Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [49]
Yet here and there, Rhegor had given Nevyn work bearing more directly on dweomer-lore. Although Nevyn had always had the second sight, it came and went of its own will, showing him what it chose to show and not a jot more. Now he was learning to bring the sight under his will.
Nevyn made a circle of stones outside on the ground and built a small fire, which he lit like any other man with a tinder box and flint. He let the fire burn down until the logs were glowing caves of coals. Then he stretched out on the ground, pillowed his chin on his hands, and stared directly into the fire caves. He slowed his breathing to the right rhythm and thought of Rhegor. At last the fire cave stretched, widened, and turned into the sheen of sunlight glowing on a polished wood chamber. In the flames, he made out Rhegor, a tiny image. Nevyn summoned his will and thought of Rhegor, imaged him clearly, and forced his mind to him. The vision swelled, turned solid, swelled again, and became as clear as though Nevyn were looking into the women’s hall from an outside window. With one last effort of will, Nevyn went in, hearing a little rushy hiss, a dropping sensation in his stomach, and at last he was standing beside Rhegor on the floor.
Lady Rodda was sitting on her chair, with Ysolla perching on a footstool nearby. With his shirt off to reveal a bad case of boils, a page was kneeling in front of Rhegor on the floor.
“These will have to be lanced,” Rhegor said. “Since I don’t have my tools with me, I’ll have to ride back tomorrow with your lady’s leave.”
The boy gave a miserable squeak in anticipation.
“Now, don’t be a silly lad,” Rodda said. “They’ve been hurting you for weeks, and if the herbman lances them, they’ll be over and done with. Don’t you go hiding in the forest all day tomorrow.”
The lad grabbed his shirt from the floor, made Rodda a bow, then fled unceremoniously. Smiling, Rodda shook her head at him, then motioned Rhegor to a chair next to hers.
“Sit down and rest, good sir,” Rodda said. “So, you say you’re from the south. Have you any interesting news?”
“My thanks.” Rhegor bowed and took the chair. “Well, no true news, but a fair bit of evil rumor.”
“Indeed?” Rodda said unsteadily. “How fares Lord Gerraent of the Falcon?”
“I see the rumors have reached my lady’s ears. Badly, alas, and of course the locals insist on talking of witchcraft.”
Ysolla leaned forward, clasping her arms around her knees, her eyes half filled with tears. When he remembered the happy night of her betrothal, Nevyn felt such a stab of pity for her that the vision broke. It took him a long time to retrieve it.
“Mourning is understandable,” Rhegor was saying. “But after all, the natural order of things is for the son to lose his father sooner or later.” He glanced at Ysolla. “Once he has you at his side, no doubt the black mood will lift.”
“If he ever marries me,” Ysolla burst out.
“Hold your tongue, lamb,” Rodda said.
“How can I?” Ysolla snapped. “After what Blaen said—”
Rodda raised her hand as if to slap her. Ysolla fell silent.
“Kindly forgive my daughter, good sir,” Rodda said. “She’s worrying her heart, thinking that what happened to poor Brangwen might happen to her.”
“A sad, sad thing that was,” Rhegor sighed. “Let’s hope she finds a better man soon. The villagers tell me that your son hopes to announce his betrothal to the lady.”
“Well.” Rodda’s voice went flat. “I’ll pray that such happens.”
So, Nevyn thought, that babe’s not Blaen’s. True enough, Rhegor answered, I’d hoped so much it was! Nevyn was so shocked that he lost the vision again, and for good, this time.
Rhegor returned at sunset. He tended the mule, then came into the hut where Nevyn, steaming with curiosity, was laying out their evening meal. Rhegor took a silver coin out of his brigga pocket and tossed it onto the table.
“Our Lady Rodda is generous,” Rhegor remarked. “Little does she know whom this will feed, but she’d be glad. We talked a bit more after you left us, and she still honors you, Prince Galrion.”
“The prince is dead.”
Rhegor smiled and sat down, picking