The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [40]
‘Get out!’ Nevyn’s voice said calmly. ‘All of you—out now!’
Still half-blind, Gwairyc staggered back, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his sight. He could just barely see the Red Hawk riders, equally blind, stumbling as fast as they could, shoving each other to be the first out the door. In the corner the tavernman was laughing in long peals while he hugged his own middle. Nevyn strolled over to Gwairyc and pulled the sword from his limp hand.
‘Did you do that?’ Gwairyc heard his voice squeaking like a lad’s.
‘And who else would it have been?’ the tavernman broke in. ‘Ye gods, Nevyn, you’re a marvel, you are—and at your age, too.’
‘Oh, the old horse can take a jump or two yet,’ Nevyn said, grinning. ‘Now listen, Gwarro. I won’t have you killing anyone. Do you understand me?’
‘I think I finally do understand you, my lord. You’re dweomer.’
‘Just that. What did you think I did to earn the king’s favour? Lance his boils?’
Shaking too hard to speak, Gwairyc leaned back against the tavernroom wall. Nevyn looked at the sword.
‘You won’t be carrying this from now on. Take off that sword belt, lad, and hand it over. I’m not giving it back to you until I see fit.’
For a moment Gwairyc’s rage flared up like dweomer-fire. Taking his sword away was the worst dishonour in the world. Nevyn’s cold blue gaze caught and pinned him to the wall. Slowly, silently cursing himself for doing it, Gwairyc unbuckled his belt and handed it to the old man, then turned and ran outside rather than watch another man sheath his blade. He threw himself down on the bench and watched the clouds darkening the sky while he trembled so hard he could no longer tell if the cause were rage or terror.
The rain clouds had turned as dark as cinders when Nevyn came out to join him. He stood, his hands on his hips, in front of the bench and look Gwairyc over. ‘Well?’ Nevyn said.
‘Well what?’
‘What have you made of all that?’
‘The blue fire and the like? I’ve not made anything out of it, except you called it down from wherever it came from. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Most likely. Do you remember what I told you that very first day at the temple of Wmm? There was a thing I told you to remember.’
Gwairyc thought for a long moment. ‘You told me you were doing this to benefit the king.’
‘I didn’t.’ Nevyn suddenly grinned. ‘I told you I was doing it to benefit you.’
‘Ye gods! That ran right out of my mind.’
‘I thought it might have.’
‘But how by all the ice in all the hells—I mean, benefit me how?’
‘Only you can know that.’
‘What? I—’
‘If I explained, you’d only miss it.’
Gwairyc thought up a nasty reply, but the memory of the blue fire leaping through the tavern stopped him from voicing it.
‘I’m not talking in riddles to tease you,’ Nevyn continued. ‘Some things truly can’t be made clear.’
‘Well, since it’s dweomer, I’d be a fool to argue.’
Gwairyc had the rare pleasure of seeing Nevyn taken utterly aback.
‘Come to think of it,’ the old man said at last, ‘I would have thought you’d be alarmed at the very idea of dweomer, but you’re not.’
‘I’m one of the Rams of Hendyr, aren’t I? Most lords mock the dweomer. Can’t be true, they say. But not us, and we won’t let anyone of our rank or below mock it in our presence. It’s one of the things that makes us Rams. That’s what my father and my grandfather tell all of us.’
‘Indeed?’ Nevyn considered this for a moment. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Of course, you being what you are. It’s because of Lady Lillorigga of the Ram. One of our ancestors, she was, back in the Time of Troubles.’
‘I’ve heard her name, truly.’ Once again Nevyn looked startled, and Gwairyc began to enjoy the effect he was having. ‘Go on, lad, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. She was a sorceress, and the bards have passed down the tale. She made a prediction of some sort, I think it was.’ Gwairyc paused, frowning over details—he’d not heard the story for a good many years now. ‘They’d been