Days of Air and Darkness Read online

  “Well, then, could we pay you to let us water our horses in your trough?”

  “There’s plenty of streams in the forest down the road. But here, that forest is our lord’s hunting preserve. Don’t you silver daggers go poaching in it.”

  “And who is your lord?”

  “Tieryn Dwaen of Bringerun, but he’s too good a man to have any truck with the likes of you.”

  At that, the farmer picked up his bucket and turned back to his hogs. As they rode off, Rhodry was swearing under his breath.

  About a mile farther on, the forest sprang up abruptly at the edge of cleared land, a dark, cool stand of ancient oaks, thick with underbrush along the road. In the warmth of a spring day, Jill found it pleasant, riding through the dappled shade and listening to the birdsong and all the rustling, scrabbling music of the lives of wild things—the chatter of a squirrel here, the creak of branches there, the occasional scratching in the bracken that indicated some small animal was beating a retreat as the horses passed by. That she would be riding through this splendor with her Rhodry at her side seemed to her the most glorious thing in the world.

  “Shall we stop and eat soon?” Jill said. “We’ve got cheese, even if that whoreson piss-pot bastard wouldn’t sell us any bread. I hear water running nearby.”

  Sure enough, the road took a twist and brought them to the deep, broad Belaver, which paralleled the road. At the bank, they found a grassy clearing that sported a tall stone, carved with writing. Since Rhodry knew how to read, he told Jill that it served notice that no one could hunt without permission of the tieryn at Bringerun. After they watered their horses, they ate their cheese and apples standing up, stretching after the long morning’s ride, and idly watched the river flowing past, dappled with sun like gold coins. All at once, Jill felt uneasy. She walked away from the river and stood listening by the road, but she heard nothing. That was the trouble: the normal forest noise had stopped.

  “Rhodry? We’d best be on our way.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you hear how quiet it is? That means there’s men prowling round, and I’ll wager they’re the tieryn’s gamekeepers. We’d best stay on the public road if we don’t want trouble.”

  They mounted and rode out, but as they let the horses amble down the road, Jill realized that she was still listening for something, hunting horns, barking dogs, some normal noise that should accompany gamekeepers on their rounds, but she never heard any. In about a mile, the birdsong picked up again.

  As they rounded a bend, they met another party of riders ambling toward them. Two women led the way, a pretty lass in a rich blue dress, and an older person in gray who seemed to be her servingwoman from the deferential manner in which she spoke. Behind them on a pony rode a page carrying a big basket, and bringing up the rear, a swordsman on a warhorse, their escort. Since he was wearing no mail, they could see the blazon, a stag leaping over a fallen tree, embroidered on the yokes of his shirt. Jill and Rhodry pulled off the road to let the lady past, a courtesy which she acknowledged with a sunny smile and a wave of her gloved hand.

  “My lady?” Rhodry called out. “May I ask whom we have the honor of seeing?”

  “Lady Ylaena of Bringerun.” The page answered for the lady, as was his place. “Sister to Tieryn Dwaen.”

  Rhodry bowed from the saddle with such a bright smile that Jill felt a stab of jealousy. She would never have pretty dresses and soft, pale skin like Ylaena’s. On the other hand, she could knock Rhodry all over a stable-yard if he ever tried to betray her, an advantage that the lady would lack in dealing with her eventual husband. Once the noble party had ridden by, they returned to the road.

  “No doubt they’re meeting that hunting party we heard,” Rhodry remarked.

  But his words caught Jill like an omen. Although she tried to talk herself out of it, she felt trouble round them like a cold wind. They’d ridden no more than half a mile when she surrendered.

  “Rhoddo, we’ve got to turn back. That lady’s in danger. I know it sounds daft, but I know it as well as I know the sky’s blue. If we meet them, and I’m wrong, we can make up some tale about having lost a bit of gear in the road or suchlike.”

  Jill could hear her voice shaking, and it was that fear that convinced Rhodry. As they turned back, she was wishing that they could dismount and put on their mail, but she somehow knew that there was no time. Suddenly, they heard a woman scream, and then a shout and the clash of metal on metal. With a howl of unearthly laughter, Rhodry drew his sword and kicked his horse to a gallop. Sword in hand, Jill raced after him.

  As they charged up to the clearing by the river, Jill saw a welter of horses and ill-armored men: two attacking the stag rider, who was already bleeding as he swung his sword and yelled; two more grabbing the reins of the ladies’ horses, and one last beating the helpless page about the head. Rhodry charged straight into the melee and killed a man from behind, then swung on another. Jill galloped past and cut at the man struggling with the reins of Ylaena’s terrified palfrey. When she sliced him across the back, he screamed and dropped the reins.

  “Ride!” Jill shouted at the lady.

  When Jill shifted her weight in the saddle, her battle-trained horse swung round to the rescue of the servingwoman, whose screams echoed above Rhodry’s berserker’s laugh. Jill ducked her enemy’s clumsy blow and slashed him across the throat.

  “My apologies,” Jill said. “You poor bastard.”

  For the briefest of moments, he stayed upright, staring at her in disbelief, then fell dead over his horse’s neck. Jill’s stomach churned; for all that she was good with the blade she carried, she hated killing. She had no need of sending another man to the Otherlands that day, however, because the rest of the bandits were already racing down the road to the north.

  “Let them go!” Rhodry called out. “We can’t leave the women.”

  When Jill turned back, she found him dismounted and pulling the stag rider down from his saddle. Although the servingwoman clung to her saddle-peak and sobbed, Ylaena dismounted and ran to the page.

  “Get down, Larro. Let me see what that man did to you.”

  Shaking too hard even to weep, the lad swung down and threw himself into her arms. Jill dismounted and joined Rhodry, kneeling beside the stag rider. His face slashed with bloody cuts, he tried to speak, then died in Rhodry’s arms.

  “Ah, horseshit.” Rhodry laid him down gently. “I didn’t think they had brigands in this part of the kingdom.”

  “Not brigands,” Ylaena said from behind them. “My brother would never allow such a thing, not if he had to call in every alliance he had to chase them from his lands.”

  They rose, Rhodry hastily wiping his bloodstained hands on his brigga.

  “I owe you my life, silver daggers. Will you escort us back to my dun? I’ll see that you’re well paid for it.”

  “My lady will have our protection for the honor of the thing.” Rhodry made her a bow. “But we’d best hurry. Those cowards might realize that there’s only two of us and come back.”

  Between them, Jill and Rhodry got the dead men tied over their saddles. When they rode out, the lady, her servingwoman, and the page each led one of the extra horses to leave Jill and Rhodry free in case of attack, her at the head of the line, him in the dangerous rear guard. As they trotted down the road, Jill turned constantly in her saddle and peered into the trees, but apparently the attackers were the cowards Rhodry had called them, because their terrified procession came free of the forest without any more trouble. Out on the open road among the settled farms, they were safe. With a sharp sigh of relief, Jill sheathed her sword, then fell back to ride beside Ylaena.

  “I’ll take the reins of that horse, my lady. You shouldn’t have to lead it like a caravan guard.”

  “My thanks.” Ylaena handed them over. “You know, I think it’s the strangest thing of all that another lass would save my life, but you have my heartfelt thanks.”

  Tieryn Dwaen stood by the hearth
in his great hall and shook with rage. Rhodry had never seen a man as furious as this slender, dark-haired young lord, whose right hand clenched and unclenched on his sword hilt for the entire time that it took for Ylaena to tell the tale, sitting in her brother’s chair with Lord Cadlew behind her. When she was done, the tieryn turned to the silver daggers.

  “And how can I ever repay you for this? I never dreamt they’d dare harm my womenfolk, the bastards!”

  “They, Your Grace?” Rhodry said. “Who?”

  “Someone’s been trying to murder me. It’s just that I never would have thought in a thousand years that Beryn would take his vengeance out on my sister.”

  Ylaena covered her face with both hands and wept, while Cadlew patted her shoulder.

  “Dwaen,” he growled, “I want blood for this.”

  “So do I. Lots of it.”

  “They weren’t going to kill me.” Ylaena struggled with her voice to steady it. “I heard them yelling. ‘Don’t harm the ladies,’ they said. They were just going to take us somewhere.”

  “And what would they have done then?” Cadlew snarled. “When you ride to war, Dwaen, me and my war-band will ride with you.”

  “If it comes to war. I intend to let the gwerbret settle this by law if ever I can.”

  Cadlew muttered some inaudible frustration.

  In the great hall, every man in the warband and every servant in the dun stood round, straining to hear. Dwaen yelled at them all to get out, then asked Cadlew to escort Ylaena up to the women’s hall. He himself took Jill and Rhodry to the table of honor and insisted on pouring them mead with his own hands.

  “My lord?” Rhodry said. “I was just up in Ebonlyn, and someone tried to hire me to murder a noble-born man. I’m beginning to wonder if the man was you.”

  “Mayhap it was. Let me tell you my tale.”

  While Dwaen told him of the previous attempt on his life and Beryn’s probable motive, Rhodry grew more and more baffled.

  “By the pink asses of the gods, Your Grace, why doesn’t he just challenge you to an honor duel? You could have the matter settled before the gwerbret even heard of it.”

  “I’ve spent many an hour wondering the same thing. Rats in my bed? It sounds like old tales of witchcraft and suchlike. I can’t believe Lord Beryn would stoop so low.”

  Lallyc, the captain of the tieryn’s warband, trotted over and knelt at his lord’s side.

  “Your Grace? None of the men recognize those two dead’uns, and here we spent plenty of time with Beryn’s men before the murder.”

  “Well, I never thought Beryn would send men from his own warband.” Dwaen gave him a black-humored grin. “He might as well hire a herald to proclaim his intent as do that. But I can’t think of another man in the world who’d want me dead. Unless, Captain, I’m just being vain?”

  “Not in the least, my lord,” Lallyc said with a firm nod. “I’ve never known you to harm anyone. Why, you wouldn’t even cheat in a horse race. Besides, if anyone else felt injured, they’d know they could come sit by our gates and starve in safety. I can’t see you breaking the holy laws by driving them away.”

  “True enough. Well, looks like I’ve got a hire for you, silver daggers.”

  When Cadlew returned, the two lords worked out what struck Rhodry as a sensible plan. If Dwaen rode to the gwerbret in Ebonlyn, he would be vulnerable out on the road, because his rank only allowed him to bring an honor guard of fifteen men into the gwerbret’s presence, fewer than Beryn kept in his warband. If Cadlew accompanied him, however, the young lord could bring ten men of his own, and since it seemed clear that Beryn had no intention of murdering Cadlew if he could help it, having him along would doubtless be the best protection Dwaen could have. They could also bring the two silver daggers in addition to the honor guard, because Jill and Rhodry qualified as witnesses.

  “I’ll take Laryn, too,” Dwaen said. “But I don’t want to risk bringing Ylaena in to give evidence.”

  “Your Grace?” Rhodry put in. “But will she be safe here as long as there’s a traitor in the dun?”

  “She won’t, and that’s true enough. Ah, by the hells! To think that I got into this stinking mess out of regard for the laws and naught more!”

  As she considered Dwaen’s peculiar story, Jill grew more and more sure that the traitor had to be a servant, not a rider, because members of the warband had no business being anywhere near the tieryn’s chambers. A servant seen near his bedroom, however, would be taken for granted. All afternoon, she wandered round the dun and introduced herself to the various servitors, the head groom, the blacksmith, the pigkeeper, and finally, the cook, each of whom told her they thanked the gods daily for giving them places in the dun of a lord who was, for a change, so generous and just. Jill found it very hard to believe that any of them would ever betray their master.

  Jill left the kitchen hut to find a battle brewing. A pair of kitchen maids were standing by the well, their buckets forgotten beside them while they took turns sneering at a blond lass who had her hands set on her hips and her mouth twisted in sheer rage.

  “You’ve got a man in the village,” said one of the mockers.

  “And what business is it of yours?”

  “None, I’m sure, but you’d best be careful, you with one bastard already.”

  “You’re naught but a slut, Vyna,” the other mocker joined in, and she was a severe sort with squinty eyes at that. “I don’t see how you can carry on like that, with never a thought for the consequences.”

  “Don’t you call me a slut.” Vyna’s voice was dangerously level.

  “I will!” said Squinty Eyes. “Slut! Slut! Slut! Leaving your baby behind you!”

  Scarlet with rage, Vyna charged, grabbed her hair with one hand, and slapped her across the mouth with the other. Shrieking, the third lass joined in, all of them pulling each other’s hair and scrabbling with their nails at each other’s faces. Jill ran forward and intervened just as the cook came waddling and yelling out of the kitchen. While the cook bellowed for peace, Jill grabbed the pair of lasses and knocked them apart so hard that they cowered back by the wall. Vyna stood sobbing, her dress torn, the tears running down her face.

  “My thanks, Silver Dagger,” the cook said. “As for you two, get on with your work. You’ve tormented the lass enough, and I’m sick to my guts of hearing it.”

  Jill caught Vyna’s arm and led her to a private spot among the various huts and storage sheds. Sniveling, the lass wiped her face on her apron and stammered out thanks.

  “Most welcome. I hate seeing two against one in a fight.”

  “They’ve been on me and on me ever since I came here. Don’t they know how much it ached my heart to give up my baby? I miss him every day, but I had no choice.”

  “Where did you leave him? With your kin?”

  “I didn’t. My Mam wouldn’t take me in.” Vyna stared down at the ground, and her voice dropped. “But I was lucky, I suppose. I used to work in another dun, and the lady gave me the coin to put my baby in fosterage to a farmer’s wife she knew.”

  “I see. It wasn’t Cadlew’s dun, was it?”

  “It wasn’t. What made you think so?”

  “Oh, just an idle wondering. He and the tieryn seem such close friends.”

  “They are, but they’d never notice the likes of me. Here, my thanks again, but I’ve got to get back to my work.”

  She turned and ran across the ward, dodging among the huts as if to hide from Jill and the world as well.

  Jill went upstairs to the women’s hall, which filled half of the second floor of the broch, a spacious sunny room with two Bardek carpets on the polished wood floor and a profusion of chairs and cushions scattered about. Ylaena and the dowager Slaecca sat together near a window, sewing on an embroidered coverlet that draped both their knees—part of Ylaena’s dowry, Jill assumed. Jill bowed to the dowager and knelt beside her chair.

  “Now you’re not to trouble your heart, my lady. Lady Ylaena can tell you
that I don’t carry a sword just for the pretty scabbard, so no one’s going to harm you.”

  Slaecca whispered out a thanks so faint that her daughter leaned forward and squeezed her hand for reassurance.

  “Come now, Mam, Lord Cadlew’s promised me that he’ll guard our Dwaen, too. I’ll just wager the gwerbret puts a stop to all of this as soon as he finds out.”

  “I’ll pray so,” Slaecca said. “Oh, by the Goddess! I don’t want things coming to a war.”

  At dinner that night, Dwaen found out how seriously Rhodry took his post as bodyguard when a page brought them each a tankard of ale. Just as the tieryn went to drink, the silver dagger grabbed his wrist and snatched the tankard.

  “Allow me, Your Grace.” Rhodry took a cautious sip, thought about it for a moment, tried another, waited, then finally handed the ale back. “If His Grace would oblige, he’d best not have so much as a drink of water from the well without me or his captain trying it first.”

  “Ye gods, I think I’d rather die than have another man poisoned in my stead.”

  “His Grace is honorable, but we’ve sworn to die protecting you in battle, so why not at table, too?”

  Dwaen forced out a sickly smile. He felt like a badger in a trap, waiting for the hunter to appear and spear him through the wickerwork. Rhodry, fortunately, proved good company, whether talking about his life on the long road or passing along bits of gossip about the noble-born. Dwaen began to wonder about this silver dagger, a courtly man by every phrase he used or graceful bow he made, but a dishonored outcast all the same. Jill puzzled him just as much. It was extremely odd to think of a woman charging right into the fight on the road, odder the more because as the women settled themselves at table, Jill was talking with his mother about some typical female matter. While he waited for Rhodry to sample the meat and bread on his plate, he overheard a bit of it: one of the kitchen lasses apparently had a bastard out in fosterage, and Jill and Slaecca were predictably (to his mind at least) distressed for the lass.

  “How awful to leave your baby behind!” Slaecca said. “Jill, later you might ask Cook for me just where Vyna was in service before. The poor lass.”