A Time of Exile

by Kerr, Katharine

  “Neutrals have found themselves stripped and sieged before, huh? You’re right enough. You tell our friends that I’ll protect my lands to my last breath, whether they claim to have a king on their side or not.”

  “They wouldn’t expect any less from you. I warn you, though, when we win this fight, you can’t expect much honor or standing in the new kingdom.”

  “I’ll take my chances on that. I’d rather die a beggar than break my sworn oath.” Pertyc smiled faintly. “And the word, my friend, isn’t ‘when’ you win. It’s ‘if.’”

  Danry turned red, a hectic flush of rage across his cheeks. Pertyc held his gaze until Danry forced out a wry smile.

  “Let us give the gods their due,” Danry said. “Who knows where a man’s Wyrd will lead him? Very well. ‘If it is.”

  Pertyc walked outside with Danry to the ward, where his horse was standing saddled and ready at the gates. Danry mounted, said a pleasant and normal farewell, then trotted off down the road to the north. As Pertyc watched the dust disappearing, he felt danger like a cold ache in his stomach. The dolts, he thought, and maybe I’m the biggest dolt of all! He turned and looked over his dun, a small, squat broch standing inside a timber-laced wall without ramparts or barbicans. Although his demesne was continually short on coin, he decided it would be wise to spend what he had on fortifications, even if he could only afford to build some earthworks and ditches. Whatever else it may have lacked, his dun had the best watchtower in the kingdom for the Cannobaen light, where every night a beacon burned to warn passing ships of submerged rocks just off the coast. If the rebellion swept a siege his way, it occurred to Pertyc, he could perhaps parlay keeping the light into a reason for keeping his neutrality. Perhaps. The dread in his stomach turned to burning ice.

  Later that same day, he was drinking in his great hall when a page came with the news that there was a silver dagger at the gates. Since he had only ten men in his warband, he had Maer shown in straightaway.

  “I’ll take you on, silver dagger. I don’t know when we’ll see action, but another man might come in handy. Your keep, and if there’s fighting, a silver piece a week.”

  “My thanks, my lord. Winter’s coming on, and the roof over my head’s going to be welcome.”

  “Good. Uh, Maer? If you shave that mustache off, it’ll grow in thicker the next time, you know.”

  Maer drew himself up to full height.

  “Is his lordship suggesting or ordering?”

  “Merely suggesting. No offense intended.”

  Pertyc turned him over to his captain, then went up to the women’s hall, a comfortable sunny room that covered half the second story of the tower. It was the domain of his lordship’s old nurse, Maudda, all stooped back and long white hair these days, but still doing her best to serve the clan by tending Pertyc’s four-year-old daughter, Beclya. Pertyc felt very bad about keeping the old woman working, but there was, quite simply, no one else who could handle the lass. As headstrong as her mother, he thought, then winced at the very mental mention of his absent wife. He found them sitting in a patch of sun by the window, Beclya in a chair, Maudda standing behind, keeping up a running flow of chatter as she combed the lass’s hair, but as soon as Pertyc stepped in, Beclya twisted free and rushed to her father.

  “Da, Da, I want to go riding. Please, Da, please?”

  “In a bit, my sweet.”

  “Now!” She tossed back her head and howled in rage.

  “Stop that! You’re upsetting poor Maudda.”

  With a visible wrench of will she fell silent, turning to look at her beloved nurse. She was a beautiful child, Beclya, with her moonbeam-pale hair and enormous gray eyes, tall and slender for her age and as graceful as a fawn when she moved.

  “Now, lambkin,” Maudda said. “You’ll go riding soon enough. Your da’s the lord, you see, and we all must do what he says. The gods made him a lord, and we—”

  “Horseshit!” She stamped her foot. “But I’ll be good if you say so.”

  With a sigh and a watery smile, Maudda held out her arms, and Beclya ran to her. I’ve got to get the poor old dear some help, Pertyc told himself. He had this thought with the same tedious regularity with which he first enlisted young nursemaids, then watched them retreat.

  “Maudda, I wanted your advice on somewhat,” he said aloud. “I’ve been thinking about my son. Do you think my cousin would take it amiss if I rode to his dun and fetched Adraegyn home for the winter?”

  “Ah. You’ve been hearing them rumors of trouble, then.”

  “Ye gods, do you know everything?”

  “Everything what matters, my lord.”

  “Please, Da, go get him,” Beclya put in. “I miss Draego.”

  “No doubt you do,” Pertyc said. “I think it might be best all round if he came home. I can train him myself, if it comes to that.”

  “Da?” Beclya broke in. “I want to go with you.”

  “You can’t, my sweet. Young ladies don’t go riding round the countryside like silver daggers.”

  “I want to go!”

  “I said you can’t.”

  “I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what your dumb gods say, either. I don’t want to be a lady. I want to go riding. I want to go with you when you get Draego.” With a shriek she threw herself down on the floor and began to kick.

  “If I may be so bold, my lord?” Maudda pitched her voice loud over the general noise. “Do get out and leave her to me.”

  Pertyc fled the field. He was beginning to wish that he’d done what his wife wanted and let her take his daughter away with her. He’d refused only out of a stubborn honor. He could only thank the gods for making Adraegyn a reasonable and fairly human being.

  “Now, you know who does have a little cottage,” Samwna said thoughtfully. “Wersyn the merchant. He had it built for his mother, you see, when she was widowed, but the poor lady passed to the Otherlands just this spring. No surprise, truly, because she was seventy winters if she was a day old. She always said sixty-four, but hah! you can tell those things, good sir. But anyway, it’s a nice stout little place with a big hearth.”

  “Does it have a bit of land around it?”

  “Oh, it does, because she liked her flowers and suchlike. Besides, it had to be a good stone’s throw away from Wersyn’s house. Moligga—that’s his wife—put her foot down about that, and I can’t say I blame her, because old Bwdda was the nosy type, always lifting the lids of her daughter-in-law’s pots, if you take my meaning, good sir.”

  Nevyn began to remember why he normally avoided small rural towns.

  On the other hand, the cottage turned out to be both suitable and cheap, and he rented it immediately, then spent the rest of the day unpacking and settling in. On the morrow, he decided that while he’d keep his riding horse, the mule would only be a nuisance. Samwna, that font of all local information, told him to try selling it to a farmer called Nalyn.

  “He lives out near Lord Pertyc’s dun. He married the farm, you see, or I should say, it still belongs to poor dear Myna—she was widowed so young, poor thing, and her with two daughters to raise on her own—but now one of the daughters is married, Lidyan, that is, and it’s good for them to have a man to work the fields again, I must say, so it’s Nalyn’s farm in a way, like.”

  Nevyn made his escape at last and rode out, with the mule on a tether rope, and found the farm. When Nevyn dismounted near the shabby thatched roundhouse, he could hear someone yelling inside. A man’s voice, thick with rage, drifted out, followed by the sound of a woman weeping and pleading. Ye gods, he thought, does this Nalyn beat his poor wife? A second woman’s voice yelled back, cracking in a string of curses. A young heavyset man came stalking out of the house. Just as he took a step out of the doorway, an egg came sailing after him, caught him on the back of his head, and shattered. With an oath, the man started to turn back in, then saw Nevyn.

  “My apologies,” Nevyn said. “I just heard in the village you might want to buy a mu
le. I can come back later.”

  “No need.” The young farmer was busily trying to get the egg off the back of his head with both hands. “I do indeed need a mule, though my sister’s stubborn enough for a whole rotten herd of them. Let me just wash this off at the well.”

  Laughter rang in the doorway, and a young woman, about Maer’s age, came strolling out. She was pretty, ravenhaired and blue-eyed, but not truly beautiful, with her hair cropped off short in the way many farm women wore their hair, out of the way of hard work. Her dress was dirty, much mended, and hitched up around her waist at the kirtle to leave her ankles and feet bare.

  “And who’s this, Nalyn? Another of your candidates for my betrothal?”

  “Hold your cursed tongue, Glae!” Nalyn snapped.

  “He’s better-looking than Doclyn, aged or not. No offense, good sir, but my beloved brother-in-law is bound and determined to marry me off to get rid of me, you see. Are you in the market for a young wife by any chance?”

  “Glae!” Nalyn howled. “I said hold your tongue!”

  “Don’t you give me orders, you afterbirth of a miscarried wormy sow.”

  With an anguished glance in Nevyn’s direction Nalyn walked off to the well to wash away the egg. The lass leaned comfortably against the doorjamb and gave Nevyn a brilliant smile that transformed her face for one brief moment. Then she was merely wary, and plain, her eyes too suspicious and cold for beauty.

  “Here, good sir, I haven’t even asked your name. Mine’s Glaenara. You must’ve been talking with the village women if you knew we were in the market for a mule.”

  “Well, I did happen to speak with Samwna. My name is Nevyn, and that’s a name, not a jest.”

  “Indeed? Well, then, Lord Nobody, welcome to our humble farm. Samwna’s a good woman, isn’t she? And her daughter Braedda’s my best friend. As meek as a suckling lamb, but I do like her.”

  Glaenara ran her hands down the mule’s legs, thumped it on the chest, then grabbed its head and pried its mouth open to look at its teeth before the startled mule could even object. His wet shirt in his hand, Nalyn came back and watched sourly.

  “Now, I’m the one who’s saying if we buy that mule or not.”

  “Then take a look at its mouth yourself.”

  When Nalyn went to do so, the by now wary mule promptly bit him on the arm. Howling with laughter, Glaenara cuffed the mule so hard that it let go. Nevyn grabbed Nalyn’s arm and looked at it: mule bites could turn nasty, but fortunately, this one hadn’t broken the skin. Nalyn was cursing a steady stream under his breath.

  “Just bruised, I’d say,” Nevyn said soothingly. “My apologies.”

  “Wasn’t you,” Nalyn growled. “Glae, I’m going to beat you so hard one of these days.”

  “Just try.” Glaenara set her hands on her hips and smiled at him.

  At that, the other two women came running out of the house. Glaenara’s mother was gray and thin, her face drawn and etched deep with exhausted lines. Her sister was pretty, with less strength but more harmony in her wide-eyed face. Sniveling, the sister caught her husband’s arm and looked up, pleading with him silently. The mother turned to Glaenara.

  “Glae, please? Not in front of a stranger.”

  With a sigh, Glaenara turned tame, coming over to slip her arm around her mother’s frail waist and give her a kiss on the cheek. Nalyn patted his wife’s arm, looked Nevyn’s way, and blushed again. For a moment they all stood there in a miserable tableau; then Glaenara led her mother back to the house. With one backward glance at Nevyn, the sister hurried after.

  “My apologies for my little sister,” Nalyn said.

  “My good sir, no man in his right mind would hold you responsible for anything that lass does.”

  As he was riding back to the village, Nevyn met Lord Pertyc’s warband, coming two abreast in a cloud of dust. At the head rode the lord himself, a tall but slender man who reminded him strikingly of Prince Mael, his distant ancestor, with his raven-haired Eldidd good looks and heavy-lidded dark blue eyes. Beside him on a gray pony was a young lad of about eight, so much like the lord that Nevyn assumed it was his son. As they passed, Pertyc gave Nevyn a wave and a nod; Nevyn bowed gravely. Behind came ten men with badgers painted on their shields. At the very rear, riding alone in the dust but grinning as cheerfully as ever, was Maer. When he saw Nevyn, he waved.

  “I’ve got myself a nice warm spot in a badger’s hole. You brought me luck, Nevyn.”

  “Good, good! I’ve settled into the village. No doubt we’ll see each other from time to time.”

  • • •

  “You know what?” Adraegyn said.

  “I don’t,” Maer said. “What?”

  “Da says he wants to hire more silver daggers if he can find them.”

  “Does he now? Do you know why?”

  “I’ll wager there’s going to be a war. Why else would he come fetch me back from Cousin Macco’s?”

  “No doubt you’re right, truly.”

  Adraegyn considered him for a moment. He was perched on the edge of the watering trough and watching while Maer cleaned his tack. Maer enjoyed the young lordling’s company; as the eldest of a family of seven, he was used to having children tagging after him.

  “Do you have to polish that dagger a lot? Silver plates and stuff get dirty truly fast.”

  “So they do. But the dagger’s different. It’s not entirely made of silver, you see.”

  “Can I look at it? Or is that rude to ask?”

  “You can look at mine, but never ask another silver dagger, all right? Most of us are a bit touchy about it. Now be careful. It’s sharp as the Lord of Hell’s front tooth.”

  Grinning, Adraegyn took the dagger and hefted it, then risked a gingerly touch on the blade with the ball of his thumb.

  “Have you ever slain a man with this dagger?”

  “I haven’t, but then, I haven’t had it very long. Maybe I’ll get my chance if your father rides to war.”

  “I wish I could go, but I’m still learning stuff.” Adraegyn sighed dramatically. “And I’ve got to waste all this time learning to read.”

  “Truly? Now that’s a strange thing. Why?”

  “Da says I have to. All the men in our clan learn to read. It’s one of the things that make us Maelwaedds.”

  In a few minutes, the Maelwaedd himself came strolling over to lean on the watering trough beside his son.

  “It’s always pleasant to see another man work,” Pertyc said. “Odd, but there you are.”

  “So it is, my lord. Sometimes I’d be traveling and stop to watch some poor bastard of a farmer slaving out in the fields, just to be watching him.”

  “Just so. Here, Draego, what are you doing with Maer’s silver dagger?”

  “He let me look at it, Da. That’s all.”

  “Careful—those things are blasted sharp.”

  “I know, Da!” Somewhat reluctantly, Adraegyn handed the dagger back to Maer. “Da, I want to go riding. Can I take my pony down to the village?”

  “By all means. Or here.” Pertyc hesitated for a moment. “Maer, go with him, will you? You can use some of the spare tack while yours is drying.”

  “Done, my lord.” Maer looked up sharply. “Do you think there might be trouble?”

  “The world’s as full of trouble as the sea is full of fish. I don’t think anything just yet, but listen, Draego, from now on, when you want to leave the dun, you tell me first and take one of the men with you.”

  “Why? I never used to have to.”

  “Do as I say and hold your tongue about it. I’ll tell you more when there’s more to tell.”

  There was a fair amount of activity down in Cannobaen that afternoon, because it was market day. Most of the farmers and craftsmen had their goods spread out on blankets on the ground, though the weaver and local blacksmith did have little stalls. As Maer and Adraegyn strolled around, the lad would stop every now and then and ask a villager how his wife was doing or if his children
were well, and he managed to remember everyone’s name in a most impressive manner. At the edge of the market, a young woman was sitting behind baskets of eggs. Maer was immediately struck by her. Although she wasn’t beautiful, she was handsome, with a slightly malicious touch to her grin and life sparkling in her blue eyes.

  “Who’s that, my lord?” Maer pointed her out.

  “Oh, that’s Glae. She and her kin have the farm next to our demesne.”

  Maer guided the lad over to Glae and her baskets. Tied up behind her was a mule.

  “Good morrow, Glae,” Adraegyn said to her.

  “Good morrow, my lord. Come down for a look at your market?”

  “I have.” Adraegyn waved at Maer. “This is Maer. He’s my bodyguard now.”

  “Oh, is he?” Glae gave Maer a cool appraisal. “And a silver dagger at that.”

  “I am.” Maer made her a half-bow. “But I beg and pray that you won’t think less of me for it.”

  “Since I think naught of you one way or the other, I can hardly think less of you, can I now?”

  Maer opened his mouth and shut it again, suddenly at a loss for words.

  “You’ve got a new mule, I see,” Adraegyn said.

  “We do, my lord. We bought him from the new herbman in town.”

  “There’s someone new in town?” Adraegyn was openly delighted. “Where does he live?”

  “In the cottage by Wersyn’s house. And he seems a wise old man indeed, from what Braedda tells me.”

  “Come on, Maer. Let’s go meet him. Maybe he’s a dweomerman or suchlike.”

  “Oh, now here,” Maer said, grinning. “You do have a taste for the bard’s fancies, don’t you?”

  “Well, you never know. Good morrow, Glae. I hope you sell a lot of eggs. Come on, Maer. Let’s go.”

  Maer made Glae one last bow, which she acknowledged with a flick of her eyes, then hurried after his half-sized commander.

  They found Nevyn out in the garden in front of his cottage, digging up a flower bed as vigorously as a man a third his age. Adraegyn hailed him, leaned on the fence, then gasped in sudden delight.