Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [64]
“My apologies, my lady, for startling you.”
“No apology needed, my lord.” Lovyan pronounced the honorific slowly and deliberately. “I’m most honored that a man like you would stoop to treating my son for a fever.”
“I see that my lady doesn’t dismiss tales of dweomer as nonsense fit only to amuse children.”
“Her ladyship has seen too many odd things in her life to do anything of the sort.”
For a moment they studied each other like a pair of fencers. Then Nevyn felt the dweomer prod him, force him to speak, as if his mouth would burn if he didn’t speak out the truth.
“It is very important for Rhodry to live to his manhood. I cannot tell you why, but his Wyrd is Eldidd’s Wyrd. I would like to be able to keep an eye on the lad from now on.”
Lovyan went tense, her face pale in the leaping firelight. Finally she nodded her agreement.
“His lordship is always welcome at the court of Aberwyn. And if he prefers, I shall keep up the fiction that this shabby old herbman amuses me.”
“I do prefer, and my thanks.”
That night, Nevyn stayed up late, leaning on the windowsill of his guest chamber and watching the moon sail through wind-torn and scudding clouds. He had been sent to his post like a soldier, and he would do nothing but obey. From now on, he would stay in Eldidd and trust that the Lords of Wyrd would send Brangwen to him when the time was ripe. Deep in his heart he felt true hope for the first time in hundreds of years. Great things were on the move. He could only wait and watch for their coming.
DEVERRY, 698
And the bard is picked out by his Agwen, not only to delight his lord, but to remember all the great deeds and great men in his clan, all in their proper order. For if men were without knowledge of anything but the name of each man’s father, then the children of bondsmen would be as noble or as base as the children of a gwerbret. Therefore, let no man or woman either commit the impiety of raising a hand against a bard. …
—The Edicts of King Bran
Heat shimmered on dead grass and stunted grain. Brackish brown water trickled between the banks of what had once been the River Nerr. Stripped to the waist, a herdsman led eager cows down to suck water that was mostly mud. Gweran the bard stood on the bank and watched for a moment, then glanced up at the sky, a crystal dome of pure blue, stubbornly clear. Although he’d come for a walk in the fields to work on a song he was composing, his heart spoke only of drought and the long cold winter of starvation that would follow. With a shudder, he turned away from the river and walked back to the dun of the White Wolf clan.
Ringed with earthworks, the small fort lay on top of a low hill. Behind the inner log palisade rose a squat stone broch, its slits of windows brooding like eyes over the dusty ward. Except for a few drowsy flies, the ward was deserted in the hot sun. Gweran hurried into the great hall, blessedly cool in the embrace of stone walls. Down by the empty hearth, Lord Maroic sat at the head of the honor table. With him were two priests of Bel, dressed in their long white tunics and gold torques, their freshly shaven heads shiny with sweat.
When Gweran knelt at his lord’s side, the head priest, Obyn, smiled at him, his eyes narrow under pouched lids. Lord Maroic, a florid-faced man in his thirties, with pale hair and pale mustache, stopped in midsentence to speak to his bard.
“I was hoping you’d return straightaway. A question for you. I don’t suppose a bard can invoke the rain.”
“I only wish I could. I should think His Holiness here would be the one to do that for us.”
“His lordship