Katherine Kerr - Deverry 01 - Daggerspell

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Daggerspell

GRAFTON BOOKS

A Division of the Collins Publishing Group

LONDON GLASGOW TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND

Grafton Books

A Division of the Collins Publishing Group 8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA

Published by Grafton Books 1987 Reprinted 1987

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Kerr, Katharine Daggerspell.

I. Title 813’.54[F] PS3561.E642

ISBN 0-246-13161-6 ISBN 0-246-13168-3 Pbk

Printed in Great Britain by Billing & Sons Limited, Worcester

transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publisher.

For my husband, Howard, who helped me even more than he can know. Without his support and

loving loyalty, I never would have finished this book.

Acknowledgments

I owe many thanks to the following friends:

Barbara Jenkins in particular, who gave me a whole career in a box when she gave me my first fantasy

role-playing game many Christmases past.

Alice Brahtin, my mother, who gave me moral support, constant encouragement, and best of all, an

excellent typewriter.

Elizabeth Pomada, my agent, who took on an admittedly eccentric project and then actually sold it.

Greg Stafford, whose trust in my opinions about his writing helped me trust my opinions about my

own.

Conrad Bulos, the fastest typewriter repairman in the West.

And especially, Jon Jacobsen, the best gaming buddy a girl ever had.

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 far, when short.

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

W as the oo in spook when long; as in roof 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 oh.

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 carnoic (KAR-noh-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 thin or breathe, but the voicing is considerably more pronounced than in

English. It is opposed to TH, the unvoiced sound as in the or breath.

R is well and truly rolled.

RH is a voiceless R, approximately pronounced as if it were spelled hr.

DW, GW, and TW are single sounds, as in Gwendolen and twit.

Y is never a consonant.

I before a vowel at the beginning of a word is consonantal, as it is in the plural ending -ion.

Doubled consonants are both sounded clearly, unlike in English. Note that DD is considered a single

consonant.

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

exception to this rule.

Following is a list of some of the more important names and words in the text, which should help the

reader get a feel for the language.

Aberwyn AHB-ehr-wuhn

Adoryc a-DOR-yhk

Braedd brayth (voiced th)

Brangwen BRAHN-gwehn

Cadwallon cad-WAHL-lon

Cannobaen CAHN-noh-bayn

Cerrgonney kairr-GON-nee

Cullyn KUHL-luhn

Deverry DEHV-ehr-ree

dweomer DWEHOH-mer

Eldidd EHL-dith (voiced th)

Gerraent GAIR-raynt

Gilyan gihl-LEE-an

Gweran GWEHR-an

Lovyan lov-EE-an

Lyssa LEES-sah

Macyn MAHK-uhn

Maroic MAHR-oh-ihk

Nevyn NEH-vuhn

Rodda ROTH-ah (voiced th)

Rhodry HROH-dree

Rhys hrees

Wmmglaedd OOM-glayth (voiced th; the second m is silent here, an exception to the rule)

Ynydd EE-nuhth (voiced th)

Ysgerryn ees-GAIR-ruhn

Ysolla ee-SOHL-lah

A Note on Dating

Year One of the Deverry calender is the founding of the Holy City, approximately 76 C.E.

Prologue in the Year 1045

Men see life going from a dark to a darkness. The gods see life as a death. . . .

The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

In the hall of light, they reminded her of her destiny. There, all was light, a pulsing gold like the heart of

a candle flame, filling eternity. The speakers were pillars of fire within the fiery light, and their words were

sparks. They, the great Lords of Wyrd, had neither faces nor voices, because anything so human had

long since been burned away by long dwelling in the halls of light. She had no face or voice either,

because she was weak, a little flicker of pale flame. But she heard them speak to her of destiny, her

grave task to be done, her long road to ride, her burden that she must lift willingly.

“Many deaths have led you to this turning,” they said to her. “It is time to take your Wyrd in your

hands. You belong to the dweomer in your very soul. Will you remember?”

In the hall of light, there are no lies.

“I’ll try to remember,” she said. “I’ll do my best to remember the light.”

She felt them grow amused in a gentle way. You will be helped to remember,” they said. “Go now. It

is time for you to die and enter the darkness.”

When she began to kneel before them, to throw herself down before them, they rushed forward and

forbade her. They knew that they were only servants of the one true light, paltry servants compared to

the glory they served, the Light that shines beyond all the gods.

When she entered the gray misty land, she wept, longing for the light. There, all was shifting fog, a

thousand spirits and visions, and the speakers were like winds, tossing her with their words. They wept

with her at the bitter fall that she must make into darkness. These spirits of wind had faces, and she

realized that she too now had a face, because they were all human and far from the light. When they

spoke to her of fleshly things, she remembered lust, the ecstasy of flesh pressed against flesh.

“But remember the light,” they whispered to her. “Cling to the light and follow the dweomer.”

The wind blew her down through the gray mist. All around her she felt lust, snapping like lightning in a

summer storm. All at once, she remembered summer storms, rain on a fleshly face, cool dampness in the

air, warm fires and the taste of food in her mouth. The memories netted her like a little bird and pulled her

down and down. She felt him, then, and his lust, a maleness that once she had loved, felt him close to her,

very close, like a fire. His lust swept her down and down, round and round, like a dead leaf caught in a

tiny whirlpool at a river’s edge. Then she remembered rivers, water sparkling under the sun. The light,

she told herself, remember the light you swore to serve. Suddenly she was terrified: the task was very

grave, she was very weak and human. She wanted to break free and return to the Light, but it was too

late. The eddy of lust swept her round and round until she felt herself grow heavy, thick, and palpable.

Then there was darkness, warm and gentle, a dreaming water-darkness: the soft safe prison of the

womb.

In those days, down on the Eldidd coast stretched wild meadows, crisscrossed by tiny streams,

where what farmers there were pastured their cattle without bothering to lay claim to the land. The

meadows were a good place for an herbman to find new stock, and old Nevyn went there frequently. He

was a shabby man, with a shock of white hair that always needed combing, and dirty brown clothes that

always needed mending, but there was something about the look in his ice-blue eyes that commanded

respect, even from the noble-born lords. Everyone who met him remarked on his vigor, too, that even

though his face was as wrinkled as old leather and his hands dark with frog spots, he strode around like a

young prince. He traveled long miles on horseback with a mule behind him, as he tended the ills of the

various poor folk in Eldidd province. A marvel he is, the farmers all said, a marvel and a half considering

he must be near eighty. None knew the true marvel, that he was well over four hundred years old, and

the greatest master of the dweomer that the kingdom had ever known.

That particular summer morning, Nevyn was out in the meadows to gather comfrey root, and the

glove-finger white flowers danced on the skinny stems as he dug up the plants with a silver spade. The

sun was so hot that he sat back on his heels for a bit of a rest and wiped his face on the old rag that

passed for a handkerchief. It was then that he saw the omen. Out in the meadow, two larks broke cover

with a heartbreaking beauty of song that was a battle cry. Two males swept up, circling and chasing each

other. Yet even as they fought, the female who was their prize rose from the grass and flew indifferently

away. With a cold clutch of dweomer knowledge, Nevyn knew that soon he would be watching two men

fight over a woman that neither could rightfully have.

She had been reborn.

Somewhere in the kingdom, she was a new babe, lying in her exhausted mother’s arms. Dimly he saw

it in vision: the pretty young mother’s face, bathed in sweat from the birth but smiling at the babe at her

breast. When the Vision faded, he jumped to his feet in sheer excitement. The Lords of Wyrd had been

kind. This time they were sending him a warning that somewhere she was waiting for him to bring her to

the dweomer, somewhere in the vast expanse of the kingdom of Deverry. He could search and find her

while she was still a child, before harsh circumstances made it impossible for him to untangle the snarl of

their intertwined destinies. This time, perhaps, she would remember and listen to him. Perhaps. If he

found her.

Cerrgonney, 1052

The young fool tells his master that he will suffer to gain the dweomer. Why is he a fool? Because the dweomer

has already made him pay and pay and pay again before he even stood on its doorstep. . . .

The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

With a cold drizzling rain, the last of the twilight was closing in like gray steel. As she looked at the

sky, Jill was frightened to be outside. She hurried to the woodpile and began to grab an untidy load of

firewood. A gray gnome, all spindly legs and long nose, perched on a big log and picked at its teeth while

it watched her. When she dropped a stick, it snatched it and refused to give it back.

“Beast!” Jill snapped. “Then keep it!”

At her anger, the gnome vanished with a puff of cold air. Half in tears, Jill hurried across the muddy

yard to the round stone tavern, where cracks of cheerful light gleamed around wooden shutters.

Clutching her firewood, she ran down the corridor to the chamber and slipped in, hesitating a moment at

the door. The priestess in her long black robe was kneeling by Mama’s bed. When she looked up, Jill

saw the blue tattoo of the crescent moon that covered half her face.

“Put some wood on the fire now, child,” the priestess said. “I need more light.”

Jill picked out the thinnest pitchiest sticks and fed them carefully into the fire burning in the hearth. The

flames sprang up, sending flares and shadows dancing round the room. Jill sat down on the

straw-covered floor in a corner to watch the priestess. Mama lay very still, her face a deadly pale,

running big drops of sweat from the fever. The priestess picked up a silver jar and helped Mama drink

the herb water in it. Mama was coughing so hard that she couldn’t keep the water down.

Jill grabbed her rag doll and held her tight. She wished that Heledd was real, and that she’d cry so Jill

could be very brave and comfort her. The priestess set the silver jar down, wiped Mama’s face, then

began to pray, whispering the words in the ancient holy tongue that only priests and priestesses knew. Jill

prayed, too, in her mind, begging the Holy Goddess of the Moon to let her mama stay alive.

Hesitantly Macyn came to the doorway and stood watching, his thick pudding face set in concern, his

blunt hands twisting the hem of his heavy linen overshirt. Macyn owned this tavern, where Mama worked

as a serving lass, and let her and Jill live in this chamber out of simple kindness to a woman with a bastard

child to support. He reached up and rubbed the bald spot in the middle of his gray hair while he waited

for the priestess to finish her prayer.

“How is she?” Macyn said.

The priestess looked at him, then pointedly at Jill.

“You can say it,” Jill said. “I know she’s going to die.”

Jill wanted to cry, but she felt that she’d been turned to stone.

“She might as well know the truth,” the priestess said. “Here, does she have a father?”

“Of a sort,” Macyn said. “He’s a silver dagger, you see, and he rides this way every now and then to

give them what coin he can. It’s been a good long while since the last time.”

The priestess sighed in a hiss of irritation.

“I’ll keep feeding the lass,” Macyn went on. “Jill’s always done a bit of work around the place, and ye

gods, I wouldn’t throw her out into the street to starve, anyway.”

“Well and good, then.” The priestess held out her hand to Jill. “How old are you, child?”

“Seven, your holiness.”

“Well, now, that’s very young, but you’ll have to be brave, just like a warrior. Your father’s a warrior,

isn’t he?”

“He is. A great warrior.”

“Then you’ll have to be as brave as he’d want you to be. Come say good-bye to your mama; then let

Macyn take you out.”

When Jill came to the bedside, Mama was awake, but her eyes were red, swollen, and cloudy, as if

she didn’t really see her daughter standing there.

“Jill?” Mama was gasping for breath. “Mind what Macco tells you.”

“I will. Promise.”

Mama turned her head away and stared at the wall.

“Cullyn,” she whispered.

Cullyn was Da’s name. Jill wished he was there; she had never wished for anything so much in her life.

Macyn picked Jill up, doll and all, and carried her from the chamber. As the door closed, Jill twisted

around and caught a glimpse of the priestess praying over Mama again.

Since no one wanted to come to a tavern with fever in the back room, the big half-round of the

alehouse was empty, the long wooden tables standing forlorn in the dim firelight. Macyn sat Jill down at a

table near the fire, then went to get her something to eat. Just behind her was a stack of ale barrels, laced

with particularly dark shadows. Jill was suddenly sure that Death was hiding behind them. She made

herself turn around and look, because Da always said a warrior should look Death in the face, but she

was glad when there was nothing there. Macyn brought her a plate of bread and honey and a wooden

cup of milk. When Jill tried to eat, the food seemed to turn dry and sour in her mouth. With a sigh,

Macyn rubbed his bald spot.

“Well now,” he said. “Maybe your da will ride our way soon.”

“I hope so.”

Macyn had a long swallow of ale from his pewter tankard.

“Does your doll want a sip of milk?” he said.

“She doesn’t. She’s just rags.”

Then they heard the priestess, chanting a long sobbing note, keening for the soul of the dead. Jill tried

to make herself feel brave, then laid her head on the table and sobbed aloud.

They buried Mama out in the sacred oak grove behind the village. For a week, Jill went every

morning to cry beside the grave until Macyn finally told her that visiting the grave was like pouring oil on a

fire—she would never put her grief out by doing it. Since Mama had told her to mind what he said, Jill

stopped going. Soon custom picked up again in the tavern, and she was busy enough to keep from

thinking about Mama all the time.

Local people came in to gossip, farmers stopped by on market day, and every now and then

merchants and peddlars paid to sleep on the floor for want of a proper inn in the village. Jill washed

tankards, ran errands, and even served the ale when the tavern was crowded at night. Whenever a man

from out of town came through, Jill would ask him if he’d ever heard of her father, Cullyn of Cerrmor, the

silver dagger. No one ever had any news at all.

The village was in the northmost province of the kingdom of Deverry, the greatest kingdom in the

whole world of Annwn—or so Jill had always been told. She knew that down to the south was the

splendid city of Dun Deverry, where the High King lived in an enormous palace. Bobyr, however, where

JiU had spent her whole life, had about fifty round houses, made of rough slabs of flint packed with earth

to keep the wind out of the walls. On the side of a steep Cerrgonney hill, they clung to narrow twisted

streets so that the village looked like a handful of boulders thrown among a stand of straggly pine trees.

In the little valleys among the hills, farmers wrestled small fields out of the rocky land and walled their

plots with the stones.

About a mile away was the dun, or fort, of Lord Melyn, to whom the village owed fealty. Jill had

always been told that it was everyone’s Wyrd to do what the noble-born said, because the gods had

made them noble. The dun was certainly impressive enough to Jill’s way of thinking to have had some

divine aid behind it. It stood on the top of the highest hill, surrounded by both a ring of earthworks and a

ramparted stone wall. A broch, a round tower of slabbed stone, rose in the middle and loomed over the

other buildings inside the walls. From the top of the village, Jill could see the dun and Lord Melyn’s blue

banner flapping on the broch.

Much more rarely Jill saw Lord Melyn himself, who only occasionally rode into the village, usually to

administer a judgment on someone who’d broken the law. When, on one particularly hot and airless day,

Lord Melyn actually came into the tavern for some ale, it was an important event. Although the lord had

thin gray hair, a florid face, and a paunch, he was an impressive man, standing ramrod straight and

striding in like the warrior he was. With him were two young men from his warband, because a noble

lord never went anywhere alone. Jill hastily ran her hands through her messy hair and made the lord a

curtsey. Macyn came hurrying with his hands full of tankards; he set them down and made the lord a

bow.

“Cursed hot day,” Lord Melyn remarked, drinking thirstily.

“It is, my lord,” Macyn said, somewhat awestruck that the lord would speak to him.

“Pretty child.” Lord Melyn glanced at Jill. “Your granddaughter?”

“She’s not, my lord,” Macyn said. “But the child of the lass who used to work here for me.”

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DaggerspellGRAFTONBOOKSADivisionoftheCollinsPublishingGroupLONDONGLASGOWTORONTOSYDNEYAUCKLANDGraftonBooksADivisionoftheCollinsPublishingGroup8GraftonStreet,LondonW1X3LAPublishedbyGraftonBooks1987Reprinted1987Copyright©KatharineKerr1986BritishLibraryCataloguinginPublicationDataKerr,KatharineDaggerspe...

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