The Spirit Stone. Katharine Kerr
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off with his father’s people, then. We’re not far from Pyrdon. How soon will this bard get there?’
‘Around the next full moon. We – my alar, that is – are on our way to the border now.’
‘Good. Well, my thanks. This will make things a fair bit easier. Huh, I’ve not seen Dun Drw since King Maryn was young.’
‘The place must hold plenty of memories for you.’
‘Doesn’t everywhere?’
‘True enough.’ Aderyn’s image turned solemn. ‘But oddly enough, Drwloc holds some memories for me as well, bitter ones. I think I told you about this – the young lad who died of consumption because of that poor twisted spirit-woman. Meddry, his name was. I feel responsible for his death. I should never have left his side for a moment.’
‘Well, don’t be too harsh on yourself. I – wait. Ye gods! Meddry died only a few years ago, didn’t he?’
‘He did.’ Aderyn paused, thinking. ‘Maybe ten, maybe less. Time truly loses its meaning out here on the grass, and so I don’t remember precisely when.’
‘That’s good enough. It makes me wonder who else might be living in Drwloc or roundabout.’ Nevyn paused for a morose sigh. ‘And here I am, bringing Gerraent with me.’
A few more days of travelling brought them to the gwerbret’s own town, Drwloc, a much grander affair than Lord Corbyn’s village. The town sported a proper stone wall, sheltering nearly two hundred round houses arranged around a big market square. Among them Wffyn found a good-sized inn, which sat beside a stretch of grass pasture and near the local smithy as well.
‘Excellent!’ the merchant said. ‘We’ll be able to get our stock reshod before we start for the trading grounds.’
A crowd of villagers gathered round to watch the caravan tether out its stock on the pasture. The muleteers would camp there with the horses and mules, just in case Drwloc included a horsethief among its denizens. Nevyn and Wffyn, however, rented themselves a chamber, little more than a loft, above the tavern room.
‘Well, this is quite the day!’ the innkeep’s wife announced. ‘Here’s a caravan come through, and we’re having a market fair as well.’
‘That’s a bit of luck for me, too,’ Nevyn said. ‘I’ll just go down to the market, I think, and let everyone know that there’s a herbman in town.’
‘I’ll do my trading later with that blacksmith,’ Wffyn said. ‘You go on, and I’ll keep an eye, like, on things here.’
Nevyn opened his mule packs, filled a sack with bundles of various remedies for common ills, then handed it to Gwairyc to carry. They followed the curving street to the open square in the centre of town and the market, which turned out to be a straggling line of farmers, selling fresh produce, eggs, and chickens out of the backs of wagons. Here and there a peddlar spread out his wares on a blanket: pottery, soap, embroidery threads, all manner of small portables brought up from the more prosperous coast. The villagers stood around gossiping or strolled along, looking at the various offerings, or hunkered down to bargain when they saw something they liked.
‘We’d best buy some more food for the last bit of our journey,’ Nevyn said. ‘Usually there’s someone selling cheeses at these village markets.’
As they made their way through the confusion, they came upon a young woman, walking some paces in front of them. She was so short and thin that at first he thought her a young lass. She carried a child in her arms. Her dark hair, however, was combed straight back into a clasp at her neck in the style of an unmarried woman. While her overdress of undyed linen looked clean and well made, there was nothing fancy about it. She wore another strip of plain linen around her waist as a kirtle. A nursemaid, Nevyn thought. The child in her arms twisted around to rest his chin on her shoulder and look back.
‘Ye gods!’ Nevyn said. ‘There’s a beautiful little lad!’
Perhaps two years old, the boy had enormous grey eyes and hair as pale as winter sunlight on snow – Westfolk blood in his veins, Nevyn decided. When he realized that Nevyn was looking at him, the boy smiled so cheerfully that Nevyn had to smile in return. The boy giggled and said something in his nursemaid’s ear. She stopped and turned round.
She would have been a pretty lass, if it weren’t for the witchmark that split her mouth. During his long years as a physician, Nevyn had seen plenty of harelips and cleft palates – normal disfigurements, he was tempted to call them at that moment, because this unusual blemish sat well off-centre. Although it revealed the pink upper gum, a couple of stained teeth, and a twist of dark pink scar, it looked more like a healed wound than a harelip, so puzzling a feature that it took Nevyn a moment to notice her eyes, deep-set and cornflower blue. He caught his breath. He recognized her: his Brangwen reborn again.
She set the boy down, then caught his hand to keep him close. For a moment she studied Nevyn as intently as if she saw a puzzle in his eyes. He could guess that she recognized him without knowing how or why she did. Maybe, at last, he would be able to bring her to her true wyrd, the dweomer, and free himself of the rash vow he’d sworn so many hundreds of years earlier.
‘Good morrow, good sir.’ She spoke with a pronounced lisp, a moist thickening of many consonants. ‘I see you’re new to our town.’
‘We are,’ Nevyn said. ‘My name’s Nevyn, I’m a herbman, and this is my apprentice, Gwairyc. Forgive me for seeming to follow you. Your young lad there caught my attention.’
‘Oh, no harm done. My name is Morwen.’ When she smiled, the scar tissue curled her lip into an animal snarl that matched the lack of good humour in her eyes. ‘A herbman’s always a welcome thing. He’s not my lad, though, but my sister’s.’
‘Well, your sister’s a lucky lass, then.’
Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked sharply away.
‘My apologies!’ Nevyn said. ‘What did I –’
‘Forgive me, good sir. My sister doesn’t think she’s lucky in the least. She’ll be sending our Evan away soon to his father’s people.’
‘And you’ve been his nursemaid?’
Morwen nodded. Evan leaned against her skirts and stared at Gwairyc, who’d been listening to all this with a sullen kind of patience. Nevyn suddenly realized just who this child had to be.
‘The lad’s father?’ Nevyn said. ‘Is his name Devaberiel, and he’s a bard of the Westfolk?’
‘He is. Fancy you knowing that!’
‘Well, actually, I rode here to meet up with him. He’s a friend of a friend of mine. We were going to ride west together.’
‘I see.’ The tears were back in her voice. ‘That means he’ll be here soon, doesn’t it? Dev, I mean.’
‘Well, it does, truly.’
The silence hung between them, awkward and painful. Evan picked up her mood and whimpered, holding out his arms. When she picked him up, he buried his head in her shoulder.
‘Morri,’ he said. ‘My love you.’
‘I love you too.’ She nearly wept, then forced out her twisted smile. ‘Well, we’d best be getting home. Your Da should be riding in ever so soon, and your Mam will want to know that.’
With the child clutched tight in her arms, Morwen hurried off, head held high.
‘That’s a pity,’ Gwairyc said.
‘It is, truly,’ Nevyn said. ‘Poor lass! The child’s probably the light of her life.’
‘That too, I suppose. I meant the witchmark.’
Nevyn didn’t bother to answer. His mind was racing with plans, to return to Drwloc as soon as possible and win Morwen’s confidence. The dweomer will provide