Daggerspell. Katharine Kerr
the only decoration on the stone walls. Near the hearth, where a small fire burned to ward off the spring chill, King Adoryc was sitting on a plain wooden chair, with Ylaena beside him on a footstool. When Galrion came in, the King stood up, setting his hands on his hips. Adoryc the Second was a massive man, broad shouldered, tall, with a bull’s neck and a perpetually ruddy face. His gray hair and thick mustache were still touched with blond.
“So, you young cub! I’ve got somewhat to say to you.”
“Indeed, my liege?”
“Indeed. What by all the hells have you been doing out in the forest with that daft old man?”
Caught off guard, Galrion could only stare at him.
“Don’t you think I have you followed?” Adoryc went on. “You may be fool enough to ride alone, but I’m not fool enough to let you.”
“Curse your very soul!” Galrion snapped. “Spying on me.”
“Listen to your insolent little hound!” Adoryc glanced at Ylaena. “Cursing his own father. But answer me, lad. What have you been doing? The village folk tell my men that this Rhegor’s a daft old herbman. I can get you an apothecary if the prince has royal boils or suchlike.”
Galrion knew that the moment had come for truth, even though he had never been less willing to tell it in his life.
“He earns his living with his herbs, sure enough, but he’s a dweomermaster.”
Ylaena caught her breath in an audible gasp.
“Horsedung!” Adoryc snarled. “Do you truly think I’ll believe such babble? I want to know what you’re doing, spending so much time with him when you tell me you’re at the Falcon dun.”
“Studying with him. Why shouldn’t a prince study the dweomer?”
“Ah, ye gods!” Ylaena burst out. “I’ve always known you’d leave me for that!”
Adoryc turned to stare his wife into silence.
“Why not?” the King said. “Why not? Because I forbid it.”
“Oh, here, you just called it horsedung. Why are you raging now?”
Swinging too fast to be dodged, Adoryc slapped him hard across the face. When Ylaena cried out, Adoryc turned on her.
“Get out of here, woman! Now.”
Ylaena fled through the curtained archway that led to the women’s hall. Adoryc drew his dagger, then stabbed it into the back of a chair so hard that when he took his hand away, the dagger quivered for a moment. Galrion held his ground and stared steadily at him.
“I want a vow out of you,” Adoryc said. “A solemn vow that you’ll never touch this nonsense again.”
“Never could I lie to my own father. So I can’t swear it.”
Adoryc slapped him backhanded.
“By the names of the gods, Father! What do you hold so much against it?”
“What any man would hold. Whose stomach wouldn’t turn at somewhat unclean?”
“It’s not unclean. That’s a tale the priests make up to frighten women away from witchcraft.”
The barb hit its mark. Adoryc made a visible effort to be calm.
“I can’t give it up,” Galrion went on. “It’s too late. I know too much already for it to let me rest.”
When Adoryc took a sharp step back, Galrion finally realized that his father was afraid, and him a man who would ride straight into a hopeless battle and take no quarter from man or god.
“Just what do you know?” the King whispered.
Galrion had Rhegor’s permission to display one small trick to persuade his father. He raised his hand and imagined that it was glowing with blue fire. Only when the image lived no matter where he turned his mind did he call upon the Wildfolk of Aethyr, who rushed to do his bidding and bring the blue light through to the physical plane, where it flared up and raged round his fingers. Adoryc flung himself back, his arm over his face as if to ward a blow.
“Stop it!” Adoryc bellowed out. “I say stop it!”
Galrion forced the fire away just as the King’s guard flung open the door and rushed into the chamber with drawn swords. Adoryc pulled himself together with a will almost as strong as his son’s.
“You can all go.” Adoryc smiled impartially all round. “My thanks, but I’m only arguing with the stubbornest whelp in the litter.”
The captain of the guard bowed, glancing Galrion’s way with a wink. As soon as the men were gone and the door shut, Adoryc pulled the dagger free of the chair back.
“I’m half minded to slit your throat and put a clean end to this,” Adoryc remarked, in a casual tone of voice. “Don’t you ever do that round me again.”
“I won’t, then, but it makes a handy thing on a dark night when you’ve dropped your torch.”
“Hold your tongue!” Adoryc clutched the dagger tight. “To think a son of mine—and as cold as ice about it!”
“But ye gods, Father, can’t you see? It’s too late to go back. I want to leave the court and study. There’s no other road open to me.”
Adoryc held the dagger so that the blade caught the torchlight.
“Get out,” Adoryc whispered. “Get out of my presence before I do a dishonorable thing.”
Galrion turned and walked slowly toward the door. The flesh on his back prickled. Once he was safely out, Galrion allowed himself one long sigh of relief that the dagger was still in his father’s hand, not in his back.
On the morrow, Galrion went early in search of his mother only to find her talking urgently with her serving women. To pass the time until he could speak with her, he decided to go for a walk through the parkland. As he walked down the hill to the first gate, he was thinking that it should have come as no surprise that the King would fear a prince with dweomer—Adoryc feared every possible rival to his throne. If Galrion had been a schemer, there was no doubt that magic would have given him a powerful edge. At the gate, two guards stepped forward and blocked his path.
“My humble apologies, my prince. The King’s given orders that you not be allowed to pass by.”
“Oh, has he, now? And would you raise your hand to stop me?”
“My apologies, my prince.” The guard licked nervous lips. “But at the King’s orders, I would.”
Galrion stalked back to the broch, determined to have it out with his father over this insult no matter what it cost him. As he strode down the corridors, servants scattered in front of him like frightened birds. Galrion slammed into the council chamber, knocked aside a page who tried to stop him, and found the King standing by the window and talking with a dusty, travel-stained lad kneeling at his feet.
“Well and good,” Adoryc was saying. “Tomorrow you can take back the message of condolences to Lord Gerraent. Our heart sorrows for the Falcon.”
Only then did Galrion recognize one of the pages from the Falcon dun. Ah, ye gods, he thought, Dwen is dead! All at once, he felt his subtle plans slipping away from him, just as when a child builds a tower out of bits of wood only to see it tumble down at the first breath of wind.
“And here is the prince,” Adoryc said. “Does your lord have any message of import for him?”
“He does, Your Highness. My prince, Lord Gerraent has set the period of mourning until the turning of the fall. He humbly begs your understanding on this matter.”
“He has it, truly. Come to me before you return to the Falcon. I’ll give you a message for my lady.”
Adoryc dismissed the