Katherine Kerr - Deverry 06 - A Time Of Omens

In those days the eastern border of the elven lands lay in the middle of a forest. A traveler leaving the high

plains and heading east came down a long gentle decline into the oaks to find several rivers that might

mark a border—if only anyone at all had lived on either side of them. In that vast tangle of tree and

shrub, bracken and thorn, finding the lands of men (that is, the three western provinces —Eldidd,

Pyrdon, Arcodd—of thekingdomofDeverry) was no easy job. If you wanted to go from west to east, the

sandy coast of the Southern Sea made a much more reliable road, if, of course, you could fight your way

south to reach it. The ancient forest had a way of tricking travelers unless they or their companions knew

the route well.

The woman who rode out of the forest late on a summer day traveled with a horde of such

companions—not that most human beings would have seen them. Sylphs and sprites hovered round her

in the air; gnomes clung to her saddle or perched on the back of the spare horse she was leading; undines

rose out of every stream and pool she passed to wave a friendly greeting. Her friends weren’t the only

odd thing about Jill. If you looked carefully at her silver hair, cropped short like a lad’s, and the fine lines

that webbed her eyes round and latticed her cheeks, you realized that she had to be at least fifty years

old if not somewhat more, but she radiated so much vitality, the way a fire gives off heat, that it was

impossible to think of her as anything but young. She was, you see, the most powerful sorcerer in all of

Deverry.

The first human settlement that any traveler corning from the west reached on the coast was the holy

precinct of Wmmglaedd, although in those days, before the silting of the river and the meddling of humans

had extended the shore, the temple lay a little ways out to sea on a low-lying cluster of islands. Jill rode

along the sea cliffs through meadows of tall grass to a rocky beach, where the waves washed over gravel

with a mutter, as if the sea were endlessly regretting some poor decision. A fair mile offshore, she could

see the rise of the main island against the glitter of the Southern Sea.

She led her pair of horses down to the two stone pillars that marked the entrance to a stone causeway,

still underwater at the moment, though when she looked at the water lapping at the carved notches along

the edge of one pillar, she found each wave falling a little lower than the one before. Crying and mewling,

seabirds swooped overhead, graceful gulls and the ungainly pelicans that were sacred to the god Wmm,

all come to feed as the dropping tide exposed the rocky shallows. At last the causeway emerged,

streaming water like a silver sea snake, to let her lead her horses across the uncertain footing. At the far

end of the causeway stood a stone arch inlaid with colored marble in panels of interlace and roundels

decorated with pelicans; it sported an inscription, too, “water covers and reveals all things.”

About ten miles long and seven wide, with a central hill standing in the midst of meadows of coarse sea

grass, the island sheltered four different temple complexes at that time, brochs as tall as a lord’s dun,

clusters of wooden guest houses, cattle barns and riding stables as well as a series of holy shrines placed

at picturesque locations. Although the temple had been founded in the year 690 as a modest refuge for

scholars and mystics, during the long civil wars of the ninth century its priests had the shrewdness and the

good fortune to play a crucial role in placing the true king on his throne. When the wars were over, their

fame drew an occasional desperate soul seeking an oracle, and as the long years went by, the rare case

became a swarm of pilgrims, all laden with gifts to earn the favor of the god.

Now Wmm was rich. Still leading her horses rather than riding, Jill left the causeway and followed a fine

road, paved with limestone blocks, through the smallish town that had sprung up near the temples. In

among the round, thatched houses townsfolk and visitors strolled around or sat in the windows of one of

the many inns, and peddlers kept accosting her with trays of sweetmeats or baskets of little silver medals

and pottery souvenirs. She brushed them all off and strode on her way, skirting the main complex, too,

bustling with visitors and priests here in the summer season, and took a little-used path that ran southeast

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

through pine trees, all twisted and bowed down from the constant wind. In a little bay of rocky shore a

jetty stood with a ferry bobbing at anchor beside it. Beyond, a scant mile away, she could see the rise of

East Island, a long sliver of land that most visitors knew or cared nothing about.

“Jill, halloo!” The ferryman, a stout priest draped in an orange cloak, waved both hands at her as she led

her horses gingerly down the steep path. “Back so soon?”

“I am, at that. How have things been? Quiet?”

“They always are, out our way.” He grinned, revealing brown and broken teeth. “His holiness has pains

in his joints again.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t all as bent and stiff as village crones, frankly, out here in the fog.”

“True, true. But well, we’ve got a bit of sun today at least. Enjoy it while we can, say I.”

Since the tide was running out, the journey was quick and easy, though the ferryman was bound to have

a harder trip rowing back by himself. Jill coaxed her horses off, left him sighing at the job ahead, and

headed across a wind-scoured meadow to a complex much smaller and plainer than those of the main

island. At the base of a low hill stood a clutter of roundhouses and a stables, shaded by a few stunted

oaks. Dust drifted and swirled over the threadbare lawns and sickly vegetable gardens. She turned her

horses over to a groom, carried her saddlebags and bedroll to a hut that did for a guest house, dumped

her gear onto the narrow cot, and decided that she’d unpacked. With a deferential bob of his head, a

servant came in, bringing her a washbasin and a pitcher of water.

“His holiness is in the library.”

“I’ll join him there.”

After she washed up, she lingered in the silence for a moment to get her questions clear in her mind. Like

all the other pilgrims, she’d come to Wmm’s temple for help in making a decision, in her case about a

voyage to the far-lying islands of the Bardekian archipelago, a very major undertaking indeed in those

days. It was likely that she’d be gone for years and almost as likely that she wouldn’t even find what she

was looking for, the translation of a single word that she’d found inscribed inside a ring. The word,

written in Elvish characters though it made no sense at all in any language, might have been a name or

sheer nonsense for all that she knew. What she did know, in the mysterious way that dweomermasters

have, was that the inscription would make the difference between life and death to thousands of people,

men and elves alike. When, she didn’t exactly know. Someday, perhaps even soon.

She suspected—but only suspected—that the answer lay in Bardek. She was hoping that the priests of

Wmm could either confirm her suspicion or lay it to rest.

The library of Wmm was at that time an oblong building in the Bardek style of whitewashed stucco,

roofed in clay tiles to cut down the fire danger. Inside, in a row of hearths peat fires constantly smoldered

to keep the chill and damp off the collection of over five hundred books and scrolls—a vast wealth of

learning for the time. Jill found the chief librarian, Suryn, standing at his lectern by a window with a view

of the oak trees beyond. Unrolled in front of him was a Bardekian scroll. He looked up and smiled at

her; as always, his weak eyes were watering from the effort of reading.

“Oh, there you are, Jill! I’ve been looking for that reference you wanted.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“The history scroll? You’ve found it?”

“I have indeed, and just now, so it’s a good thing you wandered in like this. Must be an omen.”

Although he was joking, Jill felt a line of cold run down her back.

“In fact, I’ve found both of the sources you were talking about.” He tapped the papyrus in front of him

with a bone stylus. “Here’s the scroll, and it does indeed have a reference to elves living in the islands.

Well, maybe they’re elves, anyway. Take a look at it, and I’ll just fetch the codex.”

The scroll was an ancient chronicle of the city-state of Arbarat, lying far south in the Bardekian islands.

Since Jill had learned to read Bardekian only recently, it took her some minutes to puzzle out the brief

entry.

“A shipwrecked man was washed up on shore near the harbor. His name was Terrso, a merchant of

Mangorat . . . ” There was a long bit here about the archon’s attempt to repatriate the man, which Jill

skipped through. “Before he left us, Terrso told of his adventures. He claimed to have traveled far, far

south, beyond even Anmurdio, and to have discovered a strange people who dwelt in the jungles. These

people, he claimed, were more akin to animals than men, because they lived in trees and had long

pointed ears. Because he was so ravaged by fever, none took his words seriously.”

“Curse them all!” Jill snapped.

“They don’t truly go into detail, do they?” Suryn came up at her elbow. “Here’s the Lughcarn codex. Do

be careful with it, won’t you? It’s very old.”

“Of course I will, Your Holiness. Don’t trouble your heart about that. May I take it back to the guest

house to read? I need to rest from my journey.”

Suryn blinked at her for a moment.

“Oh, you’ve been gone. Of course—silly of me. By all means, keep it with you if you’d like. There’s a

lectern in the hut?”

“A good one, and a candle-spike, too.”

Jill bathed and ate a sparse dinner before she got around to looking at the codex. By then, early in the

evening, the fog was coming in thick, darkening the hut and turning it chilly, too. She lit a fire in the hearth,

lit it by the simple means of invoking the Wildfolk of Fire with a snap of her fingers, then stuck a reading

candle, as long and thick as a child’s arm, onto the cast-iron spike built into the lectern. Before she lit the

candle, though, she sat down on the floor by the fire to watch the salamanders playing in the flames and

to think for a while about the work she had in hand, gathering every scrap of available information about

the mysterious inscription. Although it was a pretty thing, made of dwarven silver and graved with roses,

the ring itself carried no particular magic. It might, however, be important as a clue.

She already knew much of its history. Once it had belonged to a human bard named Maddyn, who had

traveled to the western lands and given it to an elven dweomermaster as a gift. That master had in turn

given it to a mysterious race of not-truly-corporeal beings called the Guardians. She was assuming that

the Guardians had added the unintelligible inscription for the simple reason that the ring hadn’t been

inscribed before they’d got hold of it, but when one of their kind returned it to the physical world by

giving it to another bard, elven this time and named Devaberiel, it carried its little riddle. As far as

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

dweomermasters could tell, the Guardians perceived important omens about future possibilities as easily

as most men see the sun. Since they insisted that the inscription had some important Wyrd to fulfill, Jill

saw no reason to doubt them. Abstract terms like “why,” however, seemed to have no meaning for them,

and there was much in the way of explanation that they’d left out of their tale.

As she always did toward evening, she found herself thinking about her old master in the dweomer and

missing him. Although Nevyn had been dead for months now, at times her grief stabbed so sharply that it

seemed he’d died just the day before. If only he were here, she would think, he’d unravel this wretched

puzzle fast enough! A gray gnome, a creature she’d known for years, materialized next to her and

climbed into her lap. All spindly arms and legs and long warty nose, he looked up at her with his pinched

little face twisted into a creditable imitation of human sadness.

“You miss Nevyn, too, don’t you?” Jill said. “Well, he’s gone on now like he had to. All of us do in our

time.”

Although the gnome nodded, she doubted if he understood. In a moment he jumped off her lap, found a

copper coin wedged into a crack in the floor, and became engrossed with pulling it out. Jill wondered if

she would ever meet Nevyn again in the long cycles of death and rebirth. Only if she needed to, she

supposed, and she knew that it would be years and years before he would be reborn again, long after her

own death, no doubt, though well before her next birth. Although all souls rest in the Inner Lands

between lives, Nevyn’s life had been so unnaturally prolonged by dweomer—he’d lived well over four

hundred years, all told—that his corresponding interval of rest would doubtless be unusually long as well,

or so she could speculate. It was for the Lords of Wyrd to decide, not her. She told herself that often,

even as her heart ached to see him again.

Finally, in a fit of annoyance over her mood, she got up and went to the lectern to read, but the chronicle

only made her melancholy worse. She’d been trying to recall an event that had happened in one of her

own previous lives, but she could remember it only dimly, because even a great dweomermaster like her

could call to mind only the most general outlines and the occasional tiny memory picture of former lives.

She was sure, though, from that dim memory, that she—or rather her previous incarnation, because

she’d been born into a male body in that cycle—had been present at the forging of the rose ring. During

that life, as the warrior known as Branoic, she’d ridden with a very important band of soldiers, the true

king’s personal guard in the civil wars— that much, she could remember.

What she’d forgotten was that Nevyn had been not only present but very much an important actor in

those events, perhaps the most important figure of all. There was his name, written on practically every

page. As she read the composed speeches the chronicler had put into his mouth, she found herself

shaking her head in irritation: he never would have sounded so stiff, so formal! All at once, she realized

that she was crying. The flood of long-buried grief, not only for Nevyn but for other friends her soul had

forgotten this two hundred years and more, seemed to work a dweomer of its own. Rather than merely

reading the chronicler’s dry account, she found herself remembering the isolated lake fort of Dun Drwloc,

where Nevyn had tutored the young prince who was destined to become king, and the long ride that the

silver daggers had taken to bring the prince to Cerrmor and his destiny. All night she stood there, reading

some parts of the tale, remembering others, until the sheer fascination of the puzzle buried her grief again.

past

The year 843. In Cerrmor that winter, near the shortest day, there were double rings round the moon for

two nights running. On the third night King Glyn died in agony after drinking a goblet of mead . . .

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn

The morning dawned clear if cold, with a snap of winter left in the wind, but towardnoonthe wind died

and the day turned warm. As he led his horse and the prince’s out of the stables, Branoic was whistling at

the prospect of getting free of the fortress for a few hours. After a long winter shut up in Dun Drwloc, he

felt as if the high stone walls had marched in and made everything smaller.

“Going out for a ride, lad?”

Branoic swirled round to see the prince’s councillor, Nevyn, standing in the cobbled ward next to a

broken wagon. Although the silver dagger couldn’t say why, Nevyn always startled him. For one thing,

for all that he had a shock of snow-white hair and a face as wrinkled as burlap, the old man strode

around as vigorously as a young warrior. For another, his ice-blue eyes seemed to bore into a man’s

soul.

“We are, sir,” Branoic said, with a bob of his head that would just pass for a humbler gesture. “I’m just

bringing out the prince’s horse, too, you see. We’ve all been stable-bound too long this winter.”

“True enough. But ride carefully, will you? Guard the prince well.”

“Of course, sir. We always do.”

“Do it doubly, this morning. I’ve received an omen.”

Branoic turned even colder than the brisk morning wind would explain. As he led the horses away, he

was glad that he was going to be riding out with the prince rather than stuck home with his tame sorcerer.

All winter Nevyn had been wondering when the king in Cerrmor would die, but he didn’t get the news

until that very day, just before the spring equinox. The night before, it had rained over Dun Drwloc,

dissolving the last pockets of snow in the shade of the walls and leaving pools of brown mud in their

stead. About two hours beforenoon, when the sky started clearing in earnest, the old man climbed to the

ramparts and looked out over the slate-gray lake, choppy in the chill wind. He was troubled, wondering

why he’d received no news from Cerrmor in five months. With those who followed the dark dweomer

keeping a watch on the dun, he’d been afraid to contact other dweomermasters through the fire in case

they were overheard, but now he was considering taking the risk. All the omens indicated that the time

was ripe for King Glyn’s Wyrd to come upon him.

Yet, as he stood there debating, he got his news in a way that he had never expected. Down below in

the ward there was a whooping and a clatter that broke his concentration. In extreme annoyance he

turned on the rampart and looked down to see Maryn galloping through the gates at the head of his

squad of ten men. The prince was holding something shiny in his right hand and waving it about as he

pulled his horse to a halt.

“Page! Go find Nevyn right now!”

“I’m up here, lad!” Nevyn called back. “I’ll come down.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Don’t! I’ll come up. It’ll be private that way.”

Maryn dismounted, tossed his reins to a page, and raced for the ladder. Over the winter he had grown

another two inches, and his voice had deepened as well, so that more and more he looked the perfect

figure of the king to be, blond and handsome with a far-seeing look in his gray eyes. Yet he was still lad

enough to shove whatever it was he was holding into his shirt and scramble up the ladder to the ramparts.

Nevyn could tell from the haunted look in his eyes that something had disturbed him.

“What’s all this, my liege?”

“We found somewhat, Nevyn, the silver daggers and me, I mean. After you saw us leave, we went

down the east-running road. It was about three miles from here that we found them.”

“Found who?”

“The corpses. They’d all been slain by the sword. There were three dead horses but only two men in the

road, but we found the third man out in a field, like he’d tried to run away before they killed him.”

With a grunt of near-physical pain, Nevyn leaned back against the cold stone wall.

“How long ago were they killed?”

“Oh, a ghastly long time.” Maryn looked half-sick at the memory. “Maddyn says it was probably a

couple of months. They froze first, he said, and then thawed probably just last week. The ravens have

been working on them. It was truly grim. And all their gear was pulled apart and strewn around, like

someone had been searching through it.”

“Oh, no doubt they were. Could you tell anything about these poor wretches?”

“They were Cerrmor men. Here.” Maryn reached into his shin and pulled out a much-tarnished message

tube. “This was empty when we found it, but look at the device. I rubbed part of it clean on the ride

home.”

Nevyn turned the tube and found the polished strip, graved with three tiny ships.

“You could still see the paint on one shield, too,” Maryn went on. “It was the ship blazon. I wish we had

the messages that were in that tube.”

“So do I, Your Highness, but I think me I know what they said. We’d best go down and collect the

entire troop. No doubt we’re months too late, but I won’t rest easy until we have a look round for the

murderers.”

As they hurried back to the broch, it occurred to Nevyn that he no longer had to worry about

communicating with his allies by dweomer. It was obvious that their enemies already knew everything

they needed to know.

Even though Maddyn considered hunting the murderers a waste of time, and he knew that every other

man in the troop was dreading camping out in the chilly damp, no one so much as suggested arguing with

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Nevyn’s scheme. If anyone had, Maddyn himself would have been the one to do it, because he was a

bard of sorts, with a bard’s freedom to speak on any matter at all, as well as being second in command

of this troop of mercenaries newly become the prince’s guard. The true commander, Caradoc, was too

afraid of Nevyn to say one wrong word to the old man, while Maddyn was, in some ways, the only real

friend Nevyn had. Carrying what provisions the dun could spare them at the end of winter’s lean times,

the silver daggers, with the prince and old Nevyn riding at the head of the line, clattered out the gates just

atnoon. With them was a wagon and a couple of servants with shovels to give the bodies a decent burial.

“At least the blasted clouds have all blown away,” Caradoc said with a sigh. “I had a chance for a word

with the king’s chief huntsman, by the by. He says that there’s an old hunting lodge about ten, twelve

miles to the northeast, right on the river. If we can find it, it might still have a roof of sorts.”

“If we’re riding that way to begin with.”

They found the murdered men and their horses where they’d left them, and it ached Maddyn’s heart to

think how close they’d been to safety when their Wyrd fell upon them. While the servants looked for a

place where the thawing ground was good and soft, Nevyn coursed back and forth like a hunting dog

and examined everything—the dead men, the horses, the soggy ground around them.

“You and the men certainly trampled all over everything, Maddo,” he grumbled.

“Well, we looked for footprints and tracks and suchlike. If they’d left a trail we would have found it, but

you’ve got to remember that the ground was frozen hard when this happened.”

“True enough. Where’s the third lad, the one who almost got away?”

Maddyn took him across the field to the sprawled and puffing corpse. In the warming day the smell was

loathsome enough to make the bard keep his distance, but Nevyn knelt right down next to the thing and

began to examine the ground as carefully as if he were looking for a precious jewel. Finally he stood up

and walked away with one last disgusted shake of his head.

“Find anything?”

“Naught. I’m not even sure what I was hoping to get, to tell you the truth. It just seems that . . . ” Nevyn

let his words trail away and stood there slack-mouthed for a moment. “I want to wash my hands off, and

I see a stream over there.”

Maddyn went with him while he knelt down and, swearing at the coldness of the water, scrubbed his

hands in the rivulet. All at once the old man went tense, his eyes unfocused, his mouth slack again, his

head tilted a little as if he listened to a distant voice. Only then did Maddyn notice that the streamlet

brimmed with glassy-blue undines, rising up in crests and wavelets. In their midst, and yet somehow

beyond them, like a man coming through a doorway from some other place, was a presence. Maddyn

could barely see it, a vast silvery shimmer that seemed to partake of both water and air like some

preternatural fog, forming itself into a shape that might not even have existed beyond his desire to see it as

a shape. Then it was gone, and Maddyn shuddered once with a toss of his head.

“Geese walking on your grave?” Nevyn said mildly.

When Maddyn looked around he saw Owaen and the prince walking over to them and well within

earshot.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Must be, truly. Here, Owaen, did you and the lads find anything new?”

“Doubt me if there’s aught to find. Young Branoic did come up with this, though. Insisted it might be

important, but he couldn’t say why.” Owaen looked positively sour as he handed Nevyn a thin sliver of

bone, about six inches long, barely a half inch wide, but pointed on both ends. “Sometimes I think that

lad is daft, I truly do.”

“Not at all.” Nevyn was turning the sliver round and round in his thin, gnarled fingers. “It’s human bone,

to begin with. And look how someone’s worked it—smoothed it, shaped it, and then polished it.”

“What?” Owaen’s sourness deepened to disgust. “What is it, some kind of knife handle?”

“It’s not, but a stylus to rule lines on parchment.”

“A stylus?” Maddyn broke in. “Who would make a thing like that out of human bone?”

“Who indeed, Maddo lad? That’s the answer I’d very much like to have: who indeed?”

In his role as a learned man Nevyn recited a few suitable lines of Dawntime poetry over the corpses;

then the silver daggers mounted up and left the servants to get on with the burying. When they rode out

they headed for the river. Maddyn spurred his horse up next to the old man’s and mentioned the decrepit

hunting lodge.

“It’ll be better shelter than none, truly,” Nevyn said.

“You don’t suppose our enemies camped there, do you?”

“They might have once, but they’re long gone by now.” He gave Maddyn a wink. “I have some rather

reliable information to that effect. Tell the men we won’t be out hunting wild geese long, Maddo. I just

want one last look around, that’s all.”

Only then was Maddyn sure that he had indeed seen some exalted personage in the stream.

Just at sunset they reached the lodge, a wooden roundhouse, its thatch half-gone, standing along with a

stables behind a palisade that was missing as many logs as a peasant his teeth. As soon as they rode

within five hundred yards of the place the horses turned nervous, tossing their heads and blowing, dancing

a little in the muddy road. Maddyn had the feeling that they would have bolted if they hadn’t been tired

from their long day’s ride.

“Oho!” Nevyn said. “My liege, you wait here with Caradoc and most of the men. Maddyn, you,

Owaen, and Branoic come with me.”

“You’d better take more men than that, Councillor,” Maryn said.

“I won’t need a small army, my liege. Most like there’s naught left here but bad memories, anyway.”

“But the horses—”

“See things men don’t see, but men know things that horses don’t know. And with that riddle, you’ll

have to rest content.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Nevyn was right enough, in the event, although the ‘bad memory’ turned out to be bad indeed. The men

dismounted and walked the last of the way to the lodge, and as soon as they stepped through the gap

they saw and smelled what had been spooking the animals. Nailed to the inside of the palisade, like a

shrike nailed to a farmer’s barn, was the corpse of a man, half-eaten by ravens and well ripened by the

spring weather. Yet the worst thing wasn’t the stench. The corpse was hung upside down and

mutilated—the head cut off and nailed between its legs with what seemed to be—from the fragment

left—its private parts stuffed into its mouth. Branoic stared for a long moment, then turned and ran to the

shelter of the palisade to vomit, heavily and noisily.

“Uh gods!” Owaen whispered. “What?!”

For all his aplomb earlier, Nevyn looked half sick now, his face dead white and looking with all its

wrinkles more like old parchment than ever. He ran his tongue over dry lips and spoke at last.

“A would-be deserter, most like, or a traitor of some sort. They left him that way so he’d roam as a

haunt forever. All right, lads, get back to the troop. I think they’ll all agree that we don’t truly want to

camp here tonight, shelter or not.”

“I should think not, by the asses of the gods!” Owaen turned to Maddyn. “I know the horses are tired,

but we’d best put a couple of miles between ourselves and this place if there’s a haunt about.”

“You’re going to, certainly,” Nevyn broke in. “I’m going to stay here.”

“Not alone you aren’t,” Maddyn snapped.

“I don’t need guards with swords, lad. I’m not in danger. If I can’t handle one haunt, what kind of

sorcerer am I?”

“What about this poor bastard?” Owaen jerked his thumb at the corpse. “We should give him some

kind of burial.”

“Oh, I’ll tend to that, too.” Nevyn started walking for the gate. “I’ll just get my horse, and then you all go

on your way. Come fetch me first thing in the morning.”

Somewhat later, when they were all making camp—in a meadow about a mile and a half downriver—it

occurred to Maddyn that Nevyn seemed to know an awful lot about these mysterious people who had

left that ugly bit of sacrilege on the palisade. Although he was normally a curious man, he decided that he

could live without asking him to explain.

With the last of the sunset, Nevyn brought his horse inside the tumble-down lodge, tied him on a loose

rope to the wall and tended him, then dumped his bedroll and saddlebags near the hearth, where there

lay a sizable if dusty pile of firewood already cut, left by the hirelings of the dark dweomermaster behind

this plot—or so he assumed anyway. As assumptions went, it was a solid one. After he confirmed that

the chimney was clear by sticking his head up it for a look, he piled up some logs and lit them with a

wave of his hand. Once the fire had blazed up enough to illumine the room, he searched it thoroughly,

even poking at the rotting walls with the point of his table dagger. His patience paid off when under a pile

of leaves that had drifted in through a window he found a pewter disk about the size of a thumbnail, of

the kind sewn onto saddlebags and other horse gear as decorations. Stamped into it was the head of a

boar.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“I wonder,” he said aloud. “The Boar clan’s territory lies a long way from here, but still, if they thought

the journey worth it for some purpose . . . are they in league with the dark dweomer then?”

The idea made him shudder. He slipped the disk into his brigga pocket, then paced back and forth

before the fire as he considered what he was going to do about the possible haunt. First, of course, he

had to discover if indeed that poor soul whose body rotted outside was still hanging about the site of his

death. He laid more wood on the fire, poked it around with a green stick until it burned nice and evenly,

then gathered up a mucky little pile of the damp and mildewed thatch that had slid from the roof over the

years. If he needed it, the stuff would produce dense smoke. Then he sat down in front of the hearth, let

himself relax, and waited.

It was close to an hour later when he felt the presence. At first it seemed only that a cold draught had

wafted in from the door behind him, but he saw the salamanders in the fire turn their heads and look up in

the direction of something. The room turned thick with silence. Still he said nothing, nor did he move, not

even when the hair on the back of his neck prickled at the etheric force oozing from the haunt. There was

a sound, too, a wet snuffling as if a hound were searching for a scent all over the floor, and every now

and then, a scrabbling, as if some animal scratched at the floor with its nails. As the air around him grew

colder, he concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and steady and his mind at peace. With a burst of

sparks the salamanders disappeared. The thing was standing right behind him.

“Have you left somewhat here that won’t let you rest, lad?”

He could feel puzzlement; then it drifted away, snuffling and scrabbling round the joining of floor and

wall.

“Somewhat’s buried, is it?”

The coldness approached him, hesitated, hovering some five feet off to his left. He could feel its

desperate panic as clearly as he could feel the cold Casually, slowly, Nevyn reached out and picked up a

handful of the grubby thatch.

“I wager you’d like to feel solid again, nice and solid and warm. Come over to the fire, lad.”

As the presence drifted into the warm light Nevyn could feel its panic reaching out like tendrils to clutch

at him. Slowly he rose to his knees and tossed the half-rotten hay onto the hottest part of the fire. For a

moment it merely stank; then gray smoke began to billow and swirl. As if it were a nail rushing to a

lodestone the presence threw itself into the fire. Since it “lived” as a pattern of etheric force, the matrix

immediately sucked the smoke up and arranged the fine particles of ash to conform to that pattern.

Hovering above the fire appeared the shape of a youngish man, naked but of course perfectly whole,

since his killers’ knives could do no harm to his etheric body. Nevyn tossed in another handful of thatch

to keep the smoke coming, then sat back on his heels.

“You can’t stay here. You have to travel forward, lad, and go on to a new life. There’s no coming back

to this one.”

The smoke-shape shook its head in a furious no, then threw itself out of the fire, leaving the smoke

swirling and spreading, but ordinary smoke. Yet enough of the panicles clung to the matrix to make the

haunt clearly visible as it drifted across the room and began scrabbling again at a loose board between

floor and wall. Nevyn could see, too, that it was making the snuffling noise inadvertently, rustling and

lifting dead leaves and other such trash as it passed by.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Katherine Kerr - Deverry 06 - A Time Of Omens

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: