Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [91]
“Do you know what I fear most?” Lovyan said abruptly. “That things will come to open war when Rhys dies. It’s happened, you know, when a disgruntled candidate feels himself wronged by the council. Ah, well, I’ll be long gone myself by then, and past worrying over it.”
Since Rhys was a healthy man of only twenty-nine, her remark was eminently reasonable, but Nevyn felt a sudden stab of dweomer-warning. It seemed likely that she would have to bury yet another son.
“Is somewhat wrong?” she said, reading his expression.
“Oh, just thinking that we’ve got to get Rhodry recalled.”
“If words were gold coins, we’d all be as rich as the king.” She sighed heavily. “It’s always hard to see the death of a great clan, but it would be a true pity to see the end of the Maelwaedds.”
“It would indeed.”
And a greater pity than she could know, in fact. The Maelwaedd clan had always been important to the dweomer, ever since its oddly humble beginning, close to three hundred years before.
CERRMOR AND ELDIDD 790-797
And are all things that happen in life pre-ordained by the gods? They’re not, for many things happen by blind chance. Mark this well: every man has a Wyrd, and every man has a Luck. The secret of wisdom is telling one from the other.
—The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
About a week’s ride from Aberwyn, on what might as well have been the western border of Eldidd, since no one lived beyond it, a dun stood at the top of a grassy cliff overlooking the ocean. A stone wall, badly in need of repair, ringed a big ward where weeds poked up through the cobbles. Inside stood a squat stone broch, a clutter of wood sheds, and a narrow tower like a stork standing among chickens. Every afternoon Avascaen climbed the hundred fifty spiraling steps to the flat top of the tower. Using a heavy winch and pulley, he would haul up loads of firewood, which his sons had put in the sling far down below, and stack them under the little shelter above the beacon pit. Just at sunset he would light a torch and fire the first load. Not far out to sea lay submerged rocks, a little ripple of white water from his vantage, but virtually invisible to a ship sailing toward them. Any captain who saw the Cannobaen light knew that he should swing wide, out to the safety of the open sea.
Not that many ships had sailed their way in the last few years. Thanks to the war for the Deverry throne, trade was falling off badly. There were times, especially when the cold winter winds whipped under the shelter, when Avascaen wondered why he even bothered to keep tending the fire. But if just one ship founders, he would tell himself, just think of how you’ll feel then. Besides, Prince Mael himself had enjoined him to keep this light, all those years ago before the prince rode off to war and never returned.
Avascaen was training his two sons, Maryl and Egamyn, to take over the job of lighthouse keeper when he died. Maryl, a stolid sort of lad, was glad enough of the work and their somewhat privileged position in the village of Cannobaen. Egamyn, however, who was only fourteen, grumbled, cursed, and constantly threatened to run away to become a rider with the king’s army. Avascaen would generally give him a cuff on the head and tell him to hold his tongue.
“The prince asked me and my family to tend the light,” Avascaen would say. “And tend it we will.”
“Oh, here, Da,” Egamyn always answered. “I’ll wager you never see the wretched prince again.”
“Maybe not, but if I do, then he’ll hear I did what I said I was going to do. I’m like a badger. I hold on.”
Avascaen, his wife, Scwna, and the lads all lived in the great hall of the broch, where they cooked, slept, and generally made do. The upper stories were shut up to save heat in the winter. Twice a year Scwna aired out each chamber, wiped the dust off the furniture, and swept the floors, just in case the prince should return to his country