Devaberiel Silverhand, generally considered the best bard in this part of the elven lands, considered unpacking his harp and joining the musicians, but he was quite simply too hungry. He got a wooden bowl and spoon from his tent, then wandered through the feast. Each riding group, or alar, to give them their Elvish name, had made a huge quantity of one particular dish. Everyone strolled around, eating a bit here and there of whatever appealed to them while the music, talk, and laughter drifted through the camp. Devaberiel was searching for Manaverr, whose alar traditionally roasted a whole lamb in a pit.
Finally he found his friend near the edge of the camp. A couple of young men were just digging up the lamb, while others piled green leaves into a clean bed to receive it. Manaverr left off directing the operation and hurried over to greet the bard. His hair was so pale that it was almost white, and his cat-slit eyes gleamed a deep purple. They each put their left hand on the other’s right shoulder in greeting.
“It’s a big gathering,” Manaverr said.
“They all knew you’d be here to do the lamb.”
Manaverr laughed with a toss of his head. A small green sprite popped into manifestation and perched on his shoulder. When he reached up to pat her, she grinned, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth.
“Have you seen Calonderiel yet?” Manaverr said.
“The warleader? No. Why?”
“He’s been asking every bard here about some obscure point of somebody’s genealogy. He’ll probably work his way round to you sooner or later.”
The sprite suddenly pulled his hair, then vanished before he could swat her. The alardan was filled with Wildfolk, rushing around as excitedly as the children. Sprite, gnome, sylph, and salamander, they were the spirits of the elements, who at times took on a solid appearance, even though their home lay elsewhere in the many-layered universe. Devaberiel was not quite sure where; only dweomer-folk knew such things.
With one last heave the men got up the lamb, wrapped in charred coarse cloth, and flopped it onto the leaves. The smell of the roast meat, heavily spiced and baked with fruit, was so inviting that Devaberiel moved closer without even being aware that he was doing so, but he had to wait for his portion. Calonderiel, who was Manaverr’s cousin and looked it, strode over and hailed him.
“What’s this mysterious question?” Devaberiel said. “Manaverr told me you were wondering about someone’s lineage.”
“Just a point of curiosity. Did you know that I rode with Aderyn when he rode east into the lands of men?”
“This summer past, you mean? I heard something about that, yes.”
“All right, then. I met a human warleader called Rhodry Maelwaedd, a lad of twenty. Strangely enough, he’s got a good bit of our blood in his veins. I was wondering if you knew how it had gotten into his clan.”
“A woman of the People married Pertyc Maelwaedd in … oh, when was that … well, say two hundred years ago now. Pertyc was an important man, if I remember correctly. I know he had a son to inherit his position and pass the elven blood along.”
“But two hundred years? That long ago? I saw Rhodry handle a piece of dwarven silver, and it blazed in his hands.”
“Really? Huh. You’re right—that distant ancestor’s blood would be a bit too thin by now for that to happen. What was his father’s name?”
“Tingyr Maelwaedd, and his mother is Lovyan of the Clw Coc.”
Devaberiel went very still. When had that been? He could still see her face in his mind, a beautiful lass for all her blunt ears and round eyes, and she’d been so melancholy about something. But when? That unusually dry summer, wasn’t it? Yes, and it was about twenty-one years ago, all right.
“Oh, by the Dark Sun herself!” Devaberiel burst out. “Here I never even knew I’d gotten Lovva with child!”
Calonderiel whooped with laughter. All round them men and women alike turned to stare. Devaberiel could hear murmuring, things like “What did he say?” “Did he say what I thought he said?”
“And isn’t that a fine jest?” Calonderiel paused for a grin. “I certainly picked the perfect bard to answer my question. You have a peculiar fondness for those Round-ear women, my friend.”
“Imph. Haven’t been that many.”
When Calonderiel started to laugh, Devaberiel threw a punch his way.
“Stop howling like a goblin! I want to know about this son of mine. Every detail you can remember.”
Not many days later Rhodry was the subject of another discussion, this one in Bardek, far across the Southern Sea. In an upstairs room of an isolated villa, deep in the hill country of the main island, two men lounged on a purple divan and watched a third, sitting at a table littered with parchment scrolls and books. He was grossly fat, as saggy and wrinkled as a torn leather ball, and only a few wisps of white hair clung to his dark-skinned skull. Whenever he glanced up, his eyelids drooped uncontrollably, half covering his brown eyes. He had immersed himself so thoroughly and so long in the craft of the dark dweomer that he no longer had a name. He was simply the Old One.
The other two men were both from Deverry. Alastyr, who looked fifty but was actually closer to seventy, was a solid sort with a squarish face and gray hair. At first sight he looked like a typical Cerrmor merchant, with his checked brigga and nicely embroidered shirt, and indeed, he took great pains to act the part. The other, Sarcyn, had just turned thirty. His thick blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and regular features should have made him handsome, but there was something about the way he smiled, something about the burning expression in his eyes, that made most people find him repellent. They both spoke not a word until the Old One looked up, tipping his head back so that he could see them.
“I have gone over all the major calculations.” His voice was like the rasp of two dead twigs rubbed together. “There’s some hidden thing at work here that I don’t understand, some secret, some force of Destiny, perhaps, that has interfered with our plans.”
“Could it simply be the Master of the Aethyr?” Alastyr said. “Loddlaen’s war was going splendidly until Nevyn intervened.”
The Old One shook his head and picked up a parchment sheet.
“This is the horoscope of Tingyr, Rhodry’s father. My art is very complex, little Alastyr. A single horoscope reveals few secrets.”
“I see. I didn’t realize that.”
“No doubt, because few know the stars as I do. Now, most fools think that when a man dies, his horoscope is of no more use, but astrology is the art of studying beginnings. Whatever a man begins in his life—like a son, for instance—is influenced by his stars, even after his death. Now, when I correlated this horoscope with certain transits, it seemed clear that this summer Tingyr would lose a son through deceit on someone’s part. The older brother’s chart showed that he was in danger, so obviously Rhodry had to be the son lost.”
‘Well, the year’s not over yet. It would be easy to send assassins after him.”
“Easy and quite useless. The omens clearly show that he will die in battle. Have you forgotten everything I ever told you?”
“My humble apologies.”
“Besides, the Deverry year ends on Samaen. We have less than a month now. No, it’s as I say. Some hidden thing is at work here.” He let his glance linger on the heaped table. “And yet, it seems that I had all the information I could possibly need. This bodes ill—for all of us. No, Alastyr, we’ll send no assassins, nothing so hasty until I unravel this puzzle.”
“As you wish, of course.”
“Of course.” The Old One picked up a bone stylus and idly tapped another parchment. “This woman puzzles me, too. Very greatly does Jill puzzle me. There was nothing in the omens about a woman who could fight like a man. I wish more information about her, her birth date if possible, so that I can scribe out her stars.”
“I’ll make every effort to find it for you when I return.”
With a nod of approval that set his chins trembling, the Old One shifted his bulk in his chair.
“Send your apprentice to fetch me my meal.”
Alastyr gestured at Sarcyn, who rose and obediently left the room. The Old One contemplated the closed door for a moment.
“That one hates you,” he said at last.
“He does? I wasn’t aware of it.”
“No doubt he’s taken great pains to hide it. Now, it’s fit and right that an apprentice struggle with his master. No one learns on the Dark Path unless he fights for knowledge. But hatred? It’s very dangerous.”
Alastyr wondered if the Old One had seen an omen that indicated Sarcyn was a real threat. The master would never tell except for a stiff price. The Old One was the greatest expert alive in one particular part of the dark dweomer, that of wresting hints of future events from a universe unwilling to reveal them. His personal perversion of astrology was only part of the art, which involved meditation and a dangerous kind of astral scrying as well. Since he was scrupulously honest in his own way as well as valuable, he commanded a respect and loyalty rare among the dweomermen of the left-hand path and was, in a limited sense, as much of a leader as their “brotherhood” could ever have. Since his age and bulk confined him to his villa, Alastyr had struck a bargain with him. In return for the master’s aid with his own plans, he was doing such portions of the Old One’s work that required traveling.
In a few minutes Sarcyn returned with a bowl on a tray, set it down in front of the Old One, then took his place at Alastyr’s side. The bowl held raw meat, freshly killed and mixed with the still-warm blood, a necessary food for aged masters of the dark arts. The Old One scooped up a delicate fingerful and licked it off.
“Now, as for your own work,” he said, “the time is growing ripe to obtain what you seek, but you must be very careful. I know you’ve taken many precautions, but consider how carefully we worked to eliminate Rhodry. You know full well how that ended.”
“I assure you that I’ll be constantly on guard.”
“Good. Next summer a certain configuration of planets will lie adversely in the horoscope of the High King of Deverry. This grouping in turn is influenced by subtle factors beyond your understanding. All these omens taken together indicate that the king might lose a powerful guardian if someone worked to that end.”
“Splendid! The jewel I seek is just such a guardian.”
The Old One paused for another scoop and lick.
“This is all very interesting, little Alastyr. So far you’ve kept your side of our bargain, perhaps even better than you can know. So many strange things.” He sounded almost dreamy. “Very, very interesting. We’ll see when you return to Deverry, if more strange things come your way. Do you see what I mean? You must be on guard every single moment.”
Alastyr felt an icy-cold hand clench his stomach. He was being warned, no matter how circumspectly, that the Old One could no longer trust his own predictions.
Devaberiel Silverhand knelt in his red leather tent and methodically rummaged through a wall bag embroidered with vines and roses. Since it was quite large, it took him a while to find what he was looking for. Irritably he scrabbled through old trophies from singing contests, the clumsy first piece of embroidery his daughter had ever done, two mismatched silver buckles, a bottle of Bardek scent, and a wooden horse given to him by a lover whose name he’d forgotten. At the very bottom he found the small leather pouch, so old that it was cracking.
He opened it and shook a ring out into his hand. Although it was made of dwarven silver, and thus still as shiny as the day he’d put it away, it had no dweomer upon it, or at least none that any sage or dweomerperson had ever been able to unravel. A silver band, about a third of an inch wide, it was engraved with roses on the outside and a few words in Elvish characters, but some unknown language, on the inside. In the two hundred years he’d had this ring, he’d never found a sage who could read it.
The way he’d come by it was equally mysterious. He was a young man then, just finished with his bardic training and riding with the alar of a woman he particularly fancied. One afternoon a traveler rode up on a fine golden stallion. When Devaberiel and a couple of the other men strolled out to greet him, they received quite a surprise. Although from a distance he looked like an ordinary man of the People, with the dark hair and jet-black eyes of someone from the far west, up close it was hard to tell just what he did look like. It seemed that his features changed constantly though subtly, that at times his mouth was wider, then thinner, that he became shorter, then taller. He dismounted and looked over the welcoming party.
“I wish to speak with Devaberiel the bard.”
“Here I am.” Devaberiel stepped forward. “How did you know my name?”
The stranger merely smiled.
“May I ask your name, then?” Devaberiel said.
“No.” The stranger smiled again. “But I have something for you, a present for one of your sons, young bard, for sons you’ll have. When each is born, consult with someone who knows the dweomer. They’ll be able to tell you which one receives the gift.”
When he handed over the pouch and the ring, his eyes seemed more blue than black.
“My thanks, good sir, but who are you?”
The stranger laughed, then mounted his horse and rode off without another word.
Over the intervening years Devaberiel had learned nothing more about the ring. All the sages and dweomer-masters he consulted told him, though, that the man who gave him the gift must have been one of the Guardians, the semidivine beings whose mysterious ways sometimes crossed those of the elves. No mortal man, or so they told him, could understand the Guardians, who came and went as they pleased and changed their appearance, too, as easily as a man changes his shirt.
Devaberiel did indeed have sons, two of them to be exact, and when each was born, he’d dutifully taken the ring and the baby both and consulted with a dweomer-master. The omens had fallen wrong both times. Now, however, he had a third son. Holding the ring, he walked to the door of the tent and looked out. A cold, gray drizzle fell over the camp, and the wind was brisk. He was going to have an uncomfortable journey, but he was determined to find the dweomerwoman who seemed to have the most affinity for the ring. His curiosity was not going to let him rest until he found out if it belonged to young Rhodry ap Devaberiel, who still thought himself a Maelwaedd.
Driven by a bitter-cold wind, the rains slashed down hard in the gray streets of Cerrmor. There was little for Jill and Rhodry to do but hole up like foxes in their inn by the north gate. Since they had enough coin to stay warm and fed all winter, Jill felt as rich and happy as a lord, but Rhodry fell into a black mood that can only be given the untranslatable name of hiraedd, a painful longing for some unobtainable thing. He would sit in the tavern room for hours, slumped down and staring into a tankard of ale while he brooded over his dishonor. Nothing Jill could do or say would rouse him out of it. Eventually, though it ached her heart to do it, she let him have his silence.
At least at night, when they went up to their chamber, she could use kisses and caresses to change his mood. After their lovemaking he would be happy for a while, talking with her as they lay tight in each other’s arms. When he drifted off to sleep, often she would stay awake and look at him as if he were a puzzle to be studied out.
Rhodry was a tall man, heavily muscled but built straight from shoulder to hip, with long, sensitive hands that hinted at his elven blood. He had the raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes so typical of Eldidd men, but there was nothing typical about his good looks. His features were so perfect that he would have looked girlish if it weren’t for the various small scars and battle-nicks on his face. Since she’d met some of the Westfolk, the name that Deverry men had given the elves, Jill knew that they too were as handsome. She would wonder over that trace of elven blood in his clan, which had, or so Nevyn assured her, merely all come out in him, a throwback. Logically, it seemed improbable.
One night her long pondering brought her the answer to the problem. Every now and then Jill had true dreams, which were actually dweomer-visions beyond the control of her conscious mind. Generally they came, as this one did, when she’d put a lot of time and effort into thinking over a problem. On a night when the rain beat upon the shutters and the wind howled around the inn, she fell asleep in Rhodry’s arms and dreamed of the Elcyion Lacar. It seemed that she flew above the western grasslands on a day when the sun broke through clouds only to vanish again. Far below her in a green sea of grass stood a cluster of elven tents, glowing like many-colored jewels.
Suddenly she stood on the ground among them. Bundled in a red cloak, a tall man strode past her and into a purple-and-blue tent. On a whim she followed. The tent was elaborately decorated with woven hangings, embroidered wall bags, and Bardek carpets used as floor cloths. Sitting on a pile of leather cushions was an elven woman, her pale-blond hair bound into two braids that hung behind her ears, which were as long and delicately pointed as seashells. Her visitor pressed his palms together and bowed to her, then doffed the cloak and sat down on the carpet nearby. His hair was as pale as moonlight, and his dark-blue eyes were, like all elven eyes, slit vertically with a pupil like a cat’s. Yet Jill thought that he was as handsome as her Rhodry in his alien way and also oddly familiar.
“Very well, Devaberiel,” the woman said, and though she spoke in Elvish, Jill could understand her. “I’ve been studying my stones, and I have an answer for you.”
“My thanks, Valandario.” He leaned closer.
At that point Jill realized that a cloth, embroidered in geometric patterns, lay between them. At various points on the web of triangles and squares lay spherical gems: rubies, yellow beryls, sapphires, emeralds, and amethysts. In the middle of the cloth lay a simple silver ring. Valandario began moving the gems along the various lines, finally bringing one of each color into the center to form a pentagon around the ring.
“Your son’s Destiny is encircled by this ring,” she said. “But I know not what that Destiny may be, except to say that it lies somewhat in the north and in the air.”
“In the air? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Doubtless all will be revealed in time.” Valandario waved a vague hand. “But I know the ring is his.”
“As god and Guardian wish it, then so be it. You have my solemn thanks. I’ll see to it that Rhodry gets the ring, then. I might ride to Dun Gwerbyn myself to have a look at this lad of mine.”
“It would be unwise to tell him the truth. Very, very unwise.”
“Of course. From what Calonderiel tells me, he stands to inherit a lot of property from his supposed father, and I don’t want to meddle. I just want to see him. After all, it’s quite a surprise to learn you’ve got a full-grown son you never even knew existed. Though Lovyan could hardly have sent me word, of course, with her still married to that other fellow. He was a very powerful man, one of high rank, too.”
“I see your point.” Valandario suddenly looked up, right at Jill. “Here! Who are you, to come spying upon me in the spirit?”
When Jill tried to answer, she found that she couldn’t speak. In exasperation Valandario threw up one hand and sketched a sigil in the air. All at once Jill found herself awake, sitting up in bed with Rhodry snoring beside her. Since the room was cold, she lay down and hurriedly snuggled under the blankets. That was a true dream, she thought, oh, by the Goddess of the Moon, my lover’s half an elf!
For a long while she lay awake, thinking over the dream. Of course Devaberiel would look familiar since he was Rhodry’s father. She was honestly shocked to find out that Lady Lovyan, whom she much admired, had put horns on her husband’s head, but then, Devaberiel was an exceptionally handsome man. She had the brief thought of telling Rhodry about the dream, but Valandario’s warning stopped her. Besides, finding out that he was no true Maelwaedd, but a bastard, would only drive Rhodry deeper into his hiraedd. She could barely tolerate his dark fits as it was.
And then there was the silver ring. Here was another proof of something that Nevyn had told her the summer past, that Rhodry’s Wyrd was deep and hidden. She decided that if ever she saw the old man again, she would tell him of the omens. As she was drifting back to sleep, she wondered if her path would ever cross his again. For all that his dweomer frightened her, she was very fond of Nevyn, but the kingdom was very large, and who knew which way the old man would choose to wander?
On the morrow the full significance of the dream came to her as she and Rhodry sat in the tavern room. Yet once again, the dweomer had irrupted into her mind, taken her over with no warning. For a moment she shrank into herself, just as when the hare hears the dogs baying and crouches frozen in the bracken.
“Is something wrong, my love?” Rhodry said.
“Naught, naught. I was just … oh, thinking about last summer.”
“It was a strange thing, sure enough.” He shuddered as if a cold draft had run down his neck. “That fellow Loddlaen and his stinking magicks! It’s a hard thing, knowing someone wants to kill you, and here you don’t even know why.”
“Well, Nevyn said he was a madman. Right out of his head, the old man told me, stark raving.”
“He said somewhat of the same to me.” Rhodry dropped his voice to a whisper. “All that cursed dweomer! It’s enough to drive anyone mad! I pray to every god we’re never touched by sorcery again.”
Although she nodded her agreement, Jill knew that he was praying for the impossible. Even as he spoke, her little gray gnome manifested onto the table and sat down by Rhodry’s tankard. All her life Jill had been able to see the Wildfolk, and this particular skinny, big-nosed creature was a close friend. Oh my poor Rhoddo, she thought, you ride with dweomer all around you! She felt both angry and frightened, wishing that her peculiar talents would go away, fearing that they never would.
Yet once, last summer, Nevyn had told her that if she refused to use her talents, they would eventually wither and be gone. Although she hoped that the old man was right—and certainly he knew far more about the matter than she did—she had her doubts, especially when she considered how dweomer had swept her into Rhodry’s war and Rhodry’s life last summer. She’d been an utterly obscure person, the bastard daughter of a silver dagger, until her father had taken what seemed to be a perfectly ordinary hire, guarding a merchant caravan that was traveling to the western border of Eldidd. Yet from the moment that the merchant had offered Cullyn the job, she’d known that something unusual was going to happen, felt with an inexplicable certainty that her life had reached a crossroads. How right she’d been! First the caravan went west to the land of the Elcyion Lacar, the elves, a people who were supposed to exist only in fairy tale and myth. Then, with some of the elves in tow, they’d returned to Eldidd and ridden right into the middle of a dweomer war.
Just in time for her to save Rhodry’s life by killing a man who, or so the dweomer seemed to declare, was invincible—Lord Corbyn will never die by any man’s hand, or so a prophecy declared. Like all dweomer-riddles, this one had two sharp sides, and a lass’s hand had slain him sure enough. As she thought about it, it all seemed entirely too neat, too clever, as if the gods shaped a person’s Wyrd the way a Bardek craftsman shapes a puzzle box with its precise little workings that mean absolutely nothing in the long run. And then she remembered the elves, who were not men in any true sense, and Rhodry himself, who was only half of one. She saw then that Rhodry might have slain his enemy himself, if only he’d believed he could, and that her coming, while convenient, need not be foreordained any more than a snowstorm that appears in winter could be said to be a mighty act of dweomer.
