Darkspell Page 2

  Otho snorted in profound disbelief.

  “It’s true,” Jill broke in. “Da even pledged him to the silver dagger.”

  “Indeed?” The smith still looked suspicious, but he let the matter drop. “What brings you to me, lad? Have some battle loot to sell?”

  “I don’t. I’ve come about my silver dagger.”

  “What have you done, nicked it or suchlike? I don’t see how any man could bruise that metal.”

  “He wants the dweomer taken off it,” Jill said. “Can you do that, Otho? Remove the spell on the blade?”

  The smith turned, openmouthed in surprise.

  “I know cursed well it’s got one on it,” she went on. “Rhoddo, take it out and show him.

  Reluctantly Rhodry drew the dagger from its worn sheath. It was a lovely thing, that blade, as silky as silver, but harder than steel, some alloy that only a few smiths knew how to blend. On it was graved the device of a striking falcon (Cullyn’s old mark, because the dagger had once belonged to him), but in Rhodry’s hand the device was almost invisible in a blaze and flare of dweomer-light, running like water from the blade.

  “Elven blood in your veins, is there?” Otho snapped. “And a good bit of it, too.”

  “Well, there’s some.” Rhodry made the admission unwillingly. “I hail from the west, you see, and that old proverb about there being elven blood in Eldidd veins is true enough.”

  When Otho grabbed the dagger, the light dimmed to a faint glow.

  “I’m not letting you in my workshop,” he announced. “You people all steal. Can’t even help it, I suppose; it’s probably the way you were raised.”

  “By every god in the Otherlands, I’m not a thief! I was born and raised a Maelwaedd, and it’s not my wretched fault that there’s wild blood somewhere in my clan’s quarterings.”

  “Hah! I’m still not letting you into my workshop.” He turned and pointedly spoke only to Jill. “It’s a hard thing you’re asking, lass. I don’t have true dweomer. The dagger spell is the only one I can weave, and I don’t even understand what I’m doing. It’s just somewhat that we pass down from father to son, those of us who know it at all, that is.”

  “I was afraid of that,” she said with a sigh. “But we’ve got to do somewhat about it. He can’t use it at table when it turns dweomer every time he draws it.”

  Otho considered, chewing on his lower lip.

  “Well, if this were an ordinary dagger, I’d just trade you a new one without the spell, but since it was Cullyn’s and all, I’ll try to unweave the dweomer. Maybe working it all backward will do it. But it’s going to cost you dear. There’s a risk in meddling with things like this.”

  After a couple of minutes of brisk haggling, Jill handed him five silver pieces, about half of the smith’s asking price.

  “Come back at sunset,” Otho said. “We’ll see if I’ve been successful or not.”

  Rhodry spent the afternoon looking for a hire. Although it was too close to winter weather for warfare, he did find a merchant who was taking a load of goods back to Cerrmor. For all their dishonor, silver daggers were in much demand as caravan guards, because they belonged to a band with a reputation that kept them more honest than most. Not just any man could become a silver dagger. A fighting man who was desperate enough to take the blade had to first find another silver dagger, ride with him awhile, and prove himself before he was allowed to meet one of the rare smiths who served the band. Only then could he truly “ride the long road,” as the daggers referred to their lives.

  And if Otho could blunt the spell, Rhodry would no longer have to keep his blade sheathed for fear of revealing his peculiar bloodlines. He hurried Jill through her dinner and hustled her along to the silversmith’s shop a little before sunset. Otho’s beard was a good bit shorter, and he no longer had any eyebrows at all.

  “I should have known better than to do a favor for a miserable elf,” he announced.

  “Otho, you have our humble apologies.” Jill caught his hand and squeezed. “And I’m ever so glad you didn’t get badly burned.”

  “You’re 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. That’s the way of your folk, though; all fine words and no hard coin.”

  “Otho, please,” Jill said. “He doesn’t even have much elven blood.”

  “Hah! That’s 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 other’s right shoulder in greeting.

  “It’s a big gathering,” Manaverr said.

  “They all knew you’d 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?”

  “He’s been asking every bard here about some obscure point of somebody’s genealogy. He’ll 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 Manaverr’s cousin and looked it, strode over and hailed him.

  “What’s this mysterious question?” Devaberiel said. “Manaverr told me you were wondering about someone’s 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 call
ed Rhodry Maelwaedd, a lad of twenty. Strangely enough, he’s 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. You’re right—that distant ancestor’s blood would be a bit too thin by now for that to happen. What was his father’s 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 she’d been so melancholy about something. But when? That unusually dry summer, wasn’t 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 I’d 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 isn’t 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. Haven’t 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.

  “I have gone over all the major calculations.” His voice was like the rasp of two dead twigs rubbed together. “There’s some hidden thing at work here that I don’t 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. “Loddlaen’s 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, Rhodry’s father. My art is very complex, little Alastyr. A single horoscope reveals few secrets.”

  “I see. I didn’t 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 life—like a son, for instance—is 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 someone’s part. The older brother’s chart showed that he was in danger, so obviously Rhodry had to be the son lost.”

  “Well, the year’s 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, it’s 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 ill—for all of us. No, Alastyr, we’ll 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.”

  “I’ll 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.

  “He does? I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “No doubt he’s taken great pains to hide it. Now, it’s fit and right that an apprentice struggle with his master. No one learns on the Dark Path unless he fights for knowledge. But hatred? It’s very dangerous.”

  Alastyr wondered if the Old One had seen an omen that indicated Sarcyn was a real threat. The master would never tell except for a stiff price. The Old One was the greatest expert alive in one particular part of the dark dweomer, that of wresting hints of future events from a universe unwilling to reveal them. His personal perversion of astrology was only part of the art, which involved meditation and a dangerous kind of astral scrying as well. Since he was scrupulously honest in his own way as well as valuable, he commanded a respect and loyalty rare among the dweomermen of the left-hand path and was, in a limited sense, as much of a leader as their “brotherhood” could ever have. Since his age and bulk confined him to his villa, Alastyr had struck a bargain with him. In return for the master’s aid with his own plans, he was doing such portions of the Old One’s work that required traveling.

  In a few minutes Sarcyn returned with a bowl on a tray, set it down in front of the Old One, then took his place at Alastyr’s side. The bowl held raw meat, freshly killed and mixed with the still-warm blood, a necessary food for aged masters of the dark arts. The Old One scooped up a delicate fingerful and licked it off.

  “Now, as for your own work,” he said, “the time is growing ripe to obtain what you seek, but you must be very careful. I know you’ve taken many precautions, but consider how carefully we worked to eliminate Rhodry. You know full well how that ended.”

  “I assure you that I’ll be constantly on guard.”

  “Good. Next summer a certain configuration of planets will lie adversely in the horoscope of the High King of Deverry. This grouping in turn is influenced by subtle factors beyond your understanding. All these omens taken together indicate that the king might lose a powerful guardian if someone worked to that end.”

  “Splendid! The jewel I seek is just such a guardian.”

  The Old One paused for another scoop and lick.

  “This is all very interesting, little Alastyr. So far you’ve kept your side of our bargain, perhaps even better than you can know. So many strange things.” He sounded almost dreamy. “Very, very interesting. We’ll see when you return to Deverry, if more strange things come your way. Do you see what I me
an? You must be on guard every single moment.”

  Alastyr felt an icy-cold hand clench his stomach. He was being warned, no matter how circumspectly, that the Old One could no longer trust his own predictions.

  Devaberiel Silverhand knelt in his red leather tent and methodically rummaged through a wall bag embroidered with vines and roses. Since it was quite large, it took him a while to find what he was looking for. Irritably he scrabbled through old trophies from singing contests, the clumsy first piece of embroidery his daughter had ever done, two mismatched silver buckles, a bottle of Bardek scent, and a wooden horse given to him by a lover whose name he’d forgotten. At the very bottom he found the small leather pouch, so old that it was cracking.

  He opened it and shook a ring out into his hand. Although it was made of dwarven silver, and thus still as shiny as the day he’d put it away, it had no dweomer upon it, or at least none that any sage or dweomerperson had ever been able to unravel. A silver band, about a third of an inch wide, it was engraved with roses on the outside and a few words in Elvish characters, but some unknown language, on the inside. In the two hundred years he’d had this ring, he’d never found a sage who could read it.

  The way he’d come by it was equally mysterious. He was a young man then, just finished with his bardic training and riding with the alar of a woman he particularly fancied. One afternoon a traveler rode up on a fine golden stallion. When Devaberiel and a couple of the other men strolled out to greet him, they received quite a surprise. Although from a distance he looked like an ordinary man of the People, with the dark hair and jet-black eyes of someone from the far west, up close it was hard to tell just what he did look like. It seemed that his features changed constantly though subtly, that at times his mouth was wider, then thinner, that he became shorter, then taller. He dismounted and looked over the welcoming party.

  “I wish to speak with Devaberiel the bard.”

  “Here I am.” Devaberiel stepped forward. “How did you know my name?”

  The stranger merely smiled.

  “May I ask your name, then?” Devaberiel said.