Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [170]
“Do you want somewhat to eat?” Jill said.
“I don’t,” Camdel whispered. “Water?”
All the time that Jill was filling a cup from a pitcher, Camdel stared at Rhodry in wide-eyed fear.
“Oh, here, don’t you remember me from court? Rhodry Maelwaedd, Aberwyn’s younger son.”
At that a faint smile flicked on his mouth, and he sat up to take the cup of water. Holding it in both hands, he sipped it slowly while looking around the chamber. The late-afternoon sun slanted in the windows and picked out the dust motes dancing in the golden shafts. As pleased as a child, Camdel smiled at the sight. Rhodry felt his revulsion rise and looked away. What if the dark masters had gotten hold of his Jill? Would they have done something similar to her? In his heart he made a solemn vow that if ever it was in his power to rid the world of any dark dweomermen, he would risk death, if he had to, to stamp them out.
“Rhoddo, would you call a page?” Jill said. “I want them to fetch up water so he can have a bath”
“A bath?” Camdel sounded drunk. “I’d like that.”
Rhodry left the chamber gratefully. Although he didn’t blame Camdel for a thing, he couldn’t bear the sight of him.
After he sent the pages on their errand, Rhodry joined Blaen at the honor table. Blaen was, of course, drinking mead, and for the first time in his life Rhodry decided to try to keep up with him. While his cousin watched with a small smile, he gulped down as much as he could in one swallow.
“Does a man good,” Blaen remarked. “Wipes things away.”
“It does, at that. Did you hear what—”
“—happened to Camdel? I did.”
Rhodry had another swallow of mead. Neither of them spoke again for hours.
In the foothills on the western side of Cwm Pecl, Sarcyn led his weary horse along a narrow track through stands of pine trees. He’d fled west blindly, seeking some isolated spot where he could hide for a day or two, but now it occurred to him that he’d better keep moving. Both the gwerbret’s men and, worse yet, the Master of the Aethyr would be hunting him down. Yet in his weariness he wondered if it might not be better to let the gwerbret hang him than to fall into the hands of the Dark Brotherhood. They would make his death last for weeks.
“But I have the books,” he whispered aloud. “Someday I’ll have the power to stand against them.”
Near sunset he found a valley with a stream and plenty of grass for his horse. He made camp, then scrounged some deadwood from the forested hillside and lit a small fire with his flint and steel. Although his stomach was growling, he ignored his hunger. He’d already eaten a meal that day, and he needed to eke out his meager store of provisions. For a while he stared into the fire and brooded over his plans. Scattered around the kingdom were a number of people who might shelter him for a few days at least. A few days were all he could afford to spend in one place, no matter how much he needed time to study Alastyr’s books. All at once he was too weary to think—remarkably weary and muddled, as he would realize later.
Like a child, he curled up on his blankets and fell asleep by the fire. When he woke, it was suddenly—at the touch of hands on his arms. He cried out, then struggled, kicking and writhing, but a leather cord slipped round his wrists and pulled tight, and a man fell across his knees and pinned him. By the light of the dying fire he could see his assailants, two light-skinned Bardek men in Deverry clothes. One lashed his wrists tight; the other, his ankles, even as he threw his weight this way and that. At last they were done, and he lay panting on the ground while they stood over him.
“So, little one,” said the taller. “You’ve slain your master, have you?”
Sarcyn went rigid with terror, a coldness that started at the base of his spine and rippled upward.
“I see