Katherine Kerr - Deverry 02 - Darkspell

Acknowledgments

A thousand thanks to all my friends and relations, too numerous to list, who have had to put up with

my fits of absent-mindedness, compulsive writing stints, and downright obsession with this imaginary

world. Most of all, though, my thanks go to my husband, Howard Kerr, who has to live with me, after

all, when I’m working.

A Note on the Pronunciation of Deverry Words

The language spoken in Deverry is a P-Celtic language. Although closely related to Welsh, Breton, and

Cornish, it is by no means identical to any of these actual languages and should never be taken as such.

Vowels are divided by Deverry scribes into two classes: noble and common. Nobles have two

pronunciations; commons, one.

A as in father when long; a shorter version of the same sound, as in/ar, when short.

0as bone when long; as in pot when short.

W as the oo in spook when long; as in root when short. Y as the i in machine when long; as the e in

butter when short. E as in pen.

I as in pin.U as in pun.

Vowels are generally long in stressed syllables, short in unstressed. Y is the primary exception to this

rule. When it appears as the last letter of a word, it is always long, whether that syllable is stressed or not.

Diphthongs have one consistent pronunciation.

AE as the a in mane.

AI as in aisle.

AU as the ow in how.

EO as a combination of eh and oo.

EW as in Welsh, a combination of eh and oo.

IE as in pier.

OE as the oy in boy.

UI as the North Welsh wy, a combination of oo and ee.

Note that OI is never a diphthong, but is two distinct sounds, as in the name Benoic (BEHN-oh-ik).

Consonants are as in English, with these exceptions:

C is always hard as in cat.

G is always hard as in get.

DD is the voiced th as in breathe, but the voicing is considerably more pronounced than in English. It

is opposed to TH, the unvoiced sound as in breath. Note well: dd and th are always considered single

letters.

R is well and truly rolled.

RH is a voiceless R, approximately pronounced as if it were spelled hr. The distinction is a subtle one,

and in Eldidd tends to be increasingly ignored.

DW, GW, and TW are single sounds, as in twit, most of the time; but there are exceptions.

Y is never a consonant.

I before a vowel may be consonantal, particularly at the beginning of words and in the plural ending

-ion (pronounced yawn).

Doubled consonants are both sounded clearly. Note that DD and RR are considered single

consonants, as are the two ‘m’s’ in the name of the god Wmm.

Accent is generally on the penultimate syllable, but compound words and place names are often

exceptions to this rule.

On the whole, I have transcribed both Elvish and Bardek-ian names and words according to the

above system of orthography, which is quite adequate to the Bardekian, at least. As for Elvish, in a work

of this sort it would be both confusing and overly pedantic to use the full apparatus by which scholars try

to represent this most subtle and nuanced of tongues. To the average human ear, for instance, distinctions

such as those between A, A, and A are lost in the hearing. Why then should we try to distinguish them in

print? The reader should, however, remember that Elvish words are accented quite differently than

Deverrian and Bardekian ones. Since Elvish is an agglutinative language, the various components of a

name may receive stress according to their meaning rather than to their place in the pattern of syllables.

Canbaramelim, for instance, which is composed of the morphemes for rough + name marker + river, is

pronounced CAHN-BAHR-ah-MEH-lim.

Prologue Winter, 1062

Every light casts a shadow. So does the dweomer. Some men choose to stand in the light; others, in the darkness.

Be ye always aware that where you stand is a matter of choice, and let not the shadow creep over you unawares . . .

The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

They met deep in the Innerlands in a place where only those who had mastered the heart of the

dweomer could go. In various towns in the kingdom of Deverry, their physical bodies lay asleep in

trance, leaving their minds free to assume a new form and travel far to the ancient grove of oaks that

stood under a dim, pleasant sun. For a thousand years so many dweomer-masters had imagined this

grove, had pictured it with trained minds and discussed its details among themselves, that now the images

lived by themselves in the astral plane. They were always there when those who knew how came to

them.

Those who met had chosen simple images for their minds to wear. Their faces looked like their

physical ones, but their bodies were thin, curiously attenuated, and dressed in a stylized version of

ordinary clothes, the men in white brigga and shirts, the women in white ankle-length dresses. There was

no particular significance to the color white; it simply took less energy to maintain than bright colors. One

at a time they appeared in the grove until at last the full company of thirty-two stood there, drifting above

the insubstantial grass and waiting for the man who’d called this meeting to speak.

He was tall, quite old, with a shock of thick white hair and piercing blue eyes. Although he held the

title of the Master of the Aethyr, he preferred to be known as Nevyn, a name that held a jest, because it

meant ‘no one’. Beside him stood a short, slender man with gray hair and dark eyes that dominated his

face. His name was Aderyn, and technically he had no right to come to the grove, because his Wyrd lay

not with his own humankind, but with the elven race, the Elcyion Lacar, who lived to the west of

Deverry. Yet he had testimony to offer about the strange events that they were meeting to discuss.

‘We’re all here, then?’ Nevyn said at last. ‘Now, you’ve all heard somewhat about what happened

this summer.’

The assembly nodded in agreement, their images mimicking the movements their bodies would have

made. The news had spread that in a remote corner of Eldidd province, a lord named Corbyn had risen

up in rebellion against his overlord, Tieryn Lovyan of Dun Gwerbyn. Normally this would have been of

no concern to the dweomer; rebellions and bloodshed happened all the time in Deverry, and overlords

had armies to deal with such things. But Corbyn had been ensorceled by a dweomer-man gone mad,

Loddlaen by name, who was half-elven, Aderyn’s apprentice. Now Loddlaen was dead, the rebellion

crushed, but the matter was far from settled.

‘As soon as I joined Aderyn here to defeat Loddlaen,’ Nevyn went on, ‘I realized that someone had

ensorceled him and was using him to work harm. Now, that someone had to be a master of the dark

dweomer. Once he realized that he was facing me, he fled. As far as I can tell, he took ship for Bardek.’

The assembly stirred uneasily. Caer, a tall, rangy man whose hazel eyes were green at the moment,

drifted forward to speak.

‘What exactly was the goal of the dark master? Did you ever find that out?’

‘Only in the most vague terms. Tieryn Lovyan has a son named Rhodry. Years ago, I was given an

omen that his Wyrd is crucial to Eldidd, and so I’ve been watching over him. It seems that the whole

point of this cursed war was to kill him. He was leading his mother’s army as cadvridoc, you see.’

‘The dark masters must have discovered the lad’s importance, then,’ a woman named Nesta said.

‘Do you know what his Wyrd may be?’

‘Not in the least, and that’s part of the trouble. No doubt our enemies know more about it than I do.

They’re the ones who are always troubling their hearts about the future. The likes of us trust in the Light.’

They nodded in agreement. The Great Ones who stand behind the dweomer, the Lords of Wyrd and

the Lords of Light, never communicate clearly and directly with their servants, for the simple reason that

those disincarnate spirits exist on a plane unimaginably removed from the physical world. It’s impossible

for them to reach down far enough to do more than send vague hints, feelings, dream images and

warnings to the minds of those trained to receive these brief messages. For those who walk in the Light

such hints are enough, but the dark dweomer is always picking at the future like a scab.

‘I hope you’re guarding the lad well,’ Caer said. They’ll doubtless make another try on him.’

‘Well, that’s somewhat of a puzzle.’ Nevyn spoke slowly as he thought things out. ‘I’ve spent many

an hour meditating, but I’ve received no warnings that he’s still in danger. It’s doubly odd, because after

the war was over, Rhodry was sent into exile by his elder brother.’

‘What?’ Nesta said. ‘Who’s the elder brother? I don’t know Eldidd politics at all well.’

‘My apologies. This is all of such great moment to me that I forget others aren’t so interested.

Rhodry’s mother is Lovyan, and she rules the tierynrhyn of Dun Gwerbyn in her own right through the

Clw Coc clan. His father was Tingyr, a Maelwaedd of Aberwyn, and now Rhodry’s eldest brother,

Rhys, is gwerbret of Aberwyn.’

They all nodded, as if saying that the information was enough to get on with. Understanding the

complicated web of bloodlines and landholds among the noble-born took all the long training of a bard or

priest.

‘Now, Rhys and Rhodry have hated each other for years. It has naught to do with dweomer or Wyrd;

it’s just one of those nasty things that happen between blood kin. So, one night in Aberwyn, Rhys

insulted his brother so badly that Rhodry started to draw his sword on him - and remember that Rhys is a

gwerbret.’

‘Rhodry’s lucky his brother didn’t hang him,’ Caer said.

‘Just so. Rhys saw his chance to get rid of his hated kinsman and took it. Now Rhodry’s riding the

roads as a silver dagger.’

‘Indeed?’ Nesta broke in. ‘I’m surprised you let him go for a mercenary soldier.’

‘I had naught to say about it, I assure you, or I wouldn’t have. But Rhodry’s only the least part of our

troubles. Now, Nesta here tracked the dark master when he came through Cerrmor, and neither she, I,

nor any of our elemental spirits recognized the man. Here we’d been thinking we knew every fool who

practiced this wretched craft. Well, we’ve all been too smug.’

‘And he made his escape easily, too,’ Nesta picked it up. ‘Just as if he had refuges ready all along his

way. He must have been laying this scheme for a long time, right under our noses.’

Several of the men muttered quite unenlightened oaths under their breaths. Aderyn stepped forward to

Speak.

‘What frightens me is that he could ensorcel Loddlaen so easily. Loddlaen’s mind was more elven

than human. Do you see what that means? Our enemy must have a good knowledge of elven ways, but

I’m as sure as I can be that no dark dweomerman has ever traveled in the elven lands.’

‘Bad news, indeed,’ Caer said. ‘Well, then, the hard truth of the matter is that we haven’t been

vigilant enough. That has to change.’

‘Exactly,’ Nevyn said. ‘We can work out the details among ourselves later, but there’s one more thing

I want to put to the full Council of Thirty-Two. During this war, hundreds of men saw dweomer worked

openly.’

For a moment the assembly was shocked into silence; then the talk burst out, just as when a summer

storm gathers, the sky leaden gray, growing heavier as the birds hush; then suddenly with a crack of

thunder comes the rain. Nevyn turned to Aderyn.

‘It’s time for you to leave us. I’ll contact you later through the fire.’

‘Well and good, then. Truly, you’ve all got much to discuss.’

Aderyn’s image was abruptly gone from the grove. Slowly the assembly quieted itself.

‘Well, now, this is a grave thing,’ Caer said at last. ‘Of course, no one outside of western Eldidd will

believe them. In time, the tale will die away.’

‘Provided no one stirs it up again with more dweomer.’

‘Ye gods! Do you think that was part of the dark ones’ scheme, to flush us out into the open?’

‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it?’

The assembly turned uneasy, and with good reason. Once, back in the Dawntime when the people of

Bel had first come to Deverry from their original homeland across the eastern seas, the priests of the oak

groves known as drwiddion had openly worked dweomer. Men feared them, flattered them, and

groveled before them until the inevitable corruption set in. The priests grew rich and held great demesnes;

they shaped the laws to their advantage and wielded power like lords. Slowly, of its own accord, the

dweomer left them, until their rituals became empty shows and their words of power, mere chatter.

Such are the temptations of temporal power that the priesthood forgot that it had ever had the true

dweomer. By Nevyn’s time, they too dismissed tales of wonderworking priests as mere fancies, fit for a

bard’s song and nothing more.

Yet the dweomer survived, passed down from master to apprentice in secret. The dweomerfolk

swore strict vows to live quiet lives, hiding their skills, lest they too be corrupted by flattery and riches.

Caer was the head groom of the gwerbret of Lughcarn’s stables; Nesta, the widow of a Cerrmor spice

merchant. Nevyn himself lived the simplest life of all, because he was a herbman, wandering the kingdom

with a mule and tending the ills of folk too poor to afford apothecaries and chirurgeons. If those long

years of secrecy came to an end, it was likely that, sooner or later, the dweomer-masters might succumb

to the same temptations that had drawn the priests from the true path.

‘And there’s another thing,’ Caer said. ‘Most people in the kingdom would label us witches. What if

they take it into their minds to hunt us down?’

Nesta shuddered. As an elderly woman, she was extremely vulnerable to such a charge.

‘True enough,’ Nevyn said. ‘And so we -’ He stopped, struck by a thought so urgent that he knew it

came from beyond himself, and when he spoke again, his mind-voice rang with prophecy. ‘The time has

come for the dweomer to show itself, only a little at first, but the time comes when all shall work openly.’

Those assembled heard the ring and knew that the Lords of Light had spoken through their servant.

‘Oh by the hells!’ Caer whispered. ‘Never did I think to see this day come.’

They all agreed, especially Nevyn.

‘This calls for long hours of meditation,’ he remarked.

‘I promise you all that I’ll put them in, too. We’ve got to move as cautiously as a cat in a bathhouse.’

For some time they discussed the prophecy, until they decided that Nevyn would work out this

strange idea while the rest of them lived as they always had. The council broke up, the body-images

winking out like blown candles, but Caer and Nevyn lingered in the peaceful stillness of the astral grove.

Around them the enormous trees nodded as if in a wind as the astral tides began to change, a gentle

stirring that they felt in their minds.

‘It’s a strange thing we’ve heard this day, oh Master of Earth,’ Nevyn remarked. ‘But I intend to

pursue the idea, no matter how long it takes me.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. You’ve always been as stubborn as a pig on market day.’

They exchanged a smile of sincere affection. Once, some four hundred years earlier, Caer had been

Nevyn’s master when he struggled through his apprenticeship in the dweomer. Although Rhegor, as his

name was then, had followed the normal pattern for dweomerfolk and died to be reborn, many times

over now, Nevyn himself had lived one single life, sustained by the elemental forces he commanded.

Although most people would have coveted such a long life, it was a harsh Wyrd for him to bear, because

during his apprenticeship he’d made a grave mistake that had resulted in the deaths of three innocent

people, and a rash vow that never would he rest until he’d redeemed his fault.

‘Tell me somewhat,’ Caer said. ‘Do you think you’re close to fulfilling your vow?’

‘I don’t know, I truly don’t. So many times before I thought I was, only to have things slip away from

me. But I can tell you this: Gerraent and I have come to terms between us. Part of the chain’s broken

once and for all.’

‘Thanks be to every god, then. I tried to warn you about swearing that -’

‘I know, I know, and you’re exactly right: I’m too stubborn for my own wretched good. Ah ye gods,

poor Brangwen! You know, I still think of her by that name, even though she only bore it for a few pitiful

years. I failed her so badly, and Blaen, too, but when I swore I’d make it up to her, I never thought it

would take four hundred beastly years!’

‘Well, don’t take all the blame upon yourself for that. It’s been many a lifetime now, and they’ve all

had a hand in tangling their own Wyrds. I take it they’re making a bigger mess of things in this life?’

‘True spoken. Brangwen - I mean Jill, curse it - is off on the roads with Rhodry.’

‘Whom, I take it, is the same soul who once was known ,as Lord Blaen of the Boar.’

‘Just that. Did I forget to tell you? My apologies, but ye gods, I grow so muddled as the years stretch

out. I wonder how the elves manage to keep their memories straight, I truly do.’

‘They have minds fit to do so. Our folk don’t.’ _,

‘Sometimes I wonder how long I’ll be able to go on.’

Caer’s image looked at him sharply with a concern no less deep for being so shrewd. Nevyn looked

away, up at the ancient trees, nodding gently in a world that knows no decay or change. At times he was

so weary that he wished he could turn into a tree like the sorcerers in the ancient legends, who at last

found peace by merging with the oaks they worshiped.

‘Now here,’ Caer said. ‘If ever you need my aid, it’s yours.’

‘My sincere thanks. I may take you up on that.’

‘Good. By the way, is there any chance you’ll come through Lughcarn before winter sets in? It’s

always good to see old friends in the flesh.’

‘So it is, but maybe next spring. I have to stay in Eldidd.’

‘More dark doings afoot?’

‘There’s not, at that. I’ve been invited to a wedding.’

At that time, Eldidd province was one of the more sparsely settled parts of Deverry, and in its western

reaches, towns were rare. The biggest was Dun Gwerbyn, which held some five hundred round thatched

houses, a couple of inns, and three temples inside, its high stone walls. On a hill in the center of town

stood the dun, or fort, of the tieryn. Another set of stone walls sheltered stables and barracks for the

tieryn’s warband of a hundred men, a collection of huts and storage sheds, and the broch complex itself,

a four-story round stone tower with two shorter towers attached at the sides.

On that particular morning, the open ward around the broch was a-bustle with servants, carrying

supplies to the cook-house or stacks of firewood to the hearths in the great hall, or rolling big barrels of

ale from the sheds to the broch. Near the iron-bound gates, other servants bowed low as they greeted

the arriving wedding guests. Cullyn of Cerrmor, captain of the tieryn’s warband, assembled his men out in

the ward and looked them over. For a change, they were all bathed, shaved, and presentable.

‘Well and good, lads,’ Cullyn said. ‘You don’t look bad for a pack of hounds. Now remember; every

lord and lady in the tierynrhyn is going to be here today. I don’t want any of you getting stinking drunk,

and I don’t want any fighting, either. This is a wedding, remember, and the lady deserves to have it be a

happy one after everything she’s been through.’

They all nodded solemnly. If any of them forgot his orders, they’d regret it - and they knew it.

Cullyn led them into the great hall, an enormous round room that took up the full ground floor of the

broch. Today there were freshly braided rushes on the floor; the tapestries on the walls had been shaken

out and rehung. The hall was crammed with extra tables. Not only were there plenty of noble guests, but

each lord had brought five men from his warband as an honor escort. Servants sidled and edged their

way through the crowd with tankards of ale and baskets of bread; a bard played almost unheard; the

riders diced for coppers and joked; up by the honor hearth, the noble-born ladies chattered like birds

while their husbands drank. Cullyn got his men settled, repeated his order about no fighting, then worked

his way through to the table of honor to kneel at the tieryn’s side.

Tieryn Lovyan was something of an anomaly in Dev-erry, a woman who ruled a large demesne in her

own name. Originally her only brother had held this dun, but when he died without an heir, she’d inherited

under a twist in the laws designed to keep big holdings in a clan even if a woman had to rule them.

Forty-eight that year, she was still a good-looking woman, with gray-streaked raven black hair, large

cornflower blue eyes, and the straight-backed posture of one quite at home with ruler-ship. That

particular day, she was wearing a dress of red Bardek silk, kirtled in with the red, white, and brown plaid

of the Clw Coc clan.

‘The warband is in attendance, my lady,’ Cullyn said.

‘Splendid, Captain. Have you seen Nevyn yet?’

‘I haven’t, my lady.’

‘It would be like him to stay away. He does so hate crowds and suchlike, but if you do see him, tell

him to come sit with me.’

Cullyn rose, bowed, and returned to his men. From his seat, he could see the honor table, and while

he sipped his ale, he studied the bride at this wedding, Lady Donilla, a truly beautiful woman with a mane

of chestnut hair, clasped back like a maiden’s now for the formality of the thing. Cullyn felt sorry for her.

Her first husband, Gwer-bret Rhys of Aberwyn, had recently cast her off for being barren. If Lovyan

hadn’t found her a husband, she would have had to return to her brother’s dun in shame. As it was, her

new man, Lord Garedd, was a decent-looking fellow some years older than she, with gray in his blond

hair and thick mustache. From what the men in his warband said, he was an honorable man, soft-spoken

in peace and utterly ruthless in war. He was also a widower with a pack of children and thus more than

glad to take a beautiful young wife, barren or not.

‘Garedd looks honestly besotted with her, doesn’t he?’ Nevyn remarked.

With a yelp, Cullyn turned to find the old man grinning at him. For all that Nevyn’s face was as lined

as an old leather sack, he had all the vigor and stamina of a young lad, and he stood there

straight-backed, his hands on his hips.

‘Didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said with a sly grin.

‘Here, I never saw you come in!’

‘You weren’t looking my way, that’s all. I didn’t turn myself invisible, although I’ll admit to having a

bit of a jest on you.’

‘And I took the bait, sure enough. Here, the tieryn wants you to come sit with her.’

‘At the honor table? What a cursed nuisance. It’s a good thing I put on a clean shirt.’

Cullyn laughed. Usually Nevyn dressed like a farmer in shabby brown clothes, but today he’d actually

put on a white shirt with Lovyan’s red lion blazon at the yokes and a pair of patched but respectable gray

brigga.

‘Before you go,’ Cullyn said. ‘Have you had any . . . well, news of my Jill?’

‘You mean: have a scryed her out lately. Come with me.’

They made their way over to the second hearth, where an entire hog was roasting on a spit. For a

moment Nevyn stared intently into the flames.

‘I see Jill and Rhodry looking in good spirits,’ he said at last. They’re walking through a town on a

nice sunny day, going up to a shop of some sort. Wait! I know that place. It’s Otho the Silversmith’s in

Dun Manannan, but he doesn’t seem to be in at the moment.’

‘I don’t suppose you can tell if she’s with child.’

‘She’s not showing the babe if she is. I can understand your concern.’

‘Well, it’s bound to happen, sooner or later. I just hope she has the wit to ride home when it does.’

‘She’s never lacked for wit.’

Although Cullyn agreed, worry ate at him. Jill was, after all, his only child.

‘I just hope they have enough coin for the winter,’ the captain remarked.

‘Well, we gave them plenty between us, if Rhodry doesn’t drink it all away, anyway.’

‘Oh, Jill won’t let him do that. My lass is as tight as an old farmwife with every cursed copper.’ He

allowed himself a brief smile. ‘At least she knows the long road cursed well.’

Because the mattress was full of bedbugs, Rhodry sat on the floor of the tiny innchamber while he

watched Jill frowning in concentration as she mended a rip in his only shirt. She was dressed in a pair of

dirty blue brigga and a lad’s plain linen overshirt, and her golden hair was cropped short like a lad’s, too,

but she was so beautiful, with her wide blue eyes, delicate features, and soft mouth, that he loved simply

looking at her.

‘Ah by the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell!’ she snarled at last. This’ll just have to do. I hate

sewing.’

‘You have my humble thanks for lowering yourself enough to mend my clothes.’

With another snarl, she threw the shirt into his face. Laughing he shook it out, once-white linen stained

with sweat and rust from his mail. On the yokes were the blazons of the red lion, all that he had left of his

old life when he’d been heir to the tierynrhyn of Dun Gwerbyn. He pulled the shirt on, then buckled his

swordbelt over it. At the left hung his sword, a beautiful blade of the best steel with the handguard

Katherine Kerr - Deverry 02 - Darkspell

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