A Time of Exile - Katharine Kerr [139]
With a gasp, Wersyn hurled the ledger straight at his head. Ganedd dodged, laughing.
“But it’s for the king’s sake, Da. Not mine.”
His face scarlet with rage, Wersyn rushed him, his hand raised for a slap. Ganedd heard Moligga scream. He dodged, caught his father’s wrists, and grimly held on. No matter how much Wersyn struggled, he couldn’t break free. He was panting for breath and weeping in frustration at the inescapable truth: his little son was the stronger man now. When Moligga started to sob, Ganedd let him go.
“You can’t hit a dead man. Farewell.”
Ganedd turned on his heel and walked slowly out, strode down the corridor, and opened the front door. His brother’s skinny little face stared at him wide-eyed.
“I’m the heir now, Ganno. What do you think of that?”
“They should have drowned you young. Like the rat-faced weasel you are.”
Earlier that day Aderyn had ridden down to see Nevyn in his cottage, where they could talk privately of things that would only unsettle ordinary men. Nevyn was surprised by just how glad he was to see his old pupil in the flesh rather than through a scrying focus, enough so to make him wonder if he were growing old and sentimental or suchlike. For hours they talked of everything and nothing, sharing news of the craft and the various apprentices they’d taken in the past or, in Aderyn’s case, that they had now.
“The Westfolk are really amazing when it comes to magic,” Aderyn said at last. “They have more of an affinity for it than we do.”
“No doubt. Look at how vital they are, living so long while keeping so young-seeming and all. It seems to me that they must be far more open to the flow of the life-power than humans are.”
“They’re far more in harmony with life itself, actually. Well”—Aderyn’s expression suddenly turned blank and closed—“most of them.”
Nevyn could figure out that somehow the conversation had brought Dallandra to his mind.
“Ah well,” Nevyn said, and a bit hurriedly. “I take it then that your larger work is going well, too. Restoring the full dweomer system to the Westfolk, I mean.”
They talked for a good long while more and parted with arrangements made to meet on the morrow as well. After Aderyn went on his way, Nevyn went into his bedchamber and sat down on the floor to lift up the loose board and take out the small wooden casket where the opal was hidden. It was wrapped in five pieces of Bardek silk: the palest purple-gray, a flaming red, a deep sea blue, a sunny yellow, and then a mottled bit, russet, citrine, olive, and black. He laid it in the palm of his hand and considered the stone as it gleamed softly in the candlelight.
Since any good stone will pick up bits of emotion, dream-thought, and life-force from its owners and the events around it, Nevyn had postponed starting his work upon it. His own will and feelings were troubled and clouded by what he referred to as “this stupid rebellion,” and if his mind wasn’t utterly clear, he would inevitably charge the opal with the wrong thoughts. The last thing he wanted his talisman to radiate to the High Kings of All Deverry was a self-righteous irritation. They doubtless could summon enough of that on their own. One way or another, he’d have to settle things here in Cannobaen before he could get down to work. Ah well, he told himself, if you’d wanted an easy life, you could have been a wretched priest and been done with it!
In the great dun of Elrydd, looming over the town on a high hill, Danry of Cernmeton was drinking with its lord, Tieryn Yvmur. By the honor hearth they sat round a beautifully carved table with the young pretender to the throne, Cawaryn. Although he was only sixteen, he would impress the men who would have to serve him; with raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes, every inch an Eldidd man in looks, he