A Time of Exile

by Katharine Kerr

  “If that’s all it is. The sprite may have somewhat to do with this, too. I’m on my way, then. We leave at dawn tomorrow, and since we have a pack train to contend with, it’ll probably take us a fortnight at the very least to reach Cannobaen.”

  “Well and good. I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “And I, you. It’s been too long.”

  On the day that the caravan arrived in Cannobaen, it poured rain, one of those quiet storms that without any pompous show of thunder and lightning settle in to soak everything. Since Maer had drawn stable duty that morning, he was out in the ward, wrapped in a greased cloak with the hood up, sweeping the stable leavings into a mound for the gardener. The rain had just finally found its way through the heavy wool to run down his back when he heard a clatter of hooves and a shout at the gates. Delighted with the distraction, he dropped his rake and trotted over just as Ganedd led his men and laden mules inside. Maer whooped in delight and yelled at the gardener to run and fetch his lordship.

  “Maer!” Ganedd sang out. “Gladdens my heart and all that! We’ve done it, Maer! We’ve got bows and the men to teach us how to use them.”

  Maer whooped again; he’d been rather looking forward to living longer than one winter more. All at once he realized that Wildfolk were swarming around the tiny caravan, and that he could see them all more clearly than ever before. Sylphs hung in the air, delighting in the rain; undines rose up out of puddles and grinned at him; sprites and gnomes thronged around the animals and sat on the saddles and mule packs; some of the bolder creatures were even perched on the shoulders of the men or rushed to greet them as they dismounted. Nevyn’s impressive remarks about the Westfolk and their affinities began to take on actual meaning.

  “Come on!” Ganedd called. “Take our guests inside to meet Lord Pertyc. Here come the servants to tend the stock.”

  With Ganedd in the lead they all dashed into the great hall, which was hot and smoky from the fires roaring in both hearths. Immediately everyone threw off their cloaks and dropped them into a wet and smelly heap for a serving lass to deal with later. Maer received his second shock of the day, because he’d never seen an elf before, never even knew that they existed, in fact. Cat-slit and enormous eyes of green and purple and indigo blue, hair as pale as moonlight, and the ears—try as he might, he couldn’t look away. Finally a tall fellow with violet eyes took offense.

  “And just what are you staring at, you Round-ear dog?”

  “Cal, hold your tongue!” As fast as any lord to break up a brawl, the eldest of the lot stepped in between them. “You can’t blame the lad for being surprised. He can’t be such a bad fellow, anyway, since he’s friends with the Wildfolk.”

  Maer glanced down to see Little Blue-hair. She’d come up beside him and taken his hand in one of hers; now she leaned against his trouser leg and stared at the visitors like a shy child.

  “You see them, too?” Maer whispered.

  “Of course.” The man called Cal smiled and held out his hand. “Friends?”

  “Done.”

  They shook hands solemnly; then Cal hurried after the others to be presented to the lord.

  “Ganedd, my friend, if it were in my power to ennoble you, I would,” Pertyc said. “Since it’s not, and since I don’t have more than a handful of coin to my name, I don’t really know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

  “Well, my lord, if we all get ourselves killed in the spring, repayment’s a moot point, anyway.”

  Pertyc laughed and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  “I like you merchants. So hardheaded, so practical. Well, if I can figure out a way to do it, I’ll repay you anyway, especially if by some miracle we do live through the spring.”

  “Then I’ll take it gladly, my lord. Here, the servants should have brought those bows in by now. If his lordship will excuse me, I’ll just go hurry them along.”

  “Please do. I don’t think I’ve ever waited more eagerly for anything than I’ve been waiting for those bows. And I need to have a word with my old friend Halaberiel anyway.”

  As Ganedd was leaving the great hall, he came face to face with a young woman. With Glaenara—Ganedd stared openmouthed. All bathed and civilized as she was, he hadn’t recognized her for a moment. Even her hair was glossy-clean and growing longer, curling softly around her face. Her hands were clean, too, and her nails nicely manicured.

  “What’s wrong, Ganno? Fall off your horse and hit your head?”

  “Oh, my apologies, Glae! I, uh, well, just didn’t recognize you. I mean: I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I’m married to Maer now.”

  “The silver dagger?”

  “Well, he isn’t that anymore.” She hesitated, suddenly distressed. “Ganno, do you still want to marry Braedda?”

  “What? Of course.”

  “Then you’d best get down to the village today. When your da got back from Aberwyn, you know? He went straight to Braedda’s father and tried to break off the betrothal, but Ewsn, bless him, said he’d wait to speak with you about it.”

  Ganedd took her advice and rode down as soon as Pertyc gave him leave, much later that day. The rain had rolled on its way by then, leaving the sunset clean and bright, with a snap of the sea wind and the tang of salt in the air. Round back of his parents’ house he tethered his horse, then climbed over the garden wall and let himself in the back door. Twelve-year-old Avyl was in the kitchen, badgering the cook for a piece of bread and honey. When he saw Ganedd, he smirked. The cook threw her apron over her face and began to weep.

  “Oho, so you came home, huh?” Avyl said. “Wait’ll you see Da.”

  When Ganedd stalked by, Avyl followed, snickering. The noise brought Moligga out into the corridor. She took one look at Ganedd and began to tremble. Avyl abruptly held his tongue.

  “I’m sorry, Mam,” Ganedd said. “But I had to do what I think is right.”

  She started to speak, then merely shook her head in a scatter of tears. When Ganedd went to lay his hand on her arm, she drew back.

  “Ganno, get out,” Moligga said, almost whispering. “I don’t want your father even seeing you.”

  “Indeed? Well, I want to say a thing or two to him. Tell me one thing: how do you feel about this rebellion?”

  “Do you think I care one way or another? Oh, ye gods, that ever it would come to this: my lad and my man, at each other’s throats, and ail over a king I’ve never even seen!” Slowly the tears welled, running down her cheeks. “Ganno, he made a declaration before the whole guild and cut you off.”

  “I knew he would. Where is he?”

  “Don’t.” Moligga caught his arm. “Just leave.”

  As gently as he could, Ganedd pushed past her and walked on down the corridor. He flung open the door to his father’s study and marched in without knocking. Wersyn rose from his writing desk, his fingers clasping a leather-bound ledger, and gave him a sour little smile.

  “Who are you? Strange—you remind me of my dead son.”

  For a moment, Ganedd couldn’t breathe. Wersyn went on smiling. The silence hung as thick as sea fog in the tiny chamber.

  “Then count me his spirit come back from the Other-lands for a little while. And I’ll give you a warning, like spirits do. If I live through this winter, then I’m going to see to it that you never trade in the Westlands again. They’re my friends, Da, not yours, and you cursed well know it.”

  With a gasp, Wersyn hurled the ledger straight at his head. Ganedd dodged, laughing.

  “But it’s for the king’s sake, Da. Not mine.”

  His face scarlet with rage, Wersyn rushed him, his hand raised for a slap. Ganedd heard Moligga scream. He dodged, caught his father’s wrists, and grimly held on. No matter how much Wersyn struggled, he couldn’t break free. He was panting for breath and weeping in frustration at the inescapable truth: his little son was the stronger man now. When Moligga started to sob, Ganedd let him go.

  “You ca
n’t hit a dead man. Farewell.”

  Ganedd turned on his heel and walked slowly out, strode down the corridor, and opened the front door. His brother’s skinny little face stared at him wide-eyed.

  “I’m the heir now, Ganno. What do you think of that?”

  “They should have drowned you young. Like the rat-faced weasel you are.”

  Earlier that day Aderyn had ridden down to see Nevyn in his cottage, where they could talk privately of things that would only unsettle ordinary men. Nevyn was surprised by just how glad he was to see his old pupil in the flesh rather than through a scrying focus, enough so to make him wonder if he were growing old and sentimental or suchlike. For hours they talked of everything and nothing, sharing news of the craft and the various apprentices they’d taken in the past or, in Aderyn’s case, that they had now.

  “The Westfolk are really amazing when it comes to magic,” Aderyn said at last. “They have more of an affinity for it than we do.”

  “No doubt. Look at how vital they are, living so long while keeping so young-seeming and all. It seems to me that they must be far more open to the flow of the life-power than humans are.”

  “They’re far more in harmony with life itself, actually. Well”—Aderyn’s expression suddenly turned blank and closed—“most of them.”

  Nevyn could figure out that somehow the conversation had brought Dallandra to his mind.

  “Ah well,” Nevyn said, and a bit hurriedly. “I take it then that your larger work is going well, too. Restoring the full dweomer system to the Westfolk, I mean.”

  They talked for a good long while more and parted with arrangements made to meet on the morrow as well. After Aderyn went on his way, Nevyn went into his bedchamber and sat down on the floor to lift up the loose board and take out the small wooden casket where the opal was hidden. It was wrapped in five pieces of Bardek silk: the palest purple-gray, a flaming red, a deep sea blue, a sunny yellow, and then a mottled bit, russet, citrine, olive, and black. He laid it in the palm of his hand and considered the stone as it gleamed softly in the candlelight.

  Since any good stone will pick up bits of emotion, dream-thought, and life-force from its owners and the events around it, Nevyn had postponed starting his work upon it. His own will and feelings were troubled and clouded by what he referred to as “this stupid rebellion,” and if his mind wasn’t utterly clear, he would inevitably charge the opal with the wrong thoughts. The last thing he wanted his talisman to radiate to the High Kings of All Deverry was a self-righteous irritation. They doubtless could summon enough of that on their own. One way or another, he’d have to settle things here in Cannobaen before he could get down to work. Ah well, he told himself, if you’d wanted an easy life, you could have been a wretched priest and been done with it!

  In the great dun of Elrydd, looming over the town on a high hill, Danry of Cernmeton was drinking with its lord, Tieryn Yvmur. By the honor hearth they sat round a beautifully carved table with the young pretender to the throne, Cawaryn. Although he was only sixteen, he would impress the men who would have to serve him; with raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes, every inch an Eldidd man in looks, he walked with an easy grace, stood arrogantly, and had all the mannerisms of a man born to command. A hard-bitten fox of a man in his thirties, Yvmur sported long dark mustaches, and his pale blue eyes glanced at his elder sister’s son with a genuine fondness, as if inviting Danry to share it.

  “I’m truly grateful that you’d ride to take our hospitality.” Cawaryn spoke carefully in what sounded like a prepared speech. “I value your skill on the field highly, Your Grace.”

  “My thanks, Your Highness.”

  Yvmur and Cawaryn shared a brief smile at the honorific.

  “But I’m hoping there’ll be no need to demonstrate that skill before spring, when the Deverry king arrives,” the pretender went on. “I’d hate to see us wasting our strength here in Eldidd. It would be a pity to have factions before we even have a throne.”

  “Just so,” Danry said. “Pertyc Maelwaedd has a good saying about that: even jackals bring down the kill before they squabble over the meat.”

  At the mention of Pertyc’s name, Yvmur stiffened ever so slightly. Danry decided that it was time to end the fencing match.

  “You know, with my own ears, I’ve heard Pertyc belittle and disclaim his right to the Eldidd throne. He’s quite aware that he descends from the bastard of a common-born woman.”

  “Pertyc’s always had a wit as sharp as a razor,” Yvmur put in, before the king-to-be could comment. “He’s a man I honor highly.”

  “So do I,” Danry said, “for all he’s an eccentric sort. It’s rare that you meet a man with no desire to rule.”

  Cawaryn merely listened, his head tilted to one side like a clever dog.

  “You know our Perro better than any man alive,” Yvmur said.

  “I do, and I’ve never met a man who fits his clan’s device better. Pertyc can be as stubborn as a badger, all right, once he takes an idea into his head. He wants to stay in Cannobaen, and he’ll hang on with all his claws.”

  Yvmur nodded, thinking, but Cawaryn moved restlessly in his chair.

  “That’s all very well,” Cawaryn snapped. “But why won’t he pledge to the true king?”

  Yvmur turned smoothly and shot a glance of warning.

  “Oh well, I mean, er,” Cawaryn stammered. “Doubtless he will once the war’s over. I mean, he doesn’t even have many men to bring to the army, so maybe he just doesn’t want to fight or suchlike.”

  Danry smiled, pretending to take no insult.

  After the meal that night, Yvmur insisted on taking Danry out to the stables to see a particularly fine horse, and he carried the candle lantern himself instead of bringing a servant. They went down to the stall where a handsome gray stallion was drowsing over his manger. Danry made the obligatory compliments and waited.

  “Cawaryn’s not old enough to understand a man’s desire for neutrality,” Yvmur said at last. “But I am.”

  “I understand it, too. I wondered if anyone else did.”

  “A few. A very few. By the by, it’s time to celebrate Cawaryn’s wedding. Once the two thin lines are joined, they’ll look thicker.”

  “Just so. My lady is looking forward to coming to Abernaudd for the festivities.”

  “It gladdens my heart to hear you plan to attend.”

  “And why wouldn’t I? I intend to show every bit of support for our liege that I can.”

  Yvmur lowered the lantern and looked Danry full in the face.

  “There are some who assumed you’d support your friend over the king. I begin to think they’re wrong.”

  “Dead wrong. My sword and my men are marching behind Cawaryn.”

  “Well and good, then, and my thanks.” Yvmur considered briefly. “Is it a wrong thing for me to ask why?”

  “Not in the least. I want to save Pertyc’s life and Pertyc’s son. Any man who considers Adraegyn a better claimant than Cawaryn will have me for an enemy—for Pertyc’s sake and for your sake, too.”

  Yvmur nodded slowly, considering the lantern in his hand.

  “Then a friendly word. You’d better keep your eyes on Leomyr of Dun Gwerbyn. That’s where I’ve been keeping mine.”

  Out behind Dun Cannobaen in a wild meadow, where scruffy grass grew tall, bent continually by the sea wind, Halaberiel made an archery range for Pertyc’s warband with targets out of painted wood—to begin with; later they would stuff old shirts with straw to look like men. Maer found archery practice the most boring thing he’d ever done in his life, and the rest of the warband grumbled with him. All morning, every day, wind, rain, or shine, Halaberiel lined his new recruits up at the marks, subjected them to intense sarcasm, and made them draw and loose arrow after arrow. Even with the leather guards and gloves, fingers blistered and wrists bruised. Halaberiel handed out elven herbs for soaking hands and told them to be back at their marks promptly on the morrow.

  Maer, of cours
e, was the only man in the warband who saw the congregation that assembled to watch them. The Wildfolk came in swarms, lining either side of the practice ground like onlookers at a contest, crawling all over the targets, standing behind the men and mimicking everything they did, ruffling the fletching on the arrows and occasionally even pinching the archers themselves, just to see if they could spoil their aim. The first time Maer saw an arrow skewer one of the Wildfolk he nearly shouted aloud—he could feel his face turning pale—but the little creature merely disappeared, then popped back into manifestation a few feet away, no worse for the experience. Every now and then he saw the blue sprite, standing nearby and watching him sadly. The reproach in her eyes was so human that he almost felt guilty, as if he’d actually betrayed her.

  The rigorous training left Maer little time for his new wife, which to his surprise annoyed him. He had to admit that being married was turning out to have advantages. It was nice to have Glaenara whenever he wanted, and in the warm comfort of their own bed, not the hard ground. At dinner, when they sat together at the servants’ table and shared a trencher, Glaenara would smile and listen with a flattering intensity to his account of his day until she had to go help old Maudda in the women’s hall. Since Maer would go drink with the rest of the warband at that point, he found himself thinking that he’d lost very little by marrying compared with what he’d gained.

  One night, when Maer had a little less ale than usual, he found himself thinking about his new wife’s sweet body and left the table early. When he went to their bedchamber, he found her sitting up on the edge of the bed and mending a rip in his spare shirt by candlelight. Maer sat down on the floor and watched her sew, frowning a little at her work in the uncertain light.

  “My apologies for that,” Maer said. “I lost one of those cursed arrows in a hedge, you see, and our cat-eyed friends made me fetch it out again. I guess the fletcher can straighten them if they’re not too bad.”