Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [112]
“The lads from farther away will ride in tomorrow,” Sligyn announced to all and sundry. “But we can’t wait, eh?”
When the lords nodded their agreement, Nevyn could see tension on their faces. Just how many of those vassals would indeed arrive, and how many go over to the rebels? Only the final count of the muster would answer that question. Lovyan named Sligyn cadvridoc until the army should meet up with Rhodry, and in a bustle of talk and the jingle of mail, lords and the warbands alike got up and began filing out of the hall. In the confusion, Nevyn hurried to Lovyan’s side. She led him back to the hearth for a few private words.
“Does Rhodry still live?”
“He does. Aderyn contacted me naught but an hour ago. There’s no sign of trouble so far today. With this army coming, it would behoove Corbyn to withdraw to safer territory. No doubt Loddlaen will advise his lord to do so.”
After so many years of hearing him talk of dweomer, Lovyan took this news calmly. Nevyn himself, however, was seriously concerned about the depths of the evil into which Loddlaen had fallen.
“Which would you rather have me do? Stay with you, or ride with the army?”
“Ride, of course, and not just for the sake of my feelings. I keep remembering what you said to me the first time we met, when Rhodry had that terrible congestion of the lungs. Rhodry’s Wyrd is Eldidd’s Wyrd, you told me.” Lovyan paused, watching armed men swagger out the door. “I love Eldidd even more than my son. Keep him safe for her.”
Although the army was traveling light, there were packhorses in the rear carrying a few days’ provision to tide it over until the carts caught up. Since as far as anyone knew, Nevyn was an herbman and nothing more, he rode in the rear as well, with his pack mule behind him. Up at the head of the line, Sligyn set a fast pace, alternately walking and trotting. Although with their late start they would never reach Rhodry by nightfall, Sligyn intended to get to him as early as possible on the morrow. Nevyn was glad of the speed for his own private reasons. Aderyn, of course, had told him who was waiting at the ruined dun. Soon, if all went well, just on the morrow, he would at last see his Brangwen again.
“I wish we could cremate him,” Jennantar said in a thin, flat voice. “But there’s no wood and no sacred oil.”
“A grave will do,” Calonderiel said. “He’s dead, my friend. It won’t matter one cursed jot to him what we do with his flesh.”
Jennantar nodded in miserable agreement and went on digging Albaral’s grave. Jill kept an eye on him as the two men of the Westfolk worked, sweating in the hot sun as the narrow trench grew deeper and deeper. The night before, Jennantar had been so hysterical with grief that Aderyn had given him a strong draught of sleeping potion. Now he seemed merely light-headed and a little sick, like a man who had drunk too much mead the night before. At last they were done; they threw the shovels to one side, then picked up Albaral’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and laid him in. For a moment all three of them stood in respectful silence for the dead. All at once, Jennantar tossed back his head and howled with rage. Before either Jill or Calonderiel could stop him, he drew his knife and made a shallow gash on his forearm.
“Vengeance!” he screamed. “I’ll have blood to match mine for this!”
Jennantar held his arm over the grave and let the blood drip, spattering the blanket.
“I witness your vow,” Calonderiel said softly.
Jennantar nodded and let the blood run. Suddenly Jill saw or thought she saw Albaral’s shade, a pale blue flickering form, something just barely visible in the sunlight. She was afraid she would choke, afraid she was going daft. Jennantar howled out a wordless cry, then ran blindly away, crashing into a thicket of trees far downstream. The