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Part II
Dun Deverry and The Westlands
Spring, 983
Every light casts a shadow. The dweomer light has cast a darkness of darkness. In that vile night creep those who once were men even as you, thinking that they craved secrets only to ease the suffering of the world. Somewhere along their way, the shadow crept over them unawares...
-- The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
Built as it was across seven hills, the city of Dun Deverry towered above the surrounding farmlands. Riding up from the south, Nevyn saw it from a long distance away as a cluster of gray and green shapes on the horizon. The road twisted, swinging at times a mile off the straight as it meandered around a lord's dun or rambled along a stream till it finally reached a ford or bridge where a traveller could cross. As the road changed direction, the city seemed to dance on the horizon, now to the east, then to the west, showing him different views as he drew closer. A little while before sunset he finally rode up the last hill, and by then, the city loomed over him like a thunder cloud.
The south gates had been repaired since the last time Nevyn had seen them, over a hundred years before when they'd been only ragged heaps of stone and broken planks. Now they stood twelve feet high and over twenty broad, made of stout oak banded with iron. Each band sported an elaborate engraved design of interlaced wyverns, and on the portion of wall directly above the gates stood a wyvern rampant, carved in pale marble.
Since the stone wall holding them was a good fifteen feet thick, the gates opened into a a sort of tunnel, which eventually led out to a dusty public square. Oak saplings, dusted green with their first leaves, lined the street. In the center of the square a good many towsfolk were standing around the stone pool of a fountain, gossiping no doubt, but none of them paid any attention to Nevyn, a shabby old herbman leading a laden pack mule and a scruffy riding horse, all three of them covered with dust from the road.
Nevyn, however, studied the townsfolk. As he followed the twisting street uphill past rows of prosperous looking shops, he kept looking around him, appraising the faces of the people he passed. He'd come to Dun Deverry on two errands. For one, he was searching for a particular young woman who had been his apprentice many a long year before. Everywhere he'd been in the years since her death, he'd searched but never found her. He was hoping that since she'd died in Dun Deverry, she'd been reborn there. She would look very different, of course, but he knew that he'd recognize Lilli when he saw her again. The other errand was far more complicated, and to accomplish it, he'd need the help of friends.
Olnadd, priest of Wmm, the god of scribes, lived in a shabby little house not far from the west gate. A brown wooden palisade enclosed the thatch-roofed house, its vegetable garden out in front, and a pair of white geese. When Nevyn arrived at the gate, the geese stopped hunting snails to glare at him. He laid a hand on the latch. Hissing and honking, the pair rushed forward with a great flapping of white wings. His horse and pack mule both threw up their heads and began pulling on reins and halter-rope. As soon as Nevyn let go of the gate, the geese subsided.
"Olnadd," Nevyn called out. "Olnadd! Anyone here?"
The front door opened, and the priest hurried out, a slender man with a slick, sparse cap of grey hair. In daily life Wmm's priests dressed much as other Deverry men did, in plain wool brigga with a linen shirt belted over them. Olnadd's shirt sported yokes embroidered with pelicans, the sacred bird of his god.
"Whist, whist," he called out, "get back!"
The geese retreated, but not far.
"My apologies," Olnadd said. "They're better than watchdogs, truly."
"So I see. You don't look surprised to see me, so I take it that my letter reached you."
"It did." Olnadd opened the gate and stepped out, shutting it quickly behind him. "Let's take your horse and mule around to the mews. I've got a shed out there that will do for a stable."
Once his animals were unloaded and at their hay, Nevyn followed Olnadd into the house. The priest's wife, a tall, rangy woman who wore her gray hair in braids round her head, greeted him with a smile and ushered them both into her kitchen. They sat at the table near a sunny window, and Affyna brought out a plate of cakes and cups of boiled milk sweetened with honey.
"So, then." Olnadd helped himself to a raisin cake. "What brings you to us?"
"A rather curious business," Nevyn said. "I want to see the King. I've made him a talisman, you see, a little gift for the blood royal."
"Little gift?" Affyna said. "If you've made it, it must positively reek of dweomer. Well, I suppose reek isn't quite the word I mean."
"It will do, truly." Nevyn grinned at her. "The question now is, how do I get an audience with our liege to give it to him?"
"That will take a bit of doing," Olnadd said. "I don't suppose we should pry, but I can't say I'd mind having a look at the thing."
"I shouldn't admit this, but I wouldn't mind showing it off. It's taken me a cursed lot of hard work." Nevyn reached into his shirt, pulled out the slender chain he wore round his neck, and unfastened a small leather pouch. He slid out its contents, wrapped in layers of silk.
"Close those shutters, will you?"
Olnadd got up and did so. One ray of light came through the crack and fell across the table in a line of gold. Nevyn drew a circle deosil around the bundle with his hand, visualized four tiny pentagrams at its cardinal points, and cleared the space around the talisman of all influences -- not that evil or impure forces would be lying about the priest's breakfast table, but Nevyn didn't care to have the stone pick up traces of local gossip. He unwrapped the five pieces of silk: the first, mottled, olive, citrine, russet and black; the second, purple; the third, Wmm's own orange; the fourth an emerald green, and the last pale lavender.
In the center of the silks lay an opal, as big as a walnut, but so perfectly round, so smoothly polished that it seemed to breathe and glow with a life of its own. Affyna sighed sharply, and Olnadd muttered a few words of prayer under his breath.
"It's commemorated through Bran and the great Gwindyc, you see," Nevyn said. "I've linked it up through the Kings of the Wildlands to the golden root of dominion. Not a word of this to anyone, mind."
"And is there anyone else in Dun Devvery who'd know what I was talking about if I told them?"
"Not half likely, is it?" Nevyn glanced at Affyna.
She smiled again. "Any woman who marries a priest learns to hold her tongue."
Carefully, one piece at a time, Nevyn wrapped the opal back up in its silken shrouds. He returned it to the pouch, then wiped the dweomer circle away from the table. Olnadd got up and opened the shutters to let in the spring air.
"And what kind of man is our king?" Nevyn said. "I knew his grandfather, you see, but I haven't been at court in a cursed long time."
Olnadd considered, rubbing his chin.
"Hard to say. Now, he used to be the wild sort, when he was the Marked Prince, but wedding the sovereignity changes a man. He's held the kingship only a year now, but he seems to be steadying down."
"Seems to be?"
"Well, he's a splendid warrior. Very useful just now." Olnadd considered again, picking up his cup and twisting it between his long fingers. "But the emotional sort. Given to quick judgments and -- well -- gestures. Things fit for bard songs, a lot of talk about honor -- you know the sort."
"How easy is it for a subject to see his liege? I've brought a good bit of coin to bribe servants."
"You'll need it, but I can smooth your way and save some of your silver. The scribes all come to the temple, of course, for worship. The head scribe's an interesting sort. Truly, he should have come to us for the priesthood, but he has a taste for power. Coin will be out of place for our Petyc. We'll go down to the bookseller's and see what we can find."
"A bookseller? Ye gods, Dun Deverry's turning into a grand city indeed."
"It is, at that. We might find a rare volume, even, but if not, there'll be somewhat there that will make a decent gift. Then I'll introduce you. Petyc will speak to the chamberlain if he likes you. A little gift might be in order for the chamberlain, but a few coins in a pouch should do. There's nothing subtle about him, truly."
"My thanks. I'd like to get this settled before the king goes off to the summer's fighting."
"Oh, I've no doubt you can. The gossip tells me that the king won't ride north for another fortnight or so."
"Well and good, then. Ye gods! Another war in Cerrgonny!"
"Now, now!" Affyna paused for a sly smile. "The king never says war. It's a rebellion, according to him."
"And when did the Boar clan swear fealty to the Wyvern clan?" Nevyn said.
"Well, the king says they must have," Olnadd joined in. "Somewhere. Some time. We can't doubt the king, can we now?" He rolled his eyes heavenward. "He has it on the best authority -- his own."
They all shared a laugh but a grim one. In truth, Cergonney had been an independent kingdom for the past hundred and thirty- odd years, though kingdom was perhaps too grand a word for that rocky land filled with feuds, factions, and petty hatreds. No doubt the king's vassals would support a war more eagerly if it were presented as putting down a rebellion rather than outright conquest.
"And of course his scribes will write down what he tells him to," Affyna said, "and the royal bards sing the correct verses."
"Indeed," Nevyn said. "But ye gods, another war with the cursed Boars. I wonder if we'll ever see the end of them?"
"Now here!" Olnadd gave him a grin. "I was hoping you could tell me."
"I can't, alas. The dweomer tells a man what he needs to know and little else."
That night Nevyn retired early to the small spare guest chamber to work an elaborate piece of dweomer. As much as false omens and pretentious glamors annoyed him, he knew that he'd need them. He'd worked too hard on the opal talisman to have the king accept it lightly, and if he simply gained an audience and handed it over, the king most likely would underestimate its importance. Many years before, Nevyn had sucessfully used a certain kind of magical trick to shorten a rebellion against the current king's grandfather. Quite possibly he could use it to benefit the grandson as well.
Nevyn lay down on the bed, slowed his breathing, and visualized the sigils that would lead him out to the etheric plane. In his mind he saw the blue light gather; then suddenly it flooded the room. The walls, dead things, turned black, while the air and its spirits pulsed around him with a sapphire glow. To travel on this plane he would need his body of light, but he had worked this dweomer so often that it came to him almost automatically. He'd created from the etheric substance a body, solid blue against the flux, shaped like a man wearing brigga and a shirt, though lacking detail, and joined to his solar plexus by a silver cord. Nevyn transferred his consciousness into it and looked down at his physical body, lying inert and apparently asleep on the bed below. He rose up higher, slipped out of the house, and hovered in the air. Above him the stars gleamed, great silver whorls and streaks against the night sky.
Down below, flickering in the silvery-blue etheric light, the houses and streets of Dun Deverry spread out, black and sullen with stone and tile. Here and there a garden or a tree gleamed with a reddish vegetable aura. Here and there as well the bright ovoid auras of human beings and animals hurried through the streets or disappeared behind dead wooden doors. Yet in an odd way the city itself did seem alive. Its history was so long and so troubled that images from the astral plane had spilled over, as it were, into the etheric, so that Nevyn could see superimposed pictures from all its times of violence and hope.
The tangle of images formed a dense flood, rising and swelling -- the streets shrinking, changing place, broadening, disappearing altogether; houses rising, aging, and falling; fires raging through the streets; ghostly crowds of those who'd lived and suffered here rushing to and fro, then disappearing, leaving the desolation of the Time of Troubles, when a tiny village huddled inside shattered walls, only to swell again as the prosperity of peace returned. In the midst of the swirling flood of images, a few unchanging points stood out -- the huge temple compound of Bel on one hill, the smaller temple of the Moon Goddess on another, each glowing under a silvery dweomer-shield created by the priests and priestesses. Yet always, under the mutating images, the city, the Holy City, shimmered with power, the soul of the kingdom simply because so many thousands of people believed it so.
In the center of the city, in the heart of the glowing, surging magical web stood the king's dun, a cluster of tall towers on the highest hill. With barely an effort Nevyn drifted toward it through the rippling etheric light. He had been born on that hill well over three hundred years ago. All the history that had taken place since his birth rose up in a second wave of images and lapped over the dun, then swirled back to allow his memories to flood over it in their place.
Once again Nevyn could see the rough brochs of his youth, and the torch-lit chamber of justice where he'd infuriated his father and so set in motion the terrible mistake responsible for his unnaturally long life. In but a moment that picture flowed away, and he saw the larger, more polished royal compound he'd visited as a simple herbman, then watched the buildings crumble as rebellion and strife broke out among the great clans. In the civil wars he had installed a new king in a dun that was half in ruins from the long years of siege and betrayal.
Among the images of place he saw the empty simulacra of persons long dead, what ordinary folk call ghosts. He saw his father striding through the ruins, shouting soundless orders to vanished servants. His mother ran after, begging mercy for her unfortunate son. The Boars of Cantrae appeared, all swagger and rage. Prince Maryn and his tragic queen, Bellyra, walked through a translucent great hall. Branoic the silver dagger, Maddyn the bard, Otho the dwarf -- shadows of their forms rose up as if to greet him once again.
Among these images drifted one that Nevyn hadn't expected to see: Lord Gerraent of the Falcon clan. The set of his broad shoulders, his easy warrior's stance, the falcon-image embroidered on his shirt -- the image was true in every detail, so much like Gerraent, that Nevyn felt his old hatred for the man well up. He'd had been tangled with this soul's Wyrd for three hundred years, yet he would have assumed that any image seen here would have come from a much later incarnation, Owaen for instance, the captain of Prince Maryn's personal guard. Another surprise: rather than dissolving into the general drift, this image lingered, pacing back and forth over a red glow like a carpet of fire. Finally Nevyn realized the truth, that he was seeing no mere memory-ghost, but the actual Gerraent, or rather, his soul reborn in a new body.
Nevyn dropped down through the blue light and hovered a few inches above the ground. This close he could see that the red glow emanated from a lawn, enclosed in the dead black of a stone wall. Off to one side a cluster of pulsing orange resolved itself into rose bushes, swelling with the astral tides of spring. Nevyn could see Gerraent -- or whatever he was called in this life -- in the midst of his aura, a typical young warrior, his sword at his side even in the midst of the king's gardens, blond, tall, heavily muscled and every bit as arrogant as always. His aura was shot through with blind rage, a blood-colored crackle of raw energy that Nevyn found sickening.
Nevyn's sudden disgust seemed to touch Gerraent's mind. He stopped his pacing and swirled around, his hand on his sword-hilt as he peered through the night. In puzzlement his aura shrank, then swirled around him. Nevyn marked him well so that he could recognize him again, then let his body of light drift upward. He was high above the ground when he saw another gold aura entering the garden, this one glowing softly around a female body. When Gerraent hurried forward to greet her, Nevyn lingered just long enough to confirm that she was no one bound to him by Wyrd, then glided away.
Not far from the garden stood the heart of the king's dun, four towers joined to a central fifth like the petals on a wild rose. In the bottom floor of the tallest tower, open windows glowed with torch light. Nevyn swung himself through one of them and found himself inside the great hall. The last time he'd seen this room it had been filled with shabby furniture, its walls hung with faded, torn tapestries, its huge hearths filthy with ash and refuse. Now the walls had been plastered and decorated with bright banners, one for each of the great clans, hanging between each pair of windows. The tables and chairs at the honor hearth shone with polish, and light winked on silver goblets. Over on the servants' and riders' side of the hall, the tables and benches were cracked and stained but clean, and neatly braided rushes covered the floor.
Nevyn took himself over to the honor hearth, where noble lords sat drinking and a bard sang, his voice souding oddly hollow and distorted to Nevyn's etheric ears. Although no one sat at the king's table, that is, the one closest to the fire, Nevyn saw a page leaving the hall with a flagon of mead on a silver tray. He followed the lad up the spiralling stone staircase, then along a familiar corridor to the king's apartments.
Fine Bardek carpets covered the floor; elaborately carved furniture sat upon them. On a long, narrow table, candles flamed in banked silver candelabra, but they sent out as much etheric force as light, making it hard for Nevyn to see in the chamber. Looming out of the golden mist, a man with dark hair but ash-grey eyes stood by the empty hearth. His linen shirt, stiff with embroidery, displayed the red wyvern of the royal clan, and he wore brigga in the red, white, and gold royal plaid of Dun Deverry. The page set the flagon down on a little table, then bowed and walked backwards to the door. With one last bow he let himself out.
Nevyn remained, floating near the candles, and considered Casyl the Second, King of all Deverry and Eldidd. Casyl poured himself mead into a golden goblet, then sat down in a cushioned chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Finding the king alone was a rare bit of luck, and Nevyn decided to take it as a good omen. He moved closer still to the candles and began gathering both their etheric effluent and their smoke, winding it round his hands like a woman turning thread into a skein of yarn. Although he couldn't speak from the etheric, he could send thoughts to the king's mind that to him would seem to be speech.
"My liege," Nevyn thought to him. "A faithful servant stands ready to aid you."
Casyl leapt to his feet so fast that he nearly spilled his mead. He set the goblet down on the tablet and began looking around him. With a wrench of will, Nevyn tossed his skein of smoke and effluent around the head of his body of light. Casyl yelped and stepped back. At that Nevyn knew he'd been successful -- a ghost-like shape had come through to visible appearance.
"Sometimes great gifts come from no one at all," Nevyn went on. "Remember this jest well in days to come."
Casyl's aura shrank so tight against him that it was barely more than a skin of light hanging around his body.
"Your most honored grandsire knew who no one was," Nevyn said. "The blood royal has its friends."
With that Nevyn broke the vision. He allowed the candle smoke to disperse, scattered the effluent, and let his body of light drift toward the open window. The working had tired him badly. Casyl never moved, merely stared open-mouthed at the spot where Nevyn's image had appeared.
Time to get back, Nevyn thought, and with the thought he felt something nearly as tangible as a pair of hands tugging at the silver cord. In a dizzying swirl of motion he swept back to Olnadd's house, where his physical body lay, calling him back with a force his exhaustion couldn't resist.
Yet, tired though he was, Nevyn lay awake for a while that night, thinking about Gerraent. If his old enemy were here, perhaps he would also find the woman who had shared their original tragedy, Brangwen of the Falcon, Gerraent's sister and Nevyn's betrothed, back in that far-distant time when he'd been a prince of the blood royal himself. He hoped and prayed to the Lords of Light that he would find her. If only he could make restitution to her for his fault, he would at last be allowed to die. If it's meant to be, he told himself, I'll see Gerraent again, and no doubt he'll lead me to Brangwen -- if she's here.
Whether by chance or wyrd, Nevyn saw the reborn Gerraent early the next morning, when Nevyn and Olnadd went together to the dealer in books to buy Petyc's bribe. As they were walking back to the priest's house, they heard the clatter of hooves and the chime of silver bridle rings. Horsemen were trotting straight for them. All the nearby townsfolk ran for safety -- darting into doorways or down alleys, plastering themselves against the walls of the houses. Silver horns blew; men shouted, "Make way in the king's name! Make way!" Nevyn and Olnadd found a safe spot in the mouth of an alley just as twenty-five riders on matched gray horses trotted past. At their head, unmistakably arrogant, rode Gerraent, his blond head tossed back, his blue eyes narrow and cold. Nevyn pointed him out to Olnadd.
"Do you know who that captain is, by any chance?"
"Only by name," Olnadd said. "He's something of a hero, you see, but I truly don't remember his tale. His name's Gwairyc, and he did somewhat or other in the war a few years ago that won him King Casyl's favor. You'll have to ask Petyc about it. I don't much keep up on the court gossip. I'll send him a note asking him to join us tonight."
Directly that evening, after dinner, Petyc arrived at Olnadd's house. He may have been the head of the royal scriptorium, but his god held higher rank than his king, and as he remarked to Olnadd, he couldn't refuse the summons. The scribe was a lean man, hollow-cheeked and balding, with deep- sunken dark eyes that flicked this way and that around the room, as if he were looking for hidden enemies. They seated themselves at Olnadd's table, and the priest introduced Nevyn simply as a friend and scholar of strange lore, but Petyc looked him over with a half-smile.
"Nevyn?" Petyc said. "It's an odd name, Nevyn. You seem too corporeal to be no one at all, though that's what the name seems to mean."
"It does, and it was a nasty jest of my father's," Nevyn said. "No doubt you've never heard it before."
"Oddly enough, our liege the king was consulting with me about it this very morning."
Nevyn smiled and waited.
"Petyc keeps the royal archives, you see," Olnadd put in. "So many a strange question comes his way."
"No doubt," Nevyn said. "And did our liege find the answer to his question?"
"He found an answer of sorts." Petyc paused, quirking an eyebrow, then continued. "But whether the answer applies to you, good sir, I couldn't say. It seems that in the reign of our liege's grandsire, King Aeryc, there was talk of a mysterious secret order of priests -- or somewhat of that sort -- who all bore the name Nevyn. A certain Nevyn paid King Aeryc a great service in the matter of the Eldidd rebellion."
"Ah," Nevyn said. "An interesting tale."
Olnadd suppressed a smile and studied the ceiling. Petyc considered them both, as nervous but eager as a stray cat who approaches a bowl of scraps laid out by a farmer's wife.
"May I ask you somewhat?" Petyc had gathered his courage. "If I pry, then tell me, but do those old tales of other men named Nevyn have somewhat to do with you?"
"They do. What made you guess, besides the name, of course?"
"The name, mostly. Some of the records discuss a clan -- I suppose you'd call it a clan -- of sorcerers, headed by men called no one. I take it you're sworn to aid the king?"
"Him, too, but we do our best to offer our aid to anyone who needs it, whether prince or bondman."
Petyc considered this in some surprise.
"Matters of history have always interested me." Nevyn decided to change the subject. "It's a great honor to meet the keeper of the King's archives. Olnadd tells me you understand their importance, unlike so many scribes."
With this sort of opening, the conversation could turn to safe and pleasant matters of scholarship. As Petyc talked about his chronicles, his intelligence became obvious. He carefully selected what to record with a clear view of what granted an event importance.
"Some of the ancient annals we have would no doubt amuse you," Petyc said. "They record with great solemnity every two- headed calf and dragon-shaped cloud seen in the kingdom, but omit to tell us anything about the king's councils."
"You seem quite interested in ancient times."
"I am, truly." Petyc nodded in Olnadd's direction. "His holiness here was the first to show me how fascinating the past can be. I was just a lad, then, sent to him once I'd been taken on by the dun. He taught me that there was more to books than the shaping of their letters."
"You were a quick pupil, one of the best I ever had." Olnadd glanced at Nevyn. "Petyc has an interesting library, some twenty volumes in his own personal collection."
"That's an amazing number, truly." Nevyn took the hint and the opening. "I have a volume with me, actually, that might interest you, Petyc."
Nevyn brought out the bribe, a copy, some eighty years old, of the anonymous saga of Rwsyn of Eldidd, a king who'd ruled in the fifth century. When Petyc exclaimed over it, Nevyn could easily press it upon him as a gift without the word `bribe' ever coming near the surface of conversation. With the saga duly accepted, Nevyn mentioned that he'd always wanted to see King Casyl from some better vantage than as a bystander to a formal procession.
"That could be arranged," Petyc said. "I'd be most honored, anyway, if you'd visit my humble quarters and look over some of the other books we've been discussing."
"And I should be most honored to see them. May I visit you sometime soon?"
"Come tomorrow afternoon, by all means. I'll speak to the chamberlain about your audience with our king, but I fear that the chamberlain will tell you that he's much too distracted these days. The Cerrgonney war, you know. I mean, rebellion."
"Oh no doubt. But perhaps I can impress the chamberlain with my sincerity."
On the morrow, wearing a clean shirt for the occasion, Nevyn presented himself at the massive iron-bound gates of the dun. When he announced his business, the guards looked him over suspiciously, but they allowed him into the ward while they sent a servant off to fetch the scribe. Petyc appeared promptly, then escorted him inside the rearmost tower of the conjoined brochs. As they were walking down a corridor, a pair of the king's riders came swaggering along, shoving them out of the way and walking on fast. Petyc made a sour face at their broad backs.
"That reminds me," Nevyn said. "Do you know anything about one of the King's captains, a man named Gwairyc?"
"I do. Now, I've only met him most briefly and formally, but his liege requested I enter a tale about Gwairyc into the annals for 980. It marked an event important in itself, but as well our liege meant it as a mark of honor to the captain. To give the man his due, it was splendidly brave. I suppose."
"An event of warfare, then?"
"Just that." Petyc paused by a big wooden door. "Come in, and I'll show you the very annal itself."
Petyc led Nevyn into a long low-ceilinged room, well-lit by a rank of windows. Four long wooden writing tables stood by the windows, and at the nearest, a pair of young scribes were making copies of a royal decree. Petyc spoke to each of them, checked their work, then led Nevyn into a smaller chamber, lined with wooden shelves, where leather-bound codices exhaled a faint smell of dust and old parchment. Most of the volumes seemed to be household accounts and bound correspondence, but Nevyn was gratified to see a fairly new copy of Queen Bellyra's history of Dun Cerrmor.
"A most interesting compendium, isn't it?" Petyc nodded in its direction. "She also left part of a manuscript about Dun Deverry itself."
"Ah, it's survived, then."
"It has. The original's down in Wmmglaedd, but we have copies here. Let me get you the annals we were speaking of."
Petyc squatted down in order to ferret about on a low shelf. Eventually he brought out a splendidly bound book, its cover engraved with interlace and painted in red and gold. He thumbed through it and found the passage at the end.
"You will forgive my humble style, of course."
"Oh, but the lettering's splendid. The proportions are most just and fluid."
Petyc allowed himself a small smile. Nevyn read over the passage while Petyc watched amazed, simply because Nevyn was one of the few men in the kingdom who could read silently rather than aloud.
"The most sorrowful death of Prince Cwnol was nearly deflected," the passage ran. "But his wyrd came upon him, and no man could turn it aside, not even Gwairyc, son of Glaswyn. When the foul traitors closed around the prince on the field, Gwairyc thrust himself forward and fought like a god, not a man, attempting to save his prince. He slew four men and carried the prince alive back in his arms, but alas, the wounds were too deep to bind. In honor of his bravery, Prince Casyl counted him as friend from that day on and commends his memory to all who might read this book."
"Nicely phrased." Nevyn closed the book and handed it back. "Did he truly slay four men by himself?"
"So Casyl told me at the time -- Prince Casyl, as he was. His father was still alive then, of course. I've never seen a battle, myself."
"You may count yourself quite lucky. Is Gwairyc still in Casyl's favor now that Casyl's king?"
"He is." Petyc looked briefly sour. "He's one of the many younger sons of the Rams of Hendyr -- do you know them? A fine old clan, truly, but perhaps a bit too prolific for their own good. Gwairyc got himself into the king's warband because of his skill with a sword, and now that he has his chance at royal favor, he sticks closer to the king than wet linen."
Nevyn was about to ask more when the chamberlain came bustling in. A stout man with flabby hands and neatly trimmed gray hair and beard, Gathry made Petyc's earlier prediction come true.
"Alas, good Nevyn," he said, "the king is much distracted these days. The Cerrgonney wars and all."
Petyc thoughtfully turned his back so that Nevyn could slip Gathry a velvet pouch of coins. The councillor patted his shirt briefly, and the pouch disappeared.
"But you know," Gathry continued, "I do believe that our liege might have a few free moments this very afternoon. Allow me to go inquire."
The chamberlain bustled out again, only to return remarkably fast with the news that indeed, the king had a few moments to give one of his subjects. Nevyn followed Gathry up a long staircase and through a door into the central tower, where they went down a half-flight of steps to a pair of carved double doors. Gathry threw them open with a flourish and bowed his way inside. Nevyn recognized the half-round of a chamber; it had been the women's hall when Maryn was king.
All of Bellyra's cushioned chairs and silver oddments had long since been replaced. On the stone walls hung tapestries of hunting scenes and hunting weapons -- boar spears, bows and quivers of arrows, a maul for cracking the skulls of wounded game -- displayed on iron hooks. The furnishings consisted of one long rectangular table and a scatter of benches. A pair of much- faded banners appliqued with red wyverns hung on the flat wooden wall, and in front of them in a half-round carved chair sat the king.
Thanks to the royal line's dubious inbreeding, Casyl looked much like Aeryc: the same squarish face, the same wide green eyes and tight-lipped smile, but his shock of hair was a dark brown, not blond like his grandfather's. His long, nervous fingers played with a jewelled dagger. When Gathry started to kneel, the king pointed the dagger at him.
"Leave us. Come in, my lord Nevyn."
Bowing, Gathry hurried out backwards and carefully shut the doors behind him. When the king nodded at a nearby bench, Nevyn sat.
"Very well, " Casyl said. "This is one of the few places in the dun where we won't be overheard. I trust you'll forgive the lack of ceremony."
"Ceremony means little to a man like me, your highness."
"So I thought." Casyl ran his thumb along the dagger's hilt. "My scribes tell me many an interesting thing about men named Nevyn. Are they true?"
"Do you doubt it after seeing me in the candle-flames?"
Casyl's hand tightened so hard on the dagger hilt that his knuckles went white. Nevyn said nothing. In a moment, the king glanced at his belt, took his time sheathing the dagger, then finally looked up.
"King Aeryc was a very long-lived man," Casyl said. "I had the privilage denied to most men of knowing my grandfather. He made a point of telling me when I was a little lad to never mock the dweomer."
"Aeryc was a wise man. My master in magic told me much about him."
"I'm honoured that you'd seek me out. But tell me, does this mean some great trouble coming to me and mine?"
Nevyn almost laughed. He'd forgotten that most men saw the dweomer only in terms of dark and portentous warnings of doom.
"Not in the least, my liege. I've only come to give you a gift, one that I hope will prevent such troubles."
At that, Casyl smiled, but his eyes stayed wary.
"I've brought you a gem, a dweomer-stone," Nevyn went on. "And I'll beg you to guard it as the greatest treasure you have and to pass it on to your son when the time comes. Will you promise me that, my liege, as one man to another?"
"Gladly. Here, I never dreamt there truly was such a thing as magical jewels."
"They're quite rare, your highness, as well you can imagine."
Nevyn brought out the pouch and unwrapped the opal, laying it onto the long table. Before he could offer to bring it to the king, Casyl got up and strode over for a look. When he saw the perfect opal gleaming among its silks, he gasped aloud. He reached out his hand, then stopped.
"May I touch it?"
"By all means, your highness. If it pleases you, do look into it. I'd be most interested in what you might see there."
Gingerly, as if he were approaching a wounded wild animal, the King picked up the gift, silks and all, and cradled it in the palm of one broad hand. The opal glowed with flame-colored veins set against its misty white depths. While the king gazed into it, Nevyn silently called upon the Kings of the Elements, who ruled the spirits attached to the talisman. He directed their minds to the king and announced that he and his heirs were the rightful owners of the stone. Casyl felt their presence. Nevyn could see it by the way he shuddered, turning uneasily as if he felt a draft of cold air.
"By the gods," Casyl whispered. "Never have I seen a gem like this one."
"Well, your highness, I'd wager high that you'll never see its like again, so treasure it well. May I ask what you see within it?"
"A golden sun. By the hells, am I going daft?"
"You're not. You've merely proved yourself a true king, if you can see that inner sun."
Casyl looked up, his lips half-parted in awe. In truth, any person of good will who looked into it would see the same sun, but Nevyn knew from long experience that flattery and fine words worked more wonders than dweomer when it came to influencing royalty.
"You may use this stone as a test of honor," Nevyn went on. "If ever you gaze upon it, and the sun has set, some evil will have beset your heart. Undo the evil you have done, and the sun will rise again."
"A mighty gift indeed! May I never betray it!"
"So I would hope, but truly, it's the men who might come after you that trouble my heart. Everyone knows that you're the soul of honor."
"You flatter me, but you have my thanks. I hope that I remain worthy of this marvelous gift."
"You're most welcome, your highness, but remember that it's just a gem, though a mighty one, and I'm just a man, though a highly-skilled one. Now listen well! This is the Great Stone of the West. Remember that name, but tell it to no one but your eldest son. Show the stone to no one but your eldest son. Tell him that no one must see it but his heirs, and so on down the long river of Time. Guard this stone like the mighty treasure it is, but if harm ever comes to it, I or my successor will appear to rescue it. When it comes time for me to appoint a successor, he too will be another Nevyn, as my master was before me."
"Well and good, then," Casyl looked into the stone again and smiled. "It's passing strange. Just looking at this gem, just holding it -- I've never felt like this before. It brings peace, but a peace that's alive, not like dropping off to sleep or suchlike." Casyl laid a fingertip gently on the stone. "Is there anything I should do to tend it?"
"There's not, but the keeping of it secret and the honouring of it."
"A marvel indeed. Here, why would you give me such a thing?"
"Because you're the king, and the king is the shield of his people. Through you I can help bring them safety."
Casyl nodded, turning solemn, staring into the opal's depths for many a long moment. Finally he looked up. "Come now, good Nevyn. Surely you'll let me give you a good price for this stone."
"I won't, your highness. The dweomer asks no price for its aid to good men. It's a gift to you and the kingdom."
"Then you shall have a gift in return." Casyl grinned, abruptly boyish. "Anything in my kingdom you desire is yours, well, except my wife." He laughed aloud. "I've never had such a splendid gem before! Name what you desire, good Nevyn -- I truly mean it, anything at all."
Olnadd's right, Nevyn thought. The king does like the grand gesture.
"Fine horses, other jewels, gold, land," Casyl went on. "Have you ever desired a vast demense? Here, the tieryn of Buccbrael has just died, and he has no heir but a daughter. Shall I apportion his lands and the lass to you?"
"Your highness, I honor your generosity, but my craft leaves me no time for ruling lands and marrying young wives. I want nothing at all. Your gratitude is the greatest reward an old man's heart could have."
"Oh, but there must be somewhat. Here, it would be dishonourable of me to let you go away empty-handed. How can I be dishonourable to the man who's given me the very jewel of honour's soul?"
Nevyn was about to make another self-deprecating reply when he felt a cold touch of dweomer-warning down his back. He knew in the strange wordless way of the dweomer that there was something he was supposed to have from Casyl.
"Your highness, I'm most touched and overwhelmed. May I think about this for a bit? A king's boon is too rare and splendid to be spent upon a whim."
"True spoken. Think on this boon carefully, and -- " Casyl paused, thinking. "In three days, when the sun's marking out the same hour, I shall receive you in the great hall. Come to me then."
"My humble thanks." Nevyn bowed to him. "Done, then."
"Splendid! Now, let's go down to the great hall. Let me give you a goblet of mead to accompany my thanks."
"My thanks, your highness, but I'd prefer dark ale."
Before they left the private chamber, Nevyn taught Casyl how to wrap up the opal in its silks. Even though he'd bound the stone over to the king, he preserved one link back to himself, so that he could tell if the stone should somehow be endangered. He had no desire to see all his hard work wasted.
The king personally escorted Nevyn down to the great hall, sat him down at the honor table, and called a servant over to bring ale, but Casyl himself filled Nevyn's tankard. As he sipped the good strong brew, Nevyn was aware that every single man and most of the women in the hall had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at him, this shabby old man that the king treated like a long-lost grandfather. When the time came for him to leave, Nevyn could feel their gaze following him the entire way out of the hall. Walking outside into the cool of late afternoon made him feel as if he were tossing aside a burden, the weight of so much envy.
A company of the king's horsemen came trotting through the gates. Nevyn stepped back out of the way as the men dismounted and grooms rushed forward to take the horses. Most of the riders were laughing, shouting jests back and forth and talking about ale and their dinner, but Lord Gwairyc stood alone and watched them with a small contemptuous smile. Or was it truly contempt? More of a shield, that smile, against the contempt of other men. Before Gwairyc could notice him, Nevyn went on his way, but at the dun gates he stopped to speak with the two guards, who bowed to him. Apparently his new standing had spread fast.
"Tell me somewhat," Nevyn said. "Lord Gwairyc, there, who just rode in. Do you know him?"
"Well, my lord," one guard said, "Everyone knows of him. He wouldn't have much to do with the likes of us."
"They say he's splendid on the field," the other guard put in. "He's got no more fear in him than a ravening wolf. And you'd best not cross him, either, my lord. Touchy, he is, and I swear he'd kill a man for one wrong word."
"Ah, I see. Does he have any close friends?"
"The king honors him, my lord." The first guard thought for a long moment. "I can't think of anyone else."
In gathering twilight Nevyn walked back to Olnadd's house. Around him, merchants and craftsmen were hurrying home to their dinner. In open windows lanterns glowed, and the smell of cooking drifted in the warm evening air. A group of little children were laughing and tossing a leather ball back and forth while they waited for their mother to call them in for dinner. Nevyn suddenly felt that he understood Gwairyc, cut off like him from normal life and easy companionship. Soon his work in the city would be done, and he'd leave Olnadd and Affnya for his wilderness. He might never see his friends again, since he went where the dweomer led him, not where he wished to. Gwairyc would dine in an honoured place in the great hall and sleep in a crowded barracks, but that little smile -- Gwairyc was lonely, Nevyn realized. A younger son, a man with an empty rank and no prospects, he'd found the only way to gain a position and honour, by endlessly risking his life until the day he died young in his king's service. Of the two of us, he's got the harsher Wyrd, Nevyn thought, no matter how weary I grow.
This idea brought with it the first real pang of sympathy for Gerraent that Nevyn had ever felt, and the sympathy seemed to grow of its own accord. At dinner, as he told Olnadd and Affyna about his day, an idea came to him that was so strange that at first he refused to consider it. Affyna unwittingly gave it to him when he told them about the king's offer of a boon.
"I can't accept some expensive gift, of course," Nevyn said. "I see what you mean about the grand gesture, Olnadd. Turning him down would be like snubbing a child who offers you his favorite toy, some grubby wooden horse or suchlike. You don't want it, but how can you say him nay?"
"But here, Nevyn," Affyna broke in. "If you took a gift that would help someone else, I'm sure it would be honorable enough."
"Now that's true spoken. There's plenty of poor folk in the kingdom who can use the king's gold."
Nevyn considered the boon in this new light. Somewhat I could sell, and then give the proceeds to the poor, he thought, or maybe another jewel to make another talisman to help the kingdom. He was going to miss having regular work to give meaning to his long days.
"Oh, I meant to ask you," Affyna said. "Did you find out about that captain who interested you?"
"Gwairyc? I did. Petyc knew his tale."
"Oddly enough, I met him once. I have a friend, Ylaenna, who has the prettiest daughter. Oh, she's a beauty, that lass. Well, somehow or other, she met this Gwairyc, and he was sniffing around her good and proper until Ylaenna's husband put a stop to it."
"I take it Gwairyc has little honor around lasses."
"Well, now." Affyna considered for a moment. "No doubt he doesn't, but you know, I thought there was more to the lad than anyone would allow.
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