Otho, you have our humble apologies. Jill caught his hand and squeezed. And Im ever so glad you didnt get badly burned.
Youre glad? Hah! Well, come along, lad. Try it out.
When Rhodry took the dagger, the blade stayed ordinary metal without the trace of a glow. He was smiling as he sheathed it.
My thanks, good smith, a thousand times over. Truly, I wish I could reward you more for the risk you ran.
So do I. Thats the way of your folk, though; all fine words and no hard coin.
Otho, please, Jill said. He doesnt even have much elven blood.
Hah! Thats what I say to that, young Jill. Hah!
All day the People rode into the meeting place for the alardan. To a grassy meadow so far west of Eldidd that only one human being had ever seen it, they came in small groups, driving their herds of horses and flocks of sheep before them. After they pastured the animals, they set up leather tents, painted in bright colors with pictures of animals and flowers. Children and dogs raced through the camp, cooking fires blossomed; the smell of a feast grew in the air. By sunset well over a hundred tents stood round the meeting place. As the last fire took light and blazed, a woman began to sing the long wailing tale of Donabel and his lost love, Adario. A harper joined in, then a drummer, and finally someone brought out a conaber, three joined reedy pipes for a drone.
Devaberiel Silverhand, generally considered the best bard in this part of the elven lands, considered unpacking his harp and joining the musicians, but he was quite simply too hungry. He got a wooden bowl and spoon from his tent, then wandered through the feast. Each riding group, or alar, to give them their Elvish name, had made a huge quantity of one particular dish. Everyone strolled around, eating a bit here and there of whatever appealed to them while the music, talk, and laughter drifted through the camp. Devaberiel was searching for Manaverr, whose alar traditionally roasted a whole lamb in a pit.
Finally he found his friend near the edge of the camp. A couple of young men were just digging up the lamb, while others piled green leaves into a clean bed to receive it. Manaverr left off directing the operation and hurried over to greet the bard. His hair was so pale that it was almost white, and his cat-slit eyes gleamed a deep purple. They each put their left hand on the others right shoulder in greeting.
Its a big gathering, Manaverr said.
They all knew youd be here to do the lamb.
Manaverr laughed with a toss of his head. A small green sprite popped into manifestation and perched on his shoulder. When he reached up to pat her, she grinned, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth.
Have you seen Calonderiel yet? Manaverr said.
The warleader? No. Why?
Hes been asking every bard here about some obscure point of somebodys genealogy. Hell probably work his way round to you sooner or later.
The sprite suddenly pulled his hair, then vanished before he could swat her. The alardan was filled with Wild-folk, rushing around as excitedly as the children. Sprite, gnome, sylph, and salamander, they were the spirits of the elements, who at times took on a solid appearance, even though their home lay elsewhere in the many-layered universe. Devaberiel was not quite sure where; only dweomer-folk knew such things.
With one last heave the men got up the lamb, wrapped in charred coarse cloth, and flopped it onto the leaves. The smell of the roast meat, heavily spiced and baked with fruit, was so inviting that Devaberiel moved closer without even being aware that he was doing so, but he had to wait for his portion. Calonderiel, who was Manaverrs cousin and looked it, strode over and hailed him.
Whats this mysterious question? Devaberiel said. Manaverr told me you were wondering about someones lineage.
Just a point of curiosity. Did you know that I rode with Aderyn when he rode east into the lands of men?
This summer past, you mean? I heard something about that, yes.
All right, then. I met a human warleader called Rhodry Maelwaedd, a lad of twenty. Strangely enough, hes got a good bit of our blood in his veins. I was wondering if you knew how it had gotten into his clan.
A woman of the People married Pertyc Maelwaedd in oh, when was that well, say two hundred years ago now. Pertyc was an important man, if I remember correctly. I know he had a son to inherit his position and pass the elven blood along.
But two hundred years? That long ago? I saw Rhodry handle a piece of dwarven silver, and it blazed in his hands.
Really? Huh. Youre rightthat distant ancestors blood would be a bit too thin by now for that to happen. What was his fathers name?
Tingyr Maelwaedd, and his mother is Lovyan of the Clw Coc.
Devaberiel went very still. When had that been? He could still see her face in his mind, a beautiful lass for all her blunt ears and round eyes, and shed been so melancholy about something. But when? That unusually dry summer, wasnt it? Yes, and it was about twenty-one years ago, all right.
Oh, by the Dark Sun herself! Devaberiel burst out. Here I never even knew Id gotten Lovva with child!
Calonderiel whooped with laughter. All round them men and women alike turned to stare. Devaberiel could hear murmuring, things like What did he say? Did he say what I thought he said?
And isnt that a fine jest? Calonderiel paused for a grin. I certainly picked the perfect bard to answer my question. You have a peculiar fondness for those Round-ear women, my friend.
Imph. Havent been that many.
When Calonderiel started to laugh, Devaberiel threw a punch his way.
Stop howling like a goblin! I want to know about this son of mine. Every detail you can remember.
Not many days later Rhodry was the subject of another discussion, this one in Bardek, far across the Southern Sea. In an upstairs room of an isolated villa, deep in the hill country of the main island, two men lounged on a purple divan and watched a third, sitting at a table littered with parchment scrolls and books. He was grossly fat, as saggy and wrinkled as a torn leather ball, and only a few wisps of white hair clung to his dark-skinned skull. Whenever he glanced up, his eyelids drooped uncontrollably, half covering his brown eyes. He had immersed himself so thoroughly and so long in the craft of the dark dweomer that he no longer had a name. He was simply the Old One.
The other two men were both from Deverry. Alastyr, who looked fifty but was actually closer to seventy, was a solid sort with a squarish face and gray hair. At first sight he looked like a typical Cerrmor merchant, with his checked brigga and nicely embroidered shirt, and indeed, he took great pains to act the part. The other, Sarcyn, had just turned thirty. His thick blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and regular features should have made him handsome, but there was something about the way he smiled, something about the burning expression in his eyes, that made most people find him repellent. They both spoke not a word until the Old One looked up, tipping his head back so that he could see them.
The other two men were both from Deverry. Alastyr, who looked fifty but was actually closer to seventy, was a solid sort with a squarish face and gray hair. At first sight he looked like a typical Cerrmor merchant, with his checked brigga and nicely embroidered shirt, and indeed, he took great pains to act the part. The other, Sarcyn, had just turned thirty. His thick blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and regular features should have made him handsome, but there was something about the way he smiled, something about the burning expression in his eyes, that made most people find him repellent. They both spoke not a word until the Old One looked up, tipping his head back so that he could see them.
I have gone over all the major calculations. His voice was like the rasp of two dead twigs rubbed together. Theres some hidden thing at work here that I dont understand, some secret, some force of Destiny, perhaps, that has interfered with our plans.
Could it simply be the Master of the Aethyr? Alastyr said. Loddlaens war was going splendidly until Nevyn intervened.
The Old One shook his head and picked up a parchment sheet.
This is the horoscope of Tingyr, Rhodrys father. My art is very complex, little Alastyr. A single horoscope reveals few secrets.
I see. I didnt realize that.
No doubt, because few know the stars as I do. Now, most fools think that when a man dies, his horoscope is of no more use, but astrology is the art of studying beginnings. Whatever a man begins in his lifelike a son, for instanceis influenced by his stars, even after his death. Now, when I correlated this horoscope with certain transits, it seemed clear that this summer Tingyr would lose a son through deceit on someones part. The older brothers chart showed that he was in danger, so obviously Rhodry had to be the son lost.
Well, the years not over yet. It would be easy to send assassins after him.
Easy and quite useless. The omens clearly show that he will die in battle. Have you forgotten everything I ever told you?
My humble apologies.
Besides, the Deverry year ends on Samaen. We have less than a month now. No, its as I say. Some hidden thing is at work here. He let his glance linger on the heaped table. And yet, it seems that I had all the information I could possibly need. This bodes illfor all of us. No, Alastyr, well send no assassins, nothing so hasty until I unravel this puzzle.
As you wish, of course.
Of course. The Old One picked up a bone stylus and idly tapped another parchment. This woman puzzles me, too. Very greatly does Jill puzzle me. There was nothing in the omens about a woman who could fight like a man. I wish more information about her, her birth date if possible, so that I can scribe out her stars.
Ill make every effort to find it for you when I return.
With a nod of approval that set his chins trembling, the Old One shifted his bulk in his chair.
Send your apprentice to fetch me my meal.
Alastyr gestured at Sarcyn, who rose and obediently left the room. The Old One contemplated the closed door for a moment.
That one hates you, he said at last.