Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [66]
Rather than engage in religious controversy at the wrong moment, Gweran smiled and knelt down by the pile of sheepskins. He spread them out to make a rough bed, then lay down on his back and crossed his arms over his chest. He let himself go limp until he felt like a corpse, laid out for burial. Obyn knelt down by his feet. The old man moved slowly and stiffly as he sat back on his heels.
“Can His Holiness kneel there all night?”
“His Holiness can do what needs to be done.”
Gweran stared up at the ceiling and watched the candle-thrown shadows dancing. It had been a long time since he’d performed this ritual last, to talk to the spirit of an ancient bard of the Wolf clan to clarify a confusing point of Maroic’s genealogy. Now a great deal more than a lord’s vanity depended on the working. He let his breathing slow until he seemed to float, not rest, on the soft fleece. The candle-thrown shadows danced in silence, broken only by the soft rhythmic breathing of the old priest.
When he was on the drift point of sleep, Gweran began to recite in a dark murmur under his breath. He spoke slowly, feeling each word of his Song of the Past, a gift from his Agwen, the gate to the rite.
I was a flame, flaring in the fire,
I was a hare, hiding in the briar,
I was a drop, running with the rain,
I was a scythe, slicing the grain.
Ax and tree,
Ship and sea,
Naught that lives
Is strange to me.
I was a beggar, pleading a meal,
I was a dweomer-sword of steel. …
At those words he saw her, the Agwen, the White Lady, with her pale face, lips red as rowan berries, and raven-dark hair. He was never sure where he saw her, whether it was in his mind or out in a dark place of the world, but he saw her as clearly as the temple ceiling. Then more vividly than the ceiling—she was smiling as she ran her fingers through her hair and beckoned to him. The candle-thrown shadows turned to moonlight and fell, wispy white, to envelop him. He heard his own voice chanting, but the words were meaningless. The last thing he saw was the priest, leaning close to catch every whisper.
Gweran was walking to the well head by the white birches. A little patch of grassy ground, three slender trees, the gray stone wall of the well—all were as clear and solid to him as the temple, but on every side stretched an opalescent white void, torn by strange mists. The Agwen perched on the edge of the well and considered him with a small cruel smile.
“Are you still my faithful servant?” she said.
“I’m your slave, my lady. I live and die by your whim.”
She seemed pleased, but it was always hard to tell, because instead of eyes, she had two soft spheres of the opalescent mist.
“What do you want of me?”
“The rain refuses to fall in our land. Can you show me why?”
“And what would I have to do with rain?”
“You are the wise one, shining in the night, the heart of power, the golden light, my only love, my true delight.”
She smiled, less cruel, and turned to stare down into the well. Gweran heard a soft lap and splash of water, as if the well opened into a vast dream river.
“There was a murder,” she said. “But no curse. It was properly avenged. Ask him yourself.”
She disappeared, leaving the birches rustling behind her. Gweran waited, staring into the shifting white mist, tinged here and there with rainbowlike mother-of-pearl. A man was walking out in the mist, wandering half seen like a ship off a foggy coast. When Gweran called to him, he came, a young warrior, sandy haired with humorous blue eyes, and smiling just as if his chest weren’t sliced open with a sword cut. Endlessly, blood welled and gouted down his chest to vanish before it dripped to his feet. The vision was so clear that Gweran cried out. The warrior looked at him with his terrifying smile.
“What land are you from, my friend?” Gweran said. “Are you at rest?”
“The land of the Boars bore me and buried me. I rest because my brother cut my killer’s head from his shoulders.