The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [9]
“Good sir,” Marka said. “You seem to know a lot about all these strange things. Is Jill really working a curse against my husband?”
“Hardly.” Evandar paused for a short bark of a laugh. “She’s dead.”
Marka felt hot blood rush into her face. She could think of no apology that would matter.
“I’m very sorry to see your husband in this state,” Evandar said after a moment. “I’ll have to do something about this.”
“Can you help him? Oh, if you only could, I’d—well, I don’t know how we’d repay you, but we do have coin.”
“Hush! No payment needed. I made his father a promise, and I intend to keep it. I can’t cure your husband, no. But I might know someone who can.”
Marka wept in sheer relief.
“But it’s not going to be such an easy thing,” Evandar went on. “This person is far away in your husband’s homeland. The kingdom of Deverry. Do you know about it?”
“Well, a little. It’s supposed to be a horrible place where everyone’s a barbarian, and all the men carry swords and get drunk and chop each other to pieces.”
“A slight exaggeration.” Evandar grinned at her. “Be that as it may, Deverry’s also a wretchedly long way away, across a mighty ocean and all that, and I’m not truly sure of how we’ll get there, or if she—the person I’m thinking of—can truly heal him once we do.”
Hope sank and left her exhausted. She rubbed her face with both hands and tried to think.
“My apologies,” Evandar said. “I wish I could offer you a certainty. Although, don’t lose heart! If the person I’m thinking of can’t help, there may be others.”
“If anyone could do something—I’m just so frightened.”
“No doubt. Well, I’ll be off then to see what I can find.”
Evandar bowed to her, then turned and began to walk toward the cliff’s edge. He stopped and glanced back.
“Take care of my horse, will you?” he called out. “I won’t be needing him.”
He walked two paces more, then set one foot on the air as if it were as solid as a step, hauled himself up, and disappeared.
PART ONE
WINTER 1117
Deverry
Kings in their arrogance say, “We were born to rule any land we can conquer.” I say to you, “The universe holds lands beyond our imagining and peoples beyond our conquering.” Be ye always mindful that your sight is short and the universe, long.
—The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
In Dun Cengarn, up in the far Northlands of Deverry, snow lay thick on field and thatch. The lazy sun stayed above the horizon a little longer each day, but still it seemed that the servants had barely cleared away the midday meal before the darkness closed in again. On these frozen days the life of the dun moved into the great hall. Servants, the noble-born, the men of the warband, the dogs—they all clustered at one or the other of the two enormous hearths. On the coldest days, when the wind howled around the towers of the dun and banged at the doors and gates, everyone stayed in bed as long as possible and crawled back into their blankets again as soon as they could.
At night, up in her tower room, Dallandra and Rhodry huddled together under all the blankets they owned between them. They slept in their clothes for the warmth, then stayed late abed as well.
“You’re much nicer than a pair of dogs,” she remarked one morning. “Warmer, too.”
“I’m glad I please my lady,” Rhodry said, yawning. “I was thinking much the same about you, actually. And no fleas.”
She laughed and kissed him, then rested her head on his chest with the blanket drawn up around her ears.
“Is it snowing out?” Rhodry said. “With the leather over the shutters, I can’t tell.”
“How would I know? Dweomer doesn’t let you see through stone walls.”
“That’s a cursed pity. I don’t care enough to get up and see. I—” He paused, listening. “Someone’s at the door.”
Dalla poked her head out of the blankets. Sure enough, she could hear someone shuffling on the landing outside, with the occasional deep sigh, as if whoever it was feared to knock.
“Who’s there?” she called out.
“Jahdo, my lady.” The boy’s voice sounded of tears. “I were wondering if you or my lord should be needing somewhat.”
“Come in,