The Spirit Stone

by Katharine Kerr

  Gwairyc shrugged, then began examining his bruised knuckles. Nevyn merely waited. At last Gwairyc looked up and spoke. ‘I’m not sure I’d call it pity,’ he said. ‘Everyone says that a harelip means a person’s been cursed by the gods.’

  ‘Everyone?’ Nevyn raised an eyebrow. ‘And cursed in the womb, before the poor baby even sees the light of the sun?’

  ‘It happens in the womb?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Well, then, that’s a bit different, isn’t it?’ Gwairyc turned to look off in the direction that Morwen had taken. ‘Seeing her mobbed like that, it just somehow griped my soul.’

  ‘Unfair odds, if naught else.’

  ‘That’s it, truly.’ Gwairyc turned to him and smiled. ‘That’s what touched my heart, then, the unfair odds.’

  Nevyn was profoundly disappointed. He’d hoped that Gwairyc was feeling some compassion at last.

  That evening, after a long afternoon selling herbs and sundries, Nevyn learned a great deal more about Morwen and Evan from the innkeep’s wife. After a dinner of boiled beef and bread, Wffyn went off to bed. As mere apprentices, Tirro and Gwairyc would sleep on the straw-strewn floor. They spread their blankets out in the curve of the wall at a good distance from one another, then lay down and were soon snoring. The innwife dipped Nevyn a tankard of dark ale, then took a cupful for herself and sat down opposite him at table. She was a thin-lipped, narrow-eyed, skinny woman, wearing a greasy pair of green dresses. A little woad-blue scarf, stained with sweat, bunched around her wattled neck.

  ‘Well, since you asked about Morwen’s sister, good sir,’ she began, ‘it was ever so great a scandal, but they always say that great beauty is better than a dowry any day, and they’re right enough when it comes to Varynna—that’s Morwen’s sister, Varynna. As beautiful as the moon in the summer sky, or so the lads all call her. Well!’ She paused for a sip of ale, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘And that Westfolk man of hers could see it as easy as anyone. So there she is, big with child, and her not married, so oh, she’s had her comeuppance, all right!’

  ‘Comeuppance for what?’ Nevyn said.

  ‘The airs she gave herself, good sir, ever so high and mighty she was until her belly started to swell. Now, there are some as say that Varynna was but following in her mother’s footsteps, like, because Varynna doesn’t look much like her sister and brother, if you take my meaning.’ She paused for a wink. ‘And that name! Not a usual sort of name, is it?’

  ‘It’s not, truly.’ Nevyn managed a polite smile.

  ‘A bit of the Westfolk, eh? So, anyway, Varynna did nurse the little lad, but for everything else, she handed him over to her sister, and I doubt if she’s touched the lad since he was weaned. Goes to show how wretched a mother she is, giving her lad to a witch lass to raise!’

  ‘Now here, Morwen seems to be taking good care of the lad.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose she’s fond of him. She’ll never have a child of her own.’ She paused for a ladylike sneer at the very thought. ‘Well, as to Varynna, her brother was ever so angry, having a bastard in the family, but he could do naught about it thanks to the will.’

  ‘Hold a moment. What will?’

  ‘Tsk, you’re so easy to talk to, I keep forgetting you’re not from around here, good herbman. Their father’s will. You see, he died of a fever, so he knew he was going, like. So he called in the priest of Bel and a few other men of good standing to hear his will. The farm went to the brother but only on the condition that he provided for his mother and the two sisters.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘So brother Dwal was stuck, like, with the three of them. The mother died not long after her husband, though. She’d not been quite right since Morwen was born.’ She tapped her forehead and winked. ‘It was the shame of it, I suppose.’

  ‘Now here, why blame her?’

  ‘It must have been her doing, producing a deformed get like that. No doubt she stepped over a crack or killed a hare or suchlike when she was carrying the child. That’s the way these things always happen.’

  ‘Not truly. It’s much more likely to be the effect of malefic lunar influences on the four humours, you see, early in the pregnancy. The moist humour is particularly susceptible.’

  ‘It is? Well, fancy that!’ She looked utterly unconvinced. ‘But, truly, we were speaking of our haughty little Varynna. So anyway, this spring all the old gossips had a fair bit more to wag their tongues about. A merchant and his son came in, all the way from Abernaudd, they were, and come to look for Westfolk horses. And the son was fair taken with Varynna, turned quite daft he was. But the father, well now, he had more of a head on his shoulders, and he wasn’t too pleased to find that his son’s new ladylove had a bastard. Back and forth they went about it, yelling and pounding on the table right here in my inn, and finally the old man relented. As long as the bastard never darkens my door, says he, you can marry her and take her away.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Nevyn said. ‘And now Evan’s father is coming to collect the little lad.’

  ‘Just that.’ The innkeep’s wife finished her cup of ale in one long swallow. ‘And Dwal’s fair pleased to be rid of both of them, I tell you. He’s planning on finding a wife himself now.’

  ‘Poor little Morri! Losing the lad seems to be aching her heart, and badly.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’ She shrugged the issue away. ‘Her nose-in-the-air sister wants the child far away from her, as far as he can get, and truly, the Westfolk live on the edge of nowhere, and so that’s that.’

  Late that evening, after the innwife had gone to bed, Nevyn stayed by the glowing coals of the dying fire and considered Morwen’s strange situation. The unusual harelip was a clear example of repercussion, as the dweomerfolk call it, where some mark or wound from a particularly violent death carries over to the victim’s next life. The victim’s flood of ancient emotion marks the budding etheric double of the child in the womb, which in turn influences the physical body. Yet since such repercussions rarely last more than a single lifetime, Morwen’s scarred lip indicated that this incarnation was her first since Branoic’s horrible death all those years past.

  And she’s so scrawny, Nevyn thought. No doubt she’d had a difficult time eating as a baby and a small child. Most children with harelips did. Once she’d grown older, most likely her kinsfolk had begrudged her food. Nevyn realized that he wouldn’t need some complicated scheme to take Morwen away from her family. Most likely her brother would be glad to see her go if Nevyn could convince her to leave.

  On the morrow Nevyn left his stock of medicinals in Wffyn’s care and went with Gwairyc to Morwen’s brother’s farm, which lay not far beyond the town wall. It was a prosperous-looking place, three round houses joined together in a cluster, all of them white-washed and roofed in new thatch. They sat on a square of green grass, protected by an earthen wall from the cows and horses grazing in a large pasture out back. Beyond the pasture lay wheat fields.

  By the front door Morwen was sitting on a little bench in the sun while she watched Evan playing with a leather ball. When Nevyn hailed her, she got up and walked over to the gate. Two big black and tan hounds accompanied her, tails wagging.

  ‘Good morrow, good sirs,’ she said in her moist lisp. ‘What brings you to me?’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d seen any sign of Devaberiel yet,’ Nevyn said. ‘He might arrive today, you see.’

  ‘I’ve not.’ She looked away, fighting tears for a long few moments. ‘Ah well,’ she said at last, ‘I’d invite you in to wait, but my brother takes it ill when I have guests. He’s always afraid I might offer them a bit of his ale or bread.’

  ‘Ye gods,’ Gwairyc said. ‘From the look of your farm there’s no call for him to be so miserly.’

  ‘There’s not, and he’s not, except when it comes to me.’

  ‘I see.’ Nevyn had long since got out of the habit of making small talk, but now he badly wanted to linger. ‘Do you have many guests?’
>
  ‘Me?’ Morwen paused for a short bark of a laugh. ‘Hardly, good sir.’

  ‘What? No friends or suchlike?’

  ‘There was only one lass in our entire village who ever dared befriend a maimed creature like me, and she—’ Morwen paused for a quick intake of breath that might have been a sigh or a choked back sob. ‘She died but two years ago. Lanmara, her name was.’

  Nevyn felt the brush of an omen’s wing across his mind. Might this Lanmara have been someone he would have recognized? ‘That’s very sad,’ he said aloud.

  Morwen nodded. She might have told him more, but the front door swung open, and a young woman stepped out. Westfolk blood, indeed, Nevyn thought. The innwife was right enough about that. Tall, slender, with moonbeam pale hair that matched little Evan’s, she walked with such innate grace that she might have been floating over the grass. But she possessed one trait that he’d only seen once among the Westfolk: an utter indifference to her child. When Evan came running, carrying his ball, she gave him a look of such contempt that he stopped and took a step back.

  ‘Don’t shove that nasty thing at me.’ Varynna pointed to the ball. ‘It’s dirty.’

  Morwen hurried over to claim Evan and the ball both. Nevyn took the opportunity to reach over the gate, unlatch it, and let himself and Gwairyc into the garth. Varynna deigned to glance their way.

  ‘Good morrow,’ Nevyn said. ‘I just stopped by to tell you that Devaberiel’s on his way here. He might arrive this very day.’

  ‘Then my thanks for the news. I’ll be glad to see the last of him.’ Varynna left it unclear as to whether she meant the bard or his son—perhaps both, Nevyn supposed.

  Morwen caught her breath and raised a quick hand to wipe the tears from her eyes.

  ‘Oh, will you stop snivelling?’ Varynna said. ‘It’s not like he’s really your child.’

  ‘Then he’s nobody’s child,’ Morwen said. ‘Because you’re not a fit mother for a pig, much less a little lad.’

  ‘You!’ Varynna raised a hand as if she’d slap her sister, then hesitated, doubtless because Nevyn and Gwairyc were watching. ‘You malformed get! It’s no wonder the gods cursed you.’

  In a rustle of dresses, her head held high, Varynna swept into the house and slammed the door behind her.

  ‘Your sister needs a good spanking,’ Gwairyc remarked. ‘Or mayhap two.’

  ‘I only wish I could see it, good sir. Or do it myself. With a horsewhip.’ She turned a little away and rolled the ball across the grass. With a giggle Evan went toddling after it.

  ‘And what will you do,’ Nevyn said, ‘once Evan’s gone with his father?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Morwen’s face turned slack with grief. ‘My brother can’t turn me out, but I’m half-minded to go to the Temple of the Moon. The holy ladies told me I’d be welcome should I wish to join them. It’s not a bad life.’

  ‘Well, it’s not, truly, but—’

  ‘I’ve been studying the lore,’ Morwen went on as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘It’s an odd thing, but it seems to come to me naturally, like.’

  ‘Well, don’t be too hasty,’ Nevyn said. ‘Let me think about this. There might be somewhat I can do to make things a bit better for you.’

  ‘Huh! Unless your herbs can grow me a new face, good sir, I don’t know what that could be.’

  ‘I’ll think on it.’ Nevyn smiled at her, then glanced at Gwairyc. ‘Well, we might as well wait back in town and spare our proud Varynna the sight of us.’

  As they were walking along the dirt road back to town, Gwairyc seemed preoccupied. Finally he gave one of his dismissive shrugs and came out with it. ‘A question for you, my lord,’ Gwairyc said. ‘The land out here’s not as rich as that around Dun Deverry, is it?’

  ‘The soil’s rocky in places, truly. I’m surprised you’d notice that.’

  ‘And isn’t half the fighting in the kingdom to see who’ll have the best land? Between the great clans, I mean.’

  ‘True spoken.’

  ‘But anyway, I was just remembering that pissing brat with the rotten tooth and his stinking family. Why is Morwen’s farm so wealthy-looking and theirs so poor?’

  ‘Myrn and Ligga, you mean? It’s not the farm that’s poor. It’s them. The reason? The closer you get to Dun Deverry, the more the noble-born take in taxes. Myrn and Ligga have the misfortune to live close to court.’

  Gwairyc turned to look at him in open-mouthed amazement. ‘Misfortune?’ he said at last. ‘It’s an honour to be close to the king’s own city.’

  Nevyn felt like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Instead, he said, ‘Not for them. Their local lord takes most of their crop, and they rarely have enough left to sell for things like cloth and furniture. If they can’t make it themselves, they don’t have it.’

  ‘Well, but don’t Morwen’s kin pay their lord taxes?’

  ‘Of course, but here in Pyrdon we’re close to the border. The lords know they need the loyalty of their folk. And beside, the lords here only go to court once a year, and not even that for some of them. They don’t need to cut a fine figure there, so they’re not as greedy as the courtiers.’

  ‘Greedy?’ Gwairyc blinked several times, as if he were trying to see something that lay beyond his vision. ‘If you’re going to stay at court you have to dress well, and entertain, and the like. The noble-born don’t have any choice about that.’

  ‘Um, well, no doubt they think they have no choice,’ Nevyn said. ‘Ah, here we are, back in town! Let’s go to the tavern room. I need a tankard of our innkeep’s darkest ale.’

  With the market fair over, Nevyn had no customers that afternoon. He sat with Wffyn in the tavern, deserted except for them, their two apprentices, and the innkeep’s wife. Some flies circling round and round in the middle of the room provided the only distraction.

  ‘Uh, Gwairyc?’ Tirro said. ‘I was wondering if, well, if you’d like to dice for straws. It would be somewhat to do.’

  Gwairyc considered for a long moment, while Tirro waited, his shoulders so tense he was nearly crouching on the bench.

  ‘Oh, why not?’ Gwairyc said at last. ‘Here, let’s move to one of those empty tables.’

  Tirro smiled so broadly that he might have been given some expensive gift. ‘Splendid idea! Here, let me stand you a tankard. Please? I got my wages yesterday.’

  ‘Very well. My thanks.’

  Nevyn watched while they set up their game and took their tankards, then leaned forward to speak softly to Wffyn. ‘He’s a sad creature, your apprentice. Desperate for a little friendly conversation.’

  ‘He is that,’ Wffyn murmured, ‘but I still wouldn’t trust him with anything I valued.’ He raised his voice to a normal level. ‘I wonder what he’ll think of the Westfolk? We’ll be there a fair bit of time, a good fortnight I was thinking.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘That long. You see, I’ve got a grand scheme in mind.’ Wffyn smiled, and his eyes sparkled. ‘The Westfolk never sell us anything but geldings. That way we can’t breed their golden horses for ourselves. But I’ve brought some very special goods along. I’m hoping to find an opening, like, to persuade someone to part with a mare or two. If I can, then maybe next trip I can go to a different part of the trading zone and get a golden stud. No more of these long tedious trips, then!’

  ‘Indeed. Do you think you have a chance?’

  ‘I do. It’s all a question of finding the right goods to trade, the right temptation, if you will. The Westfolk are an odd-looking lot, but they’re human enough. Greed, my dear herbman—it’s a merchant’s true friend. Find the right bait, and the fish will swarm to the hook. I could be properly rich, I could.’

  ‘True spoken.’ Nevyn bit back his own temptation to point out that greed seemed to have become Wffyn’s mistress rather than a mere friend.

  ‘Now,’ Wffyn continued, ‘when shall we leave? I was thinking on the morrow, assuming that Devaberiel’s got himself here by then.’


  ‘You never know with the Westfolk, truly,’ Nevyn said with a sigh. ‘They come and go as they please and when they please and not a moment before.’

  Wffyn nodded sadly. At their table Tirro and Gwairyc were still gaming, throwing the dice as grimly as if the fate of kingdoms depended upon their luck. Across the broad round room, the innkeep’s wife was swabbing out tankards with an old rag and rinsing them in a wooden bucket of well water. A few of the more industrious flies circled around her. Nevyn got up and strolled over to hand her his empty tankard.

  ‘I happened to speak with Morwen,’ he remarked, ‘when we went out to warn Varynna that her child’s father was on his way.’

  ‘I’ll bet you got a scant welcome from both of them.’ The innkeep’s wife tossed her grey and fraying rag into the bucket.

  ‘From Varynna, certainly, but I had a bit of a chat with Morwen. She mentioned a friend of hers, Lanmara. That’s an unusual sort of name.’

  ‘She wasn’t your usual sort of lass.’ The woman frowned in thought. ‘Now, don’t take me wrong, good sirs. Lanni was a decent lass, the blacksmith’s youngest, and very well brought up. The whole village was shocked that she’d befriend a witchmarked lass. Some people even said truly nasty things, that mayhap the two lasses were entirely too close and familiar with each other, if you take my meaning like, but I never believed that.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘Because Lanmara was too well brought up, that’s why, to even think of such! Though she did say some truly odd things, now and again, and I swear she had the second Sight.’

  ‘Truly? Why?’

  ‘She and Morri had a game they played when they were little lasses, all about the Wildfolk. They were pretending, like, saying they’d seen this one or that one, or pretending they were talking to some of them.’

  ‘Well, here,’ Nevyn said. ‘Most children do like a good tale about the Wildfolk.’

  ‘True spoken, good sir, but these two, well, they never grew out of it. Or at least, Lanmara never did. She was old enough to marry and still babbling about them.’ The innwife glanced around her, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. ‘And I swear, she saw somewhat, sure enough. You’d see her eyes moving, like, but there’d be naught there. A bit touched, she was.’ She tapped her forehead with one finger and winked. ‘But then she foresaw her own death. It gave us all a fair turn, that.’