Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [193]
“I would, and I will, if you let me come with you.”
Cullyn was looking at him in a weary grief. Only then did Nevyn realize that Cullyn loved Rhodry as much as Gerraent had loved Blaen before Brangwen came in between them. He realized another thing, too, that he respected this hard-bitten silver dagger who was willing to humble himself for those he loved. As palpably as if he’d thrown down a heavy-laden sack, Nevyn felt the chains of Wyrd break and set him free. Cullyn would never be Gerraent to him again, but merely himself—not even a man he’d forgiven for a fault, but a friend. For a moment, he wept. Cullyn laid a well-meaning if misunderstanding hand on his shoulder.
“I feel like weeping over it, too, but we can pull him out of this rope if ever two men can.”
And together, truly together like a pair of blood-sworn warriors, Nevyn and Cullyn went straight to Rhys’s private chambers. When Nevyn pounded on the door, a page opened it with the news that His Grace was receiving no visitors.
“Then tell him that no one is here, or I’ll send a dweomer-storm in ahead of me.”
With a yelp the page flung the door wide and dodged back out of their way. Rhys was seated in a heavy carved chair with the lady Donilla crouched on a footstool at his side. He rose to meet his uninvited guests, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and tossed his head back. Nevyn had to admire him for refusing to be intimidated by the best swordsman in all Deverry and a man who could burn his broch to the ground with a snap of his fingers.
“I suppose you’ve come to beg for Rhodry’s life.”
“We have, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “And both of us will go down on our knees if we have to.”
Rhys considered them for a moment, then smiled, a cold twitch of his mouth.
“I have no intention of hanging my own brother. I just want to make sure that the young cub knows his place. All he has to do is beg my forgiveness in open malover, and that’s an end to it.”
Nevyn let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.
“Here, both of you,” Rhys went on. “Did you truly think I’d break my mother’s heart and see half of western Eldidd go into rebellion by hanging him?” When they hesitated, Rhys smiled again. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Well, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “You’ve made your feelings about your kin quite clear in the past.”
“Ah, by the gods!” All at once, Rhys exploded, talking so fast that it was hard to understand him. “And why shouldn’t I hate him? All my life all I’ve ever heard is Rhodry this and Rhodry that, Rhodry’s the one with the honor, what a cursed shame that Rhodry wasn’t born first so he could have the rhan, Rhodry, Rhodry, Rhodry!” Rhys’s face was a dangerous shade of scarlet. “To hear them talk you’d think I’d cheated the little turd out of his inheritance when all the time it was rightfully mine!”
With a fluid grace, Donilla rose and caught her husband’s arm.
“My lord distresses himself.”
“So I do.” Rhys paused to force himself under control. “My apologies, good sorcerer, and to you, captain. Rest assured that your lord’s life is safe from me.”
“Your Grace, meaning no insult and all,” Cullyn said, “but do I have your sworn word on that?”
“You do,” Rhys said graciously. “No doubt you need it to reassure your men.”
“I do, and my thanks, Your Grace, from the bottom of my heart.”
Yet Cullyn looked so bored and bland that Nevyn wondered just what the captain was up to.
Since all matters of criminal justice in Aberwyn were under Rhys’s jurisdiction, out in his ward stood a proper jail, a long stone building with a common room for local drunks and beggars, and a few tiny cells for more important prisoners. It was some comfort, Rhodry supposed, that he qualified for one of those, even though it was only about six feet square and reeked of urine and garbage. Under the tiny barred window was a heap of somewhat cleaner straw. Rhodry sat down there, wrapped his arms around his knees, and laid his head on them, too. He was shaking, he could not stop shaking, and it was from fear, not rage.