A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [109]
“I know my own mind.” There was a growl in his voice. “That’s what they all say, you know. You’ll only regret it when it’s too late, and you’ve dishonored yourself in the eyes of the entire kingdom, and no one will take you in, then, because you’ll just be a cursed silver dagger. Well, I don’t care.” He stiffened, half rising from his seat. “You asked me if I could keep my word. Well, I could have made up some lie, said I caused trouble in the warband or suchlike, but I didn’t. I told you the truth, and now you’re mocking me for it.”
“I’m not mocking you, lad. Believe me, that’s the farthest thing from my mind.”
Yraen sat back down. Rhodry considered the empty bottom of his tankard and felt himself yawning. The events of the day, of the past few weeks, truly, all seemed to rush in upon him. He was tired, and he’d drunk more than a fair bit—those were the reasons, he supposed, that his mind kept circling round the peculiar idea. Against his will he found himself remembering the evil spirit, nattering about times when he’d worn another face and another name. And things Aderyn had said, years ago. And a strange woman of the Wildfolk, who had known him when he should never have recognized her—though he did. And Evandar, saying that he’d owned the rose ring long before the Guardian had put runes upon it, when Rhodry had never seen the thing without its inscription. And then Yraen, this familiar stranger. When a man’s dead, he’s gone, he told himself. The doors to the Otherlands only swing one way. All at once he realized that Yraen was still talking.
“Were you listening to me?” Yraen snapped.
“I wasn’t, at that. What were you saying?”
Faced with his direct stare the lad blushed again.
“You’re noble-born, aren’t you?” Rhodry said.
“How did you know?”
Yraen looked so honestly surprised that Rhodry nearly laughed aloud, but he caught himself in time.
“Go back to your father’s dun, lad. Don’t throw your life away for the silver dagger. Now look, if you rode here from Deverry, you must have met other silver daggers along the way. None of them would pledge you to the band, either, would they?”
Yraen scowled and went back to rubbing his hand on the edge of the table.
“I thought not,” Rhodry said. “We have a bit of honor left, most of us, anyway.”
“But I want it!” He hesitated, reining in his temper. “What if I beg you, Rhodry? Please, will you take me on? Please?”
It cost him dear to humble himself that way, and for a moment Rhodry wavered.
“I won’t,” he said at last. “Because it would be a rotten thing to do to a man who’s never wronged me.”
Yraen tossed his head and muttered something foul.
“There’s naught out to the west of us, so there’s no use in you riding that way,” Rhodry went on. “On the morrow you’d best head back east to your father. Winter’s coming on fast.”
As if to underscore his point, a blast of wind hit the tavern. Thatch rustled, shutters breathed and banged, the fire smoked. Rhodry started to get up, but Yraen forestalled him, swinging himself clear of the bench and hurrying to the fire.
“I’ll tend it,” he said. “I’ll make you a bargain. I’ll be your page, and we’ll travel together for a while. I’ll wait on you like I waited on the lord who trained me, when I was a page in his dun, I mean, and then you can see if I’m good enough to carry the dagger.”
“You young dolt, it’s not a question of you proving yourself.”
Yraen ignored him and began to mess about with the fire. Sparks scattered, logs dropped and smothered coals, sticks of glowing charcoal rolled into corners to die.
“I think you’d best let me do that.”;
“Well, maybe so. My apologies, but the servants always did the fires at home, not the pages.”
“No doubt.”
“But is this your bedroll? I’ll spread it out for you.”
Before Rhodry could stop him, he did just that, in the best spot nearest the fire in the cleanest straw, and he