Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [93]
“We call them western hunters,” Dregydd said. “Even the mares stand sixteen hands high, and they’ve got the best wind you’d ever hope to find in a horse. But here’s the big thing, lass. Some of them are golden, well, a yellowy brown, really, but in the sunlight, you’d swear they were made of gold.”
“By the hells! I don’t suppose a silver dagger would ever get enough coin to buy one.”
“Not likely by half. The Westfolk know their value, and they make you trade high. Worth it, though. If I can get a golden stud, the gwerbret of Caminwaen will give me two gold pieces for him.”
Jill caught her breath. Two gold pieces would buy a decent farm. Suddenly she remembered Loddlaen again, handing over a Deverry regal for a sword worth a third of it, if that. Why had he insisted on cheating himself that way? Odd bits of bard lore drifted to mind, and at last she remembered the persistent tale that if a dweomerman wanted to enchant an item, he was forbidden to haggle for it.
“Tell me somewhat,” Jill said to Dregydd. “Do you think there’s such a thing as real dweomer?”
“Well, now, most people dismiss those tales out of hand, lass, but I’ve seen an odd thing or two in my day.” Dregydd gave her a sly smile. “I think me you’re going to be well and truly interested in the Westfolk when you meet them.”
Although Jill questioned him further, he put her off with a simple “wait and see.” Yet later that same day she had an inkling of his meaning. The farther west they rode, the bolder grew the gray gnome, popping into materialization to sit in front of her saddle even when she was riding beside another person. His long, thin mouth open in a gaping smile, his green eyes gleaming with excitement, he would grab one of her reins in both skinny hands and shake it, as if trying to make the horse go faster. Finally she dropped far enough behind the caravan to speak to him.
“You know where we’re going, don’t you? Do you like the Westfolk?”
He nodded his head in a vigorous yes, then leapt up to throw his arms around her and kiss her on the cheek.
That night, the caravan camped in a pasture beside the last farm on the Eldidd border, where Dregydd traded cheap goods for loads of hay and fodder. Jill discovered the reason on the morrow. Just an hour’s ride brought them to primeval forest, a tangle of old oaks and bracken, where what little grass there was grew thin and straggly.
All day they followed a narrow track through ancient trees, standing so close together that it was impossible to see more than ten feet beyond the trail. They made their night’s camp in a clearing that was just barely big enough to accommodate men and mules. Everyone huddled around a campfire to talk in strangely hushed voices. Every now and then, one of the men would turn sharply to peer into the forest as if he felt he were being watched, then laugh at his own foolishness. Jill, however, knew they were being watched. Just beyond the circle of firelight she could see Wildfolk, clustering thick in the branches of the trees to stare down at these intruders in their land.
The next day brought more forest, but now the land rose in a gentle slope that promised hills at some far distance. Men and mules alike sweated as the trail wound up and on through the dapple-dark forest. Finally, some four hours after noon, they came to a river, churning white in a deep gorge. Over it in a graceful arch was a stone bridge, as well made as any in Deverry. The side rails were carved in a looping pattern of leaves and vines, and here and there, in roundels, were chiseled marks that had to be letters in some utterly alien alphabet. As the caravan clattered over the bridge,