Days of Blood and Fire

by Katharine Kerr

  “I told you that?” For a long moment he sat silently. “Well, he stole it from me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The warrior growled with a long flash of fangs.

  “Why do you want it?” Evandar said.

  “Because it’s mine.”

  “That’s no answer at all, and how can I gift you with it if it were already yours?”

  “You’d give it to me?”

  “Tell me why you want it, and I might.”

  The fox warrior considered, turning in his saddle to look back at his court, then swinging round again to face Evandar. His horse stamped and tossed its head. Dallandra felt a cold dread. She didn’t want that evil whistle in enemy hands, and especially not after Rhodry had carried it for so long in the lands of men. Just as she was about to speak the fox warrior got in before her.

  “I need it as a ransom,” he said. “The rebels have taken one of my women, and they’ll not give her back till I fetch them the whistle.”

  “They’ve grown so bold?”

  “They have. They camp on my borders, and I’ve seen some of your folk among them, too, rebels all and gone off to follow Alshandra.”

  Evandar turned his head and spat on the ground.

  “Then I’d recommend, younger brother, that you ride your borders as carefully as I ride mine.”

  “How can I when the Lands sicken and pale?”

  Evandar ignored the question. When he snapped his fingers, the bone whistle appeared, clasped in his hand. The fox warrior started to lunge forward, then pulled himself and his horse under control.

  “The loss of a woman is a painful thing,” Evandar said. “Here.”

  When he tossed the whistle over, his brother snatched it from the air, then jerked his horse’s head round and spurred it hard. As he galloped off toward the sunrise, the Dark Court howled and screeched, then spurred their own mounts to ride after him, until out of the retreating army it seemed that a vast storm rose up and raged, charging toward the horizon like a living thing. Just as suddenly it collapsed in a swirl and scatter of brown dust. The plain stretched empty and silent.

  “I worry, my love,” Dallandra said. “Why do those rebels want that whistle so badly?”

  “Probably for the same reason they made the wretched thing in the first place rather than some new mischief.”

  Evandar turned his horse and jogged back to the waiting Host, leaving her no choice but to follow and to hope that he was right about the whistle. There were dweomer-workers who could pick up visions and the astral equivalent of scents from objects that a person had handled for a long time. She didn’t want such on Rhodry’s trail to work him harm.

  “The border lies secure!” Evandar called out. “Let us return, and as a reward I’ll raise the golden pavilion. Feasting and dancing, my friends! There’ll be feasting and dancing.”

  Although the Bright Court roared its approval, Dallandra was troubled. She’d never seen him reward them before, and she suddenly wondered if he were trying to buy their wavering loyalty. As they returned home, she noticed again that the lands along their route seemed solid and renewed, as if he were pouring energy into them as they rode through. When they reached the meadow by the riverbank, they found the trees growing green and tall, with wild roses and daffodils sprinkled in the grass. The Host cheered, howling out Evandar’s name over and over. He raised a hand in acknowledgment, but said nothing. They fell silent and dismounted, leading their horses away and disappearing as they reached the river, only to reappear without their mounts. Evandar sat on horseback and watched them unsmiling.

  “What’s wrong?” Dallandra said. “Somewhat is.”

  “Oh, I was merely wondering”—Evandar spoke so softly that only she could hear him—“if I’ve done a weak thing and thus a wrong thing. By giving my brother the whistle, I mean.”

  “It seems to me that you did a noble thing, helping him rescue his woman.”

  “True, in your mind and the minds of men and elves, and even in my own mind, that was a noble thing. But in his mind? It’s likely that in his mind it was a sign of weakness and naught more. Well, what’s done is done, even here in my country.”

  Much later, when it was far too late to turn ill into good, she was to remember this conversation and to realize that indeed, Evandar’s profound mistrust of his brother had been justified.

  While Dallandra was riding with the Bright Court, Jill had shut herself up in her chamber and devoted herself to scrying and meditation in a kind of border ride of her own — Occasionally a frightened page had knocked on the door to deliver food and water and take away leavings, but no one else had dared come near — Since despite its great power the dweomer has strict limits, Jill was working under considerable disadvantages. If she had ever seen these magical enemies in the flesh, she could have scried them out, or if they’d been nearby she could have scouted them on the etheric plane in her body of light — As it was, of course, she didn’t even know their names, and they were apparently staying away from Cengarn, judging from the utter lack of any evidence of their presence.

  When Jill traveled on the etheric, she used not the elaborate hawk form, but a simple, stylized version of her own body modeled out of the bluish etheric substance and joined to her physical body by a silver cord, navel to navel, along which energy passed back and forth to sustain both her flesh and her consciousness — Although this creation wasn’t alive in any sense, it did serve as a vehicle for her consciousness and for her true etheric double, such as every person possesses — Unfortunately, this process has its own limits, particularly in the distance away from the body that a dweomermaster can safely travel — Without a constant in-flux of new energy, the body of light, as this thought-form’s called, tends to start breaking up, leaving the etheric double naked and vulnerable, at the mercy of the winds and currents of pure force that flow constantly through the higher planes — Damage to the etheric double can kill a person, even a great master of dweomer — Any damage to the silver cord will kill the person instantly, by snapping the major link between the flesh and the upper levels of consciousness.

  So Jill was forced to stay fairly close to Cengarn on her night hunts — She could travel farther in this form than she could as the hawk, but not truly far enough for her tastes— some hundred miles in any one direction, a good five days’ ride for a raiding party, and a fair warning, certainly, compared to none at all, provided of course that she’d chosen the right direction in the first place. But always she was mindful that any new lot of raiders would have dweomer with them, powerful dweomer, no doubt, from a system alien to her. She simply didn’t know what this other mazrak might or might not be able to do, though she doubted that the ability to hide an entire army would be among his or her powers.

  At about the same time that Dallandra and Evandar were returning to the riverbank—though in their world only a few hours had passed—Jill decided that four days of futile effort were enough. First she had the pages bring up hot water for a bath, so she could change her clothes and make herself presentable; then she went down into the great hall to confer with Gwerbret Cadmar. As she was leaving the side broch, she saw Jahdo watching the kitchen boys kick a leather ball back and forth over the cobbles. When she hailed him, Jahdo came over, but she could see how frightened of her he was.

  “How come you’re not joining in the game?” she said.

  “They won’t let me. Alli won’t let them let me.”

  “Oh. He is a little snot, isn’t he?”

  Jahdo merely shrugged, misery graved on his face.

  “I’ll have a word with the lad, if you’d like.”

  “Well, my thanks, my lady, but that’ll only make it worse. Rhodry says I should call you my lady, by the way. Be that right?”

  “It is, though I doubt if our arrogant Allonry considers me one.”

  “I don’t suppose you could turn Alli into a frog, could you? Just for a little while, like?”

  Jill laughed.


  “I’m afraid I can’t, Jahdo lad, though I’ll admit that the sight of him hopping round would bring us all a good laugh. But here, other than our puffed-up lordling, have you and Meer been well treated? It’s important to me, you know, and I left orders to that effect.”

  “We have, truly,”

  “Good. Run an errand for me, will you? Go fend Rhodry for me, and tell him I’ve come down from the tower.”

  “I will.” Jahdo brightened up considerably. “You know, I did hate him when he captured us, but now I kind of like Rhodry. He can’t have done anything that dishonorable. Just because he be a silver dagger, I mean.”

  “Well, actually he didn’t, but I don’t dare tell you more. He’d be in a temper over it, if I did.”

  “Oh, well, now, I wouldn’t want that.”

  Jahdo trotted off on his errand, and Jill went inside the great hall. At the dragon hearth of honor the gwerbret was sitting with his lords, while nearby the bard and Meer sat together, a harp between them, and discussed how it was played in low voices, so as not to disturb the noble-born. Jill was honestly surprised at how easily the Gel da’Thae and his boy had fitted into the life of the dun—until she remembered that they’d had days to do so, while she’d been shut up working. She still didn’t want Meer going into the town, though, where the citizens would have no way of knowing that he was under the gwerbret’s direct protection, and she made a mental note to tell him to stay away from it. At her approach the gwerbret rose, calling for a chair, and Matyc and Gwinardd inclined their heads in her direction. Jill made an impersonal bow all round.

  “Your Grace, I’ve come to tell you that as far as I can tell, Cengarn’s in no immediate danger. But I can’t swear to you that the raiders won’t return and soon. I believe that they have good reason to make another strike upon us.”

  “Indeed?” Cadmar said. “I see. Well, that’s grim news.”

  “Your Grace?” Gwinardd broke in. “You know that my men and me are at your disposal for as long as you need us.”

  “And mine, too, of course,” Matyc said, much more slowly.

  “But you’ve got a few affairs of your own that could use a little tending, eh?” Cadmar smiled. “And the same goes for you, too, Gwinardd, I’m sure. You both have my leave to return to your own lands if it’s needful, just so long as you return if our enemies do.”

  “I don’t know if it is or not, to be honest, Your Grace,” Matyc said. “I’ll send a messenger to my lady straightaway, by your leave.”

  “Of course. We all need to discuss this matter at some length, once you’ve heard from your wives and stewards.”

  Matyc and Gwinardd rose, bowed all round, and strode off. Cadmar watched them go, then turned Jill’s way with a questioning eyebrow raised. It was time, she realized, for honesty, but although she was perfectly willing to tell the gwerbret everything she knew, she wondered how much he would understand. A version of the truth would be, no doubt, truer than the truth itself, and she had one ready.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “Let me put the matter simply. Someone is trying to kill Carra in order to kill Dar’s unborn child and heir. They had faulty information about her whereabouts and sent that raiding party into your territory too soon. I doubt me if they know what she looks like, either.”

  “And so they killed every pregnant woman they found.” Cadmar looked physically sick for a moment. “Our prince has some ruthless enemies, I’d say. More like demons than men.”

  “Well, they’re not truly human nor elven, either.” Jill considered for a moment, then decided to let him continue to think of the prince as the enemy’s target. “If they can kill him, you see, his clan will be dead. He’s the last heir to any of the seven thrones of the far west, so that makes him the only heir to all of them, well, such as they are.”

  Cadmar smiled in a brief and painful way.

  “The prince has told me the situation. Weeds and nettles, broken stones and wild animals—that’s my kingdom and courtiers, Your Grace, or so the lad always says. But I take it that someone else wouldn’t mind having the title to the wrack and ruin, eh?”

  “As far as I can tell, that’s the case. The ancestors of the Gel da’Thae destroyed the kingdom somewhere back in the misty past, and judging from what Meer tells me, they still rule what’s left of it. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that some ruler or other wants to legitimize his claim. It’s a story that’s happened many times before.”

  “They’re human enough for that, eh? Wanting their title to rest secure, without the true king running round siring heirs to it. An old tale, indeed. Hum. I wonder if there’s a faction seeking to overthrow this ruler? They could easily be threatening to bring back the old line.”

  “That’s also happened, many times over. Meer’s cursed closemouthed, Your Grace, not that I blame the man, but there we are. I’m only going on partial information, but I think we can say that the situation’s dangerous.”

  “You do have a gift for understatement, Jill. Very well. The prince and his people have done me many a favor in the past, and we have a treaty of sorts between us, too. Let’s be honest. Without the Westfolk trading us horses, we’d all be walking to war, not riding, up here in these rocky hills. And now these raiders have caused me and mine great harm. I think me we can say it’s war.” The gwerbret rose, and of course, she stood with him. “I’ll have a little talk, like, with my captain and the chamberlain, just to see how we stand in the way of provisions, men, spare horses, such things as that.”

  Jill bowed and left him, reaching the back door of the great hall just as Rhodry stepped in. Seeing him silhouetted against the sunlight made a dweomer warning clench round her heart. She turned so cold that she swore, shuddering. All his life Rhodry had been marked for some strange Wyrd, though none had ever been able to read all its omens, not even her master and teacher, who’d been the greatest sorcerer in all of Deverry’s history. But at that moment in Cad-mar’s hall, Jill saw Rhodry’s Wyrd hovering over him, as if on wings, and while she knew not what would bring it to him, she did know that it meant the death of everything he had ever been or ever hoped to be. Before she could stop herself, she cried out, clasping both hands over her mouth. Rhodry laughed, striding over.

  “What’s so wrong?” he said. “It’s just me.”

  Jill let her hands fall.

  “I’ve too much dweomer spinning round and round in my mind these days, Rhoddo. Forgive me—you just startled me, that’s all.”

  He smiled, rocking a little on the balls of his feet, glancing round, as wary as a wild animal even in his temporary lord’s hall. For a moment she could remember what it had been like to love him, all those many years ago.

  “Forgive me,” she said again. “My heart aches, just from sheer weariness. I’ll need to talk with you, but there’s no hurry.”

  “You’re not ill again, are you?” His smile turned to alarm, and he reached out an automatic hand.

  “Not in the least.”

  She dodged round him and made her escape, hurrying out to the fresher air of the ward, before she made a horrible mistake and told him what she’d seen. Some omens were best left unread. Yet all afternoon she found herself thinking of Rhodry, just in odd moments as she went about her magical work in the tower. All men die, she reminded herself. He’s courted death for years, whether he was a silver dagger or a warlord in Aberwyn, and now he’s pressing his suit night and day, him with his strange talk of his lady Death and the love he bears her. He’s growing old. We both are. That’s no doubt all the omen meant.

  As twilight began to deepen over the dun, she found it impossible to stay in her chamber alone, as she usually did. She went Mown, slipped into the great hall, and got a seat back in the curve of the wall where none would notice her. That evening Meer performed, the first time anyone in Deverry had ever heard a Gel da’Thae bard. In the dancing light and shadow from torch and candle-lantern, Meer stood by the dragon hearth to sing. For the occasion he had put on a leather tunic that was
painted in strange designs— characters from the elven syllabary, but oddly distorted and forming no words, set round with bands of flowers and looping vines that had obviously been copied from some elven source. He’d washed and redone his huge mane of hair, too, and all the little charms and amulets braided into it caught the light and glinted when he moved. As he sang he kept time on a small drum, slapping it with one huge hand, while his new friend the bard struck chords on the harp behind him.

  Strange though the music was, every person in the hall sat rapt, aware that this was a momentous event they were witnessing. As Jill listened to the music rise and fall, wail and tremble, she came close to weeping, just from feeling the eternal sadness of the life that all sentient beings, whether Horsekin or elf or human, must share upon this earth.

  3

  PUELLA

  A fortunate figure, especially when it disposes itself into the House of Gold and the House of Steel, and yet, such are all things female that at times it does undermine the figures round it and turn them into twisted ways. If it fall into the House of Lead a great heaviness shall wear it down, and sickness prevail over the strong.

  The Omenbook of Gwarn, Loremaster

  THE WOMEN’S HALL OCCUPIED the entire second floor of the main broch, except for the small, closed-off landing round the spiral staircase. In the company of the gwerbret’s wife, Labanna, and her two serving women, Princess Carramaena spent much of her time in this ample chamber during the day, while her husband was off with the men, hunting and tending to other important affairs. Since before her marriage Carra had been only the third daughter of a very poor lord, down south Pyrdon way, she had never had the luxury of an entire hall at her disposal before, with cushioned furniture, tapestries on the walls, fresh braided rushes for carpeting, and silver oddments scattered round on little tables. Since it was up above the ward, the air there smelled clean and sweet, unlike the smoky den of the great hall, filled with men who smelled of horse sweat as much as their own.