The Spirit Stone Read online

  I truly can’t get out of this, Nevyn thought. He always was an irritating little bastard, so I don’t know why I’m even surprised that he’d be a nuisance now.

  The sunlight streaming in through the windows had turned gold with the sunset by the time that the king’s private door opened. There was a blare of silver horns, two pages marched through, and everyone in the hall rose and knelt as Casyl came striding in with a pair of black-robed councillors. Casyl smiled and raised a hand in greeting to his court, then strode over to the honour table and took his place at the head. In a clatter of chairs and benches the assembled company sat down again, yet no one spoke more than a few whispers. Nevyn realized that almost every person in the great hall had turned to stare at him, that mysterious shabby old man, back again.

  ‘Greetings, my lord,’ Casyl said to Nevyn. ‘And have you come to tell me what you desire for your boon?’

  ‘I have, my liege.’

  ‘Splendid!’ Casyl rubbed his hands together like a merchant who’s just made a good sale. ‘The gift you gave me grows the more wondrous the more I study it. Speak. Tell me your wish, and if it’s in my power to bestow, then you shall have it.’

  ‘Your highness, my thanks.’ Nevyn paused for effect. ‘I want Lord Gwairyc to be my servant for seven years and a day, to serve me as faithfully and scrupulously as he would serve you.’

  The men at the honour table gasped aloud; those at the nearest ones leaned forward, all of them desperate to know and unable to ask what had been said. Casyl frankly stared, eyes narrowed in confusion, as if he thought Nevyn were jesting.

  Nevyn smiled briefly. ‘Do you think that Lord Gwairyc will comply with your wishes in this matter, my liege?’

  ‘No doubt. But with all the splendid things I can offer you, why do you want him?’

  Nevyn leaned close to whisper.

  ‘For reasons of the dweomer’s and my own. I don’t care to reveal them, my liege. I swear it will be to your friend’s benefit and ultimately to yours.’

  ‘Done, then. Page, run and fetch me Lord Gwairyc.’

  It took the page some while to thread his way through the crowded hall. He reached Gwairyc, said a few words, then stood back and allowed the lord to make his way back across alone. By the time he did, the human patience of the courtiers had been stretched beyond breaking. First the king’s servitors began to whisper about Nevyn’s strange request. The knowledge spread with the servants who’d been pouring mead and laying out baskets of bread. Once the warbands heard it, muffled oaths and loud talk overwhelmed the polite whispers. Gwairyc was forced to make his way to the king’s side through a clamour, all centred on what lay ahead of him. Silently Nevyn cursed himself—he should have requested the boon privately, but it was too late now.

  Gwairyc knelt before the king, who turned in his chair and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘My Lord Gwairyc,’ Casyl said, ‘once you swore to serve me and follow me to the death if need be. Is that vow still true?’

  ‘More true than ever, your highness.’ Gwairyc’s voice was soft and dark. ‘Do you doubt me?’

  ‘Never for a moment. You must have heard what’s transpired.’

  ‘I did. I just didn’t believe it.’

  ‘Alas, it’s true.’ Casyl waved in Nevyn’s general direction. ‘I promised Lord Nevyn any boon he desires. He’s asked me for you, to be his servant for seven years and a day, and to serve him the way you’d serve me.’

  Gwairyc swung his head around like a striking snake and stared at Nevyn for a long poisonous moment before returning his gaze to the king. ‘Your highness,’ he whispered. ‘You’d send me away?’

  ‘Not willingly, but how can I go back on my promise? What kind of man would I be, to promise a boon and then haggle like some merchant? Here, my friend, I’ll miss you.’

  Gwairyc slumped and stared at the floor. ‘Well, my liege,’ Gwairyc said at last. ‘A vow’s a vow, and whatever Lord Nevyn says, I’ll do it as willingly as I can.’

  ‘Well and good, then. And when the seven years and a day are over, I beg you to return to me.’

  ‘I will, my liege.’ Gwairyc’s voice came close to breaking. ‘I swear it.’

  Casyl glanced at Nevyn to give him permission to speak.

  ‘My thanks, your highness,’ Nevyn said. ‘Now, my lord, I’m staying at the temple of Wmm in the city. Tomorrow at dawn, come to me there. Bring a horse and gear for a long journey.’

  ‘I will, my lord.’ Gwairyc hesitated, looking up at him with stunned eyes. ‘May I ask how I am to serve you?’

  ‘You may, but not here,’ Nevyn said. ‘On the morrow I’ll tell you more. I’m a herbman, though, and we’ll be travelling the roads all summer.’

  The eavesdroppers snickered. Gwairyc’s face became a mask of shrouded feeling. Everyone else in the hall began to whisper among themselves, a vast susurrus of ‘what did the old man say?’ When the king threw up his hand, silence came promptly.

  ‘Gwarro, my friend,’ the king said. ‘Serve this man as you would serve me. That’s all I’d ask of you.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll do, your highness.’ Gwairyc rose and bowed to him. ‘If you’ll give me leave to go?’

  Casyl nodded his agreement. The great hall sat stunned as Gwairyc turned and strode out. No one spoke, no one followed him, but here and there, Nevyn noticed, at other tables, courtiers smiled as slyly as if they’d just seen an enemy slain.

  Nevyn took leave of the king as soon as he could. He walked back to Olnadd’s along streets that lay in shadow from the setting sun, even though the sky above still shone blue. Well, Lilli, Nevyn thought, someday mayhap we’ll meet again, but it won’t be this summer.

  ‘Gwarro, it’s just too awful,’ Sagraeffa said. ‘I’ve been weeping for hours.’

  Around her swollen eyes ran little streaks of Bardekian kohl, witnesses to the truth of her tears. She’d taken off her headscarf as well and dishevelled her hair, which hung like thick dark ropes around her full face.

  ‘I just hate this,’ she went on. ‘You can’t go!’

  ‘I don’t have any choice, do I? By the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell, do you think this gladdens my heart?’

  Sagraeffa snivelled and twisted her handkerchief tightly between pale fingers. Lady Sagraeffa, wife to Lord Obyn of the White Wolf, was a lovely woman, with raven-dark Eldidd hair and cornflower-blue eyes to match. For months, Gwairyc had been stalking her, flattering her, courting her, and now, just when he had a chance at the prize, disaster had ended his hunt. He felt like strangling her for putting him off for all these months. As if she read his temper, she shrank back into the corner of the window-seat.

  ‘I shall miss you so,’ she said. ‘Don’t you even know where that awful old man is going?’

  ‘I don’t. The hells, for all I care.’

  Sagraeffa gave a small delicate sob and twisted the handkerchief tighter. With a muttered oath, Gwairyc got up and began pacing around the chamber, which was stuffed with cushioned furniture and little knick-knacks. He picked up a silver basket of glass flowers from Bardek and considered heaving it into the gilded mirror above the hearth.

  ‘Gwarro, what are you doing?’ Sagraeffa snuffled. ‘Come sit down. We don’t have very long, and I want one of your kisses.’

  Gwairyc paced back, but he stood over her rather than sitting down. She leaned against red velvet cushions and smiled wistfully at him.

  ‘How long will your cursed husband be gone?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Sagraeffa pouched her full lips into a moue. ‘He’s so tedious when he gets to talking with Lord Banryc.’

  ‘Good.’

  When Gwairyc sat down next to her, she smiled, offering him her hand, then pulling it back again. She wanted some more fine words, he supposed, all that courtly drivel that she ate up, like a chicken pecking seed as he trailed it out in front of her.

  ‘My heart aches at leaving you, my love,’ Gwairyc said. ‘It’s the worst thing of all.’
r />   Sagraeffa smiled, moving a little closer and letting him catch her hand.

  ‘Ah by the hells, how can the gods be so cruel?’ Gwairyc went on. ‘They show me the love of my life, then tear me away from her.’

  ‘Well, they’ve done the same to me. That beastly old man! Oh, Gwarro, it’s going to be all tedious again without you.’

  Gwairyc pulled her close and kissed her. With a sigh, she slipped her arms around his neck and let him take a few more kisses, but when he laid his hand on her breast, she giggled, pulling away and glancing at the door. Admittedly, her stupid husband could come in at any minute, but Obyn was a man who liked his habits, and one of those habits was having three games of carnoic with Lord Banryc every other night. He estimated that they were just finishing the first one.

  ‘Now come along, my love. It’s our last night together. Are you going to be as cruel as the gods and send me away without even a splendid memory of your love?’

  Sagraeffa caught her lower lip under her front teeth and stared up at him, honestly frightened. All at once, Gwairyc realized that she’d never had any intention of sleeping with him.

  ‘Obyn might come back.’ Her voice shook.

  ‘So what? I’ve already been banished, haven’t I? And do you think that dry stick of a husband of yours has the strength to beat you? I’ll wager he doesn’t. He won’t be back anyway.’

  ‘But I—’

  Gwairyc caught her face in both hands and kissed her hard. When she squirmed away, he caught her by the shoulders and kissed her again. For a moment she struggled with him, then went satisfyingly limp in his arms.

  ‘You told me you loved me. Do you or not?’

  Sagraeffa looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, a pleasant sign of weakness. This time, he kissed her gently, letting his mouth linger on hers. She laid a trembling hand on his arm and caressed him. He knew cursed well that she wanted it as badly as he did. He decided that this time, she wasn’t going to put him off.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll be gone. Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again? Please, my love? My heart aches with wanting you so badly. There’s never been another woman who could make me feel this way.’

  This brought a wary smile to her slightly swollen lips. Gwairyc had one brief thought for her husband—what if he did leave early? Then he kissed her again, kept kissing her until she gave in and let him caress her.

  ‘Let me take you to your bedchamber.’

  Sagraeffa went stiff in his arms and turned her head away.

  ‘Oh by the hells!’ Gwairyc snapped. ‘We’re running out of time!’

  ‘Don’t be so beastly, Gwarro! You’re just not as nice tonight as you usually are.’

  ‘Ah, curse it! What do you expect? I’ve been flayed alive, and I’m supposed to mince around?’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to be mean to me.’

  Gwairyc felt his temper snap like a rope pulled too tight. He grabbed her, kissed her, and threw her down on the window-seat, falling half on top of her to kiss her again. She screamed, but only feebly, a little yelp carefully calculated to stay in the chamber. This time, when she surrendered to his caresses, he gave her no chance to change her mind. He picked her up, slid off the window-seat and laid her down again right on the floor.

  When they were finished, Sagraeffa lay still on the carpet for a long time and stared at him. Her face was flushed, and when he caressed her, he could feel her nipples, as hard as Bardek almonds. Gwairyc gave her one last kiss, then got up, pulling up his brigga and lacing them.

  ‘You’re such a brute,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh am I now? Those noises you made—it didn’t sound to me like you were screaming for help.’

  Gasping in rage, Sagraeffa sat up, pulling down her dress and glaring at him. Gwairyc picked up his sword belt from the floor and began buckling it on.

  ‘And I suppose you’re just going to leave me now,’ she said.

  ‘You’re the one who was worrying about your blasted husband. I don’t want to leave. I’d rather spend all night in your bed.’ He gave her a grin. ‘Admit it—you’d like to have me there.’

  Sagraeffa got up, then stood glaring at him while she tried to smooth down her skirts with nervous fingers. He liked seeing her this way—dishevelled, flustered, utterly weak before his superior strength. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a kiss, which she took meekly, leaning against him.

  ‘Oh ye gods, what if I have a baby? Obyn will know it isn’t his.’

  ‘Indeed? Then maybe you’d best do something to stiffen his, um, resolve.’

  With a snarl, Sagraeffa pulled away and slapped him across the face. Her soft hand barely stung on his cheek.

  ‘Get out of here! I hate you!’

  Gwairyc dodged another slap, made her a hasty bow, and ran for the door. As he let himself out, he heard her weeping. With a shrug, he slammed the door and hurried down the corridor. He had no more time to waste on her. The worst part of this last night lay ahead of him: going back to the barracks to face his men.

  The king’s riders were housed in five separate barracks. Each warband had its own standard and blazon in addition to the royal wyvern. Gwairyc’s band, the Falcons, were housed in barracks closest to the broch complex. As he hurried across the dark ward, Gwairyc was brooding about the other four troops. During the winters, when they lacked real enemies, all five of them were bitter rivals. No doubt the Falcons were in for a lot of jests about the wyrd that had fallen on their captain. When he reached the door, he paused, summoning courage. Then he flung open the door and strode in, bracing himself for jeers.

  Instead, the men merely looked at him, glancing his way, then turning silently back to dice games or polishing gear as he walked the long way down the row of bunks to his own small chamber at the far end of the barracks. He slipped in, barred the door behind him, then let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.

  The room sweltered from a fire his page had lit in the small hearth. Gwairyc lit a pair of candles from the coals, set them on the mantel, then spread and smashed the fire to dead ash. For a long time he leaned against the wall and watched the candle flames dance.

  ‘Ah ye gods! How can you do this to me?’

  The gods didn’t deign to answer. With a sigh, Gwairyc unbuckled his sword belt and laid it down carefully on the bed. He had better pack up his gear, he decided, what there was of it, enough clothes and the like to fit into two pair of saddlebags and little more. At a timid knock on his door, he opened it to find a small group of his riders clustered behind red-haired Rhwn, who generally acted as his second-in-command. Rhwn was holding out a big silver pitcher and a clay cup.

  ‘My lord?’ Rhwn said. ‘Me and the lads bribed a kitchen lass and got you some mead. Figured you’d need it.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Gwairyc steadied his voice by force of will, then took the mead. ‘Do you hold this to my shame?’

  ‘How can we? I tell you, my lord, me and the lads are as vexed as the Lord of Hell with boils on his cock! It’s not going to be the same, riding behind some other captain.’

  The men behind him all nodded their agreement.

  ‘Well, my thanks,’ Gwairyc said again. ‘I never knew I had such a blasted strange wyrd in store for me.’

  ‘No man knows his wyrd,’ Rhwn said with a shrug. ‘Here, my lord, who is that old man? He can’t truly be some old daft herbman. The King himself called him a lord.’

  ‘Then he’s a daft old lord who turned herbman, maybe. Ah horseshit, I’m going to find out, aren’t I?’

  Rhwn nodded with a long sad sigh, then herded the other men away to leave Gwairyc his privacy. Gwairyc barred the door again and returned to stuffing his material wealth into his saddlebags. By the time he’d done, he’d drunk half the mead. He finished off the rest of the pitcher fast, drinking it down like physick, then passed out fully dressed on his bunk.

  Waking brought torment, a headache like a sword cut, a stomach that roiled like a winter sea. Rolling up his blankets gave
him a foretaste of the seven hells. Gwairyc had a brief thought of suicide, decided it would be acknowledging defeat in a battle not yet begun, and grimly got his gear together instead of slitting his own throat. Just as dawn was brightening the sky, he led his grey gelding, a personal gift from the king, out of the dun gates. When he mounted, the effort made the buildings around him sway and wobble. He let the horse pick a slow way out into the city streets.

  Only a few townsfolk were out this early: a housewife sweeping off her steps, a servant emptying a chamber-pot into the gutter. Gwairyc found the temple of Wmm by luck as much as memory. He dismounted, wondering where exactly Nevyn might be. When he touched the locked gate, the geese charged, hissing and flapping.

  ‘If you didn’t belong to a priest,’ Gwairyc said, ‘I’d wring your ugly white necks.’

  He led his horse around to the mews he’d noticed behind the priest’s house. Sure enough, Nevyn was just tying a saddled riding horse to a hitching rail.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ the old man said. ‘I’m still loading the mule.’

  The gate was just broad enough to let Gwairyc’s horse follow him into a small dusty yard behind what seemed to be a stable. Nevyn was standing beside a pair of large canvas packs, while his mule stood head-down and sulky nearby. Gwairyc made an uneasy bow to his new master. Nevyn was a tall man, slender and remarkably strong-looking with a vigour that belied his untidy shock of white hair and his wrinkled face, dotted with the brown spots of advanced old age. He was dressed in a pair of dirty, much-mended brown brigga and an old shirt without any blazon on the yokes. A tattered brown cloak hung over the horse’s saddle.

  ‘Well, here I am,’ Gwairyc said. ‘Do you want me to load that mule for you?’