Daggerspell (15 page)

“Good morrow, lad,” Ynna said. “Looks like old Rhegor’s sent me a pretty thing or two.”

“He has. This supply should last you through the winter.”

Nevyn unloaded the mule and carried the herbs inside, then watered the animal and sent it out to graze with the goats. He came back to the hut to find Ynna laying bread and cheese on her small unsteady table. When she handed him a wooden cup of water and told him to set to, Nevyn dug in, spreading the soft pungent goat’s cheese on the dark bread. Ynna nibbled a bit of bread and studied him so curiously that Nevyn wondered if she knew he’d once been the prince.

“It’s wearisome, having old Rhegor gone from this part of the forest,” Ynna said. “And so sudden it was, him
coming by one day to tell me he was going. Has he ever told you why?”

“Well, good dame, I do what my master says and hold my tongue.”

“Always best with a strange one like our Rhegor. Well, if he sends you to me with herbs every now and then, I’ll manage.”

Ynna cut a few more slices from the loaf and laid them on Nevyn’s plate.

“I miss Rhegor, though. I could always count on his counsel, like, when there was some troubling thing.”

Nevyn felt the dweomer-warning down his back.

“And how fares Lord Gerraent these days?”

“You’re almost as sharp as your master, aren’t you, lad? Well, here, tell Rhegor this tale for me. He always kept an eye, like, on poor little Brangwen.”

“Did he, now? I never knew that.”

“Oh, truly, he did, just from a fatherly distance, like. So tell him about this. About a month ago, it was, the page up at the dun got a bit of fever, and a stubborn thing it was. I must have been back there five times before the lad was right again. And Lord Gerraent gives me a joint of venison for it. He says, do you have an herb to take madness away, Ynna? He was jesting, I suppose, but he smiled so coldlike it troubled my heart. And then the last time I went up the hill, I see Gerraent sobbing on his father’s grave.”

“You can rest assured I’ll tell Rhegor about it. How does Brangwen fare, shut up with a man like that?”

“Now, there’s the strangest thing of all. You think she’d be heartsick, but she goes around like a woman in a dream. I’ve never seen the lass look so broodylike. I’d say she was with child, but whose would it be? She’s just as broody as if her belly was swelling, but that betrothed of hers has been gone too long now. Well, tell Rhegor for me.”

On the ride home, Nevyn pushed the balky mule as fast as it would go, but it still took him over two days to reach his new home. Up in the wild forest north of the Boar’s
demesne, Nevyn and Rhegor had cleared a good space of land near a creek. They’d used the logs to build a round house and the land to plant beans, turnips, and suchlike. Because Rhegor’s reputation as a healer moved north with him, they had plenty of food and even a few coins, since farmers and bondsmen alike were willing to pay with chickens and cheese for Rhegor’s herbs. Now, when it was too late, Nevyn clearly saw that he and Brangwen would have had a comfortable if spare life in the forest. If only you hadn’t been such a dolt, Nevyn cursed himself, such a stupid fool!

Rhegor was out in front of the house, treating the running eye of a little boy while the mother squatted nearby. From her ragged brown tunic, Nevyn saw that she was a bondwoman, her thin face utterly blank, as if she hardly cared whether the lad was cured or not, even though she’d brought him all this way. On her face was her brand, the old scar pale on dirty skin. Although he was barely three, the lad was already branded, too, marked out as Lord Blaen’s property for the rest of his life. Rhegor stood the lad on a tree stump and wiped the infected eye with a bit of rag dipped in herbal salve.

Nevyn went to stable the mule alongside the bay gelding. When he came back, the bondwoman looked at him with feigned disinterest. Even from ten feet away he could smell her unwashed flesh and rags. Rhegor called her over, gave her a pot of salve, and told her how to apply it. She listened, her face showing a brief flicker of hope.

“I can’t pay you much, my lord,” she said. “I brought some of the first apples.”

“You and the lad eat those on your way home.”

“My thanks.” She stared at the ground. “I heard you tended poor folk, but I didn’t believe it at first.”

“It’s true. Spread the tale around.”

“I was so frightened.” She went on staring at the ground. “If the lad went blind, they’d kill him because he couldn’t work.”

“What?” Nevyn broke in. “Lord Blaen would never do such a thing.”

“Lord Blaen?” She looked up with a faint smile. “Well, so he wouldn’t. How would he even know we’re alive to be killed? His overseer, my lord, that’s who’d do it.”

Nevyn supposed that she spoke the cold truth. As the prince, he’d given less thought to bondmen than to horses. Rhegor was making him see a different world.

Once the woman went on her way, Rhegor and Nevyn went inside their cabin, a single light, airy room, scented with new-cut pine. They had a scattering of cast-off furniture from grateful farmers: a table, a bench, a freestanding cabinet to hold cookware. On one wall was the half-finished hearth Nevyn was building as his share of the summer’s work. Nevyn dipped them ale from a barrel, then brought the dented tankards over to join Rhegor at the table.

“And how was the journey?” Rhegor said. “How fares old Ynna?”

“Well enough, my lord. But she told me a strange tale about the Falcon. Ah, ye gods, my poor Brangwen! I truly wish you’d done what my father would have—beaten me half to death for my fault!”

“That would have solved nothing, and made you feel like you’d made amends when you hadn’t.” Rhegor hesitated on the edge of anger. “Ah, well, what’s past is past. Tell me the tale.”

While Nevyn told him, Rhegor listened quietly, but his hands clasped his tankard tighter and tighter. At the end, Rhegor swore under his breath.

“Truly, we’d best look into this. Here, old Ynna can practically smell when a lass is with child. There’s no chance the babe’s yours, it it?”

“Not unless longing for a woman can get her with child.”

His eyes still dark, Rhegor smiled.

“And what will you think of your Gwennie, if she’s big with another man’s child?”

“If he’s a good man, let her go with him. If he’s not, then I’ll take her, child and all.”

“Well and good. First we’ll have to see if that child’s
Blaen’s. If it is, there’ll be a wedding, and that’ll be the end to it. If not, I still have hope we can get her away.”

“Here, my lord, why are you so concerned with Brangwen? Is it just the honor of the thing?”

“Now, that I can’t tell you just yet.”

Nevyn waited, hoping for at least a word more, but Rhegor merely looked away, thinking.

“I’ll ride down to the Boar early tomorrow,” Rhegor said at length. “Out of courtesy, I should let Lady Rodda know there’s an herbman nearby. You stay here. Blaen would hate to kill you if he saw you, but his honor would make him do what the King ordered. I should reach the dun by noon, so you might make yourself a fire and see if you can follow me that way.”

On the morrow, Nevyn spent an impatient morning digging stones out of their little field for the hearth. So far, most of his training was just this sort of menial labor in the summer heat. Often it galled him: what was a prince doing, sweating like a fleabitten bondman? Yet in his heart, he knew that humbling the princes pride was the real work. There is only one key to unlock the secrets of the dweomer: I want to know in order to help the world. Anyone wanting power for its own sake gets only dribs and drabs, hard-won, harder to keep, and not worth having.

Yet here and there, Rhegor had given Nevyn work bearing more directly on dweomer-lore. Although Nevyn had always had the second sight, it came and went of its own will, showing him what it chose to show and not a jot more. Now he was learning to bring the sight under his will.

Nevyn made a circle of stones outside on the ground and built a small fire, which he lit like any other man with a tinder box and flint. He let the fire burn down until the logs were glowing caves of coals. Then he stretched out on the ground, pillowed his chin on his hands, and stared directly into the fire caves. He slowed his breathing to the right rhythm and thought of Rhegor. At last the fire cave stretched, widened, and turned into the sheen of
sunlight glowing on a polished wood chamber. In the flames, he made out Rhegor, a tiny image. Nevyn summoned his will and thought of Rhegor, imaged him clearly, and forced his mind to him. The vision swelled, turned solid, swelled again, and became as clear as though Nevyn were looking into the women’s hall from an outside window. With one last effort of will, Nevyn went in, hearing a little rushy hiss, a dropping sensation in his stomach, and at last he was standing beside Rhegor on the floor.

Lady Rodda was sitting on her chair, with Ysolla perching on a footstool nearby. With his shirt off to reveal a bad case of boils, a page was kneeling in front of Rhegor on the floor.

“These will have to be lanced,” Rhegor said. “Since I don’t have my tools with me, I’ll have to ride back tomorrow with your lady’s leave.”

The boy gave a miserable squeak in anticipation.

“Now, don’t be a silly lad,” Rodda said. “They’ve been hurting you for weeks, and if the herbman lances them, they’ll be over and done with. Don’t you go hiding in the forest all day tomorrow.”

The lad grabbed his shirt from the floor, made Rodda a bow, then fled unceremoniously. Smiling, Rodda shook her head at him, then motioned Rhegor to a chair next to hers.

“Sit down and rest, good sir,” Rodda said. “So, you say you’re from the south. Have you any interesting news?”

“My thanks.” Rhegor bowed and took the chair. “Well, no true news, but a fair bit of evil rumor.”

“Indeed?” Rodda said unsteadily. “How fares Lord Gerraent of the Falcon?”

“I see the rumors have reached my lady’s ears. Badly, alas, and of course the locals insist on talking of witchcraft.”

Ysolla leaned forward, clasping her arms around her knees, her eyes half filled with tears. When he remembered the happy night of her betrothal, Nevyn felt such a
stab of pity for her that the vision broke. It took him a long time to retrieve it.

“Mourning is understandable,” Rhegor was saying. “But after all, the natural order of things is for the son to lose his father sooner or later.” He glanced at Ysolla. “Once he has you at his side, no doubt the black mood will lift.”

“If he ever marries me,” Ysolla burst out.

“Hold your tongue, lamb,” Rodda said.

“How can I?” Ysolla snapped. “After what Blaen said—”

Rodda raised her hand as if to slap her. Ysolla fell silent.

“Kindly forgive my daughter, good sir,” Rodda said. “She’s worrying her heart, thinking that what happened to poor Brangwen might happen to her.”

“A sad, sad thing that was,” Rhegor sighed. “Let’s hope she finds a better man soon. The villagers tell me that your son hopes to announce his betrothal to the lady.”

“Well.” Rodda’s voice went flat. “I’ll pray that such happens.”

So, Nevyn thought, that babe’s not Blaen’s. True enough, Rhegor answered, I’d hoped so much it was! Nevyn was so shocked that he lost the vision again, and for good, this time.

Rhegor returned at sunset. He tended the mule, then came into the hut where Nevyn, steaming with curiosity, was laying out their evening meal. Rhegor took a silver coin out of his brigga pocket and tossed it onto the table.

“Our Lady Rodda is generous,” Rhegor remarked. “Little does she know whom this will feed, but she’d be glad. We talked a bit more after you left us, and she still honors you, Prince Galrion.”

“The prince is dead.”

Rhegor smiled and sat down, picking up a slice of bread and butter.

“I think I’ll risk getting Nevyn’s throat cut tomorrow. Lord Blaen will be at the hunt when I ride back to tend that lad’s boils, so you can come with me.”

“Well and good, my lord. Here, why did you wish that child was Blaen’s?”

“Think, lad. If Blaen’s not to blame, well, then, who is? What men live in the Falcon’s dun? A couple of twelve-year-old lads, a grubby stableman, and the old chamberlain, so aged that he can barely lift his hand to a maid, much less anything else. So who does that leave?”

“Well, nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Oh, by the hells.” Nevyn could barely say it. “Gerraent.”

“By the hells indeed. This is a terrible dark thing to accuse any man of doing, and I won’t make a move until I’m sure.”

Nevyn picked up the table dagger, twisting it in his fingers for the solid comfort of the metal.

“If it’s true,” Nevyn said, “I’ll kill him.”

“Look at you! Your father’s son indeed.”

Nevyn stabbed the dagger hard into the tabletop and let it quiver.

“And would killing him be such a wrong thing?”

“It would—for you.” Rhegor took a calm bite of bread and butter. “I forbid you to even think about it.”

“Done, then. His blood is safe from me.”

Rhegor considered him carefully. Nevyn picked up a slice of bread, then flung it back onto the plate.

“You said you’d take her, child and all,” Rhegor said. “Is that still true if she’s carrying her own brother’s bastard?”

“I’m the man who left her there. Of course it is.”

“You’re a decent enough lad at heart. Truly, you might redeem yourself yet.”

On the morrow, by keeping his hood muffled around his face, Nevyn managed to avoid being recognized by any of the servants in the Boar’s dun. When he and Rhegor went up to the women’s hall, Nevyn kept the cloak on and busied himself with unpacking Rhegor’s herbs and implements. Ysolla was mercifully gone, and Rodda was occupied with Rhegor and one of the pages.

“What do you mean, you don’t know where Maryc is?” Rodda said to the page. “I told him to be here when the herbman came.”

“He’s scared, my lady. But I can look for him. It’s going to take a long time.”

“Then run and start right now.”

As soon as the page was gone, Nevyn took off his cloak and tossed it onto the floor. Rodda stared, her eyes filling with tears.

“Galrion! Oh, thank the holy gods! It gladdens my heart to see you well.”