The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [78]
As they were walking back, Morwen was wondering if she should tell Nevyn what she’d seen. The old man seemed so wise, and he knew the Westfolk so well, that he might be able to explain more about this mysterious dweomer. She could simply never mention Tirro and so protect Loddlaen. Yet fear stopped her. Tirro had said that she now belonged to the Westfolk. She wanted it to be true, but deep in her soul she felt that she’d never belong anywhere. If she caused any more trouble, they might cast her out, or so she feared. Her mother had always told her, ‘when the bucket’s full, don’t swing it around and spill the milk’. Good advice, she thought. I’ll just wait and see if Loddlaen will tell me more.
In among the tents she met Gwairyc, striding along with a grim look on his face. He paused and hailed her.
‘Have you seen Tirro?’ he said.
‘I have. He’s with Loddlaen, over by the rocks.’
‘Ah. Good.’ The grim look softened to his more usual neutral expression. ‘I’ll just make sure he’s not up to some wrong thing.’
‘And just what that might be?’
Gwairyc considered her for a long cold moment. ‘You never know,’ he said at last, then strode off, heading for the rocky ridge.
Gwairyc was keeping so strict a watch over Tirro mostly out of boredom. Stuck out here, so far away from the war in Cerrgonney, he was finding the days long and tedious. Even the royal court intrigues, which he’d always hated, would have been more interesting than watching the Westfolk trade horses for Wffyn’s ironware.
When he found Tirro and Loddlaen, they were passing a skin of mead back and forth and laughing at some jest. At the sight of Gwairyc, however, Tirro’s laughter died with a squeak.
‘Having a bit of fun, are you?’ Gwairyc said.
‘We are,’ Loddlaen said. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Does my master want me?’ Tirro said. ‘I’ll come. I’m sorry.’
‘Nah, nah, nah!’ Gwairyc said. ‘Go ahead, lads. Enjoy yourself. Drink all you want, Tirro. There’ll be plenty of work on the morrow.’
Bewildered, Tirro stared up at him. Gwairyc gave them both what he assumed was a pleasant smile, then turned and walked off again. Get howling drunk, you dog, Gwairyc thought. It’ll keep that ugly little cock of yours limp.
The children that Gwairyc was so assiduously protecting had mothers, of course. Once he got used to their strange eyes and even more peculiar ears, Gwairyc found them beautiful. They didn’t return the opinion. Every time he smiled at a woman or tried out the few Westfolk words that he’d picked up, she would politely but firmly turn her back or walk away with some muttered excuse in Elvish that, of course, he couldn’t understand. Later he’d often overhear these same women speaking perfectly good Deverrian to Wffyn or Nevyn, but if he tried to pursue the acquaintance, they would avoid him ever after.
After some days at the camp, Gwairyc found one woman who let it slip that she knew Deverrian. When he asked her name in the most pleasant way he could manage, her eyes grew wide in something like fear. She crossed her fingers in a warding gesture, backed away, and ran off. Gwairyc swore under his breath and turned around to find Nevyn grinning at him.
‘By the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell!’ Gwairyc said. ‘What is this, my lord? Have I grown pusboils all over my face or suchlike?’
‘Naught of the sort,’ Nevyn said. ‘But you’re from Deverry. Westfolk women think that all Deverry men are household tyrants and wife-beaters.’
‘I see. Well, then, it’s no wonder they’re so cold to me. Here I thought that mayhap there was somewhat wrong with me.’
‘Perish the thought.’ Nevyn rolled his eyes skyward.
Had Nevyn been a man of his own rank or just somewhat below it, Gwairyc would have challenged him right then and there. As it was, though, Nevyn had dweomer, and with that, or so the Ram lords always said, there was no arguing.
‘Somewhat very odd happened to Morwen,’ Nevyn said. ‘One of the Guardians appeared to her, or at least, I think Alshandra’s a Guardian.’
‘She is,