A Time of Exile

by Kerr, Katharine

  Wersyn strode back into his bedchamber. When he slammed the door behind him and his candle, the reception chamber went dark. Stumbling over furniture, Ganedd found his way to his own bedchamber, fell down on the bed fully dressed, and passed out.

  But he woke in the morning in a sullen temper. During breakfast, which he could barely eat, he had difficulty looking at his father, who prattled on about lower taxes as if the rebellion were already won.

  “Now remember what I said about the vote this morning,” Wersyn announced finally.

  Ganedd tried to swallow a spoonful of barley porridge, then shoved the bowl away as a bad job.

  “The loan’s going through no matter what we think about it,” Wersyn continued. “So when it comes to the vote, we’re giving our approval, too.”

  Ganedd started to argue, then got up and rushed out of the room. He never made it to the privy, but no one cared when he heaved the contents of his stomach onto the dungheap out back of the inn.

  The vote on the loan was the last item on the guild’s agenda, rather as though the master were putting it off as long as possible in the vain hope that some omen might make the decision easier. Ganedd sat sullenly on his bench—way at the back since he’d come in late—and nursed the mead-sick throb in his temples and the queasiness in his stomach. All at once, a bustle on the dais caught his attention. The guildmaster rose, tossed his cloak back from one shoulder, and blew on his silver horn to bring the meeting to order, the long sweet note echoing through the abruptly silent hall. Sunlight hung heavy on the sea of color that was the finery of the guild: gold-shot banners, checks and stripes of all colors on cloak and brigga, rainbow-hued tapestries on the painted walls.

  “We come now to the matter of the loan of two thousand silver pieces to his grace, Gwerbret Aberwyn,” the guildmaster called out. “Is there any more debate to be laid before the convocation?”

  Silence, stillness—no one spoke or moved. The guildmaster raised the horn to his lips and blew again.

  “Very well. Those in favor, to the right. Those against, to the left. Scribe, stand ready to count and record the numbers.”

  Slowly, a few at a time, the men rose, starting in the front of the hall, and walked to the right, so unanimously that the motion was as smooth as uncoiling a rope. Ganedd watched as first his father took a place at the right, then his father’s close friends trotted meekly after. His row, the last, began to get up. Ganedd followed them free of the benches, then abruptly turned and marched to the left side of the hall. He’d be cursed and frozen in the third hell before he’d back a doomed scheme like this one. It was also the sweetest pleasure he’d ever tasted to see his father’s face literally turn purple with rage. Ganedd crossed his arms over his chest and grinned as the entire guild gasped and stared: whiskered faces, lean faces, shrewd eyes, watery eyes, but all of them outraged.

  “Done, then,” the guildmaster called. “Scribe, what is your count?”

  “Ninety and seven in favor, two members missing from the count, and one against.”

  “There’s one man in Eldidd who’ll hold for the true king,” Ganedd yelled. “You stinking cowards!”

  At the shriek that rose he felt as if he’d heaved a rock into the middle of a flock of geese. The men swirled round, nudging each other, whispering and cursing, then shouting and cursing, louder and louder as they milled through the hall. Ganedd had said it out, the one unsayable truth: they were voting treason. Ganedd started laughing as the guild broke, hurrying away, muttering among themselves as they all tried to pretend they’d never heard a thing. Wersyn came running and slapped him so hard across the face that Ganedd staggered back against the wall.

  “You foul little cub!” Wersyn howled. “How could you? Ye gods, I’ll kill you for this!”

  “Go ahead. I won’t be the last man to die in the war.”

  Cursing a steady stream, Wersyn grabbed his arm and dragged him across the hall. Ganedd followed meekly, laughing under his breath. He’d never had such a splendid time in his life. But his pleasure ended once they were back in their inn chambers. Shaking in fury, Wersyn shoved Ganedd into a chair and began pacing around, his hands clenched, his eyes snapping.

  “You rotten little bastard! This tears it once and for all! I’m sending you straight back home. I can’t hold my head up if I’ve got a son like this at my side. How could you? Why? Ganno, for the love of every god—why?”

  “Just to see what would happen, mostly. You all looked so wretchedly pleased with yourselves.”

  Wersyn strode over and slapped him again.

  “You’re taking Maer and getting out of here today. Get your things and go! I want you out of my sight.”

  All the time Ganedd packed, all the time he was saddling his horse, Wersyn went on yelling at him, calling him a fool and a demon-spawned ungrateful whelp, a worthless dolt and a turd dropped by a spavined mare. The entire innyard and Maer as well listened to this lecture with visible curiosity. Once Wersyn had stormed inside, and they were leading their horses out into the town, the silver dagger could stand it no longer.

  “Ye gods, is he that blasted furious over one whore?”

  “Last night’s got naught to do with it. Remember the gwerbret’s loan? It came to a vote today, and I was the only man who voted against it.”

  Maer stared at him with a sudden flattering respect.

  “Here, that took guts.”

  “Did it? Maybe so.”

  At the west-running road the city gates were standing open. Just outside they found another merchant, an old family friend named Gurcyn, standing by his horse and yelling orders as his muleteers organized his caravan. Ganedd threw his reins to Maer and strode over to speak with him, just as a last defiance.

  “Good morrow,” Ganedd said. “Leaving so soon?”

  Gurcyn looked him over, not anywhere as coldly as Ganedd was expecting, but he said nothing.

  “Go on,” Ganedd went on. “Tell me what you think of me. I’m giving you the chance, rebel.”

  “All I think is that you’re a bit lacking in wits, though long on nerve. This thing’s going to be remembered. Here, did your father send you home in disgrace?”

  “Just that. And what about you? I’m surprised you’re not staying to celebrate your treason with the rest of them.”

  “Oh, hold your tongue! Roosters who strut too much end up in the soup kettle. As for me, my wife’s been ill, and I’ve got to get home straightaway. Good morrow, lad, and by the gods of our people, watch what you say, will you?”

  As Gurcyn walked away, shouting to his men, Maer led their horses over.

  “Who was that? One of the guild?”

  “Just so. Why?”

  “I’ve seen him before.” Maer’s eyes narrowed in hard thought. “Probably in some tavern, but you know, I think it was up in Dun Deverry, right after my lord kicked me out of Blaeddbyr, like, and I was riding west.”

  “Maybe it was. A good guildsman rides wherever the coin calls, and Dun Deverry calls in a lot of coin. Come on, let’s get on the cursed road.”

  Although Ganedd was usually good company, on the ride back home he fell into long cold silences and refused to be drawn out, not even by jests, thus leaving Maer with a lot of time to think—an unfamiliar activity and one that he preferred to avoid whenever possible. Now, however, he had a number of strange things to think about, starting with old Nevyn the herbman. When they’d first met back in Aberwyn, Maer had barely noticed him, but as they’d ridden west together, Maer had found himself oppressed by the growing feeling that he’d known the old man before, an acquaintance that was logically impossible because Nevyn insisted that he’d never been anywhere near Blaeddbyr in all the years since Maer was born, and while Maer was traveling as a silver dagger, the old man was over in Bardek.

  Added to that, of course, Lord Pertyc thought that Nevyn was a sorcerer, which meant Lord Pertyc believed that the dweomer craft was a real thing. Every now and then Maer would bring this idea to mind, like taking
a strange coin out of a pouch, and turn it over and over between mental fingers, wondering at it. Since Maer had been raised to follow the noble-born without doubt or question, he supposed that if Pertyc said the old man was a sorcerer, then sorcerer he was. He supposed. He held the thought up to the mental light one more time, shook his head, and put it away again. Maybe sometime soon it would make sense. Maybe.

  Finally there was the matter of the Wildfolk. Ever since young Adraegyn and the old man had discussed them that one afternoon, Maer had, again quite against his will, found himself thinking that perhaps they did indeed exist and that just maybe one of them was following him around, just as the lad said. His evidence for this was thin, and he did his best to ignore it. It was just that every now and then he felt something touch his arm or his hair; even more rarely, when he was riding, he felt tiny arms clasp his waist as if someone sat behind him on the saddle. Occasionally he saw a bush or branch move as if something stood within or upon it, or one of Lord Pertyc’s dogs would suddenly leap up and bark for no reason, or one of the horses would suddenly stamp and swing its head round to look at something that Maer couldn’t see. Once, when he was drinking a foaming tankard of ale and all alone at table, a tiny breath had blown the foam off right into his face as he went for a sip. It was beginning to make his flesh creep, all of it. He would have wished that they’d stop and leave him alone, except wishing meant admitting that someone existed to do the stopping. He wasn’t ready to admit that, not in the least.

  Yet he kept gathering new evidence in spite of his attempts to ignore it. As their horses ambled the last few miles to Cannobaen, Ganedd’s silence grew as black and cold as a winter storm. Maer amused himself by looking at the now familiar scenery: off to his left the clifftop meadows and the sparkling sea, the rich fields to his right, striped here and there with strands of trees, all second growth planted for firewood. Scarlet and gold, the leaves already hung thin and bare along the branches, especially on the trees planted next to the road that received the full force of the sea winds. It was in one of these that Maer saw, clear as clear, a little face peering at him. It was a pretty face, obviously female, with long dark blue hair and big blue eyes, staring at him wistfully. When Maer stared back, she suddenly smiled, revealing a mouthful of long pointed teeth. Maer yelped aloud.

  “What?” Ganedd roused himself. “What’s so wrong?”

  “Don’t you see it? Look! Right there, on that low branch.”

  “See what? Maer, are you going daft? There’s naught there.”

  “It’s a windless day and the leaves are shaking.”

  “Then some bird flew away or somewhat. What are you doing? Falling asleep in the saddle and dreaming?”

  “Well, I guess so. Sorry.”

  With a melancholy sigh Ganedd went back to his brooding. Maer cursed himself for a fool and took up the job of convincing himself that he’d seen nothing. He’d just about succeeded when he noticed Nevyn, some hundred yards away, digging for roots out on the clifftops. As they passed, the herbman straightened up and waved, just pleasantly, but his simple presence suddenly struck Maer like an omen. It was all he could do to wave back.

  It was the next market day that Glaenara sold the last of the cheeses. She was just packing up to go home when she saw a rider leading his horse through the crowded square: Maer, his silver dagger bright at his belt. She wasn’t sure if she hoped he’d stop or not, but he took the matter out of her hands by doing just that.

  “And is your bilge-mouthed brother in town today?”

  “He’s not. What’s it to you?”

  “Well, I brought you somewhat of a present from Aberwyn, and I didn’t want him to see me give it to you.” Maer took a packet wrapped in a bit of white linen out of his shirt and handed it over.

  “My thanks, Maer. Truly.”

  He merely smiled, watching as she unwrapped the cloth and found a small bronze mirror, a circle that fit neatly into the palm of her hand. On one side was a bit of silvered glass, held in place by a band of knotwork wires; on the other was a fancy design of laced spirals.

  “I wanted to get you the silver one,” Maer said, sighing, “but coins flee from silver daggers like chickens run from foxes.”

  “It doesn’t matter. This is lovely. Ye gods, I’ve never had a mirror before. My thanks. Truly, my thanks.”

  Glaenara held the mirror up. By angling her head, she could see her reflection a bit at a time, and a lot more clearly than in the reflection from a bucket of water. Much to her horror, there was a bit of dirt on her cheek. Hastily she wiped it off.

  “A pretty lass like you should have a mirror of her own.”

  “Do you truly think I’m pretty? I don’t.”

  He looked so shocked that she was embarrassed.

  “Well,” Maer said thoughtfully. “Truly, pretty isn’t the right word, is it? As handsome as a wild horse or a trout leaping from a stream, not pretty like a rose in some lord’s garden.”

  “Then my thanks.” Glaenara busied herself with wrapping the mirror up in the cloth again, but she felt herself blush in sheer pleasure. “And what errand are you running?”

  “Well, our Badger wanted a word with Ganedd the merchant’s son. Cursed if I know why, but I’m taking the lad a letter. I can’t read, or I would have sneaked a look. It’s not sealed.”

  “It would have been dishonorable.”

  “Of course, but ye gods, I’ve always been a curious sort of man. Ah, well, it’s beyond me anyway, all this wretched writing. Will you come into town next week?”

  “I might, I might not. It depends on the chickens.”

  “Then I’ll pray to the Goddess to let them lay more eggs than your family can possibly eat and that my lord will let me come down to town.”

  After Maer left, Glaenara counted up her coin. She had just enough to buy a length of cloth to make herself that new dress that Nalyn had been nagging her about. If she worked hard, sitting outside every evening to get the last of the sunlight, she could have the dress finished by next market day.

  Ganedd sat uneasily on the edge of his chair and held his goblet of mead in nervous fingers. The lad was wearing a pair of blue-and-gray-checked brigga and a shirt heavily worked in flowers—his best clothes, Pertyc assumed, for his visit to the noble-born.

  “No doubt you’re wondering why I asked you up here. I’ll come straight to the point. My silver dagger told me that you voted against the rebellion in Aberwyn. I’m holding for the king myself. It gladdens my heart that you do the same.”

  “My thanks, my lord, but I don’t know what the two of us can do about it.”

  “Naught more than what we can, truly, but we’ve got to try. I want to ask you to take my service. There’s going to be a war in the spring, lad, and I’ve no doubt that our rebels will want me dead before they march against the king.”

  “I’m no warrior, my lord, but if you want me to join your men, I’ll do my best to fight.”

  Pertyc was both surprised and ashamed of himself. He’d been dismissing this young man as nothing but a merchant, little more than a farmer and most likely a coward to boot.

  “Well, actually,” Pertyc said, “I was hoping you’d run an errand for me. You deal with the Westfolk all the time, don’t you? You must know where to find them and all that.”

  “I do, my lord.” Ganedd looked puzzled; then he grinned. “Longbows.”

  “Just that. If I load you up with every bit of iron goods and fancy cloth and jewelry and so on that I can scrape together, do you think you could get me enough bows for the warband? I wouldn’t take a few extra archers amiss, either, if you can recruit some.”

  “Well, I’ll try, my lord, but I don’t think the Westfolk are interested in hiring out as mercenaries. The bows I can most likely get, though.”

  “Well, that’ll be somewhat to the good.” Pertyc hesitated, struck by a sudden thought and then surprise, that he’d never had the thought until this moment. “You know, I wonder just how proud a man I am.”


  “My lord?”

  It took Pertyc a long time to answer, and in the end, the only thing that brought him round was his love for his children. While no rebel lord would ever have knowingly killed his daughter, terrible things happened in sieges, especially if they ended in fire. If Pertyc lost the battle but the rebels lost the war, Adraegyn of course was quite simply doomed. The king’s men would smother the boy, most like.

  “Tell me somewhat, Ganno. Do you think you could find my wife?”

  Ganedd stared openmouthed.

  “Well, she won’t lift a finger for my sake,” Pertyc said, “but for Beclya and Adraegyn, she just might raise a small army.”

  “I’ll do my best, my lord, but the elven gods only know where she might be, and the Westlands are an awfully big place. The sooner I leave, the better. Can you give me a guard and some packhorses? The less of Da’s stock that I use, the fewer questions Mam will ask.”

  All that afternoon, while Ganedd gathered supplies, Pertyc agonized over the letter to his wife. Finally, when he was running out of time, he decided to make it as simple and as short as he could:

  “Our children are in mortal danger from a war. My messenger will explain. For their sakes I’m begging your aid. I’ll humble myself in any way you want if you’ll just come and take them to safety.”

  He rolled it up, sealed it into a silver message tube, then without thinking kissed the seal, as if the wax could pass the kiss along.

  Just at sunset, Ganedd and his impromptu caravan assembled out in the ward, a straggling line of packhorses and mules along with two of Pertyc’s most reliable riders for guards and the undergroom for a servant. Pertyc handed Ganedd what coin he could spare and the message tube, then walked to the gates to wave his only true hope on its way until the caravan disappeared into a welter of dust and sea haze. As he turned to go inside, the ward flared with yellow light. Up on the tower the lightkeeper had fired the beacon.