Part 25 (2/2)
”Well, my friend,” Rhodry said. ”You've made a splendid beginning, but don't think you know everything you need to know about warfare.”
”I'd never be such a dolt. Don't trouble your heart”
”Is it what you'd been expecting?”
”Not in the least.”
Yet he was snared by a strange dreamlike feeling, that indeed it was all familiar-too familiar. His very exhaustion opened a door in his mind to reveal something long buried, not a memory, nothing so clear, but a recognition, a sense of familiarity as he looked at the camp and his own bloodstained clothes, as he felt every muscle in his body aching from the battle behind them. Even the horror, the sheer disgust of it-somehow he should have known, somehow he'd always known that glory demanded this particular price. For a moment he felt like weeping so strongly that only Rhodry's appraising stare kept him from tears.
”Why don't you just ride home?” Rhodry said.
He shook his head no and forced himself to go on eating.
”Why not?”
He could only shrug for his answer. Rhodry sighed, staring into the fire.
”I suppose you'll feel like a coward or suchlike, running for home?”
”That's close enough.” Yraen managed to find a few words at last. ”I hate it, but it draws me all the same. War, I mean. I don't understand.”
”No doubt, oh, no doubt.”
Rhodry seemed to be about to say more, but Dallandra came walking out of the shadows. She was wearing a clean s.h.i.+rt, much too big for her, and eating a chunk of cheese that she held in one hand like a peasant. Yraen was suddenly struck by the strong, purposeful way she strode along; if she were as old as she looked, she should have been all bent and hobbling, from the strain of her day's work if nothing more. Without waiting to be asked she sat down next to Rhodry on the ground.
”Yraen here tells me you know our names,” Rhodry remarked, without so much as a good evening. ”How?”
”I'm a friend of Evandar's.”
Rhodry swore in a string of truly appalling oaths, but she merely laughed at him and had another bite of her cheese.
”Who's that?” Yraen said. ”Or wait! Not that odd fellow who gave you the whistle!”
”The very one.” Rhodry glanced at the herbwoman again. ”May I ask you what you want with me?”
”Well, only the whistle your young friend mentioned. It's a truly ill-omened thing, Rhodry, and it's dangerous for you to be carrying it about with you.”
”Ah. I'd rather thought so myself. The strangest people-well, I suppose that people isn't the best word-the strangest creatures keep showing up, trying to steal it from me.”
At that Yraen remembered the peculiar shadow that he'd seen out in Lord Erddyr's ward.
”You really would be better off without it,” Dallandra said. ”And Evandar never even meant to leave it with you. He's been much distracted of late.”
Rhodry made a sour sort of face and glanced round, finding his saddlebags a few feet away and leaning back to grab them and haul them over. He rummaged for a few moments, then pulled out the whistle, angling it to catch the firelight.
”Answer me somewhat,” he said. ”What is it?”
”I have no idea, except it feels evil to me.”
When she reached for it, he grinned and s.n.a.t.c.hed it away, slipping it back into the saddlebag.
”Tell Evandar he can come fetch it himself.”
”Rhodry, this is no time to be stubborn.”
”I've a question or two to ask him. Tell him to come himself.”
Dallandra made some exasperated remark in a language that Yraen had never heard before. Rhodry merely laughed.
”Well, I don't want to see you dead over this wretched thing,” the herbwoman went on. ”So I'll give you somewhat for protection.” She fumbled at her belt, where something heavy hung in a triangular leather sheath. ”Here.”
When Rhodry took the sheath, Yraen could see a wooden handle-you couldn't really call it a hilt-sticking out of the stained and crumbling leather. Rhodry slid the sheath off to reveal a leaf-bladed bronze knife, all sc.r.a.ped and pitted as if it had been hammered flat, then sharpened with a file like a farmer's hoe.
”Ye G.o.ds, old woman!” Yraen said. ”That wouldn't protect anyone against anything!”
”Hold your tongue!” Rhodry snarled. ”Better yet, apologize to the lady.”
When Yraen stared in disbelief, Rhodry caught his gaze and held it with all his berserker force.
”You have my humble apologies, good herbwoman,” Yraen stammered. ”I abase myself at your feet in my shame.”
”You're forgiven, lad.” She smiled briefly. ”And I know it looks peculiar, but then, Rhodry's enemies are a bit on the peculiar side themselves, aren't they?”
”Well, the one I saw was. I mean, I didn't actually see it, just its shadow, but peculiar's a good enough word.”
Rhodry nodded his agreement; he was busily attaching the sheath to his belt at the right side to balance the dagger at the left. With a shake of her head the old woman got up, stretching her back and yawning.
”Ych, I'm exhausted,” she remarked. ”Well, have it your way, Rhodry ap Devaberiel. But I've got obligations here and now, at least till we get these wounded men to a chirurgeon, and it may be a longer time than you think before I can tell Evandar to come fetch it back. Until then, you'll be in danger, no matter how many knives I give you.”
”I'll take my chances, then. I want some answers from your friend, good herbwoman.”
”So do I.” She laughed, as musically and lightly as a young girl. ”But I've never gotten any from him myself, and so I doubt very much if you will either.”
She turned on her heel and walked off into the darkness, leaving Yraen staring after her. Smiling to himself, Rhodry laced the saddlebag up again, then laid it aside right close at hand.
”Why didn't you give her the blasted thing?” Yraen said.
”I don't know, truly. She's probably right enough about Evandar not answering my questions.”
”Who or what is this Evandar, anyway?”
”I don't know. That's one of the questions I want to ask him.”
”Oh. Well, he and this strange hag seem to know you well enough. Here, wait a minute. She called you Rhodry ap Deva-something. What kind of a name is that? Your father's, I mean.”
Rhodry looked at him for a long, mild moment.
<script>