A Time of Exile

by Kerr, Katharine

  “Oh, your garden’s full of Wildfolk! They’re all dancing round and round.”

  Nevyn grunted in sharp surprise. Maer started to laugh, then choked it back for fear of hurting the lad’s feelings—he was already blushing scarlet at his lapse.

  “I mean, uh, I’m sorry, I mean, I know there aren’t really Wildfolk …”

  “What?” Nevyn’s voice was perfectly mild. “Of course there are Wildfolk. And you were quite right the first time. My garden’s full of them.”

  It was nice of the old man, Maer thought, to help the lad over his awkward moment with a little lie. Adraegyn was beaming up at Nevyn.

  “You see them, too? Truly?”

  “I do.”

  Adraegyn spun around to consider Maer.

  “And you must, too. You can tell us, Maer. We all do.”

  “What, my lord?”

  “Well, come on. That big blue sprite follows you all over, you know. She must like you. Don’t you see her?”

  For the second time that afternoon, Maer found himself speechless. He stared openmouthed while an awkward silence grew painful.

  “My lord,” Nevyn said gently. “Sometimes the Wildfolk take a liking to someone for reasons of their own. I don’t think Maer does see her, or any of them, for that matter. Do you, Maer?”

  “I don’t, truly.”

  “Now tell me, Maer. Can you see the wind?”

  “What? Of course not! No one can see the wind.”

  “Just so. But it’s real enough.”

  For the briefest of moments Maer found himself wavering. Did Adraegyn and old Nevyn really see Wildfolk? Did those fabled little creatures actually exist? Oh, don’t be a stupid dolt! he told himself. Of course they don’t!

  Later, when they rode back to the dun, Lord Pertyc happened to be walking across the ward just as they trotted in the gates. A servant came running to take Adraegyn’s horse. As soon as he was down, the lad ran, dodging away from his father’s affectionate hand and racing for the shelter of the broch.

  “Somewhat wrong?” Pertyc said to Maer.

  “Uh, well, my lord, your lad wanted to go meet the new herbman in town, so I took him, but truly, I wonder if the old man’s daft.”

  “Daft? Did he scare the lad or suchlike?”

  “Not at all, but he scared me. Here, my lord, I don’t mean to open old wounds or suchlike, but does young Adraegyn talk about the Wildfolk a lot?”

  “Oh, that!” Pertyc smiled in open relief. “That’s all, was it? Did the herbman tease him about it? Well, no doubt the fellow was startled to hear a lad his age still babbling about Wildfolk.”

  “Er, not exactly, my lord. The old man says he can see them, too.”

  • • •

  Late on the morrow morn, Nevyn was working out in back, planting a few quick-growing herbs and hoping that they would reach a decent size before the days turned short, when he heard a horseman riding up to the cottage. Trowel in hand, he hurried round and saw Lord Pertyc dismounting at the front gate.

  “Good morrow, my lord. To what do I owe this honor of a visit? I hope no one’s ill at your dun.”

  “Oh, thanks be to holy Sebanna, we’re all healthy enough. Just thought I’d have a chat, since you’re new here and all.”

  Nevyn stuck the trowel in his belt and swung open the gate. Pertyc followed him in, looking wide-eyed round the garden as if he expected to see spirits leering out from under every bush. The place was full of spirits, of course, little gray gnomes sucking their fingers, blue sprites, ratty-haired and long-nosed, grinning to show pointed teeth, sylphs like airy crystals, darting this way and that. Inside, near the hearthstone, Wildfolk sat on the table and the bench and climbed on the shelves full of herbs. On the table a leather-bound book lay open.

  “Ye gods!” Pertyc said. “That’s my most illustrious ancestor’s book!”

  “One of them, at least. Being here made me think of it. Have you ever read it?”

  “I take it on, every now and then. When every Maelwaedd man comes of age, his father tells him to read the Ethics. So you plow through a bit, and then your father admits that he could never finish the wretched thing, either, and you know you’re truly a man among men.”

  “I see. Won’t you honor me by sitting down, my lord? I can fetch you some ale.”

  “Oh, no need.” Pertyc had an anxious eye for the shelves of strange herbs and drugs. “Can’t stay more than a minute, truly. Er, well, you see, there was somewhat I wanted to ask you about.”

  “The Wildfolk? I figured that Maer would tell you what happened.”

  “He did indeed. Um, you were just humoring my lad, weren’t you?”

  A yellow gnome reached over and closed the book with a little puff of dust. Pertyc yelped.

  “I wasn’t, actually,” Nevyn said. “Does his lordship truly doubt that young Adraegyn can see the Wildfolk?”

  “Well, I can’t say that I do, but I like to keep it in the family, you know.”

  “Ah. I take it that his lordship’s wife is a woman of the Westfolk.”

  “Well, she was.”

  “My apologies, my lord. I didn’t realize that she’d ridden through the gates of the Otherlands.”

  “Naught of the sort, if you mean did she die.” A tone of injured pride crept into Pertyc’s voice. “As far as I know, anyway, she’s alive and well and no doubt as nasty and strong-minded as she ever was. I suppose I’m being unfair. I don’t know how I ever thought she could live in a dun and be the proper wife of a noble lord, but by all the ice in all the hells, she might have tried!”

  “I see.” Nevyn suppressed a grin. “I take it that you didn’t stand in her way when she decided to leave.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered one jot if I’d gone down on my knees and begged her to stay.” All at once he turned faintly pink. “But why I’m burdening your ears with all of this, I don’t know. You seem to be an easy man to talk to, Nevyn.”

  “My thanks, my lord. It’s a valuable thing in a herbman, being easy to talk to.”

  “No doubt. Herbman, huh? Is that all you are?”

  “And what else would my lordship think I am?”

  “Now, I know that most men would mock the dweomer, good sir, but we Maelwaedds don’t. There’s bits and pieces about it in Prince Mael’s books, for one thing, and well, we pass the lore along. We’re like badgers, truly. We hold on.”

  “Even to your oaths to a foreign king?”

  Lord Pertyc’s face went dead white. Nevyn smiled, thinking that this exercise in logic must seem an act of magic.

  “We do,” Pertyc said at last. “Aeryc’s the king I swore to serve, and serve him I will.”

  “With only ten men, it’s going to be hard to stand against the king’s enemies.”

  “I know. A badger can tear one boarhound to pieces, but the pack will get him in the end. But a vow’s a vow, and that’s that. They just might honor my neutrality, or so I can hope, anyway.” All at once his lordship grinned. “Besides, I’ve already hired one silver dagger, so I’ve actually got eleven men now. Maybe more will ride my way.”

  “That reminds, my lord. Do you know why the silver daggers never ride together as a troop, the way they did in the old days?”

  “Well, one of the kings forbade them to. I suppose they were too dangerous. The kingmakers—that’s what they were called, you know. A warband that’s made a king can unmake one just as easily.” Pertyc frowned, remembering something. “Let’s see, in this book I have at home it says that after the civil wars all the free troops were banned. That’s right! I remember now. It was Maryn’s son. His councillors wanted him to ban the silver daggers, too, but he refused, because of the service they’d paid his father. But he didn’t want an independent army riding round causing trouble, either, so he ruled that they could only hire out as one man or two together.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, too bad in a way. You could hire them if only they still existed, eh? But then, maybe this rebellion will stay in Aberwyn.”
>
  Pertyc looked away so fast that Nevyn knew that he had information to the contrary.

  “There are times when trouble spreads like fire in dry grass,” Nevyn said. “No one knows which way the wind will blow.”

  “Just so. Well, no doubt I’m keeping you from your work. Good day.”

  All summer, Glaenara had been curing cheeses in round wooden molds. When the four biggest wheels were ready, she loaded them on the mule and took them to Lord Pertyc’s dun as part of their taxes. Since it was drowsy-hot, she went barefoot, saving the leather of her one pair of shoes for the winter. Although Nalyn kept urging her to get some boots made down in the village, she preferred to scant herself rather than take what she thought of as his charity. Until Nalyn appeared, Glaenara had been the strong one in the family, keeping up her mother and sister’s spirits after her father died, working harder than most lads to scrape a subsistence living out of their farm. Just when I’m old enough to plow like a man, he comes strolling in, she thought bitterly. But there was no doubt that Mam and Lida were happier now. Perhaps that was the worst blow of all.

  The gates to Dun Cannobaen stood open, and the ward was its usual slow confusion—servants strolling about their tasks, the riders sitting out in the sun dicing for coppers, Lord Pertyc himself lounging on the steps with a tankard of ale. Glaenara dropped him a curtsy, which he acknowledged by getting up. Although she considered herself a world below him, Glaenara was fond of her local lord because he was a kind man, and his unfortunate marriage had given everyone something exciting to talk about for years now. Rulers have been loved, after all, for a good deal less.

  “Looks like cheese,” Pertyc said. “What kind, yellow or white?”

  “Yellow, my lord. It’s awfully good.”

  Pertyc set his tankard down on the ground and drew his dagger to cut himself off a slice. When he took a bite, he nodded in satisfaction.

  “So it is. Goes well with ale, an important thing round here, truly.”

  Pertyc cut himself another, thicker slice, retrieved his ale, and returned to his steps. Glaenara led the mule round back to the kitchen door and began unloading the cheese. She’d just swung two wheels out when Maer the silver dagger came running up and made her a low bow.

  “Now here, fair maid, those look heavy. Let me carry them for you.”

  “Not heavy at all. Only twenty pound each.”

  Maer, however, insisted on hefting three and leaving her only one to carry into the kitchen. As he laid his wheels down on the long wooden table, it occurred to Glaenara that he was trying to be polite to her. The idea came as a surprise.

  “Well, my thanks,” she said.

  “Oh, I’d pay you any service gladly.”

  Another surprise: he was flirting with her. Caught off guard, Glaenara turned away and began talking with the cook, an old friend of her mother’s, leaving Maer to hover helplessly in the doorway. She was hoping that he would just go away, but he waited until she and the cook were done with their chat. As she was leaving, Maer grabbed the mule’s lead rope and led him to the gates for her.

  “Truly, it was good to see you,” Maer said.

  “Was it? Why?”

  “Well, uh.” Maer began fiddling with the end of the lead rope. “Well, it’s always good to see a pretty lass, truly. Especially one with spirit.”

  Glaenara snorted and grabbed the rope back from him.

  “My thanks for helping me haul the cheese. I’ve got to get back to my work.”

  “Can I walk with you a ways?”

  “You can’t. Or … wait a minute. You said you’d pay me a service?”

  “I will. Just name it.”

  “Then shave that beastly mustache off. It makes your face look dirty and naught more.”

  Maer howled, clapping a hand over his upper lip in self-defense. Glae marched away, sure that she’d seen the last of him. Yet that very afternoon, she was taking a couple of buckets of vegetable scraps out to the hogs when she saw him leading his horse in through the gates. She stopped and stared: the mustache was gone, sure enough. Nalyn came strolling over with a hoe in his hands and gave Maer a cold looking-over.

  “Good morrow, sir,” Maer said. “I was wanting to speak to Glaenara, you see.”

  “Oh, were you now? And just what do you want with my sister?”

  “And what’s it to you who I talk with?” Glaenara snapped.

  “Now hold your tongue. I just want to get a look at a man who comes courting you with a silver dagger in his belt.”

  “Now here!” Maer put in, but feebly. “I’ve got honorable intentions, I assure you.”

  Nalyn and Glaenara both ignored him and turned to glare at each other.

  “You’re too young to judge a man,” Nalyn snarled. “I’ve had the experience to know a rotten apple from a sound one.”

  “Who are you calling rotten?”

  “No one—yet. Maybe I’m only married kin, but I’m the only brother you’ve got, and cursed if I’ll let you hang about talking with silver daggers and other scum of the road.”

  “Don’t you call Maer scum! I won’t stand for it.”

  “Oh, won’t you now?” Nalyn said with a smug little grin. “And how do you know his name, and how come you’re so quick to defend him?”

  Glaenara grabbed one of her buckets of pig slops, swung, and emptied it over Nalyn’s head.

  “I’ll talk to who I want to!”

  Predictably, the noise brought Lidyan running—and shrieking at the sight of her husband covered with carrot peels and radish leaves. Maer doubled over laughing.

  “Flowers to the fair,” Maer choked out. “And slops to the hogs. Ye gods, you’ve got a good hand with the bucket. He should be glad you weren’t sweeping out the cow barn!”

  A piece of carrot peel had flown his way and stuck to his shirt. He plucked it off and handed it to Glaenara with a courtly bow.

  “A small token of my esteem. Now I’d best get out of here before your brother takes a hoe to me.”

  “Brother-in-law, that’s all. And don’t you forget it.”

  The next time Glaenara went to market, she sold all her cheese and eggs early in the day, then went over to the inn. As she was tying the mule up out back, Braedda, Samwna’s pretty blond daughter, came running out to catch Glaenara’s arm and lean close like a conspirator. They were exactly the same age, although Braedda looked younger, just because her hands were soft and her face had been spared the rough winds of the fields.

  “Ganedd and his father got home last night,” Braedda said, giggling.

  “Oh, wonderful! Is your father going to go ask about the betrothal?”

  “He’s going over this evening, right after dinner. Oh, Glae, I can hardly wait! I want to many Ganno so bad.”

  Out in the back of the stables was a shed, filled with sacks of milled oats and tied shooks of hay. Glaenara and Braedda went there, as they usually did, to talk out of the hearing of her parents. They’d barely started their gossip, though, when Ganedd himself appeared, opening the door without knocking. He was a tall lad, filling out to a man built more like a warrior than a merchant, with pale blue eyes and golden hair, a sign that somewhere in his clan’s history was some Deverry blood.

  “I’d best go,” Glaenara said. “I’ll be in for the market next week, Brae.”

  Ganedd smiled briefly, then gallantly opened the door for her. As she led the mule out of the village, Glaenara was wishing she felt less jealous of her friend’s good fortune. Although she rather disliked Ganedd, he was a far better catch than any man that was likely to come courting her. Just as she was turning into the road, she happened across Nevyn, riding in. He made her a bow from the saddle, surprisingly limber for one who looked so old.

  “In for the market, were you?”

  “I was, sir. And a good day to you.”

  He smiled, then suddenly leaned forward, staring into her eyes. For a moment she felt as if she’d been turned to stone and his cold gaze was a chisel, slicing into her
soul; then he released her with a small nod.

  “And a good day to you, lass. Oh, wait, I just thought of somewhat. Would you like to earn four coppers a week, doing my laundry and sweeping out my cottage and suchlike?”

  “I would indeed.”

  “Splendid! Then come in tomorrow, because I’m afraid I’ve let things pile up a bit. After this, two mornings a week should do it.”

  “Well and good, then. I’ll be in before noon.”

  As he rode on his way, Nevyn was thinking of the strange vagaries of Wyrd. The last time he’d known this woman, she’d been queen of all Deverry and the virtual regent of Cerrmor while her royal husband was on campaign. The oddest thing of all, though, wasn’t the obvious change in her fortunes; it was that he’d pitied her even more when she’d been queen.

  Out in the paddock behind the merchant’s big wooden house, twelve Western Hunter colts nibbled at the grass or stood drowsing head down in the warm sun, blood bays and chestnuts, mostly, but off to one side was a perfect strawberry roan, Ganedd’s favorite. When he leaned on the fence, the roan came over to have his ears scratched.

  “I’m thinking of giving that colt to the gwerbret in Aberwyn,” Wersyn said. “It’s been a while since I’ve given his grace a token of our esteem.”

  “This lad will make a good warhorse, truly.”

  “Just so. You know, I think I’ll let you be the one to deliver him to his grace. It’s time he knew your name as my heir.”

  “Uh, well, Da, I’ve been thinking, and …”

  “You’re not going to sea! I’m sick to death of having this discussion. You’re my son, and we deal in horses, and that’s that.”

  “You’ve got Avyl! He’s your son, too, isn’t he? He’ll make a fine horse trader! You say so yourself.”

  “You’re the eldest son, and that’s that.”

  Wersyn had his arms crossed over his chest, a sure sign that arguing was futile. Ganedd turned on his heel and stalked off in the direction of town. At times he wished that he had the guts to just run away. If he could only find a merchant captain who wouldn’t mind offending his father … but that was worse than unlikely down in Aberwyn, where Wersyn was an important man in the guild. His aimless walk brought him to his grandmother’s cottage and the new herbman in town, who was grubbing away in the garden. When Ganedd leaned on the fence to watch, the old man straightened up, wiped his hands on a bit of rag, then strolled over to say good morrow.