Bristling Wood (46 page)

The she began to laugh, a maddened chuckle that took over her voice.

“Jill! Stop it! By the gods!”

She tossed her head and went on laughing. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her, yelled at her, then finally slammed her against the wall. The laughter stopped. When she saw the grief in his smoky-gray eyes, she wondered at herself for not being able to weep. She shook free of his hands and went to the window to look down at the narrow garden. It seemed painfully unjust that the sun should be so bright when her Rhodry was in the hands of darkness. Then she heard Salamander sob and spun around to see tears running down his face as he stood there limply, his hands at his sides. The contrast between his elegant clothing and his helpless pain made him look like a child in his father’s finery. Unsure of what to say, she went over and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“You forget he’s my brother.”

“I do, at that. Forgive me?”

He nodded, looked away, still weeping, his shoulders shaking, and yet he made no sound. Jill realized that she could say naught to him that would be a right thing.

“I’m going to the Capstan to get my gear.”

He nodded to show that he’d heard, but he never looked at her.

During the long walk back to the Capstan, Jill felt as exhausted as if she’d fought a long battle, as drained as if she’d found Rhodry dead. She realized, then, that she was indeed thinking of him as being as good as dead, and that she could never mourn until she avenged him. If they did torture him to death, she swore that her vengeance would be a long thing, a slow, patient hunt with many a kill to its credit. So the Hawks had dweomer, did they? So did she, and she would use it to the full if she had to. When she looked up at the sky, it was a brilliant, swelling blue; the cobbles on the street seemed to glow from within. It was the power rising within her along the channel that Perryn’s unwitting dweomer had carved out by accident, and she knew then that she could summon it when she needed it. Yet it would be dangerous: she was as untrained and unknowing as Perryn was; like him, she would be risking madness or even some slow death. She no longer cared. All that counted now was vengeance.

Once she collected her horse and gear, as a precaution she took the long way back to the Golden Dragon, sticking to the wider boulevards where she could ride rather than leading her horse down narrow streets. She took a turn by the harbor, where the merchantmen were drawn up at pier after pier to load the last of the summer’s goods. In another month or so, the seas would be impassable, and already the water was a darker, colder blue. Here and there she saw Bardek men engrossed in conversations with the foremen of the longshore crews, while great bales of cargo marched down the gangplanks on the backs of men. You can get a cursed lot in one of those ships, she idly thought to herself.

“Gods!”

She kicked her horse to a jog and rushed back to the inn, caution forgotten.

She found Salamander perfectly calm, or rather, a little too calm, just as she was, his eye more steel than smoke, his voice brittle. He waved at a pair of full goblets on the table.

“We never drank the mead I poured. I suggest we do so. A pledge, I was thinking.”

“Splendid idea. Tell me the elven word for vengeance, will you? We should swear in both our tongues.”

“Anadelonbrin. Swift-striking hatred.”

“Done, then. Anadelonbrin!”

“Vengeance!” And he tossed back his head and howled like a wolf on the coldest night in winter. “That’s to summon the death wolves, my turtledove, the vengeance wolves of the goddess of the Dark Sun. Do you know Her? I think me you do, but by another name, because I can see Her eyes look out of yours at times. The elven seers teach that there are two suns, a pair of twin sisters. One is the bright sun that we see in the sky; the other is on the other side of the world. The bright sister gives life, and the dark, need I say, death.”

“Then may Her wolves ever run before us.”

They touched goblets and drank the mead together.

Salamander had, of course, contacted Nevyn through the fire and told him of Jill’s discovery. For some hours that afternoon, Nevyn could do little but pace back and forth in the sickroom and let his rioting emotions spend themselves. Loathing, grief, fury—they all ran together and made him feel like screaming out curses on the gods and the Great Ones alike, that they would let such a thing happen. That Rhodry would die was horrible enough; that he would die slowly at the hands of perverted men was heart-wrenching. As always, he berated himself as well. Surely there must have been some warning he’d overlooked, something he could have done? Every time he looked at Rhys, fighting for his life, gasping for every painful breath he drew, his highly trained imagination would threaten him with pictures of Rhodry in the hands of the Hawks. Over and over again he banished those thoughts by stamping them with the image of a flaming pentagram until at last his mind was still.

Then, finally, he could think. Although his first impulse was to rush to Cerrmor, not only did he have pressing reasons to stay where he was, but also the journey would simply take too much time. By the time he reached Cerrmor, Jill and Salamander might well be a hundred miles away. Besides, if the enemy had left by water, as certainly seemed the case, they and their victim were doubtless already long gone. It made perfect sense: although they could never get an unconscious man past the harbor guards and customs officers in Cerrmor itself, nothing would be easier than to get him out of the city in a wagon, load him onto a coastal vessel, and take him to some less heavily guarded port, where . . . where what? That ‘what’ puzzled Nevyn mightily. If the Hawks had simply wanted to torture him to death or even kill him quickly, why hadn’t they taken him on the long road down to Cerrmor or even stayed in the Bilge, where torturing a man to death was considered light entertainment and no matter for the gwerbret’s men? Why all this business with ships and this slow game of gwyddbwcl that offered them chances to lose at every turn? And above all, who under the god-cursed sky had hired them in the first place?

As baffled as a cornered bear, he shook his head and growled aloud, then resumed his pacing. At least this water journey explained why scrying could find no trace of Rhodry. If they were far enough from land, the dark masters had no need of setting seals over their victim, because not even the greatest master of dweomer can scry over a large body of water, and especially not the ocean. The vast outpourings and upheavals of etheric force disrupt the images, as well as shielding whoever is trying to hide, rather as if someone were trying to use normal sight to peer through thick fog or smoke. As long as the Hawks kept Rhodry some miles out to sea, no dweomer in the world could find him.

“I suppose they’re somehow toying with us,” he remarked to the fat yellow gnome.

The gnome frowned in thought, then hopped up onto a wooden chest and began to pick its toes.

“We do have one hope,” Nevyn went on. “They may be planning on ransoming him or suchlike. If that’s true, then they’ll keep their foul hands off him, at least until they open the negotiations.”

The gnome turned its head, looked at him, and nodded to show it understood. Since this particular little creature had hung around him for many years, it was beginning to develop the rudiments of a mind. All at once it stiffened, then jumped to its feet and pointed at the door. Just as Nevyn turned there was a knock, and a page came in.

“My lady Lovyan wishes to know if you’re free, sir. Talidd of Belglaedd has just turned up at our door.”

“Then fetch the gwerbret’s lady to keep watch on her husband, and I’ll go down as soon as she arrives.”

Nevyn muttered a few choice curses under his breath, then steeled himself to face the scheming lord.

When he came into the great hall, he saw, much to his relief, that Talidd wasn’t the only guest at the table of honor. Lord Sligyn was there, sitting at the tieryn’s right hand, swilling ale and glaring at Talidd over the tankard. A stout, red-faced man in his mid-thirties, with a thick pair of blond mustaches, Sligyn rose with a bellow in Nevyn’s general direction.

“There you are, herbman! Come and talk some sense into this pigheaded fool of a noble lord.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Talidd was on his feet in an instant.

“You blasted well should, eh? Spreading all this nonsense about our Rhodry.”

Talidd opened his mouth, glanced at Lovyan, and shut it again. Nevyn went cold, wondering if Talidd had somehow discovered the secret of Rhodry’s parentage. Dimly he was aware that across the hall, Cullyn had gotten up and taken a few steps their way.

“Will you both please sit down?” Lovyan said, and there was steel in her voice. “What nonsense, Sligyn?”

“That the lad’s dead.” Sligyn took his place on the bench again. Don’t you try to deny it, either, Talidd. Heard you myself, eh? Nattering away at that tourney Peredyr gave. Pile of . . . uh, nonsense.”

Talidd winced and sat down fast, scrupulously avoiding Lovyan’s eye.

“Your Grace, forgive me if I distress you. I had a bit much ale that day, and I was only wondering why the king’s riders couldn’t find the lad if he were still alive.”

Sligyn started to blurt out an angry contradiction, but Nevyn laid a heavy hand on his shoulder to make him hold his tongue.

“I take no offense, my lord.” Lovyan sounded a bit weary and nothing more. “I’ve often wondered the same thing myself. Nevyn, do sit down! I can’t stand having you all hovering about.”

“My apologies, Your Grace.” He took a seat next to Sligyn. “As far as anyone can tell, Rhodry’s actively hiding from the king’s guard. I have no idea why.”

An odd look flickered on Talidd’s face, a hint of contempt, hastily stifled. Sligyn slammed his tankard down on the table and leaned forward.

“Out with it, man,” Sligyn snarled. “I’ve had enough of your foul sneers and mincing words. Out with it!”

Talidd’s face reddened.

“I was merely wondering, Lord Sligyn, just why he doesn’t want to be found. He’s been a silver dagger for years now, hasn’t he? Makes you wonder what he’s done.”

Slowly and deliberately Sligyn got to his feet.

“Are you insulting my lady’s son and her right here to see it?”

“I’m not.” Talidd rose to face him. “I’m merely speaking a wondering.”

Before Lovyan could intervene Cullyn was there, striding over and stepping between the lords with respectful bobs of bows to both of them.

“My lord Sligyn, my apologies, but if anyone’s going to be taking umbrage at insults for my lady’s sake, I will. That’s my duty as her captain, after all.”

Talidd went white and sat down rather fast.

“If Your Grace will forgive me, I fear me I forgot myself. The unsettled state of the rhan is beginning to wear on us all.”

“So it is.” Lovyan favored him with a small nod. “I promise you that as soon as we receive news of Rhodry, the Council of Electors shall have it, too.”

“My humble thanks, Your Grace.”

Although Talidd kept his speech pleasant and his visit very brief, Nevyn found himself wondering about the lord. Why was he so sure that Rhodry was dead? Could it be that he’d had something to do with his kidnapping?

“Curse them all!” Salamander said. “May their teeth rot first, then their noses. May their eyes fill with phlegm, and their ears with a ringing. May their breathing slacken, and their hearts tremble within them. May their testicles harden, and their manhood soften.”

“And is that what you’ve been brooding with your breakfast?” Jill said. “I thought a curse was a wrong thing for a dweomerman to work.”

“It would be if it had any power behind it. Alas, my curses are but words, idle, empty, and most meaningless, except as a way to relieve my most overwrought and troubled heart.” He got up from the table and stalked over to the window. “Curse this fog, too! May it shrivel, may it vanish, may it turn to naught but air!”

Jill looked up from her porridge to see the fog swirling dark outside the window, as if defying Salamander’s curse.

“What’s so wrong about the fog?” she said.

“None of the coasters will sail in it, and we need a ship.”

“We do?”

“We do. While you were sleeping, my turtledove, I was considering wiles and schemes. Your success in the Bilge gave me an idea, or to be precise and thorough, many ideas, of which I have rejected most.” He turned, perching on the sill. “Obviously we are meant to chase after this Briddyn. If the Hawks truly wanted to hide from us, we would’ve discovered naught, no matter how badly you terrified the entire Bilge. Instead they’ve left clues so plain that even the gwerbret’s men could have followed them. So, now, we are left with two choices, to wit, one: Briddyn is a false trail, meant to throw us off the scent; or two: he is the bait to lure us into a trap. Instinct tells me it’s the latter.”

“Oho! But what if we follow the trail, then avoid the trap?”

“My thoughts exactly. I suspect that they’re underestimating us. For all I know, they could well realize that I have dweomer, but I’ll wager my last copper that they don’t know you do. I’m also sure they don’t know how well you can swing that sword.”

“Good. It’ll gladden my heart to show them.”

“No doubt. I . . . ” He broke off at a knock at the chamber door.

When Jill opened it, she found a sleepy lad of about six.

“My apologies, sir, but there’s a man outside, and he says he wants to talk with you, and Da wouldn’t let him just come up, so he sent me, and I’m supposed to ask you if he can come up.”

“Indeed? What’s he like?”

“He’s a Bardek man, and he’s all covered with scars, and he smells funny.”

Smells funny? she thought to herself; what, by the hells? She gave the lad a copper and told him to bring the fellow up. In a few minutes the tavernman from the Red Man arrived at the door. He did indeed smell, but of fear, not of dirt or perfume, the particular reeking sharpness that seeps into a man’s sweat when he’s terrified. As soon as the door closed behind him, he threw himself at Jill’s feet.

“Kill me now! Do not make we wait any more, I beg you. All night I wait, and the waiting drives me mad.”