The thing was a piece of the daughter’s jewelry, a little silver brooch. I’d saved my wages to buy it for her at the spring fair.”
“That’s an odd thing for you to have stolen.”
“True spoken, and that’s what saved my hand from the executioner’s axe. Lord Marc’s a fair-minded man. When they found the brooch in my saddlebag, he said that if I’d bought it, I had the right to take it back, because Yvva had gotten betrothed to another man.”
“Who found it? Lord Aeryn?”
“You’ve got sharp wits, good dame.”
“And I’ll wager he had no idea you’d given it to her. He must have been bitterly disappointed.”
“He made a great show of wondering how I’d gotten hold of it. Threatened to break off the betrothal if another man had been in her chamber.”
“So Marc kicked you out to save the match?”
“Just so.”
“Not as fair-minded as all that. I pity your Yvva, married off to a stoat.”
“She could have turned him down.”
Could she? I doubted it. The match must have brought her father some advantages, if he’d been willing to shame one of his loyal men for so little reason. No doubt he’d given her no choice. For the hundredth time in my life, I thanked the Goddess that I wasn’t noble-born. Benoic might have told me more, but Waryn returned with the cups, and Ddary with two flagons, a big one of dark ale and a small one of Bardek wine.
“The innkeep’s lad is bringing up fresh bread,” Ddary announced, “and a rack of mutton for us, and a leg for Cathvar. Raw, I told them, for the leg.”
“Excellent!” I said.
Splendid! Cathvar said. This fellow has some good qualities after all.
More than a few, mayhap, despite the rough way about him.
That evening, when the men and Waryn slept, and Cathvar drowsed at the foot of my bed in our chamber, I lay awake considering Benoic’s story and the fate of Lady Yvva. I wondered if she approved of her arranged marriage. The nosy old woman that I am would have liked to get a look at her, but on the morrow the caravan would ride on westward and take us with it. Unless somehow or other we met the lady and her father on the road—not likely, unless I put some effort into creating a coincidence.
It’s possible, if you know the ways of the dweomer lore, to make certain things attract each other as if they were a lodestone and a bit of iron. It’s a matter of astral currents, of directing their flow here and there. Now, if I had no right to meddle, the dweomer would fail. If I did have the right, I’d get to meet the lady some way or another, if not on this trip, then when I passed through Bryn Tamig on my way home.
The rain came down hard in the night. The day, however, dawned clear and warm. We rejoined our caravan and headed west for the pass. About a mile out, Graun the caravanmaster rode up next to me. He pointed uphill to our right.
“Lord Marc’s dun,” he said.
Well-built stone walls surrounded what appeared to be a large complex. Over the walls I could see the tops of several tall stone towers clustering around an even taller central broch.
“Very impressive,” I said.
“It is, but the tavern gossip told me that he’s heavily in debt.”
“Indeed? And is his daughter betrothed to a wealthy man?”
“So the townsfolk I met told me.”
“Gossip about the noble-born is always splendid entertainment. Especially for the folk in these small towns.”
“As good as bard song, truly.” Graun grinned at me. “Marc’s so poor that he’s sold off half the dun’s furnishings, they told me. Aeryn has a rich vein of silver on his clan’s lands up in the hills. He’s leased it out to some of the Mountain Folk. They pay him a goodly fee every year.”
“I see. How did Marc end up in poverty?”
“Most lords out here are always short up for coin. But in his case, his second son ran up huge gambling debts, and the lord felt honor-bound to pay them off after he sent the lad into exile.”
“Ah, so the marriage is important to his lordship, then.”
Like an omen a silver horn rang out. The heavy wooden gates to the dun began to creak open. Graun turned his horse into the open road and began to call for a halt. Through the opening in the dun gates I could just make out a group of