brings you to me, lad? Have some battle loot to sell?”
“I don’t. I’ve come about my silver dagger.”
“What have you done, nicked it or suchlike? I don’t see how any man could bruise that metal.”
“He wants the dweomer taken off it,” Jill said. “Can you do that, Otho? Remove the spell on the blade?”
The smith turned, openmouthed in surprise.
“I know cursed well it’s got one on it,” she went on. “Rhoddo, take it out and show him.
Reluctantly Rhodry drew the dagger from its worn sheath. It was a lovely thing, that blade, as silky as silver, but harder than steel, some alloy that only a few smiths knew how to blend. On it was graved the device of a striking falcon (Cullyn’s old mark, because the dagger had once belonged to him), but in Rhodry’s hand the device was almost invisible in a blaze and flare of dweomer-light, running like water from the blade.
“Elven blood in your veins, is there?” Otho snapped. “And a good bit of it, too.”
“Well, there’s some.” Rhodry made the admission unwillingly. “I hail from the west, you see, and that old proverb about there being elven blood in Eldidd veins is true enough.”
When Otho grabbed the dagger, the light dimmed to a faint glow.
“I’m not letting you in my workshop,” he announced. “You people all steal. Can’t even help it, I suppose; it’s probably the way you were raised.”
“By every god in the Otherlands, I’m not a thief! I was born and raised a Maelwaedd, and it’s not my wretched fault that there’s wild blood somewhere in my clan’s quarterings.”
“Hah! I’m still not letting you into my workshop.” He turned and pointedly spoke only to Jill. “It’s a hard thing you’re asking, lass. I don’t have true dweomer. The dagger spell is the only one I can weave, and I don’t even understand what I’m doing. It’s just somewhat that we pass down from father to son, those of us who know it at all, that is.”
“I was afraid of that,” she said with a sigh. “But we’ve got to do somewhat about it. He can’t use it at table when it turns dweomer every time he draws it.”
Otho considered, chewing on his lower lip.
“Well, if this were an ordinary dagger, I’d just trade you a new one without the spell, but since it was Cullyn’s and all, I’ll try to unweave the dweomer. Maybe working it all backward will do it. But it’s going to cost you dear. There’s a risk in meddling with things like this.”
After a couple of minutes of brisk haggling, Jill handed him five silver pieces, about half of the smith’s asking price.
“Come back at sunset,” Otho said. “We’ll see if I’ve been successful or not.”
Rhodry spent the afternoon looking for a hire. Although it was too close to winter weather for warfare, he did find a merchant who was taking a load of goods back to Cerrmor. For all their dishonor, silver daggers were in much demand as caravan guards, because they belonged to a band with a reputation that kept them more honest than most. Not just any man could become a silver dagger. A fighting man who was desperate enough to take the blade had to first find another silver dagger, ride with him awhile, and prove himself before he was allowed to meet one of the rare smiths who served the band. Only then could he truly “ride the long road,” as the daggers referred to their lives.
And if Otho could blunt the spell, Rhodry would no longer have to keep his blade sheathed for fear of revealing his peculiar bloodlines. He hurried Jill through her dinner and hustled her along to the silversmith’s shop a little before sunset. Otho’s beard was a good bit shorter, and he no longer had any eyebrows at all.
“I should have known better than to do a favor for a miserable elf,” he announced.
“Otho, you have our humble apologies.” Jill caught his hand and squeezed. “And I’m ever so glad you didn’t get badly burned.”
“You’re glad? Hah! Well, come along, lad. Try it out.”
When Rhodry took the dagger, the blade stayed ordinary metal without the trace of a glow. He was smiling as he sheathed it.
“My thanks, good smith, a thousand times over. Truly, I wish I could reward you more for the risk you ran.”
“So do I. That’s the way of your folk, though; all fine words and no hard coin.”
“Otho, please,” Jill said. “He doesn’t even have much elven blood.”
“Hah! That’s what I say to that, young Jill. Hah!”
All day the People rode into the meeting place for the alardan. To a grassy meadow so far west of Eldidd that only one human being had ever seen it, they came in small groups, driving their herds of horses and flocks of sheep before them. After they pastured the animals, they set up leather tents, painted in bright colors with pictures of animals and flowers. Children and dogs raced through the camp, cooking fires blossomed; the smell of a feast grew in the air. By sunset well over a hundred tents stood round the meeting place. As the last fire took light and blazed, a woman began to sing the long wailing tale of Donabel and his lost love, Adario. A harper joined in, then a drummer, and finally someone brought out a conaber, three joined reedy pipes for a drone.
Devaberiel Silverhand, generally considered the best bard in this part of the elven lands, considered unpacking his harp and joining the musicians, but he was quite simply too hungry. He got a wooden bowl and spoon from his tent, then wandered through the feast. Each riding group, or alar, to give them their Elvish name, had made a huge quantity of one particular dish. Everyone strolled around, eating a bit here and there of whatever appealed to them while the music, talk, and laughter drifted through the camp. Devaberiel was searching for Manaverr, whose alar traditionally roasted a whole lamb in a pit.
Finally he found his friend near the edge of the camp. A couple of young men were just digging up the lamb, while others piled green leaves into a clean bed to receive it. Manaverr left off directing the operation and hurried over to greet the bard. His hair was so pale that it was almost white, and his cat-slit eyes gleamed a deep purple. They each put their left hand on the other’s right shoulder in greeting.
“It’s a big gathering,” Manaverr said.
“They all knew you’d be here to do the lamb.”
Manaverr laughed with a toss of his head. A small green sprite popped into manifestation and perched on his shoulder. When he reached up to pat her, she grinned, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth.
“Have you seen Calonderiel yet?” Manaverr said.
“The warleader? No. Why?”
“He’s been asking every bard here about some obscure point of somebody’s genealogy. He’ll probably work his way round to you sooner or later.”
The sprite suddenly pulled his hair, then vanished before he could swat her. The alardan was filled with Wildfolk, rushing around as excitedly as the children. Sprite, gnome, sylph, and salamander, they were the spirits of the elements, who at times took on a solid appearance, even though their home lay elsewhere in the many-layered universe.
