The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [81]
“Oh, I remember that,” the spirit said—in Elvish.
“Very well. Then what are you doing, mimicking her?”
“I’ll not answer that unless you answer me a question.”
“I’ll agree to that if you answer mine first.”
The spirit considered him with eyes that never blinked. In her lap the book turned transparent and disappeared.
“Done then,” she said at last. “Becoming her I know her.”
“I see. What’s your question?”
“You stole her daughter from her, didn’t you? Just like they plan to steal mine.”
“I didn’t. Her daughter left her of her own will.”
The spirit screamed in such murderous rage that Nevyn stepped back. In that instant spirit and chair both vanished.
By all the gods! he thought. What is she? And why did that anger her so?
With a shake of his head Nevyn left the room. He would have to meditate on the question. Lilli might well know something, too, if her mother had ever mentioned having some sort of astral visitor. But although he looked in her chamber and in the great hall, he couldn’t find Lilli to ask her. Finally, he stopped a passing page.
“Have you seen Lady Lillorigga of the Ram?”
“I’ve not, my lord,” the boy said.
“Well, then, have you seen Branoic the silver dagger?”
“Not him either, my lord.” The boy smiled in a sly sort of way. “Shall I look for them?”
“Most definitely not. She’ll turn up sooner or later of her own accord.”
Maddyn had no illusions about his skill as a harper. Over the years he’d brutalized his hands with sword and shield until his fingers could bend only so far and travel the strings only so fast and no more. He did, however, take his music seriously, and every morning he found a private spot in one of the dun’s many odd corners to practice far away from the noise and crowds in barracks and great hall. Sound carries, of course, and thanks to his music he was always easy to find.
“Ah, uh, Captain?”
Maddyn looked up, startled. Standing in front of him was a young man who looked vaguely familiar—pale hair, pale eyes, and the high cheekbones of a southern man to go with the Cerrmor blazons on his shirt.
“I hate to disturb you,” the fellow went on, “but one of the silver daggers, that truly tall fellow with the broad shoulders, told me I should speak to you.”
“Branoic, was it?”
“That’s his name. Mine’s Alwyn.”
“Very well. What did you want to speak to me about?”
Alwyn turned and looked behind him, then glanced off in the direction of the broch complex.
“Well, it’s about Councillor Oggyn,” Alwyn said at last. “I want to join the silver daggers, you see. Oggyn told me that it would cost a silver piece for him to introduce me to Owaen.”
“What? The filthy gall of the man!”
“Branoic said somewhat like that, too. I paid the coin over, you see, and Owaen talked with me and had me meet some of the other men in the troop. And so I was drinking with Branoic last night, and I mentioned the councillor and his silver piece. And some of the other new men spoke up and said the same had happened to them. Branoic was fair furious, he was.”
“Cursed right, too! That little pissproud glorified scribe! Come along, lad. Let me stow my harp in the barracks, and then we’ll go find Owaen.”
Owaen, however, turned out to be in the barracks, sitting on his bunk and polishing his mail. His sword belt lay beside him on the blanket, but even unarmed there was something dangerous about Owaen. He was frowning as he pulled a scrap of rag through each ring with a quick gesture born of years of practice; his ice-blue eyes glared as if he were killing Boarsmen, not rust. Maddyn knew better than to get too close to him when he was in such a reverie. He stopped a couple of bunks away and called out.
“Owaen? A word with you?”
Startled, Owaen was on his feet and reaching for his sword. The mail slid off his lap and chimed onto the floor.
“Oh,” Owaen said. “It’s just you.”
He sat back down and picked up the mail. Maddyn led Alwyn over.
“This lad has a very interesting tale to tell. Councillor Oggyn’s been charging a fee to send men our way.”
While Alwyn