Chapter 2
"He what?”
Guthsund couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“He intervened in an attempt to take or kill Mistress Blodwen of the Duur Society.”
That was from Barrys, Master of the Baths of Moesen, who was seated across from Guthsund and Trauth at a table in a private room of The Golden Harp.
“That’s the Blues, right?” Guthsund asked. Barrys nodded, but his mouth tightened as if he wanted to correct the merchant.
“But by the White God, why?” Trauth almost exploded. “He knew that he shouldn’t have anything to do with you!”
Barrys shrugged. “No one knows for sure. He apparently said something like he had a history of defending women, but that was in the middle of the fight, and Mistress Blodwen may have misheard, or he may have been making light of it. When he wakes, you can ask.”
“Wakes?” Guthsund caught that note. “He’s not conscious then? Did he take a hit to the head?”
Barrys shook his own head. “No head wounds that our physician and surgeon could find. But he lost a lot of blood after apparently fighting six men to the death.”
“Holy . . .” Words failed Trauth at that moment.
“So how badly hurt is he?” Guthsund demanded.
Barrys held up a hand and started ticking fingers off.
“First, his right thigh was run through from front to back, just barely missing the bone. Second, his left hand was pierced all the way through. Both of those by sicuroi swords.”
Barrys moved on to the third finger.
“Third, both legs have multiple gashes on the outside of the thighs below where his mail shirt hung. They would normally be considered serious, but in comparison to the first two wounds . . .” he shrugged, “. . . the physician and surgeon are of the opinion they should heal up, albeit with some impressive scars.”
“That’s if he doesn’t catch the wound fever,” Trauth growled.
“We have very good physicians here in Cantredd,” Barrys said. “The chances of that are very low.”
The bath master returned to his fingers. “And fourth, his left side is almost one solid bruise. From what they can tell, no ribs are broken, but there are probably one or more cracked ribs, and he has some very deep bruising. The physician and surgeon are more concerned about those than the gashes on his legs. They are staying with him until he regains consciousness.”
“And when will that be?”
“He swallows water and broth when they’re put in his mouth, which they say is a good sign. Hopefully within the next day.”
“I want to see him when he awakes.” Guthsund was leaning over the table, thumping it with his fist.
Barrys nodded. “I will send word.”
“Why?” Trauth repeated, returning to his original question. “He’d been told not to get involved with the societies.”
At that, Barrys ducked his head. “I . . . may have led him to understand that there was a connection between his family and the Duur.”
“And is there?” Trauth’s voice was very cold. Guthsund laid a hand on his captain’s arm.
Barrys nodded, after a long moment.
“Whether there is or there isn’t, if he dies, you and your society are responsible,” Guthsund said in a level tone. “And word will be sent to the Highlands of that.”
Barrys nodded at that, as well.
“He is in our charge, now. We are responsible, we will tend to him.”
✽✽✽
“How did they know?” Pwyll looked at Gwdion. They were standing in Barrys’ office at the Moesen baths. Pwyll had co-opted it for the next few days.
“I don’t know, but it’s obvious that they learned of her movement somehow.” The chief sicuroi looked grim. “I will find out, though.”
“I’m more concerned that they attempted to take her at all.” Pwyll frowned. “Things have been quiet for several years. This is not a sign I wanted to see.”
The door to the master’s office opened before Gwdion could respond. Pwyll noted the faint look of relief that crossed the sicuroi’s face.
Blodwen stepped in. After closing the door behind her, she walked over and planted a kiss on Pwyll’s cheek. “Brother.”
He returned the kiss. “Sister.”
They intertwined hands, and he led her to a delicately carved bench that had been added to the room’s furniture when he announced that he was moving in. It fronted a many-paned window. They sat together, and Gwdion noiselessly excused himself from the room, leaving the two of them alone together for the first time since the assassination attempt.
“Gods, Wen, my heart nearly stopped when I heard the news.” Pwyll reached to cup a hand behind her head and draw it close to touch forehead to forehead. “I don’t know what I would have done if they had taken you.”
“What you must, brother,” she said without a tremor in her voice. “I knew that the instant I saw them begin to move. If they killed me or if they took me, you could only do what was best for the Duur.”
“There would have been war with the Raeadd, if they had succeeded,” he said in a hard voice. “I could not have let that pass unanswered.”
“Understood,” Blodwen said. “I would not have expected less. But I knew there was no provision for me. There could not be.”
Pwyll closed his eyes and shuddered. “No. But the price I would have taken from them . . .”
Now she reached and cupped his head. “But it wasn’t required, Pwyll. You didn’t have to.”
“And that, sister dear, is solely because of Duncan corNial.”
“We owe him—I owe him.”
“We owe him; I perhaps more than even you.”
They sat there, head to head, hand to hand, silent, for some time as they both relived the fears they had felt in their own ways and own times.
A knock came at the door. They drew apart, and Pwyll stood.
“Come.”
Two figures in undyed linen robes entered. They were of much the same height and slight build, with heads covered and faces muffled by dark blue head cloths like that worn by Gwdion. After the door closed, hands clad in identical blue gloves pulled the head cloths away from their faces, and there a difference was revealed: one was narrow, with a thin-bladed nose that could be called prominent and a complexion that was dark; the other was rather round with a bit of a strong chin and a nose that wasn’t much more than a nubbin, all wrapped in a complexion that was the color of old weathered bone, a hue midway between gray and the color of the linen robes. Both had eyes of warm brown.
Blodwen had risen from the bench as soon as she saw who had entered, and now she joined Pwyll in giving a slight bow to the robed figures.
“Saint Meurig, Saint Fiona. Please, be seated.” Pwyll waved to the bench he and Blodwen had just vacated.
Pwyll turned the chair at the desk around and motioned his sister into it, then leaned back against the wall and waited.
“No questions, young Pwyll?” came in an alto tone from the thin-faced woman.
“No, Saint Fiona.”
“Hmmph. First time I’ve seen you at a loss for words.”
Saint Meurig reached over and tapped her companion on the arm rather firmly. “Be fair, Fiona. There was that time in training where Gwdion got through his defenses and gave him a solid hit to the solar plexus.”
“Yes, well, I supposed that’s true,” Fiona grumped. “As long as we don’t count a squeak or two and a gasp as words.”
“Are you quite through humbling me?” Pwyll asked with a slightly astringent tone.
“For the moment,” Meurig responded with a smile. “But it is one of our responsibilities, you know—to make sure that your ego is no larger than your head can contain.”
“And you enjoy it so much.” Pwyll’s tone was even more astringent.
“Of course we do!” Meurig’s face blossomed into a beatific smile.
Blodwen had said nothing, but the corners of her mouth had turned down in a reversed-smile smirk. That went away when Pwyll spoke again.
“I presume you have been to see our guest.”
Meurig sobered instantly.
“Yes. Both individually and together. And we consulted with the doctor and surgeon, and questioned Hadyn, Vaun, and Barrys. Such nice boys they are.”
“Barrys is ready for more responsibility,” Fiona said.
“You think so?” Pwyll said. There was no further response from either of the saints, so he tucked that thought away and returned to the main topic.
“What are your thoughts on Duncan corNial?”
“I’m of a mind to curse our ancestors who drove away his ancestors,” Fiona growled. Even Meurig looked around, shocked at that pronouncement. “The boy reeks of power. Whoever placed those marks on him either is touched by the gods, or knows far more of these things than we do.”
“Or both,” Meurig said quietly.
“Or both.” Fiona’s tone wasn’t quite a snarl.
Before she could continue, there was another knock at the door.
“Come,” Pwyll said, after giving the saints a moment to veil their faces again.
“Your pardon, Master Pwyll,” Hadyn opened the door and stood to one side. “Barrys sent me to inform you that the clansman has regained consciousness.”
All four of them stood and headed for the door. Hadyn stepped through the door and waited for Pwyll to stride through, followed Saints Meurig and Fiona, with Blodwen bringing up the rear.
“This way, please.”
Hadyn set a quick place through the back halls of the baths compound, and before long arrived at an unremarkable door, which he opened. The others proceeded through the doorway, and Hadyn closed the door behind them, remaining in the hall.
They found Duncan being helped to take a drink. The surgeon was supporting his shoulders, and the physician helped support the cup. When he was done, the physician shaped some bolsters behind the clansman’s back, and then he and the surgeon helped Duncan ease back.
✽✽✽
“I know who I am and where I am, and I know why I’m here, so we don’t need to go over that,” Duncan began. “Who are you?” His voice was level and a bit hoarse, although not as strong as he would have liked.
“I am Pwyll, the current leader of the Duur Society,” the man said. “What you may have heard referred to as the Blues.”
“Umm, that’s the group the Moesen baths are tied up with, right?”
Pwyll nodded. “It could be said that way, yes.”
Duncan shifted his gaze. “And I know who Lady Blodwen is. Or maybe I know a little bit about who she is.”
She also nodded in acknowledgment.
“She is important in the society for several reasons,” Pwyll responded. “But she’s also important to me because she’s my sister.”
“Ah.” Duncan didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he shifted his gaze to the other two figures. “I don’t know you two, and I don’t talk with people if I can’t see their faces.”
Pwyll started to respond to that, but one of the figures lifted a blue-gloved hand, and they both unveiled their faces. “Let us begin as we mean to continue,” the round-faced one said. “I am Saint Meurig.”
“Saint Fiona,” the narrow-faced one said shortly.
“First,” Pwyll said, “let me thank you for preserving Blodwen’s life and freedom. The entire society is thankful for that. We are very aware of the price—prices—you paid to accomplish that. We cannot repay you as you deserve.”
That sounded a bit ominous, Duncan thought, trying to repress the quirk his mouth wanted to make.
“But it doesn’t mean we won’t try,” Pwyll said with a smile, echoed by a smaller one from his sister. “First, to replace your sword that was broken, we gift you with this.”
Blodwen turned and opened a chest behind her and removed a sword from it to place in Duncan’s hands. He received it almost eagerly. The thought of his father’s sword being broken had not been one of the happier memories that had returned to him when he woke up.
Duncan looked at the hilt, then drew the sword partway from its sheath. “I know this sword,” he murmured. He looked up at Blodwen with forehead furrowed. “Ossian’s master blade?” He had trouble believing that.
The smile had remained on Blodwen’s face, and she nodded. “It’s only right,” she replied, “that you be given the sword by which you triumphed to replace the one which broke in your hand.”
“But he wanted fifty gold crowns for this blade!” Duncan protested. A corner of his mind noted the fact that despite his protestation, his hands had restored the blade to its sheath and were now clutching it fiercely.
“It is the finest sword now in Caldecauthe,” Pwyll said. “As such, it is worthy of you. We gave your uncle an equivalent gift for his deeds a half generation ago. We will not do less for you after you performed an even greater deed before half the city of Caldecauthe.”
“It is not just the society’s honor that is at stake here, Duncan corNial,” Blodwen intervened. “It is my honor that is paramount here. I would and will not be seen as someone who palms off a deed and service such as yours with paltry rewards and favors. I am still alive and available to my society because of you. The sword is the least of what we can and will do for you. It is only the beginning.”
Pwyll nodded, a wry grin on his face. “My sister can be a bit outspoken,” he said. “You will learn this if you spend much time around her. She has been the scandal of our mother at times.”
Something suspiciously like a snort came from one of the saints. Duncan rolled his eyes that direction without moving his head, but neither of the saints had anything other than an expression of mild interest on her face.
“She is,” Pwyll continued, “nonetheless quite correct. Our honor—her honor—demand nothing less than this, and more besides. And although like most clansmen, I’m sure your will is as the granite of your plateau, I think you’ll find her will is adamant. In other words, you’d best not butt heads with her; you will lose.”
“That’s true,” was muttered by one of the saints, who was ignored by everyone else in the room.
From inside a sleeve, Blodwen produced Duncan’s clan knife in a new sheath.
“Here,” she presented it to him. “Speaking of honor. I cleaned it, and Gwdion made sure that it was sharp and oiled. It hasn’t left my presence since you put it in my hands. And so I put your honor back in your hands.”
Duncan reached eagerly for the knife, and smiled when it was in his hand again. “Thank you, Lady. And,” he inhaled deeply, “my thanks for the sword as well. You are right, I will need a sword, and this is one that fits my hand like a well-made glove. But what happened to my father’s sword? Where did the pieces go?”
“They would ordinarily have been claimed by us as a result of your destruction of Raeadd’s triads, but Ossian asked for them,” Blodwen said. “I allowed him to take them.”
“Good,” Duncan said as he relaxed a bit. “I can think of no one better to have them. He understands blades, he does.”
Duncan placed the clan knife on the bed in the place where his right hand would rest on it naturally, then shifted the sword around where it was cradled in his left arm with his bandaged left hand resting atop it. He looked around. “And my mail?”
“In here.” Blodwen touched the chest from which she had taken the sword.
“Good,” Duncan repeated.
“Duur society has the best physicians and surgeons in Caldecauthe,” Pwyll added, “so they will tend to your wounds until they are healed.”
Duncan tried to shrug, but gave it up when twinges of pain let him know that wasn’t a prudent move to make.
“I don’t expect to be here that long,” he said. “I’ll be walking tomorrow, and riding in a week, I expect. And if I can’t sit a horse when Master Guthsund leaves, I’ll ride in one of his wagons until I can.”
“Are you sure . . .” Blodwen began.
“Of course he’s sure,” Saint Fiona said firmly. “He’s a Highland clansman. They define headstrong and stubborn in the flesh.” The snort definitely came from her this time.
Duncan looked around the room. “While I do appreciate the visit, and I very much appreciate the sword,” he ran his right hand up the sheath to the hilt, “I’m beginning to get a feeling that there is another reason why I have such notables here.” He raised his eyebrows almost to the bandage around his head. “Anyone care to explain, or am I supposed to guess?”