A Time of Exile

by Katharine Kerr

  “So do I, Wise One. Maybe I’ve misjudged the Round-ears. Let’s just hope that there’s more men like Aderyn in Eldidd.”

  On the trip south, Melaudd kept the warband riding fast from dun to dun of his allies and vassals. Everywhere they stopped, the lords offered encouragement and support. The consensus seemed to be that these blasted Westfolk had caused enough trouble, and the sooner they were shoved back to open land, the better. But when they reached Aberwyn, they had a nasty surprise waiting for them. They would, of course, be staying in the dun of the Dragon Prince, but so, it turned out, was this prince of the Westfolk and his escort. Out of simple fairness, Addryc had offered Halaberiel his shelter and protection. Every man in the warband saw this courtesy as a betrayal. Dovyn was furious enough to talk openly in front of the men.

  “What do you wager those cursed merchants are behind this? Piss-poor coin polishers!”

  “Now here, lad,” Melaudd said, and sharply. “Trade’s important to Aberwyn. I’m as angry as you are, but you have to understand his highness’s position. Watch your tongue while we’re here.”

  “How can you insult our prince, Father? Do you really think he values coin more than honor?”

  “I said, hold your tongue! You’re a young cub yet and not quite licked into shape, so you leave all the talking to me.”

  When the Bear’s warband came into the hall for dinner, they found their rivals there ahead of them, seated as far across the riders’ side of the hall as possible and surrounded by Aberwyn’s men. Another portion of Addryc’s warband surrounded the Bears—in the friendliest possible way, of course—and sat them down. Cinvan accepted a tankard of ale from a servant girl and peered across the vast smoky hall to the honor hearth, where the noble-born and their guests were drinking mead. Prince Addryc was seated at the head of the table with Melaudd and Dovyn to his left and the elven leader at his right. The fellow was tall, even for one of the Westfolk, and he certainly looked like a prince; it wasn’t just his finery, Cinvan decided, it was the way he moved and talked with the ease of someone who’s used to being obeyed. Next to him sat a slender young man, quite human-looking, with untidy brown hair and dark eyes, who seemed to be included in whatever important conversation was going on. Cinvan tapped one of the Aberwyn men on the shoulder.

  “Who’s that next to that Halaberiel fellow?” Cinvan said. “The skinny fellow swimming in his fancy shirt.”

  “The prince’s councillor, Aderyn. Everyone says he’s got dweomer.”

  “Ah, horseshit. Old wives’ tale.”

  “Oh, is it now? I wouldn’t be so sure, lad.”

  Cinvan turned to Garedd, who merely shrugged in suspended judgment. Cinvan felt a small cold fear at the very possibility of dweomer. It was as if he should remember something, or know something, or take some warning—he simply couldn’t understand his own thoughts. Fortunately the servants came to the table with roast beef and bread to distract him from the unfamiliar and painful process of introspection.

  Later that night, though, Cinvan came face to face with this mysterious young councillor. He went out to the ward to relieve himself of some of the prince’s ale, and as he was coming back in, he met Aderyn going out, doubtless for the same reason. Just in case this unprepossessing lad did have some kind of magic, Cinvan made him a civil bow and stepped aside. Aderyn nodded pleasantly, then stopped to look him full in the face. As he stared into those owl-dark eyes, Cinvan turned cold. He felt pierced and pinned to the wall behind him like a rabbit skin stretched out to dry. At last Aderyn smiled and released him.

  “Here, good sir,” Cinvan stammered, “do I know you from somewhere?”

  “Oh, you do indeed, but you won’t remember.”

  Aderyn walked on, leaving Cinvan shaking behind him. Cinvan hurried back to the table and the comfort of Garedd’s company. He picked up his tankard and drank a good bit of it straight off.

  “What did the councillor say to you?” Garedd said. “There at the door, I mean.”

  “Oh, naught that counted for much, but he’s got dweomer, sure enough.”

  Dinner that night at the prince’s table was a tense affair, with conversation not likely to help one’s digestion. With the roast pork Addryc demanded and got statements from both claimants, then let them glare at each other while he considered the matter. With the baked apples he remarked that he was sure that some treaty or another could be worked out, once he’d consulted the priests on the laws.

  “A treaty, Your Highness?” Halaberiel remarked. “We’ve had experience of your treaties before, I’m afraid.”

  “And what do you mean by that, my prince?” Addryc said in a smooth and level voice.

  “The matter of the lands beyond that village of yours, the one called Cannobaen.”

  Addryc winced and considered his apple, swimming in cream in a silver bowl.

  “My heart aches with shame over that matter, but there was naught I could do. I forbade the lords in question to settle out beyond the treaty boundary.”

  “Then why, pray tell, are they still there?”

  “Because they removed themselves from my jurisdiction and bound themselves in personal fealty to my father, the king. I was furious, frankly, but what could I do? Declare war on my own father? That was my only choice.”

  Halaberiel raised one eyebrow in polite disbelief, but he did allow the prince to change the subject.

  Rather than prolong the agony of having rivals eating at his table, Prince Addryc held malover on the disputed land near Loc Cyrtaer the morning after the Bears’ arrival. They met in a half-round of a room where the dragon banner of Aberwyn and the hippogriff blazon of all Eldidd draped damp stone walls. Bronze charcoal braziers, glowing cherry red against the chill, stood as common as chairs. The prince sat at a narrow writing desk with the ceremonial sword of Aberwyn in front of him and a scribe with pens and parchment at his right hand. Behind him stood two councillors and a priest of Bel, there to advise on the holy laws. In front of him, Aderyn and Halaberiel had chairs to the right while Melaudd and his son sat off to the left. Although the prince was an imposing man, sitting straight and tall, with touches of wisdom’s gray in his raven-dark hair and the snap of command in his dark blue eyes, Aderyn felt sorry for Addryc, who was also intelligent enough to see that any decision he made would be the wrong one, caught as he was between the powerful merchant guild on the one hand and his noble vassals on the other. In hopes of bringing the banadar to a mood to compromise, Aderyn had told him the truth, that if Addryc ruled totally in favor of the Westfolk he would be sowing the seeds of a possible rebellion. The legal councillor for the merchant guild had tried to counsel patience, but Aderyn doubted that the banadar had paid much attention to either of them. As they sat together and waited for the proceedings to begin, Halaberiel’s face was set, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, merely distant. It was impossible to tell what he might be thinking. Melaudd and his son, however, were as open as the meadowlands—a barely controlled fury showed in every line of their faces, that anyone, for any reason at all, should cross their will.

  “Very well, my lords,” Addryc said at last. “We discussed this matter extensively last night. I see no need to chew over the stale meat of the case again.”

  Halaberiel and the two lords nodded their agreement.

  “I have consulted also with his holiness here.” Addryc indicated the priest. “He tells me that it would be a grave and impious thing for any man to settle upon, cut wood upon, or plow a sacred burial ground. No doubt the gods of the Westfolk would join great Bel in cursing such an action.”

  When Dovyn began to speak, Melaudd glared him into silence.

  “I assure Your Highness and his holiness both that never would my son or I commit such an impiety,” Melaudd said. “If his highness, the prince of the Westfolk, will see to it that the limits of this sacred ground are clearly marked, I will see to it that no man steps upon it unless for some sacred purpose.”

  “Well and good, then.” Addryc turne
d to Halaberiel. “And will his highness so undertake to mark the land?”

  “I will,” Halaberiel said. “With swords, if need be.”

  Addryc winced. Melaudd rose from his chair.

  “And does the prince doubt my word?”

  “Never,” Halaberiel said calmly. “But my lord will not live forever, and who knows what men will come after him?”

  The moment was saved. Melaudd bowed and sat back. The two Aberwyn councillors sighed in relief. Aderyn himself found that he’d been holding his breath and let it out again.

  “Very well, then,” Addryc said. “I shall have a formal writ drawn up, declaring the sanctity of those forests, and posted publicly in both Cernmeton and Elrydd for all to see.”

  The scribe dipped a pen in an inkwell and wrote a few notes, the pen scratching painfully loud in the silence.

  “Now, to turn to the remainder of the land under dispute,” Addryc said. “My lord Dovyn, the prince has offered you a compromise, land that you may settle upon farther north and east.”

  “And why should I compromise?” Dovyn snapped. “Does he claim every bit of land in Eldidd?”

  Melaudd forgot himself enough to slap his son on the shoulder, but the damage was done. Halaberiel rose and looked the young lad over.

  “My lord, I own nothing,” Halaberiel said, “any more than any noble lord of your people owns the land lent to him by the gods. The only property that either of us may claim with any certainty is the six feet of land that your kin will use to bury you someday, and the single tree that my kin will cut to burn me in that same future. There is, however, land that the People use, and land that we never travel upon. I merely suggest to your arrogant soul that you might take land that’s of no use to other men and thus spare us all a good deal of trouble.”

  Dovyn flushed a scarlet red. Halaberiel sat back down and looked the prince’s way.

  “My prince Halaberiel.” Addryc shot a nervous glance at Melaudd. “I’ve explained the laws of Eldidd to you. If you wish to make certain your claim to this hunting preserve is honored by our laws, then you must be in residence upon the land for a certain portion of every year. A man who lets land lie unused forfeits all claims to it.”

  “I understand, and it’s a sensible ruling in its way. You’ll find me there every spring.”

  “Done, then.” Addryc turned to Melaudd. “My lord, there is land for the taking just north of your demesne along the banks of the Gwynaver. May I ask why your son didn’t put in a claim to that empty land?”

  “Because he wanted to settle on the lakeshore, Your Highness,” Melaudd said. “There aren’t any settlements on the lakes, and it’s rich land and a strong defensive position.” He shot Halaberiel a daggered glance. “The day may come when Your Highness wishes there were a strong and loyal dun there.”

  Addryc blinked twice. The priest looked as if he were silently praying.

  “And I’ll say something else, by your leave,” Melaudd went on. “I’ve never heard of Westfolk having kings until we received your message, and I’ll wager you never did either. It strikes me as strange that you’d turn away from the men who’ve served you loyally for so long in favor of a stranger.”

  “And have I turned away from you yet?” Addryc said levelly. “I have yet to pronounce my judgment.”

  Abashed, Melaudd looked away.

  “My prince.” Addryc turned to Halaberiel. “I’m considering asking you to surrender land for Dovyn’s demesne at the lakeshore. In return, I’ll grant you and your people a clear, formal, and indisputable title to the land along the west bank of the Gwynaver. With my seal upon the charter, this matter will never rise again. The burying ground and the north shore of the lake will be yours. The south shore and a dun at the river’s mouth will be Dovyn’s. All the land between the lake and the Gwynaver will be yours to hunt in or to fortify as you think fit.”

  “With Bears on the south shore, fortification might be in order,” Halaberiel said. “Your Highness, I realize that this is a difficult judgment for you. You have offered a generous settlement, one which I’m minded to take. On the other hand, I have vassals just as you do. No one among my people will give up the south shore easily—I warn you. You’re sitting there squirming, wondering if your lords will cause you trouble if you favor me. I’m sitting here squirming just as hard, wondering what my people will think of me if I take this bargain. Do you understand?”

  It was so high-handed, foreign, and utterly honest that the councillors and priests gasped aloud. Addryc leaned back in his chair and sighed, running his fingers over the hilt of the ornate ceremonial sword—he understood all too well. Halaberiel turned to Aderyn with one pale eyebrow raised.

  “And what does my honored councillor advise?” Halaberiel said.

  For privacy Aderyn rose, bowed to the prince, and led Halaberiel outside to the hall.

  “I think we should take it, Hal. It’s the best we’re going to get, and Nananna will work on keeping down resentment. You’re not truly the kind of prince who has to worry about rebellions, and Addryc is.”

  “Poor old Addryc. Well, we’ve saved the death-ground, and truly, that was first in my mind. I don’t trust these Bears, though. How long will it be before they push their greedy snouts northward? That young cub needs to be turned over someone’s knee and spanked.”

  “Well, you’re right enough, but if you turn down the judgment, then it’s war. Melaudd can rally the prince’s other vassals against you because you’ve refused the prince’s judgment.”

  “Indeed?” Halaberiel considered for a moment. “Well, let me see if I can wring one more concession out of his harried highness.”

  They returned to the dead-silent room. Halaberiel bowed, then stayed standing to address his royal counterpart.

  “Your Highness, your judgment seems fair to me, except for one small point. Will you guarantee me and my people access to the northern lands from the south? The best ford lies in the land you would give the Bears.”

  “I see no reason why you can’t have road rights. The road should be a public one, anyway, so the merchants can use it.”

  When Dovyn started to speak, his father laid a warning hand on his arm.

  “That seems only just, Your Highness,” Melaudd said. “If the prince will guarantee the good conduct of his people as they pass through. I know they travel with sheep and horses, and farmers can’t afford the loss if stock wanders off into their fields.”

  “We shall make a formal pact,” Halaberiel said. “Any trampled grain shall be paid for in mutton and wool.”

  Pleased, Melaudd nodded; the prince smiled; the councillors gave Aderyn small nods of satisfaction that reason had prevailed.

  “And what about when your people steal mine blind?” Dovyn snapped.

  Every seated man in the room rose. The priest of Bel stepped forward, watchful to prevent bloodshed. Halaberiel shook off Aderyn’s restraining hand and strode over to face Dovyn.

  “Just what are you calling me?”

  “Everyone knows the Westfolk are a pack of thieves. Why shouldn’t you be a prince of thieves?”

  With a startled gasp, Melaudd threw himself forward, but too late. Halaberiel slapped Dovyn backhanded across the face so hard that the lad staggered back. Halaberiel turned to the prince in appeal.

  “So this is the kind of court you keep in Eldidd,” Halaberiel said. “Where a man who puts himself under your judgment must listen to insults and lies.”

  “Naught of the sort,” Addryc said levelly. “Lord Dovyn will tender you a formal apology. I trust his father agrees with me on this.”

  “His father does indeed, Your Highness.” Melaudd’s voice shook. “And I’ll tender my own apology first and freely.”

  Everyone was watching the two princes, suddenly united against this presumption of a lesser lord. Aderyn felt a cold dweomer touch and turned to see Dovyn sliding his sword free of its sheath.

  “Don’t!” Aderyn yelled. “Hal, watch out!”

 
; Halaberiel spun around just as Dovyn drew and swung. Aderyn threw himself forward and took a blow on his left hand—mercifully only a glancing one as Dovyn tried to hold up, or he would have been known as Aderyn One-hand forever after. He heard the crack of breaking bone and stared numbly at a surge of blood as the room exploded—yelling, swearing, scuffling among the onlookers, the princes shouting for order, the priest invoking Bel’s name. Melaudd made a frantic grab at his son, pinned him from behind, and shook him so hard that Dovyn dropped the sword. Halaberiel caught Aderyn’s shoulder, steadied him, and swore at the sight of the wound. The priest of Bel ran forward and grabbed Aderyn’s arm just as the door flew open and the prince’s guard shoved their way in. His face purple with rage, Addryc waved them back, but they stood ready out in the corridor.

  “So, Melaudd,” Addryc growled, “is this how you raise your sons—drawing on a man in my hall? My hall? By the name of every god of our people! In my very chamber of justice!”

  Melaudd tried to answer, but he was shaking too hard. Dovyn broke free and threw himself down at the prince’s feet.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness. I … I … I just forgot myself.”

  Halaberiel left Aderyn to the priest and stepped forward.

  “And how soon would you remember his highness’s judgment, then? Your Highness, do you truly expect me to strike a bargain with men like these?”

  Aderyn suddenly realized that he was close to fainting, a luxury that he couldn’t afford in this dangerous pass. He staggered to a chair and sat down hard. The priest knelt beside him and tried desperately to stanch the running wound with a scarf that the scribe handed him.

  “Look at this!” Addryc’s voice growled with indignation. “He’s wounded a councillor and an unarmed man! Guard! Run and fetch the chirurgeon!”

  “I’ll be all right in a minute,” Aderyn gasped.

  Although the white scarf was soaking with bright red blood, and his fingers stuck out at an unnatural angle, Aderyn felt no pain. His mind noted his own symptoms from a detached distance: shaking, chills, a dry mouth—oh, he was in shock, all right. He looked up and tried to concentrate on the strange tableau in front of him: Dovyn scarlet with shame at the prince’s feet; Halaberiel frozen with rage: Melaudd pale, his mouth working as if he were praying to the gods to let him wake from what had to be a nightmare.