The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [35]
‘Drink all of it, lad,’ Nevyn said. ‘You’ll feel better in a bit.’
Gwairyc managed to choke the sweet stuff down. For a moment, he felt sicker than before, but remarkably quickly, his headache began to ease and his stomach to settle down.
‘Ye gods!’ He handed the cup back to Nevyn. ‘You could make a fortune with this brew.’
‘Indeed? Well, I’ve never wanted a fortune. It’s a pity you had to drink yourself sick.’
‘Can you blame me?’
Nevyn caught his gaze and looked at him, merely looked, but all at once Gwairyc turned cold. He felt that the old man was looking through his soul, seeing old secrets, old faults, old crimes that he couldn’t even remember committing.
‘Listen, lad.’ Nevyn’s voice stayed free of any feeling. ‘What I’m doing with you is for your benefit. I know you won’t believe me at first. Hate me if it makes you feel better. Just do as I say, and remember that I’m doing this for your benefit.’
The gaze from ice-blue eyes bored holes through his very soul.
‘I will,’ Gwairyc said, ‘but it’s for the king’s sake, not yours.’
‘Not your own?’
Gwairyc tried to answer, found no words, then handed back the empty cup, the only gesture he could think to make.
‘Well, that was unfair of me.’ Nevyn turned away and released him. ‘Just remember what I told you. Now. I’ve bought you a new shirt and a cloak. Pack those fine ones away. You might be doing this for the king’s sake, but you won’t wear his blazon again for a good long while.’
The shirt turned out to be plain rough linen, and the cloak the coarse brown of farmers’ clothing. Once Gwairyc had changed, he loaded the mule while Nevyn went inside to say farewell to the priest of the temple. By the time they left the mews, the townsfolk had started their day, bustling along the streets or standing gossiping in front of one house or another. When Gwairyc started to mount up, Nevyn caught his arm.
‘We’re walking to the gates. Too crowded to ride.’
‘The common folk can just get out of our way.’
‘Common folk? Those are proud words from a herbman’s servant.’
Gwairyc had to bite his lip to keep from swearing at him.
Once they were clear of the city walls, they mounted and, with Gwairyc leading the mule, took the west-running road. Nevyn set a slow pace, letting his horse amble along in the hot summer morning. On either side of the road, the rich green fields of Casyl’s personal demesne rolled off to the horizon. Gwairyc felt sick to his heart: soon the army would ride north without him. All the bitter splendour of battle—his one real love, his whole life—had been stolen from him by an old herbman’s whim. He began to have thoughts of murdering Nevyn and leaving his body somewhere beside the road. But what then? he told himself, You could never go back to court. For the sake of the king he worshipped, he was going to have to play this bitter game out to the end.
Gwairyc urged his horse up beside Nevyn’s. ‘May I ask where we’re going?’
‘West. I never have any particular place in mind when I travel. There are sick folk all over the kingdom.’
‘I suppose there must be, truly.’
‘But we’ll spend part of the summer in the old forest. It still covers plenty of ground once you get off to the west.’
‘The forest, my lord?’
‘Just that. I have wild herbs to gather, you see.’
Gwairyc couldn’t stop himself from groaning aloud. Off in the forest, all alone with this cursed old man, not even a pretty wench to use for a bit of comfort!
‘What are you doing?’ Nevyn said. ‘Cursing the very day you were born.’
‘Somewhat like that.’
Nevyn laughed and said nothing more.
That first day they headed south, skirting Loc Gwerconydd, then turned west. Gwairyc soon learned that travelling with Nevyn meant meandering from village to village at a