“Evandar, I wish you’d come to me.”
Although she only breathed a whisper, she’d surprised herself by speaking aloud at all. There were times when she could summon him by trained and concentrated thought, but that night when she tried she could only feel that he was far out of reach, off perhaps on business of his own rather than hovering near her in the country he called the Gatelands. Perhaps his brother had broken their truce? Remembering the fox warrior, wondering if some peculiar combat was being joined, made her shudder with a sick loathing.
“Evandar!”
No thought, no breath of his presence came to her, yet she was sure that she would know if he was dead or somehow being kept from her against his will.
“Evandar!”
She could hear her voice, the wail of a lost child. Yet she felt nothing but a vast lack, an emptiness where his presence might have been. She had no choice, then, but to face her melancholy alone.
In the vain hope of finding cleaner air, she started for the gates, only to find someone there ahead of her, climbing down the ladder from the ramparts. When he turned round, she could see with her elven sight that it was Rhodry, yawning as he came off watch. In the shadow of the dun she paused, hiding out of a weary reluctance to speak with anyone, but being a man of the People as he was, he spotted her and strolled over.
“You’re up late,” he remarked.
“I just finished with the wounded. By the gods of both our peoples, I hope that chirurgeon gets himself here soon.”
“Shouldn’t take him long. Shall I escort you to your luxurious chambers? I trust our lord found you a clean place to sleep, anyway.”
“He did, though splendid it’s not. One of the storage sheds.” All at once she yawned. “I’m more tired than I thought.”
Silently they walked round the dun and made their way behind the kitchen hut to the ramshackle thatched shed that was serving her as a bedchamber. Since like cats the People can’t see in pitch-darkness, she had a tin candle-lantern, perched on an ale barrel far away from the heap of straw where she’d spread her blankets. When she lit the candle with a snap of her fingers, Rhodry flinched.
“You never truly get used to seeing that,” he said, but he was grinning at her. “May I talk with you a little while? I’d like to ask you a few questions and all that, but I can see you’re weary, so send me right away if you want.”
She hesitated, but not only did he deserve answers, she quite simply didn’t want to be alone.
“Not that tired. Bar the door, will you?”
She sat down on her blankets amid a scatter of her gear, and watched him as he sat by the barrel a few feet away. In the shadow-dancing candlelight she was struck by how good-looking he was, especially for a man who was half-human; somehow, in all the danger and hard work of the past few days, she simply hadn’t noticed. In her dark mood the streak of gray in his hair and the web of lines round his eyes made him seem only more attractive. Here was a man who knew defeat and suffering both.
“Who or what is Evandar?” he said abruptly. “He’s not a man of the People, is he?”
“He’s not, and no more is he human. He’s not truly incarnated or corporeal at all. Do you know what those words mean?”
“Close enough.” He shot her a grin. “Not only did I spend a few years in the company of sorcerers, but I was raised a Maelwaedd. I’ve a bit more learning than most border lords or silver daggers either.”
“Well, my apologies—”
“No need, no need. I don’t suppose anyone else in this dun would know what you’re talking about, except maybe young Yraen, and he wouldn’t believe you.” They shared a soft laugh.
“But Evandar’s only one of an entire host of beings, some like him—true individuals, I mean. The others are about as conscious as clever animals but no more, and there’s even some who seem to have never truly evolved at all into anything you could call a man or woman.”
“Indeed? And what about that badger-headed thing that keeps trying to steal this whistle?” Rhodry laid a hand on his shirt, just above his belt. “Is he one of Evandar’s people?”
“He’s not, but a renegade from another host, headed by Evandar’s brother, and a strange thing that is.” She shuddered again, remembering the sheer malice in the black and vulpine eyes, “I don’t truly understand them myself, Rhodry. I’m not trying to put you off. You’re probably thinking of the old stories, of how I left Aderyn hundreds of years ago, but you’ve got to remember that as Evandar’s world reckons Time, I’ve only been there a month or so.”
His lips parted in a soft “oh” of surprise.
“No more do I know what that whistle may be,” she went on. “I suspect that it’s not magical at all, but just a trinket, like that ring of yours.”
“Now wait! If there’s no dweomer on this ring, why does that female keep trying to take it back?”
“Alshandra? Evandar told me about your skirmishes with her. She doesn’t truly understand what she’s doing. I fear me that she’s gone mad.”
“Oh, splendid!” Rhodry snarled. “Here I am, chased round two kingdoms by a thing from the Otherlands and a mad spirit, and no one even knows why! I just might go daft myself, out of spite if naught more.”
“I couldn’t hold it to your shame, but it would be a great pity if you did. You’re going to need your wits about you.”
“No doubt. I always have, for all of my wretched life, except perhaps for those few years out on the grass. That’s the only peace I’ve ever known, Dalla, those years with the People.”
All at once he looked so weary, so spent, really, that she leaned forward and laid her hand on his knee.
“It aches my heart to see you so sad, but you’ve got a tangled Wyrd, sure enough, and there’s naught that I or any other dweomerworker can do about that.”
He nodded, putting his hand over hers, just a friendly gesture at first, but it seemed to her that a warmth grew and spread between them. His fingers, the rough, callused fingers of a fighting man, tightened on her hand. She hesitated, thinking of Evandar, but when she sent her mind ranging out, she could sense nothing but a vast distance between them. When Rhodry raised her hand and kissed her fingertips, just lightly, she felt the warmth spread as if it were mead, flowing through her blood. He rose to his knees, pulling her up with him. She laid her free hand flat on his chest.
“In a few days I’ll have to leave this world and go back to the one I’ve made my own. If you ride with his lordship to the settlement, I could well be gone by the time you return, and by the time I come back to your world, a hundred years might have passed.”
“And would it ache your heart, to ride back and find me gone?”
“It would, but not enough to keep me here. In all fairness, you need to know that.”
He smiled, but in the candlelight his eyes seemed wells of sadness.
“A silver dagger’s no man to make demands upon a great lady, or to tax her comings and goings.”
She would have said something to comfort him, but he kissed her, hesitantly at first, then openmouthed and passionately when she slipped into his arms. At first she was shocked by how strong, how solid he was, real muscle and bone, warm flesh and the smell of flesh and sweat. When he laid her down in the straw, she could feel his weight, and his mouth seemed to burn on hers, and on her face and neck as he kissed her over and over, as if she were feverish and he, the healer. She found herself digging her fingertips into his back just for the sensation of solid flesh beneath her hands and pressing against him as tight as she could just for his warmth—an animal warmth, she realized suddenly, just as somehow she’d forgotten that she too was an animal, no matter how great her dweomer powers, no matter how far above the world of flesh she’d come to dwell. At that moment she was nothing but glad that he was making her remember.
Afterward, she lay panting and sweaty in his arms and listened to his heart pounding close to hers. The candle threw guttering shadows
on the wooden walls as outside the wind rose, whispering in the thatch. Rhodry kissed her eyes, her mouth, then loosened his hold upon her and moved a little away. He looked so sad that she laid her hand alongside his face; he turned his head and kissed her fingers, but he said nothing, merely watched the shadows leaping this way and that. She sat up, running both hands through her hair and sweeping it back from her face.
“Do you really have to ride with Erddyr when he goes?” she said.
He grinned at that and looked her way again.
“I already said we would, Yraen and me.”
“Is it going to be safe? Erddyr said something about Adry’s men wanting to kill you.”
“And the laws will make the gwerbret forbid them any such thing, if I appeal in his court. I want it over and settled before we ride on.” He sat up, stretching and yawning. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a fancy to travel the roads with a silver dagger? You don’t have to answer that, mind, just a wondering. I know you’ve work at hand, and I—ye gods! What’s that?”
She slewed round and saw someone—or something—crouched in the shadows at the curve of the wall. It was too small to be the snouted creature she’d seen before; more doglike, it had tiny red eyes that glowed like coals in a fire and long fangs that glistened wet. When Dallandra flung up one hand and sketched a sigil in the air, it shrieked and disappeared. Rhodry swore under his breath.
“I wish you’d just give me that wretched whistle and be done with it,” she said.
“What? And let you face those creatures instead of me?”
“I happen to know how to deal with them.”
“Tirue spoken. But if I give it to you, what will you do? Go back to that other country?” All at once he grinned. “I’d rather you tarried here a little while longer.”
“Oh, would you now?”
She saw the whistle lying not far away, where it had rolled when he’d taken his shirt off, and made a grab at it. He was too fast, catching her wrists and dragging her back, even though she struggled with him. She found herself laughing, let him pull her close, kissed him until he let her go so they could lie down together again. But before he made love to her, he picked the whistle up and tucked it into the straw under her head, where nothing could steal it away.
This time, when they were finished, he fell asleep, so suddenly, so completely, that it seemed he would sink into the straw and disappear. She slipped free of his arms and stood up. As naked as a country woman worshiping her goddess in the fields, she raised her arms and called down the light. Moving deosil she used her outstretched hand as a weapon to draw a circle of blue light round the hut and seal it at the quarters with the sigils of the kings of the elements. With a flick of her hand she set the circle moving, turning, glowing golden as it formed into a revolving sphere with the sleeping Rhodry safe in its center. No member of any host, whether elemental or astral, could breach this wall
As silently as she could, she sat down next to him and worked the whistle free from the straw. She could steal it now, slip out into the night, and be gone to Evandar’s country before he even woke for an argument. No doubt Tlmryc would arrive on the morrow to nurse her charges; she could even scry and make sure of that, then leave in perfect conscience. Yet as she watched her human lover sleeping in the light of a guttering candle, she wondered if she wanted to return to Evandar. She felt not the slightest guilt at having betrayed him, if indeed betrayal was even the proper word. The fleshy, sweaty love she’d just shared with Rhodry was so different from anything she’d ever experienced with Evandar that she simply couldn’t equate the two. They belong in different worlds, indeed, she thought to herself. And I? I suppose I belong in this one, no matter what I may want or think, no matter how it aches my heart.
Eventually she would return to the world and the Westlands, once her work was done, her service to Evandar’s host all paid. Although she would always see life as a burden, no matter what compensations it might offer from now on, she could thank Rhodry for making her remember that she belonged to the life of the world. In the meantime, too much depended upon her, not merely Evandar’s happiness but his soul, and that of his daughter and all their kind as well, for her to linger in the lands of men. No matter what doubts she might have, she loved Elessario and Evandar both too well to condemn them.
In his sleep Rhodry stirred, sighing, burrowing his face into the crook of his arm like a child. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to stay with him a little while, riding the Deverry roads, but she knew that he would only come to bore her, and the fine thing they’d shared would grow tarnished. She would leave Rhodry behind, but she refused to be a thief. She tossed the whistle onto his shirt, put the candle out with a snap of her fingers, then lay down to cuddle next to him for their last few hours together.
Some hours after dawn, Dallandra woke to find Rhodry already gone, and the whistle with him. She threw on her clothes and hurried outside to find the ward empty and silent. Inside the great hall, a page informed her that Erddyr and his ritual escort, including Yraen and Rhodry, had already ridden out, heading for the settlement ground just as dawn was breaking.
“Shall I bring you some food, good dame?”
“My thanks, but I’d best tend the wounded first.”
“Oh, Timryc the chirurgeon’s doing that. He and one of his apprentices rode in just as the men were leaving.”
Again she felt her relief as a rush of tears. She wiped her face on her sleeve while the page watched, all solemn-eyed.
“Then I’ll have some breakfast, lad, and my thanks for the news.”
It took Dallandra a few hours to settle matters at the dun, discussing her patients with Timryc, making her farewells. Just as she was riding out the gates, Lord Comerr’s chamberlain came rushing after with a sack of silver coins, which he insisted she take with his thanks before she rode on. By the time she could no longer see the towers from the road, the sun was at its zenith. Out in the middle of pastureland she found a stream, running through the shelter of trees. She set her horse and mule out to graze, then treated herself to a bath elven style, in the fast-running clean water instead of some dirty wooden tub.
Once she was dressed and dry, she sat on the bank, watched the sun dappling the ripples as it broke through the branches of the trees, and thought of Evandar. This time he came. She felt his presence first as a sound, as if someone called her name from a great distance; then she had the same sensation as a person reading in a chamber who feels rather than sees someone step silently through the door. In a rustle of leaves and branches he walked out from between two trees, and no matter what she might have done with Rhodry the night before, she felt herself smiling as if her face would split from it at the sight of him. Laughing, he folded her into his arms and gave her one of his oddly cool kisses. He smelt clean, like the stream water, not like flesh at all.
“You look pale, my love,” he remarked in Deverrian. “Is somewhat troubling your heart?”
“I’ve just spent a ghastly week or two, truly, tending men wounded in battle, and more than a few of them died, no matter how I tried to help them.”
“A sad thing, that.”
She knew that he felt no honest compassion, but that he would mimic it for her sake was comfort enough.
“Rhodry still has the whistle,” she said. “He wouldn’t give it up. He says he wants to have a talk with you, and that you’ll have to come fetch it back yourself.”
Evandar laughed with a flash of his sharp white teeth.
“Then a talk he shall have. I like a man with mettle, I do. Imph, I suppose I’d best stay here in this world. If I go back with you, I might miss him entirely.”
“True spoken. Here, where were you? I called for you—well, last night it would have been here, whatever that might have been in your country.”
For a moment he looked puzzled.
“Ah! I’d gone to the islands to see how Jill fares. She’s been ill, it turns out, but now she�
��s well again and learning much new dweomer lore. She’ll be growing wings like one of us next, if she keeps on this way.”
“That’s a dangerous thing for a human being to try to learn. I wonder how skilled her teachers are, and if they know the differences from soul to soul.”
Evandar laughed aloud.
“I’d wager a great deal that they do, my love, but you look like a mother cat chasing her kittens away from danger! Get on your way back, then. I’ll take your horse and follow our Rhodry down. I doubt me if I’ll tell him what he wants to know, but maybe he’ll have a riddle or two to trade.”
“Well and good, then.” She paused to kiss him on the mouth. “And you promised me you’d return that stolen mule and all its goods, didn’t you now?”
“So I did, so I did. I’ll summon one of my people straightaway, I promise you.”
“My thanks. Meet me by our river.”
With him so close beside her, she could use his particular dweomer to breach the planes. She floated onto the surface of the stream and dashed along the rippled road, saw the fog of the Gatelands opening out, and stepped up and through. She had just time to turn and wave to Evandar, standing on the streamside, before the fog shut her round. At her neck hung again the amethyst figurine. She kept walking through the misty landscape beyond gate until she could be sure that Evandar and the lands of men lay far behind her. Then she sat down on a cold, damp hillside and wept for Rhodry Maelwaedd, whom most likely she’d never again.
The neutral ground turned out to be a day and a half’s ride from Lord Comerr’s and down in the plains on the Deverry side of the Pyrdon hills. Out in front of the walled dun of a certain Tieryn Magryn, whose chief distinction lay in his lack of ties to either Comerr or Adry, the gwerbret’s warband had set up camp in a meadow lush with spring grass. As soon as Lord Erddyr and his escort dismounted, a hundred men surrounded them—all in the friendliest possible way, but Yraen knew that they were being taken under arrest to keep them away from Lord Nomyr and his riders. Some of the gwerbret’s men took their horses; others escorted them on a strict path through canvas tents. At the far end, a few hundred yards from the hill of the dun, stood a long, canvas pavilion, draped with the green and blue banners of the gwerbrets of Dun Trebyc to cover the rips and weather stains. A tall blond man in his thirties, Gwerbret Drwmyc sat in a chair carved with the eagle blazon of his clan. Behind him stood two councillors, and a scribe sat at a tiny table nearby.
Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 33