Daggerspell (34 page)

Jennantar nodded in miserable agreement and went on digging Albaral’s grave. Jill kept an eye on him as the two men of the Westfolk worked, sweating in the hot sun as the narrow trench grew deeper and deeper. The night before, Jennantar had been so hysterical with grief that Aderyn had given him a strong draught of sleeping potion. Now he seemed merely light-headed and a little sick, like a man who had drunk too much mead the night before. At last they were done; they threw the shovels to one side, then picked up Albaral’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and laid him in. For a moment all three of them stood in respectful silence for the dead. All at once, Jennantar tossed back his head and howled with rage. Before either Jill or Calonderiel could stop him, he drew his knife and made a shallow gash on his forearm.

“Vengeance!” he screamed. “I’ll have blood to match mine for this!”

Jennantar held his arm over the grave and let the blood drip, spattering the blanket.

“I witness your vow,” Calonderiel said softly.

Jennantar nodded and let the blood run. Suddenly Jill saw or thought she saw Albaral’s shade, a pale blue flickering form, something just barely visible in the sunlight. She was afraid she would choke, afraid she was going daft. Jennantar howled out a wordless cry, then ran blindly away, crashing into a thicket of trees far downstream. The shade, if indeed it had ever been there, was gone.

“We’d best leave him alone with his grief,” Calonderiel said. “Ill fill this in.”

“I’ll help.” Jill took a shovel gladly; she wanted to forget what she might have just seen.

When they were finished, they went back to the dun and found an open spot by the back wall where Calonderiel could work at straightening the arrows he’d salvaged from the battlefield. The Westfolk had a special
tool for that, the shoulder blade of a deer pierced with a hole just the diameter of a shaft.

“We didn’t bring a lot of arrows with us,” he remarked. “I never dreamt we’d be riding into the middle of a war. Are there any good fletchers in this part of the world?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never shot a bow myself.”

Calonderiel frowned down at the mangled fletching on the arrow in his hands. His eyes were a deep purple, as rich and dark as Bardek velvet.

“I might as well cut them off. Curse it—I’ve left the proper knife in my gear.”

“Borrow this.” Jill drew her silver dagger. “It’s about as sharp as you’ll find.”

He whistled under his breath and took the dagger from her. When he ran one finger down the flat of the blade, the weapon glowed with a light strong enough to be visible even in the daylight.

“Dwarven silver!” he said. “You don’t see a lot of this around, do you?”

“What did you call it?”

“Dwarven silver. Isn’t that what it is? Where did you get this, anyway?”

“From a smith named Otho on the Deverry border.”

“And this Otho was a short man.” He gave her a sly grin. “But stocky for all his lack of height.”

“He was. Don’t tell me you know him!”

“Not him, truly, but his people.”

Jill was too puzzled by the way her dagger was behaving to wonder about Otho’s clan. She took it and turned it this way and that to watch the light playing on the surface. In her hands, it was much dimmer.

“I’ve never seen it glow like this.”

“It’s because of me. Otho’s folks don’t care for the likes of me. They like to know when one of us is around, because they think we’re a pack of thieves.”

Jill looked up sharply.

“Elcyion Lacar,” she whispered. “Elves.”

“Call us what you like,” he said with a laugh. “But we’ve been given those names before, true enough.”

One at a time, like slow raindrops falling into a still pond, Wildfolk manifested around him, a blue sprite, two warty gnomes, the thick shimmer of air that meant a sylph, as if they were hounds, come to lie at their master’s feet.

“And what’s the true name of your people, then?”

“Oh, now, that’s somewhat I’ll never tell you. You have to earn the right to hear that name, and of all your folks, Aderyn’s the only one who has.” Calonderiel smiled, taking any insult from his words. “Now, I’ve heard some of the tales you folk tell about us. We’re not thieves, and we’re not demons from hell or closer to the gods than you are, either, but simple flesh and blood like you. Old Aderyn tells me that our gods fashioned us from the Wildfolk, just like your gods fashioned you from animals, and so here we are, together on the earth for good or ill.”

“Here, our priests say the gods made us from earth and water.”

“The dweomer knows a fair bit more than priests; remember that well. May I have the borrowing of that dagger again? I’ve got a wretched lot of work to do.”

Jill handed it back. For a long time she sat and watched it glow like fire in his hands, while she wondered over the strange things he’d told her.

Toward noon, Jill saw the great silver owl circle the broch and disappear inside, a sight that made her shudder. She ran after it and found Cullyn and Rhodry talking together at the foot of the stairs. In a few minutes Aderyn came down, swinging his arms and flexing his shoulders like a man who’s just swum a very long way in a strong sea.

“I found them, my lord. They’re staying in camp about fifteen miles to the northeast.”

“Well and good, then,” Rhodry said. “We might as well ride out and meet Sligyn.”

“That might be unwise, my lord,” Cullyn broke in. “They won’t risk besieging the dun with an army coming at their back, but they might make a desperate ride to catch you if you were out in the open.”

“And how will they know if we—oh, by every god and his wife, what a dolt I am! Of course they’ll know.”

“You know, silver dagger,” Aderyn went on. “I’d take it most kindly if you stuck close to Lord Rhodry when things come to battle. If the rebels are going to succeed, they have to kill him before they’ve caused so much damage that Gwerbret Rhys is forced to intervene. No doubt that’s why they’re not attacking Sligyn’s army. They can’t risk killing the noble-born unless Rhodry’s there as a possible prize.”

“Just that,” Cullyn said. “Here, I thought you said you didn’t understand matters of war. Sounds to me like you were being modest.”

“Oh, I’m just repeating what Nevyn told me.”

Rhodry and Cullyn nodded thoughtfully at this meaningless remark.

“Aderyn, I don’t understand,” Jill broke in. “You say that no one told you?”

“Oh!” The old man chuckled under his breath. “My apologies, child. I have a friend named Nevyn. His father gave him the name as some kind of bitter jest, if I remember rightly.”

Since Otho the smith was very much on her mind, Jill suddenly remembered his riddle, that someday no one would tell her what craft to follow. If he were a friend of Aderyn’s, this “no one” had to be a dweomerman, too. While the men went on talking of the coming war, Jill slipped away and ran out of the dun. By the stream that ran behind it she sat down and watched the water sparkling with Wildfolk, who raised themselves up like waves to greet her. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The dweomer seemed to have swooped out of the sky like a falcon, and it had her in its claws.

The waiting got on everyone’s nerves as the hot summer day dragged on. With nothing but stream water to drink and meager, stale provisions from Dregydd’s stores to eat, the warband was in a sullen mood, while the merchant and his muleteers crept around in numb panic. Every-where
Rhodry walked he heard the men talking of dweomer, and he could no longer cheerily dismiss their fears. Finally he went down to the gates, newly barricaded with big logs, and found Cullyn there, leaning meditatively against the barricade on folded arms and watching the ravens wheel over the dead horses out in the meadow. Rhodry joined him.

“At least old Dregydd had shovels with him. Enemies or not, it would have ached my heart to leave those men unburied.”

“That’s most honorable of you, my lord.”

“Ah, it’s but my duty. I’ve been thinking about what old Aderyn asked you, about sticking close to me in the scraps, I mean. They’re going to be riding to mob me, sure enough, and I’d never ask a man to put himself in that kind of danger. Ride where you will on the field.”

“Then I’ll ride next to you.”

When Rhodry swung around to look at him, Cullyn gave him an easy smile.

“My Wyrd will come when it comes,” Cullyn said. “It gripes my heart to think of a decent man like you being killed for a handful of coin. What are these lords, silver daggers?”

“Well, my thanks. Truly, my thanks. I’m honored that a man like you would think so highly of me.”

“A man like me, my lord?” Cullyn touched the hilt of his silver dagger, as if to remind Rhodry of his shame.

“Ah, by the hells, what do I care what you did twenty years ago or whenever it was? You’ve ridden through more rough scraps than a lord like me ever even hears about.”

“Well, maybe, my lord, but I—”

In the ward behind them, yells exploded, jeers and curses and ill-natured taunts from the warband. Over it all, like the shriek of a raven, floated Jill’s voice, shrill with rage.

“Oh, ye gods!” Cullyn turned on his heel and ran.

Rhodry was right behind him. As they came round the side of the broch, they saw half the warband gathered round Jill, who yelled foul insults back as fast as they
yelled them at her. Caenrydd came running from the other direction and elbowed himself into the mob, pulling or slapping his men away impartially, like a hunter slapping the dogs off the kill.

“Now, what’s all this, you young swine?” Caenrydd snarled. “I’ll put stripes on your backs if you’ve been doing the wrong things to this lass.”

“It isn’t that at all!” Jill was shaking in fury. “They’ve been saying I don’t have the right to carry this sword. Just let one of the little bastards try to take it away from me.”

When the warband surged forward, Rhodry shoved his way through the pack, which fell back at the sight of him.

“My apologies, fair maid.” Rhodry made her a bow.

“I don’t want any cursed apology!” Jill snarled, adding a “my lord” as an afterthought. “I meant what I said. Just let one of them try to take it away. A challenge, I mean. Come on, you bastards, I’ll take any one of you on with my bare hands—if you have the balls to face me.”

Rhodry was struck speechless. When he turned to Cullyn, he found the silver dagger his usual impassive self.

“My lord? Over the years, I’ve learned it’s best to let Jill settle these things her own way.”

“What?” Rhodry and Caenrydd spoke together. “She’ll get hurt.”

“If I thought that,” Cullyn said levelly, “I’d have my sword out and swinging right now. I’ve seen this kind of scrap a hundred times, my lord, and I’ll wager Jill wins handily.”

“Done, then,” Rhodry said. “One silver piece gets you two if your lass wins.”

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Caenrydd set up a fair fight between Jill and Praedd, a beefy man who was the best brawler in the warband. Praedd was grinning at the easy fight ahead as he handed his sword belt over to Caenrydd. By then, every man in the dun was crowded round the contest ground. Rhodry noticed Aderyn, watching in horrified alarm, and the two men of the Westfolk, who were making wagers on Jill against any man who’d take them on.

“Very well, then,” Caenrydd said, stepping clear. “It’s on.”

Jill and Praedd began to circle around each other, hands raised and ready. Praedd charged, swinging confidently, only to find Jill dodging in from the side. She grabbed his wrist as he punched, dropped to one knee, and somehow, just like dweomer, two-hundred-pound Praedd flew through the air and landed with a grunt amid the weeds. Still game, he scrambled back up, but this time he moved in cautiously. They feinted, dodged; Praedd swung in low from the side. Jill leapt straight up, kicked him in the stomach, and twisted down like a dancing girl. Gasping, Praedd doubled over, then forced himself upright. Jill danced in and clipped him neatly and precisely on the chin. With a sigh, Praedd closed his eyes and fell forward on the ground.

The Westfolk yelled in triumph, and Cullyn laughed softly under his breath, but the warband was utterly silent, staring at Jill in disbelief and sideways at Rhodry in shame. Jill set her hands on her hips and glared at them.

“Anyone else?”

“Jill, enough!” Cullyn called out. “You’ve made your cursed point, and I have to ride with them.”

“True spoken,” Rhodry said, stepping forward. “All right, men, go pour water over your sleeping comrade there. And don’t feel shamed on my account—I’ve just lost a good bit of silver myself.”

Still, they must have felt the dishonor at the hands of a lass, because they frankly fled, stopping only long enough to scoop up Praedd and carry him away, with the Westfolk trailing after to make sure they collected their coppers. Rhodry made Jill a bow.

“And where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Da taught me somewhat, my lord, and I figured the rest out for myself.”

Jill wiped the sweat off her face onto her shirt sleeve like a man, but still Rhodry’s heart skipped a beat. He’d never seen a lass like her, and she was lovely, oh, so lovely.
Then he realized that Cullyn was watching him with grim paternal suspicion.

“I’ll get those coins out of my saddlebags for you. And you’d best keep your hellcat here away from the warband for a while.”

“I will, my lord. Have no fear of that.”

As Rhodry hurried away, he was cursing himself for an utter fool. He knew that he should put this common-born lass with the dangerous father out of his mind for good, but he also knew that for some bizarre reason, he was falling in love again.

That night, Lord Sligyn’s army camped on the banks of the stream that would eventually lead them to Rhodry. The men gathered in little groups, their campfires like flowers of light out in the dark wild meadow. As Nevyn wandered through the camp, he came across a man he knew, Sandyr, who rode for Lord Sligyn. A year ago, Nevyn had pulled a bad tooth for him and cured the infection, and apparently Sandyr remembered it kindly.

“It’s Nevyn! Here, sit down at our fire, good sir. This is Arcadd and Yvyr. Lads, this is the best herbman who ever rode the kingdom.”