  I was a scythe, slicing the grain.

  Ax and tree,

  Ship and sea,

  Naught that lives

  Is strange to me.

  I was a beggar, pleading a meal,

  I was a dweomer-sword of steel. …

  At those words he saw her, the Agwen, the White Lady, with her pale face, lips red as rowan berries, and raven-dark hair. He was never sure where he saw her, whether it was in his mind or out in a dark place of the world, but he saw her as clearly as the temple ceiling. Then more vividly than the ceiling—she was smiling as she ran her fingers through her hair and beckoned to him. The candle-thrown shadows turned to moonlight and fell, wispy white, to envelop him. He heard his own voice chanting, but the words were meaningless. The last thing he saw was the priest, leaning close to catch every whisper.

  Gweran was walking to the well head by the white birches. A little patch of grassy ground, three slender trees, the gray stone wall of the well—all were as clear and solid to him as the temple, but on every side stretched an opalescent white void, torn by strange mists. The Agwen perched on the edge of the well and considered him with a small cruel smile.

  “Are you still my faithful servant?” she said.

  “I’m your slave, my lady. I live and die by your whim.”

  She seemed pleased, but it was always hard to tell, because instead of eyes, she had two soft spheres of the opalescent mist.

  “What do you want of me?”

  “The rain refuses to fall in our land. Can you show me why?”

  “And what would I have to do with rain?”

  “You are the wise one, shining in the night, the heart of power, the golden light, my only love, my true delight.”

  She smiled, less cruel, and turned to stare down into the well. Gweran heard a soft lap and splash of water, as if the well opened into a vast dream river.

  “There was a murder,” she said. “But no curse. It was properly avenged. Ask him yourself.”

  She disappeared, leaving the birches rustling behind her. Gweran waited, staring into the shifting white mist, tinged here and there with rainbowlike mother-of-pearl. A man was walking out in the mist, wandering half seen like a ship off a foggy coast. When Gweran called to him, he came, a young warrior, sandy haired with humorous blue eyes, and smiling just as if his chest weren’t sliced open with a sword cut. Endlessly, blood welled and gouted down his chest to vanish before it dripped to his feet. The vision was so clear that Gweran cried out. The warrior looked at him with his terrifying smile.

  “What land are you from, my friend?” Gweran said. “Are you at rest?”

  “The land of the Boars bore me and buried me. I rest because my brother cut my killer’s head from his shoulders.”

  “And was that vengeance enough?”

  “Was it? Ask yourself—was it?” The specter began to laugh. “Was it?”

  “It should have been, truly.”

  The specter howled with laughter. As if his sobbing chuckle brought the wind, the mist began to swirl and close in over the birch trees.

  “Who are you?” Gweran said.

  “Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember that name?”

  The laughter went on and on, as, no longer solid, the specter whirled, a flickering shadow in the closing mists, a red stain ripping on white, then gone. There was only the mist and the soft rustle of wind. From out of the mist came the voice of his Agwen.

  “He was avenged. Take warning.”

  As her voice faded, the mist turned thick, swirling, damp and cold, wrapping Gweran round, smothering him, pushing him this way and that like a windblown leaf. He felt himself running, then slipping, falling a long way down.

  The shadows were dark on the ceiling of the temple. Obyn sighed, stretching his back, and leaned closer.

  “Are you back? It’s two hours before dawn.”

  Shaking with cold, his stomach knotted with fear, Gweran sat up and tried to speak. The temple danced around him. Obyn caught his hands hard.

  “For the love of Bel,” Gweran whispered. “Get me some water.”

  Obyn clapped his hands together twice. Two young priest hurried in, carrying wooden bowls. Obyn draped his cloak around Gweran’s shoulders, then helped him drink, first water, then milk sweetened with honey. The taste of food brought Gweran back to the world better than any act of will could have done.

  “Bring him some bread as well.”

  Gweran wolfed down the bread, washing it down with long greedy swallows of milk, until he suddenly remembered he was gobbling in the middle of a temple.

  “My apologies, but it takes me this way.”

  “No apology needed,” Obyn said. “Do you remember the vision?”

  The blood-gushing specter rose again in Gweran’s mind.

  “I do. How do you read it?”

  “It was a true murder, sure enough. It happened when I was a tiny lad, so I remember somewhat of it. You saw Lord—oh, was it Caryl? I can’t remember, but the head of the Boar clan he was, cruelly murdered by the Falcons. But truly, just as your White Lady said, it was avenged, twice over, some would say. The gods had justice, and I see no reason for Great Bel to be displeased.”

  “Well, then, there’s no curse on the land, because that’s all my lady could show me.”

  “Just so. We will perform the horse sacrifice at the waning of the moon.”

  Until the sun rose, Gweran rested at the temple. He was so tired he was yawning, but sleep refused to come to him. His mind raced, reproducing bits of the vision or seeing flecks of the white mist, then simply babbling to itself. The ritual always left him this way. Though some bards develop a lust for the strange white lands and the marvels therein, a madness that eventually takes over their minds, Gweran felt mostly disgust, based on a healthy fear of losing himself forever in the swirling mist. Yet as he thought it over, this particular vision seemed to have a message for him: he knew that murdered lord, knew him like a brother. Was it vengeance enough? he thought. Truly, it should have been. When the sun came in pale shafts through the temple windows, he shook off these incomprehensible thoughts and went to fetch his horse for the ride home.

  Gweran slept all morning, or rather, he tried to sleep. It seemed that someone was always coming in: one of the children, chased away by the maidservant; or Lyssa, fetching a bit of her sewing; a page, sent by th
e lord to make sure the bard was resting. Finally, the maidservant, Cadda, who seemed more than usually dim-witted that morning, crept in to find a clean pair of brigga for one of the lads. When Gweran sat up and swore at her, she cowered back, sniveling, her big blue eyes filling with tears. She was, after all, only fifteen.

  “Ah, by the gods, I’m sorry,” Gweran said. “Here, Cadda, run and tell your mistress that her grouchy bear of a husband has given up trying to hibernate. Go fetch me bread and ale, will you?”

  Cadda beat a hasty retreat with an awkward curtsy. She had no time to shut the door before the boys raced in, shouting Da, Da, Da, and scrambling up on the bed to throw themselves at him. Gweran gave them each a hug and sat them down on the end of the bed. He was in no mood for a wrestling match. Aderyn, just seven, was a skinny little lad with huge dark eyes and pale hair. Acern, two and a six-month, was chubby, always laughing, and always, or so it seemed, running around half naked.

  “Acern, where’s your brigga?”

  “Wet.”

  “He did that again, Da,” Aderyn announced.

  “Ah, ye gods! Well, I hope your mother wiped you off before you got on the bed.”

  “Of course, dearest”, Lyssa said, strolling in. “If you hadn’t been so mean to Cadda, she would have had the lad dressed by now.”

  Gweran nodded in a meek admission of guilt. Pieces of his dreams and of his vision were floating in his mind. He wanted to compose a song about them; he could almost feel the words in his mouth. Lyssa sat down next to him—the whole family, settling in.

  “What’s wrong with Cadda, anyway?” Gweran said. “She’s so cursed touchy these days.”

  “Oh, she’s got a man on her mind. And not much of a man at that.”

  “Indeed? Who?”

  Lyssa looked significantly at Aderyn, whose little ears grew bigger every day, and changed the subject.

  As soon as he’d eaten, Gweran went out alone for a long walk through the fields. He wandered vaguely, hardly aware of where he was, stumbling occasionally in the long grass as he worked out his song. He would sing snatches of it aloud, changing the words around, working over every line until it was perfect. A stanza at a time, he memorized it, linking it together in his mind with chaining images and alliteration. He would never write it down. If a bard learned to read, learned so much as the names of the letters, his Agwen would desert him. Without her, he could never compose a song again.

  His mind finally at rest, Gweran came back to the dun just at twilight. In the cooler gray air, the servants and riders were sitting around in the ward, talking softly together and resting after the long, hot day. As he walked toward the broch, Gweran saw Cadda, perched on the edge of a horse trough and giggling up at one of the riders. Remembering Lyssa’s snide comment about Cadda’s man, Gweran paused to look the lad over: tall, blond, good-looking in a rough sort of way with the narrow blue eyes and high cheekbones of a southern man. Although Cadda seemed besotted with him, the rider listened numbly and halfheartedly to her chatter—surprising, because Cadda was a beautiful girl, all soft curves and thick blond hair.

  Although Gweran would have preferred to ignore thé matter, his wife was concerned, and for good reason: riders were prone to getting serving lasses pregnant and then doing their best to weasel out of marriage. Gweran walked round the ward until he found Doryn, captain of the troop, who was sitting idly on a little bench and watching the twilight fade. Gweran sat down beside him.

  “Who’s that new rider in the warband?” Gweran said. “A southern lad, and my wife’s lass is making a fool of herself over him.”

  Doryn grinned in easy understanding.

  “Name’s Tanyc. He rode in here a while back, and our lordship took him on. He’s a good man with his sword, and that’s all that should count, truly.”

  “Should?” Gweran raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, now, he’s an odd lad.” Doryn considered, struggling with this unfamiliar kind of thought. “Keeps to himself, and then he’s dead quiet when he fights. When we rode that raid on Lord Cenydd’s cattle, Tanno was as quiet as quiet in the scrap. Creeps a man’s flesh to see someone make his kill without even a cursed war cry.”

  The mention of the cattle raid reminded Gweran that he had yet to sing about it. Although songs about raids were his least favorite, this one deserved the honor as part of the new feud between the Wolf clan and Lord Cenydd’s Boars to the north.

  “I don’t suppose this Tanno’s thinking of honorable marriage and suchlike,” Gweran said.

  “Ah, by the hells, keep little Cadda away from him if you can! He flies alone, Tanyc. One of the lads started calling him the Falcon, you see, just as a jest, but it’s stuck. I was sure there’d be trouble over it, but Tanno just smiles and says the name suits him well enough.”

  “Well, here, Cadda’s mother is a good sort, and she trusted her daughter to my care. If you want to do a bard a favor, have a word with this falcon, will you? Tell him to course for another field mouse.”

  “What man wouldn’t do a bard a favor? Done.”

  With this tedious matter disposed of, Gweran went back to the tower. His mind was running to thoughts of cattle raids. He could piece a song easily out of bits of standard praise lines and other songs. Just mention everyone’s name, he reminded himself, none of these drunken louts know one song from another, anyway.

  Early in the morning, while it was still halfway cool, Tanyc fetched his saddle, a rag, and a bit of saddle soap from the tack room and took them outside to a shady spot by the well. He drew himself a bucket of water, then sat down to clean his tack. Although some of the other riders were gathering in the tack room to do the same thing, he preferred to be alone, where it was quiet. He was always painfully aware that he was the new man in the warband, still on trial and working his way in. He was just working the soap up into a lather when Doryn came strolling over and hunkered down in front of him.

  “Wanted a word with you, lad,” Doryn said.

  “Of course, captain, is there trouble?”

  “Not yet, and there doesn’t have to be. What do you think of the bard’s little servant lass? Our Gweran doesn’t like the way you’ve been hanging around her.”

  “She’s hanging around me, captain. She’s a stupid little bitch, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Doryn considered this in his slow way. Although he was telling the sincere truth, Tanyc expected to be disbelieved, simply because no one ever trusted him.

  “Surprised to hear you say that,” Doryn said. “I was afraid you’d lain her down in the straw already. She seems to want it bad enough.”

  “What honor she has is safe from me. She gets on my nerves. Babbles all the time.”

  “Well, a man could keep her too busy to talk.”

  “No doubt. You bed her if you want her.”

  With a shrug, Doryn got up, setting his hands on his hips and looking over the saddle.

  “Well and good. Then you won’t have any trouble doing what the bard wants and leaving her alone.”

  “None at all, I swear it.”

  Satisfied, Doryn walked off toward the barracks. Tanyc went back to soaping his saddle leather. Do what the bard wants, he thought, that stuffy little bastard of a nightingale, prattling all the time. He was tempted to meddle with Cadda just on the principle of the thing now, but he had already nocked his arrow for more dangerous game. He worked slowly, taking his time, and keeping a constant watch for the bard’s woman. Usually she came down with her lads to let them see the horses.

  Tanyc’s patience was rewarded in a few minutes, when Lyssa came along with the boys. As they went into the stable, Tanyc sat back on his heels and watched her. There was just something about Lyssa, a soft sway of her hips when she walked, the way she had of smiling while she tossed her head, those eyes of hers that promised a very different kind of thing in bed than a scared young lass could offer. Watching her was as warm and pleasant as the sun on his back. He wondered if she were bored with her stuffy older man. Wha
t the bard wants, indeed, Tanyc thought, we’ll just see about that.

  At noon, Tanyc made a point of watching Lyssa as she ate with her husband. The bard and his family, the chamberlain and his, had a privileged table next to Lord Maroic’s by the hearth of honor. Tanyc took a place at one of the rider’s tables where he could see her easily. While she ate, Lyssa seemed far more concerned with her children than her husband, who seemed lost in one of his usual fogs somewhere, idly nibbling bread and looking across the room. It was such a good sign that Tanyc began considering ways to get a word alone with Lyssa. One of the other riders elbowed him in the ribs.

  “What’s all this?” Gennyn said. “Looks to me like you’re watching a doe in someone else’s woods, my friend.”

  “What’s the danger in hunting a doe when the stag doesn’t have horns?”

  “The stag doesn’t need horns when there’s a keeper to watch out for poachers. Lord Maroic would turn you out if you stuck your thumb in the bard’s ale.”

  “Indeed?” Tanyc turned to give him a slow stare. “Are you going to run to the captain with the tale?”

  Gennyn cringed in a satisfying way and shook his head no, but Tanyc paid strict attention to his food. There was no use in giving the game away. If he wanted Lyssa, he was going to have to fight to get her, but then, he was used to fighting for everything he wanted. Nothing in my whole cursed life ever came easy, he thought, no reason for it to start now.

  Late on a drowsy-hot day, Nevyn rode into Lord Maroic’s village of Blaeddbyr. It wasn’t much of a place—a handful of houses, a blacksmith’s forge, not even a proper tavern—a problem, since he was going to have to find somewhere to stay. He’d come to banish the unnatural drought, but such major dweomer-workings took time. Camping out in the forest, though possible, would be wearisome. After fifty years of traveling the roads as an herbman, he was old, stiff, easily tired, and at heart, sick of his constant solitude. Round the village well stood three women, holding their water buckets while they gossiped. When Nevyn led his pack mule and horse over, they smiled and greeted him with the aching curiosity of the perennially bored. At the news that he was an herbman, the smiles grew even broader.