Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [92]
“Besides,” Dregydd said. “It’ll give Lord Corbyn a chance to come down and buy somewhat if he wants. Always be courteous when you’re passing through someone’s demesne.”
Although the lord himself never appeared, one of his councillors did. Jill was hanging around, watching Dregydd haggle with a farm wife for a barrel of ale, when the man rode up on a beautiful silver-gray horse. He was tall but slender, with dark violet eyes, and he had the palest hair that Jill had ever seen, practically the color of moonlight, and cut long to fall over his ears. He dismounted and strolled over to Dregydd, who was just handing over an iron skillet in return for the ale. At the sight of him, the farm wife turned pale and backed off. Jill noticed her making the sign of warding against witchcraft with her fingers as she hurried away.
“My name is Loddlaen,” he said in an oddly soft and musical voice. “Are you carrying any fine weapons?”
“Some swords of Lughcarn steel, good sir. The finest there are.”
While he examined the swords, Loddlaen ignored Jill completely, and she was glad of it. Although he was courteous enough, there was something about him that creeped her flesh, and it wasn’t only that he smelled of rose scent. At last he picked out the best sword in the lot.
“Well and good, councillor,” Dregydd said. “And is it for you?”
“It’s not, but for my lord, a token of my esteem.”
“An honorable gift indeed. Now, I usually get a decent horse for one of these blades.”
“How about a gold piece instead?” Loddlaen flashed him a cold, hard smile. “I have coin, unlike the rest of the stinking rabble in this part of the world.”
“Splendid. A fair price indeed.”
“Far too high, actually, but there are some things that must never be haggled over.”
Although Dregydd looked shocked at such an idea, he took Loddlaen’s gold Deverry regal quickly enough. He even found a bit of cloth to wrap the sword in, escorted the councillor to his horse, and held the bridle while Loddlaen mounted. With a small contemptuous nod, the councillor rode off, sitting with the ease of a man who’s spent most of his life in the saddle. Dregydd scratched his beard in puzzlement.
“Now, that was a strange one, lass. I’ve seen many a man in my trading, but that was a strange one.”
“He was. I half wondered if he wanted that sword to stab his lord or suchlike.”
“Odd, I had the same thought, but listen to us, Jill, insulting a man we don’t even know. Huh. Did you see his horse? It’s a western hunter, one of the breed I’m after. His lord must honor him highly to give him an expensive animal like that.”
That night, Jill had a dream, and grotesque though it was, it was so clear and coherent, so filled with small details, that she was forced to admit it had to be a true dream. She saw Loddlaen take off his clothes in the middle of a chamber, then go to a window. She heard him chanting aloud in some peculiar language; then all at once, he was enveloped in a flash of blue light and turned into an enormous red hawk. When he leapt from the sill and soared above the countryside, she somehow was flying up above him. Suddenly he stooped and plunged, just like a real hawk, and came up with a rabbit in his beak. Only then did she realize just how unnaturally large this hawk was. She woke with a start and sat up, listening to the reassuring sound of Cullyn snoring nearby. The dream was so disgusting that she felt cold all over.
To rid herself of it, she rose and went over to the river-bank. In the moonlit shallows the Wildfolk of Water disported themselves, an ebb and flow of faces in silver foam. When she put her hand in the water to call them, they clustered round and rubbed silvery backs against her fingers.
“Do you know Councillor Loddlaen?”
She felt their terror break over her like a wave. They vanished utterly, leaving the river only ordinary water. Jill ran back to camp and burrowed into her blankets as if they’d hide her.
Much to Jill’s relief, on the morrow the caravan packed up early, clattered over the toll bridge, and headed west, far away from