I dont suppose itll matter, sir. All the men around here are absolutely bristling with knives.
Although Londalo had never met this particular ruler before, hed heard that Rhodry Maelwaedd, Gwerbret Aberwyn, was an honest, fair-minded man, somewhat more civilized than most of his kind. Londalo was pleased to notice that the courtyards were reasonably clean, the servants wore decent clothing, and the corpses of hanged criminals were nowhere in sight. At the door of the tallest tower, the broch proper, the aged chamberlain was waiting to greet them. In a hurried whisper Londalo reminded Harmon that a gwerbrets servitors were all noble-born.
So mind your manners. No giving orders, and always say thank you when they do something for you.
The chamberlain ushered them into a vast round room, carpeted with braided rushes and set about with long wooden tables, where at least a hundred men, all of them armed with knife and sword both, were drinking ale and nibbling on chunks of bread, while servant girls wandered around, gossiping or trading smart remarks with the men more than working. Near a carved sandstone hearth to one side, one finer table stood alone, made of ebony and polished to a shine, the gwerbrets place of honour. Londalo was well pleased when the chamberlain seated them there and had a boy bring their ale in actual glass stoups. Londalo was also pleased to see that the tapestry hed sent ahead as a gift was hanging on the wall near the enormous fireplace. As he absently fingered the hilt of the silver dagger, he realized that his strange anxiety had left him. Harmon, however, was nervous, glancing continually at the mob of armed men across the hall.
Now, now, Londalo whispered. The rulers here do keep their men in hand, and besides, everyone honours a guest. No ones going to kill you on the spot.
Harmon forced out a smile, had a sip of ale, and nearly choked on the bitter, stinking stuff. Like the true merchant he was, however, he covered over his distaste with a cough and forced himself to try again. In a few minutes, two young men strode into the hall. Since their baggy trousers were woven from one of the garish plaids that marked a Deverry noble, and since the entire warband rose to bow to them, Londalo assumed that they were a pair of the gwerbrets sons. They looked much alike, with wavy raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes. By barbarian standards they were both handsome men, Londalo supposed, but he was worried about more than their appearance.
By the Great Wave-father himself! I was told that there was only one son visiting here! Well have to do something about getting a gift for the other, no matter what the cost.
The chamberlain bustled over, motioning for them to rise, so theyd be ready to kneel at the proper moment. Having to kneel to the so-called noble-born vexed Londalo, who was used to voting his rulers into office and voting them out again, too, if they didnt measure up to his standards. As one of the young men strolled over, the chamberlain cleared his throat.
Rhodry, Gwerbret Aberwyn, the Maelwaedd, and his son.
In his confusion, Londalo almost forgot to kneel. Why, this lord could be no more than twenty-five at most! Mentally he cursed the merchant guild for giving him such faulty information for this important mission.
We are honoured to be in your presence, great lord, but you must forgive our intrusion in what must be a time of mourning.
Mourning? The gwerbret frowned, puzzled.
Well, when we set sail for your most esteemed country, Your Grace, your father was still alive, or so I was told, the elder Rhodry of Aberwyn.
The gwerbret burst out laughing, waving for them to rise and take their seats again.
I take it youve never seen me before, good merchant. Ive ruled here for thirty years, and Im four and fifty years old. Im not having a jest on you, either. Absently, he looked away, and suddenly his eyes turned dark with a peculiar sadness. Oh, no jest at all.
Londalo forgot his protocol enough to stare. Not a trace of grey in the gwerbrets hair, not one true line in his face how could he be a man of fifty-four, old back home, ancient indeed for a barbarian warrior? Then the gwerbret turned back to him with a sunny smile.
But thats of no consequence. What brings you to me, good sir?
Londalo cleared his throat to prepare for the important matter of trading Eldidd grain for Bardekian luxuries. Just as he was about to speak, Rhodry leaned forward to stare.
By the gods, is that a silver dagger youre carrying? It looks like the usual knobbed pommel.
Well, it is, Your Grace. Mentally Londalo cursed himself all over again for bringing the wretched thing along. I bought it in the islands many years ago, you see, and I keep it with me because well, its rather a long story
In the islands? May I see it, good merchant, if its not too much trouble?
Why, no trouble at all, Your Grace.
Rhodry took it, stared for a long moment at the falcon device engraved on the blade, and burst out laughing.
Do you realize that this used to be mine? Years and years ago? It was stolen from me when I was in the islands.
What? Really? Why, then, Your Grace absolutely must have it back! I insist, truly, I do.
Later that afternoon, once the treaty was signed and merchant on his way, the great hall of Aberwyn fell quiet as the warband went off to exercise their horses. Although normally Rhodry would have gone with them, he lingered at the table of honour and considered the odd twist of luck, the strange coincidence, as he thought of it, that had brought his silver dagger home to him. A few serving lasses wandered around, wiping down tables with rags; a few stablehands sat near the open door and diced for coppers; a few dogs lay in the straw on the floor and snored. In a while, his eldest son came down to join him. It was hard to believe that the lad was fully grown, with two sons of his own now and the Dun Gwerbyn demesne in his hands. Rhodry could remember how happy hed been when his first heir was born, how much hed loved the little lad, and how much Cullyn had loved him. It hurt, now, thinking that his first-born was beginning to hate him, and all because his father refused to age and die. Not that Cullyn ever said a word, mind; it was just that a coolness was growing between them, and every now and then, Rhodry would catch him staring at the various symbols of the gwerbretal rank, the dragon banner, the ceremonial sword of justice, with a wondering sort of greed. Finally, Rhodry could stand the silence no longer.
Things are quiet in the tierynrhyn, then?
They are, father. Thats why I thought Id ride your way for a visit.
Rhodry smiled and wondered if hed come in hopes of finding him ill. He was an ambitious man, Cullyn was, because Rhodry had raised him to be so, had trained him from the time he could talk to rule the vast gwerbretrhyn of Aberwyn and to use well the riches that the growing trade with Bardek brought it. He himself had inherited the rhan half by accident, and he could remember all too well his panicked feeling of drowning in details during the first year of his rule to allow his son to go uneducated.
Thats an odd thing, Da, that dagger coming home.
It was, truly. Rhodry picked it up off the table and handed it to him. See the falcon on the blade? Thats the device of the man you were named for.
Thats right he told me the story. Of how he was a silver dagger once, I mean. Ye gods, I still miss Cullyn of Cerrmor, and here hes been dead many a long year now.
I miss him too, truly. You know, I think Ill carry this dagger again, in his memory, like.
Oh, here, Da, you cant do that! Its a shameful thing!
Indeed? And whos going to dare mock me for it?
Cullyn looked away in an unpleasant silence, as if any possible mention of social position or standing could spoil the most innocent pleasure. With a sigh, he handed the dagger back and picked up his tankard again.
We could have a game of Carnoic, Rhodry said.
We could, at that. When Cullyn smiled at him, all his old affection shone in his dark blue eyes. Its too muggy to go out hunting this afternoon.
They were well into their third game when Rhodrys wife, the Lady Aedda, came down to join them at the honour table. She sat down quietly, even timidly, with a slight smile for her son. At forty-seven she had grown quite stout, and there were streaks of grey in her chestnut hair and deep lines round her mouth. Although theirs was a politically arranged marriage, and in its first years a miserable one, over time she and Rhodry had worked out a certain accommodation to each other. He felt a certain fondness for her, a gratitude that she had given him four strong heirs for Aberwyn.
If my lady wishes, Rhodry said, we can end this game.
No need, my lord. I can watch.
And yet, by a common, unspoken consent they brought the game to a close and put the pieces away. Aedda had asked for so little from both of them over the years that they were inclined to give her what small concessions they could. As the afternoon wore on in small talk about the doings of the various vassals in the demesne, Rhodry drank more and more and said less and less. The heat, the long silences, the predictability of his wifes little remarks all weighed him down until at last he got up and strode out of the hall. No one dared question him or follow.
His private chamber was on the third floor of a half-broch, a richly furnished room with Bardek carpets on the floor and glass in the windows, cushioned chairs at the hearth and a display of five beautifully worked swords on one wall. Rhodry threw open a window and leaned on the sill to look down on the ward and the garden, where the dragon of Aberwyn sported in a marble fountain far below. One old manservant ambled across the lawn on some slow errand; nothing else moved. For a moment Rhodry felt as if he couldnt breathe. He tossed his head with an oath that was half a keening and turned away.
For over thirty years he had held power, and for most of those years he loved it all: the symbols and pageantry of his rank, the tangible power that he wielded in his court of justice and on the battlefield, the subtle but even greater power he exercised in the intrigues of the High Kings court. As he looked back, he could remember exactly when that love turned sour. He was at the royal palace in Dun Deverry, and as he entered the great hall, the chamberlain of course announced him. At the words Rhodry, Gwerbret Aberwyn, every other noble-born man there turned to look at him, some in envy of one of the kings favourites, some in subtle calculation of what his presence would mean to their own schemes, others with simple interest in the sight of so powerful a man. All he felt in return was irritation, that they should gawk at him like a two-headed calf in the market fair. And from that day, some two years earlier, Rhodry had slowly come to wonder when he would die and be rid of everything he once had loved, free and shot of it at last.
He left the window and sat down in a half-round rosewood chair, intricately carved with interlace wound about the dragons of Aberwyn, to draw his newly returned silver dagger and study it. Although the blade looked like silver, it was harder than the best steel, and it gleamed without a trace of tarnish. When he flicked it with a thumbnail it rang.
Dwarven silver, he muttered to himself. Ah, by the lord of hell, I must be going daft to wish I was out on the long road again!
He owned another piece of dwarven silver, too, a ring he always wore on the third finger of his right hand, a simple band of elven workmanship, engraved with roses on the outside and a line of elven writing on the inside. Just as he held up his hand to look at the ring, a page opened the door.
Your Grace? Am I disturbing your lordship?
Not truly.
Well, Your Grace, theres this shabby old herbwoman at the door, and shes insisting on speaking to you. One of the guards was going to turn her away, but she gave us this look, Your Grace, and I well, I was frightened of her, so I thought Id best tell you.
Rhodrys heart pounded once.
Did she give you her name?
She did, Your Grace. Its Jill.
Ill receive her up here.
The lad frankly stared, then bowed and trotted away.
While he waited for the woman he once had loved more than life itself, Rhodry paced back and forth from window to door. He hadnt seen Jill in thirty years, not since the night when she left him, simply rode out of his life without a backward glance or so he assumed to follow a Wyrd even stranger than his own. At first, he thought of her constantly, wondered if she missed him, wondered if her studies in the strange craft of the dweomer were bringing her the happiness she sought. Yet as the years passed and his wound healed, he let her memory rest, except for an idle wondering every now and then if she were well. Although she did come to Aberwyn to tend her dying father, he was at court in Dun Deverry at the time. Once in a while, some news of her doings came his way, but never in any detail. Now she was here. He was dreading seeing her, because she was only a few years younger than himself, and he hated the thought of seeing her beauty ravaged by age. When he heard her crisp voice thanking the page, his heart pounded once again. The door opened.
The herbwoman, Your Grace.
In strode a woman dressed in mens clothing, a pair of dirty brown brigga, and a much-mended linen shirt, stained green in places from medicinal leaves and stems. Her hair, cropped like a lads, shone a silvery grey, and crows feet round her blue eyes ran deep, but she seemed neither young nor old, so full of life and vigour that it was impossible to think of her as anything other than handsome. Beautiful she wasnt, not any longer, but as he stared at the face which coincided with the one belonging to his lovely young lass of past years, he found that it fitted her better than the beauty he was remembering. Her sudden smile could move him still.
Arent you going to say one word to me? she said with a laugh.
My apologies. Its just a bit of a shock, having you turn up like this.
No doubt. Youre in for a worse shock than that, Im afraid.
Without waiting to be asked she sat down in one of the chairs by the hearth. He took the other facing, and for a few moments the silence deepened around them. Then he remembered that his silver dagger must have been coming home at the same time as she was riding into Aberwyn, and he shuddered, feeling a cold touch of Wyrd that made the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle.
And what is this shock?
Well, for starters, Nevyns dead.
Rhodry grunted as if at a blow. Hed known Nevyn, her teacher and master in the craft of magic, very well indeed in fact, Rhodry owed him his life and his rhan both.
May the gods give him rest in the Otherlands, then. Somehow I thought the dweomer would keep the old man alive for ever.
He was beginning to wonder himself. She grinned so broadly that it seemed inappropriate. He was glad to go, when the time came.