A Time of Exile - Katharine Kerr [126]
Added to that, of course, Lord Pertyc thought that Nevyn was a sorcerer, which meant Lord Pertyc believed that the dweomer craft was a real thing. Every now and then Maer would bring this idea to mind, like taking a strange coin out of a pouch, and turn it over and over between mental fingers, wondering at it. Since Maer had been raised to follow the noble-born without doubt or question, he supposed that if Pertyc said the old man was a sorcerer, then sorcerer he was. He supposed. He held the thought up to the mental light one more time, shook his head, and put it away again. Maybe sometime soon it would make sense. Maybe.
Finally there was the matter of the Wildfolk. Ever since young Adraegyn and the old man had discussed them that one afternoon, Maer had, again quite against his will, found himself thinking that perhaps they did indeed exist and that just maybe one of them was following him around, just as the lad said. His evidence for this was thin, and he did his best to ignore it. It was just that every now and then he felt something touch his arm or his hair; even more rarely, when he was riding, he felt tiny arms clasp his waist as if someone sat behind him on the saddle. Occasionally he saw a bush or branch move as if something stood within or upon it, or one of Lord Pertyc’s dogs would suddenly leap up and bark for no reason, or one of the horses would suddenly stamp and swing its head round to look at something that Maer couldn’t see. Once, when he was drinking a foaming tankard of ale and all alone at table, a tiny breath had blown the foam off right into his face as he went for a sip. It was beginning to make his flesh creep, all of it. He would have wished that they’d stop and leave him alone, except wishing meant admitting that someone existed to do the stopping. He wasn’t ready to admit that, not in the least.
Yet he kept gathering new evidence in spite of his attempts to ignore it. As their horses ambled the last few miles to Cannobaen, Ganedd’s silence grew as black and cold as a winter storm. Maer amused himself by looking at the now familiar scenery: off to his left the clifftop meadows and the sparkling sea, the rich fields to his right, striped here and there with strands of trees, all second growth planted for firewood. Scarlet and gold, the leaves already hung thin and bare along the branches, especially on the trees planted next to the road that received the full force of the sea winds. It was in one of these that Maer saw, clear as clear, a little face peering at him. It was a pretty face, obviously female, with long dark blue hair and big blue eyes, staring at him wistfully. When Maer stared back, she suddenly smiled, revealing a mouthful of long pointed teeth. Maer yelped aloud.
“What?” Ganedd roused himself. “What’s so wrong?”
“Don’t you see it? Look! Right there, on that low branch.”
“See what? Maer, are you going daft? There’s naught there.”
“It’s a windless day and the leaves are shaking.”
“Then some bird flew away or somewhat. What are you doing? Falling asleep in the saddle and dreaming?”
“Well, I guess so. Sorry.”
With a melancholy sigh Ganedd went back to his brooding. Maer cursed himself for a fool and took up the job of convincing himself that he’d seen nothing. He’d just about succeeded when he noticed Nevyn, some hundred yards away, digging for roots out on the clifftops. As they passed, the herbman straightened up and waved, just pleasantly, but his simple presence suddenly struck Maer like an omen. It was all he could do to wave back.
It was the next market day that Glaenara sold the last of the cheeses. She was just packing up to go home when she saw a rider leading his horse through the crowded square: Maer, his silver dagger bright at his belt. She wasn’t sure if she hoped he’d stop