A Time of Exile

by Kerr, Katharine

  “I’d rather mend for you than anyone else.”

  She looked up with a smile that Maer found sweetly troubling. He wondered how long it would take her to get the blasted shirt finished so they could go to bed.

  “Maer? Are you happy with me?”

  “Happy?” Maer was taken utterly off guard. “Well, now, I don’t truly think much about things like being happy. I didn’t think you did, either.”

  “I never have before.” Glaenara was concentrating on knotting her thread. “But I’m starting to.”

  “Well, I like being part of the warband a lot more than I liked being a silver dagger, even with the archery practice.” He put his arms around her and kissed her. “Come lie down, and I’ll tell you some more.”

  “Gladly. When are you going to give me a baby, Maer?”

  “When the Goddess wants me to give you one, I’ll wager, and not before, but come lie down, and we’ll give her a chance at it.”

  On the morrow morning, after archery practice, he lingered behind to walk back to the dun with Pertyc.

  “My lord, somewhat I wanted to ask you. You’re a married man and all, so you’d understand. I’ve been thinking that we might get besieged. There’s your daughter, and now my woman, and then the old nurse and the serving lasses. What’s going to happen to them?”

  “I’m sending them away long before the trouble starts. I wondered if you’d been worrying about that.”

  “I have. Glae might be a widow soon enough, but I couldn’t bear it, watching her starve with us.”

  “You’re a good lad in your way, Maer. It’s too bad your Wyrd was harsh enough to bring you to Cannobaen. But don’t trouble your heart about the women. I’m going to ask Nevyn for help.”

  Maer was much relieved, willing to trust blindly in his lordship and the sorcerer. As they walked through the gates, they saw a fine horse, laden with beautiful red leather and silver trappings, standing outside the doors. Pertyc swore under his breath.

  “Here, Maer,” he said. “Grab some of the lads. Run out and take down those targets and hide them. Hide the bows, too. I’ll pray it’s not too late to distract this bastard.”

  While Pertyc ran for the hall, Maer ran for the barracks. He rounded up six men and followed his orders, stowing the targets and the bows up in the hayloft. When they returned to the great hall, Maer saw a young man kneeling by Pertyc’s chair and talking gravely with him. Maer found Glaenara over by the servants’ hearth and caught her arm.

  “Who’s that, do you know?”

  “One of Tieryn Yvmur’s riders. He came with a message for our lord about the royal wedding.”

  Right then Maer discovered the value of having a wife in the confidence of the most knowing gossip in all Cannobaen.

  “It’s ever so exciting,” Glaenara went on. “This lad who’s going to be married is the one the rebels say is the king of Eldidd. So if our lordship goes, he’s saying he’s a rebel, too, but if he doesn’t go, it’ll be an insult. If he goes to the wedding but won’t declare for the king, they’ll kill him right then and there. Maudda says she’s ever so worried. After all, our lord was like a son to her.”

  “What’s our Badger going to do?”

  “Stay home. He told her that he’s already insulted everyone once, so why not twice?” Glaenara sighed, troubled herself. “I wish they’d just be content with the king we’ve got. He doesn’t even come to Eldidd and bother the pack of them.”

  “True-spoken. Pity they don’t see it your way.”

  On the morrow, the messenger rode out again, and archery practice resumed. But from then on, they practiced far away from the dun in the woods, where no casual visitor would see the telltale row of targets.

  Since Cawaryn’s father was dead, the marriage took place in the gwerbret’s palace in Abernaudd. A gray-haired, blustery sort of fellow, Gwerbret Mainoic was related to Cawaryn by blood several times over and devoted to his cause. As a particular mark of favor, Danry and his family were invited to shelter in the main broch of the many-towered dun itself for the long round of entertainments—hunting in Mainoic’s park, bardic performances in the great hall, displays by the war galleys down in the harbor. Late one afternoon, Yvmur suggested that they go for a stroll out in the gardens behind the broch complex. It was a drizzly sort of day, with the flower beds turned under for the winter and the trees dripping gray drops from bare branches. Out in the middle of the browning lawn stood a small fountain, where the dragon of Aberwyn and the hippogriff of Abernaudd disported themselves under a spray of clear water. Yvmur studied the statues for a moment.

  “You’ll notice how they’ve made the dragon a bit smaller than the hippogriff. There’s a fountain in Aberwyn to match this. Ever seen it?”

  “I have. Odd: there the dragon is a noticeable bit larger.”

  “Just so. By the by, Leomyr’s arrived. He came by way of Aberwyn.”

  They let their eyes meet for a moment.

  “Chilly out here,” Danry said. “Shall we go in? I truly should pay my respects to Leomyr.”

  Leomyr, Tieryn Dun Gwerbyn, had been given a pair of splendid chambers up on the top floor of the main tower. When Danry found him, he was eating an apple, holding it in his hand like a peasant and taking neat bites with his prominent front teeth.

  “I was going to seek you out.” Leomyr paused to toss the core into the fire blazing in the hearth. “It gladdens my heart to see you, my friend.”

  “My thanks, and the same to you. A tardy arrival’s better than none at all.”

  Leomyr took another apple, then offered the silver bowl to Danry.

  “None for me, my thanks. I’ve just eaten. The gwerbret sets a good table. There should be enough on it for any man.”

  His eyes faintly mocking, Leomyr bit into the second apple.

  “You’re turning into quite a courtier,” Leomyr said with his mouth full. “I never knew you could fence so well.”

  “Practice always sharpens a man’s hand.”

  “Did you learn from Pertyc? He seems cursed coy these days, as bad as a young maid.”

  “There’s nothing coy about Perro. If he tells you a thing, he means it from his very heart.”

  Leomyr took another bite and considered him.

  “Most maids like a brooch as a courting gift,” Leomyr said at last. “And usually, the bigger the better, especially when it’s a ring brooch.”

  “For the shoulder of a plaid cloak? Pertyc’s never cared for jewelry.”

  “Well, of course, what Pertyc does is no concern of mine, as long as he doesn’t fight for the Deverrian.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll notice I’m here for the wedding. I brought our liege a splendid gift, too.”

  “Well and good, then. I hope he and the new queen treasure it for a long time in good health.”

  By a mutual, if unspoken agreement they sat down in facing chairs. Danry rested his hands on his thighs and waited.

  “I’m mostly surprised at you, my friend,” Leomyr said. “I know you love the Maelwaedd like a brother.”

  “I do, which is why I’m willing to let him do what he wants, not what I want him to do.”

  “Umph, well. You know, I have only thirty men, not exactly enough to make a king.”

  “And how many men do they have in Aberwyn?”

  “A hundred and ten, which is no more than you do, Falcon, as you cursed well know. But I wonder if you know just how much the success of this rebellion turns on your loyalty.”

  “I can count up the men available for an army as well as anyone else.”

  “It’s beyond that. I’ve seen you fight, you know. You look like one of the gods themselves out there when the steel starts flashing. Men will follow you anywhere.”

  Danry turned away in sincere embarrassment. When he spoke again, Leomyr sounded, oddly enough, amused.

  “I hope the day doesn’t come when both you and our stubborn Badger regret this decision. I’ve never trusted Yvmur for a min
ute.”

  “Neither has Mainoic.” Danry turned back. “I’ve no doubt things can work out to your satisfaction—if you care to spend a bit of time in Abernaudd.”

  Leomyr looked at him sharply, then smiled. Danry smiled in return. One king’s enough for the jackels to fight over, he thought, as long as the blood smells fresh enough to attract them.

  Later that afternoon, a page summoned Danry to the great hall to attend upon Cawaryn and his uncle. Most of the lords sheltered in the dun were there, seated at long tables in order of rank with Cawaryn at the head of the gwerbret’s own table, even though he was only a tieryn’s nephew, a gesture lost on no one. When Leomyr came into the hall and made a bow to the lad that was as close to a kneel as circumstances would allow, Danry was satisfied with the results of their conversation. Gwerbret Mainoic rose and cleared his throat for a speech.

  “I called you together, my lords, to witness somewhat that might gladden your hearts. The merchant guilds of Abernaudd and Aberwyn have banded together to bring our Cawaryn a gift for his marriage.”

  The guilds never wasted their coin on gifts for minor lords, only for gwerbrets—and kings. Slowly, gravely, in measured step, four pairs of merchants came in, carrying, on a sort of litter improvised from a plank, an enormous red velvet cushion, and on the cushion, a golden cauldron, all graved and worked in bands of interlace and spirals, that would hold a good twenty skins of mead. Danry caught his breath in a low whistle—the thing was worth a fortune! At his uncle’s prompting, Cawaryn rose to receive them just as they set their burden down.

  “My humble thanks for this splendid gift,” Cawaryn said, with a sideways glance at his uncle. “To whom do I owe this honor?”

  “To all the assembled trade guilds of Eldidd, Your Grace.”

  The merchant who stepped forward was old Wersyn of Cannobaen. Well, well, well, Danry thought, and does Perro know about this? When Wersyn began a long and somewhat tedious speech, which skirted without saying that everyone knew Cawaryn for the new king, the assembled lords allowed themselves small smiles and sidelong glances at one another. If even the common folk stood behind the rebellion, the omens were shaping up favorably indeed.

  As Danry was returning to his chamber to fetch his lady down for dinner, he saw another merchant, standing in a corridor and talking idly to a servant lass. At the sight of Danry, the merchant bowed, smiled, and hurried quickly away, a little too quickly perhaps. Danry stopped and caught the lass by the arm.

  “And who was that?”

  The lass blushed scarlet as she dropped him a curtsy.

  “Oh, his name is Gurcyn, and him a married man and old enough to know better, too, Your Grace, than to bother a lass like me.”

  “I see. Well, get on about your work, then.”

  Late that night, once the feasting was over, Danry retired to his chamber. Since he was Pertyc’s foster brother, raised by Maelwaedds in the eccentric Maelwaedd way, he could read and write. That night he was glad of it, too, thanking Pertyc’s father in his heart for making him independent of another lord’s scribes. He wrote Pertyc a long letter, telling his friend all the doings round the new king, but stressing in several different ways that he was to beware of Leomyr of Dun Gwerbyn. Early in the morning, when the sun was just rising, he went to the barracks complex, roused his captain, and gave the letter to his most trusted man to take to Cannobaen. He even walked down to the main gates of the dun with the rider and saw him on his way, but as he walked back, Leomyr met him.

  “Sending a letter off?”

  “Instructions for my steward at home. You’ve got sharp eyes for another man’s affairs.”

  Leomyr shrugged and bowed. Danry had no doubt that Leomyr believed him as much as he believed Leomyr.

  “Pertyc, listen,” Nevyn said. “You’ve asked me to help, and I’ve promised I would, but there’s blasted little I can do for you if you’re not honest with me. How soon are the rebels planning to declare themselves?”

  Pertyc hesitated, visibly torn. They were up in his cluttered chamber, Pertyc slouched in a chair, Nevyn standing behind the lectern and resting his hands on the cover of Prince Mael’s book.

  “I know you have your friends to consider,” Nevyn said.

  “Well, one friend. I’d be willing to die for his sake, but I’m not about to let the women and children die, too.”

  “Decent of you. How can I advise you when I don’t know what’s causing the trouble? Suppose you were ill, and you refused to tell me where it hurt. How could I prescribe the right medicinals?”

  Pertyc hesitated, staring into empty air.

  “Well, the trouble won’t come till spring, most like.” The lord spoke slowly at first, then with a rush of words. “Most of the rebels are rallying around one claimant, Cawaryn of Elrydd, but there are those who’d start a second faction because they don’t trust the men behind Cawaryn. This faction wanted to put me forward as a claimant, but I refused. Naught’s been said outright, mind, but I’ll wager we can both guess what they’re thinking. Kill the Maelwaedd, and we can take his son for a candidate.”

  “Of all the stupid … ! Ye gods, but I should have known! That’s Deverry men for you, so busy fighting the battles among themselves that their enemies march in and win the wars. I see you have Mael’s old copy of the Annals of the Dawntime here. Have you read the tales of Gwersingetoric and the great Gwindec?”

  “About how their own allies betrayed them, and so the cursed Rhwmanes drove King Bran and our ancestors to the Western Isles? No doubt this rebellion is as doomed as the one Gwindec led. Ye gods, my poor Danry! I—” He caught himself, wincing at his slip.

  “So. Tieryn Cernmeton is the sworn friend, is he? Does he love you enough to send you warnings?”

  “He does, and he has, because he’s doing what he can to bring the second faction over to Cawaryn so they’ll leave me alone. He told me they’re installing the new king as soon as they can. He has great hopes that everyone will support the lad once the priests have worked their ritual and all. I keep having doubts, myself.”

  “Wise of you. Very well; I know enough to get on with. I’ll stop putting hot irons to your honor. For a while, anyway.”

  That evening, Nevyn enlisted Aderyn’s help to guard his body while he went scrying in the body of light—a dangerous business, but he had no choice; since he’d never seen any of these men in the flesh before, he couldn’t simply scry them out through a fire or other such focus. They went into his bedchamber, which was pleasantly warm from the small charcoal stove in the corner. Nevyn lay flat on his back on the hard straw mattress while Aderyn sat cross-legged on the floor nearby. The little room was silent, dark except for the faint reddish glow from the coals. At this time of day, there was little chance that one of the villagers would come knocking, but Aderyn was there to fend them off if they did.

  “Where will you go?” Aderyn said.

  “Aberwyn for starters.”

  Nevyn folded his arms across his chest, shut his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing. Quickly his body of light came, a simple man shape, built of the blue light, bound to him by a silver cord. He transferred over, hearing a rushy click as his consciousness took root, and opened his astral eyes. When he looked at Aderyn, he saw his friend’s body only dimly, like a wick in a candle flame, obscured by the blaze of his gold-colored aura.

  Slowly Nevyn let himself drift up to the ceiling, then brought his will to bear on a thought of the coast road. Abruptly he was outside, hovering in the blue etheric light above the cliffs. Across the beach, the ocean was a silver and blue turmoil of elemental force, surging and boiling in vast currents, swarming with Wildfolk and spirits of all types. Although the sand itself, and the stone and dirt cliff faces, appeared black and dead, they were dotted here and there with the reddish auras of the clumps of weed and grass caught in cracks and crannies. The meadows at the clifftop glowed a dull orange, streaked by the dead road. As Nevyn rose higher, the Wildfolk clustered round him, some in the form of winks
and flashes of refracted light; others, as pulses of glow, bright-colored as jewels. When he glanced over his etheric equivalent of a shoulder, he saw the silver cord stretching behind him and vanishing into mist.

  With the Wildfolk swarming after, Nevyn rushed in long leaps of thought over the sleeping countryside until he came to Aberwyn. Far below him lay the town, a haphazard scattering of round dead shapes—the houses—lit by the occasional patch of reddish vegetable aura. Here and there some human or animal aura wandered through the dark streets like a mobile candle flame. Wreathed and misted in a veil of elemental force, the dangerous river ran like a streak of cold fire down the middle. Nevyn drifted over the city wall, but he was careful to avoid the river’s surge as he flew to the gwerbret’s dun.

  Since he’d only been inside this dun once, and that nearly seventy years ago, he was lost at first until a small garden caught his attention. In the midst of the bright auras of well-tended plants stood a fountain in the shape of a dragon and a hippogriff, illuminated by the etheric glow of the water playing over them. He focused down until it seemed that he hovered only a few inches off the grass. Nearby was the jutting round wall of the main tower. Candlelight and firelight, forming pale reflections in the overall etheric glow, flickered out of the windows in such profusion that Nevyn could assume the great hall lay inside. He could also pick up a welter of ancient emotions: blood-lust, rage, the exhilaration of war and the stink of treachery, all lingering as faint, nearly unreadable traces in the blue light.

  He walked right through the wall and found himself standing, or rather floating, on the dais at the honor end of the great hall. Gwerbret Gatryc was dining with his lady and an honored guest, a lord whom Nevyn didn’t recognize, a brown-haired fellow with prominent front teeth. The currents of feeling emanating from them were as tangled and sharp as a hedge of thorns, but one thing was clear: although they hated each other, they needed each other. They spoke only of trivial things for a few moments; then by mutual agreement left the table and went upstairs, calling for a page to follow them with mead and goblets.