The Willow Branch Page 3

  “A rider?”

  “Nay, but he is noble-born and from a house you want roots in.”

  Talidd smiled. Gregyn shared a brief bit of information on this lad, who was young enough to worship Gregyn as an older friend. As a page, the lad would be in Galornyn for at least another three years and that would allow plenty of time for the initial training.

  “I already set seals to control him, so that even once he’s learned to shield himself from others I ought to be able to ensorcel him easily.”

  “Good, good. I wish that I were able to meet the lad and enforce your workings.”

  “I doubt much that I could convince him to come here. Not without thoroughly ensorceling him. I thought our plan was to leave the one we choose with a mind so that he might be useful in his own right.”

  Does he suspect that I can overrule his control if I get the apprentice early enough?

  “True, true. An apprentice, though, might not be able to set the seals that truly control the lad.”

  “I got him to cut his thumb with his own table dagger,” Gregyn reported. My, but you are powerful for one whose potential is not fully realized. “We’ve only just begun. Werglidd thought I’d done enough for one winter.” Good, Werglidd is trying to slow him down and keep him from making discoveries I’m not ready for yet. “We want the lad to think this is all his own idea, don’t we?”

  “Aye. Have you done more?”

  Was that a heartbeat of hesitation Talidd noted?

  “Nay. He already has likes. If the time comes to crush him, I’ll use it, but as long as we’re keeping everything friendly-like, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Gregyn seemed so reasonable, so logical. Is it distaste that holds him back or mere prudence?

  “I will defer to your wisdom in this. Begin working on him to travel with him when he returns to his family. He can probably make you captain of the warband or somewhat.”

  Of course, with power like Gregyn possessed, his acolyte might well put him in a much stronger position and think it all his own idea.

  “Done. Should I begin teaching him basic rituals?”

  This was a tricky choice. Gregyn’s power would only grow with practice and might, in time, outgrow Talidd’s control.

  “If you feel he’s ready. I will rely on your judgment in this. Keep seeking a participant in the family at Galornyn. I prefer male, but I’d settle for a second female.”

  “Lady Peddryna doesn’t seem to possess much of the Talent. There’s a toddler lass, but any attention there by me would draw scrutiny.” He is wise beyond most acolytes. “Lady Berdda prevents me from scrying as often as I know you would like.”

  “She’s the source of the Talent that runs in the family. Are you certain you haven’t missed any?”

  “The vyngretrix himself or the heir and spare might be candidates, but a mere rider like me will never get close enough to find out. I thought Wergyn was supposed to worry about that aspect.”

  “Wergyn has been at court too long. I need fresh eyes.” Always spread suspicion and rivalry between the underlings whenever possible.

  “You have my report.”

  Talidd stared out into the jungle for a bit, then spoke.

  “How long may you remain?”

  “No more than three nights. The spring weather slowed my travel.”

  “I wish to work a ritual tomorrow night. See to it that you’re rested and refined.”

  “Of course,” Gregyn replied. His tone suggested no disloyalty, but Talidd sensed reluctance. He worried about the bond he and Gregyn shared. Was it weakening?

  The lad stretched, rose and put his bowl and spoon in the pan for washing up.

  “I am tired,” he admitted. “I think I’ll get some sleep.”

  “Of course,” Talidd replied, giving him leave. Gregyn picked up the saddlebags he’d brought with him and looked from the ladder to the loft to the door to the smaller bedchamber.

  “I’ve a full house right now,” Talidd admitted. “There’s an unoccupied bed in there,” he indicated, pointing to the bedchamber. Gregyn hesitated.

  “Who will I be sharing it with?”

  “Sawyl.”

  This time Gregyn’s carefully controlled features showed a glimmer of the dislike the lad felt for the man he’d grown up with. Talidd understood. As an elder apprentice, Sawyl had used his status to torment the younger, more talented lad. Gregyn had never voiced his hatred, but men in their craft rarely felt love for any but their masters, who liked it that way.

  “It’s warm. I’ll sleep outside.”

  Talidd didn’t argue. Gregyn’s choice was not altogether unexpected. If he were to be the master that Talidd thought he could be someday, he would need to be strong in his hatreds.

  Gregyn went out to the wide porch and walked slowly to the far side of the lodge. The night air lay moist and heavy with just a hint of orchid and lily fragrances. Here the morning sun would break through the trees, a time of day Gregyn particularly liked. Gregyn chose the widest and most stable of the many hammocks stretched from the overhanging rafters, found blankets in a cupboard, and arranged a bed for himself.

  The year at court had proven to Gregyn what he had learned growing up on Talidd’s island -- he was alone only in his own head. The freedom at court had taught him somewhat else. He hated Talidd, the rituals, and having to participate in them.

  When he’d been an eight-year-old street urchin, scrabbling for crumbs in Dun Llyr’s worst slum, Talidd’s journeyman, a man Gregyn knew as Baddyn, had seemed quite attractive with his fine clothes and ample food. Initially, Gregyn had gloried in life in the swamp, away from the noise and confinement of the city. He’d not objected to the first simple lessons in the craft, excited by that first taste of power. Talidd’s attentions had at first seemed odd to an orphan, but not terrorizing. The terror hadn’t started until the night that Talidd had allowed Sawyl to have his way with the lad. Gregyn had been about nine. Seven years of first apprenticeship had followed. Sawyl had been allowed to do whatever he wanted with the younger boy. For reasons he did not entirely understand, the other apprentices and journeymen preferred Gregyn as a channel; thus he had never been the perpetrator of the terror.

  A creak of the floorboards caused Gregyn to focus his eyes at the lodge. He saw Sawyl and Talidd walking across the compound. Gregyn wove Air and thought of Sawyl. It never worked on the master, but the journeyman had proven remarkably easy to work magicks on. Gregyn wondered that Talidd had not caught him out yet.

  “He still breathes,” Sawyl said as they crossed the compound. This spell made it seem as if he were riding Sawyl like a specter, privy to every sensation Sawyn encountered. “His eyes opened for a bit.”

  Talidd did not appear in the mood to talk. They entered the apprentice quarters. There were two boys sitting silently upon their narrow bunks and a third boy lying still on another cot, attended by a servant. Gregyn recognized old Jaryn from his crippled side. The servants were almost all palsied or speechless. Gregyn had only recently begun to wonder why.

  Talidd leaned over the lad in the bed for a good while. Sawyl stood back, so that Gregyn could not see through his eyes, but he could smell urine through his nose.

  “It’s not worth the effort,” Talidd announced. “We’ve enough imperfect vessels here. Take him to the swamp now. The beasts will make quick work of him.”

  Sawyl moved to look down at the lad then and Gregyn recognized Eaddyn, a young acolyte Sawyl himself had brought in. A surge of grief and rage roared through the journeyman before being quickly tamped down. Gregyn let the weave dissipate. He had no desire to feel Sawyl’s emotions.

  Since he’d found a possible apprentice in Dun Galornyn, he’d had to face what that meant. Being able to bring another over shortened the apprenticeship and Gregyn desired the power that would come with this arrangement, but he felt decidedly squeamish about being the master, if the master must do such distasteful things to the apprentice. The rituals galled, but the
consequences could be deadly. Do I truly want to leave a potential mage broken and unconscious for the swamp beasts to eat?

  Staring up at the night sky, Gregyn wondered if Talidd knew what he thought. The old man often seemed able to read the minds of his apprentices. He was doubtful that most apprentices guarded their thoughts as tightly as he, for he somehow knew that Talidd’s respect was won by showing his dislike of Sawyl and his own death earned by showing his hatred of Talidd himself.

  A year and a half into the second part of his apprentice, though not completely free of supervision, he was now allowed to travel and act somewhat independently from Talidd. He knew Wergyn reported to Talidd on him as he reported concerning Wergyn. A dark master must keep his hounds at heel or risk being devoured by them. There was advantage in that knowledge.

  Gregyn wished he could simply run away, but as he prepared to return to the swamp, Wergyn had pointedly warned him that Talidd had power to draw Gregyn back and it would not be a pleasant reunion. Nay, better to bide his time. When the dark master died, the journeymen became free to set out on their own. Although other dark masters posed danger, a journeyman mage with strength could find all sorts of places in this world. Gregyn doubted he would enjoy being a noblewoman’s lap dog as Wergyn was, but he might find better than that. If he could survive until Talidd died. If he could make it through the following night. If ….

  Toward dawn, he heard a scream like a weak child out in the swamp and then birds exploded into the sky. Gregyn lay still with pent-up breath until he heard the distant grunt of a contented bull croc. Eaddyn was no more.

  Gregyn returned to sleep.

  Storm Clouds

  Among the many curious groups of ardents to be found upon the land, I encountered a group in northern Blyan who call themselves “Chrystans”. I thought at first that they were an Old Faith group that had wandered from the main, but soon realized that they worship but one god and hold it sacred above all others. They say they were thus when they came through the portal with us. Certainly they live like Celts except for a few odd religious practices that seem to color their daily living, but I am doubtful they ever trod the soil of Gawl. I believe them to be of Rune, since before we came here to tame the land. They are some form of wild folk, not true Celts at all.

  Sedd of Odal, Scribe of Bel (FY 521)

  Founding Year (FY) 931

  Dun Celdrya - Summer

  Celdrya’s capital city lay shrouded in a days-long rain, as if in reaction to the death of the prince. The massive dun, home of the royal family, stood dark-grey against the stark light-grey stone of the Founding Rock, an imposing near-black fist thrust against a glowering sky. The Celdryan people bustled about their prosperous lives, muffled against the damp and wondering if there’d be war.

  Deryk ap Fyrgal crossed the main ward of Dun Celdrya, shoulders hunched against the drizzle, casting a doleful eye toward the grieving heavens. The sky suited his mood and matched the black armband he wore.

  Inside the door to the great hall, Deryk paused to shake water from his cloak, decided it was a lost cause and hung the sodden mess on one of the many waiting pegs among the myriad damp cloaks, quite a few of them plaid, but a notable number also striped. The merchants thought there‘d be war and war was usually good for them, so they loitered about the dun to be the first to know, the first to get in at the trough. Merchants cared little that war meant death. They cared only for profits.

  Deryk was expected upstairs in the King’s greeting chamber, but he could pause for a moment to gather his thoughts. A serving lass passed with a pitcher that wafted a scent of wine to him, reminding of all he would rather be doing. Maryn’s death had torn a hole into the center of his life that would not be easily filled. Fun times of hunting and laughter sprang into his memory, only to be replaced with what had happened that night less than a fortnight gone. He’d been awakened by the raven’s scream and sitting up confused on his cot when had come the shouting calls of murder. He’d rushed from the tent to find Maryn .... Deryk shook himself free of those thoughts and mounted the stairs to the upper floors of the main broch. It wouldn’t do to keep the king waiting. Perryn had warned him that in the liege’s current mood, Deryk could easily be accused of plotting to kill Maryn and take the throne. He shivered at the change of winds that had befallen the court. It never bode well when a lord loved his heir too much.

  Deryk heard the shouting before he reached the chamber, even through the closed door. Vanyn was cursing a steady stream and demanding answers. His liegemen were trying to provide the latter, but he wasn’t giving them much opportunity.

  “Sire ....”

  “I will not have my son murdered in my kingdom and not have the murderer brought to justice!”

  “Aye, sire, but ....”

  “I will not hear any cursed blathering!” he roared. Deryk thought it might be best just to duck back down the stairs, tell his honor guard to say they’d been delayed, but just as the thought solidified toward action, the door came open and he was left standing there with no opportunity to flee.

  “Lord Deryk,” Vanyn acknowledged. “Please, join us! It would be good to have the report of someone who was on the ground.”

  Deryk looked into the king’s eyes and saw grief-madness, but raised a warrior, he stiffened his spine and walked into the room where Vanyn’s councilors and several of his honor lords stood round the council table, mostly looking anywhere but at their king. Vanyn looked ill, grey of skin and tight about the mouth. Those who owed him fealty looked either angry or frightened and the anger of some seemed to mask fear. As they shifted to make room at the table for him, Deryk glanced round the room and a serving man brought him a goblet of mead.

  “We were camped along the Avercelt after a day fishing. I turned in because the hour was late, but Maryn felt the need of a walk.”

  “And, you didn’t go with him?” Burcan ap Manahan, the king’s son-in-law, demanded. He must have ridden in from Mulyn straightway upon hearing the news. Even an ore boat down the Avercelt would have taken an eightnight.

  “Why would I?” Deryk asked through ice-cold lips. “There were two honor guards each 15 strong outside the tent and we were in settled country. It never occurred to me, certainly, and I doubt if it ever occurred to Maryn, that he would be in danger there. We’d been there since the previous afternoon without seeing anyone outside of our own party.”

  He longed to take a sip of the mead, but he feared his hand would tremble, so he kept both fisted behind his back, one thumb hooked in his leather sword belt. He fixed his gaze on a portion of tapestry visible above the head of Councilor Dumyr who, while a man of great political skill, was short.

  “Go on,” Vanyn demanded. He set his own goblet of mead near Deryk’s and seemed to steel himself for the report. Deryk had seen the look of confusion on Perryn’s face when he’d told the complete story, so now he told the less detailed one he’d rehearsed on the ride to the capitol.

  “I was just drifting off when the alaram was called. I rushed out and found – found Maryn staked to a tree by the spear that my rider brought to you yesterday. There was nothing to be done. It was not a survivable wound.”

  Vanyn began to cough, hands upon the table, his face turning from grey to red and then purple as he struggled to regain his breath. Amazingly, his mistress, Malona, glided up to his side and soothed him. He was soon able to take a sip of his drink and ask Deryk to continue. The king’s mistress was a beautiful woman with lustrous black hair and large eyes of a golden brown color, but it was rare to see a woman in such a council and Deryk wondered at her presence and struggled to resume.

  “Did Prince Maryn say anything before his death?” Dumyr, Vanyn’s high councilor, asked.

  “Naught that made sense. He was already close to death by the time I got there and in the death throes madness.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Somewhat about ‘she’s beautiful’ and a treasure that could not be his.”

  “Might h
e have been speaking of his betrothed,” asked Lord Gerriant from near the border with Fygal.

  “Mayhap, though I do not think they have yet formed a love-bond,” Deryk answered. “Maryn was still mourning his wife. I think it was more likely he was dreaming of her in those last moments. No offence to Gillian of Llyr, of course,” he added, suddenly remembering that Gerriant was a cousin of sorts to Maryn’s betrothed.

  “We know you mean the upmost respect,” Gerriant assured, appearing to mean it.

  “We searched the area and I spoke to all who were within earshot at the time of the attack. The guard he was speaking with at the time said they heard a raven scream just before the spear flew.”

  “A raven at midnight?” Burcan demanded. “And that far south this late in the spring? Most unusual!” Mulyn knew ravens, for they were a more northern bird.

  “Aye, I thought so too until I found this.”

  Deryk produced the raven feather, laying it upon the hide map that rested upon the massive table top. Glossy black with a thick spine, it was almost as long as his forearm and as wide as his spread hand. The chamber erupted into loud exclamations as Vanyn began to cough again. This time, he brought up blood and withdrew from the meeting. With his son Perryn gone to recover Maryn’s body, the councilor took the lead.

  “This is no natural feather,” he noted, which drew no protests. “We all know what this is.”

  Deryk raised an eyebrow because he didn’t know what it was any more than Perryn.

  “We must deal with this immediately,” Burcan agreed. “If the Assassin’s Guild is once more operating in Celdrya, we must locate and eradicate them while the trail is still fresh.”

  The men around the table nodded and lent their vehement support to this plan of action.

  “I will take this to the king as soon as he’s had a bit of a rest and I’ll have an answer for you by the evening meal,” Councilor Dumyr assured the lords and left the room.