coarse cloth, and flopped it onto the leaves. The smell of the roast meat, heavily spiced and baked with fruit, was so inviting that Devaberiel moved closer without even being aware that he was doing so, but he had to wait for his portion. Calonderiel, who was Manaverr’s cousin and looked it, strode over and hailed him.
“What’s this mysterious question?” Devaberiel said. “Manaverr told me you were wondering about someone’s lineage.”
“Just a point of curiosity. Did you know that I rode with Aderyn when he rode east into the lands of men?”
“This summer past, you mean? I heard something about that, yes.”
“All right, then. I met a human warleader called Rhodry Maelwaedd, a lad of twenty. Strangely enough, he’s got a good bit of our blood in his veins. I was wondering if you knew how it had gotten into his clan.”
“A woman of the People married Pertyc Maelwaedd in … oh, when was that … well, say two hundred years ago now. Pertyc was an important man, if I remember correctly. I know he had a son to inherit his position and pass the elven blood along.”
“But two hundred years? That long ago? I saw Rhodry handle a piece of dwarven silver, and it blazed in his hands.”
“Really? Huh. You’re right—that distant ancestor’s blood would be a bit too thin by now for that to happen. What was his father’s name?”
“Tingyr Maelwaedd, and his mother is Lovyan of the Clw Coc.”
Devaberiel went very still. When had that been? He could still see her face in his mind, a beautiful lass for all her blunt ears and round eyes, and she’d been so melancholy about something. But when? That unusually dry summer, wasn’t it? Yes, and it was about twenty-one years ago, all right.
“Oh, by the Dark Sun herself!” Devaberiel burst out. “Here I never even knew I’d gotten Lovva with child!”
Calonderiel whooped with laughter. All round them men and women alike turned to stare. Devaberiel could hear murmuring, things like “What did he say?” “Did he say what I thought he said?”
“And isn’t that a fine jest?” Calonderiel paused for a grin. “I certainly picked the perfect bard to answer my question. You have a peculiar fondness for those Round-ear women, my friend.”
“Imph. Haven’t been that many.”
When Calonderiel started to laugh, Devaberiel threw a punch his way.
“Stop howling like a goblin! I want to know about this son of mine. Every detail you can remember.”
Not many days later Rhodry was the subject of another discussion, this one in Bardek, far across the Southern Sea. In an upstairs room of an isolated villa, deep in the hill country of the main island, two men lounged on a purple divan and watched a third, sitting at a table littered with parchment scrolls and books. He was grossly fat, as saggy and wrinkled as a torn leather ball, and only a few wisps of white hair clung to his dark-skinned skull. Whenever he glanced up, his eyelids drooped uncontrollably, half covering his brown eyes. He had immersed himself so thoroughly and so long in the craft of the dark dweomer that he no longer had a name. He was simply the Old One.
The other two men were both from Deverry. Alastyr, who looked fifty but was actually closer to seventy, was a solid sort with a squarish face and gray hair. At first sight he looked like a typical Cerrmor merchant, with his checked brigga and nicely embroidered shirt, and indeed, he took great pains to act the part. The other, Sarcyn, had just turned thirty. His thick blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and regular features should have made him handsome, but there was something about the way he smiled, something about the burning expression in his eyes, that made most people find him repellent. They both spoke not a word until the Old One looked up, tipping his head back so that he could see them.
“I have gone over all the major calculations.” His voice was like the rasp of two dead twigs rubbed together. “There’s some hidden thing at work here that I don’t understand, some secret, some force of Destiny, perhaps, that has interfered with our plans.”
“Could it simply be the Master of the Aethyr?” Alastyr said. “Loddlaen’s war was going splendidly until Nevyn intervened.”
The Old One shook his head and picked up a parchment sheet.
“This is the horoscope of Tingyr, Rhodry’s father. My art is very complex, little Alastyr. A single horoscope reveals few secrets.”
“I see. I didn’t realize that.”
“No doubt, because few know the stars as I do. Now, most fools think that when a man dies, his horoscope is of no more use, but astrology is the art of studying beginnings. Whatever a man begins in his life—like a son, for instance—is influenced by his stars, even after his death. Now, when I correlated this horoscope with certain transits, it seemed clear that this summer Tingyr would lose a son through deceit on someone’s part. The older brother’s chart showed that he was in danger, so obviously Rhodry had to be the son lost.”
‘Well, the year’s not over yet. It would be easy to send assassins after him.”
“Easy and quite useless. The omens clearly show that he will die in battle. Have you forgotten everything I ever told you?”
“My humble apologies.”
“Besides, the Deverry year ends on Samaen. We have less than a month now. No, it’s as I say. Some hidden thing is at work here.” He let his glance linger on the heaped table. “And yet, it seems that I had all the information I could possibly need. This bodes ill—for all of us. No, Alastyr, we’ll send no assassins, nothing so hasty until I unravel this puzzle.”
“As you wish, of course.”
“Of course.” The Old One picked up a bone stylus and idly tapped another parchment. “This woman puzzles me, too. Very greatly does Jill puzzle me. There was nothing in the omens about a woman who could fight like a man. I wish more information about her, her birth date if possible, so that I can scribe out her stars.”
“I’ll make every effort to find it for you when I return.”
With a nod of approval that set his chins trembling, the Old One shifted his bulk in his chair.
“Send your apprentice to fetch me my meal.”
Alastyr gestured at Sarcyn, who rose and obediently left the room. The Old One contemplated the closed door for a moment.
“That one hates you,” he said at last.
“He does? I wasn’t aware of it.”
“No doubt he’s taken great pains to hide it. Now, it’s fit and right that an apprentice struggle with his master. No one learns on the Dark Path unless he fights for knowledge. But hatred? It’s very dangerous.”
Alastyr wondered if the Old One had seen an omen that indicated Sarcyn was a real threat. The master would never tell except for a stiff price. The Old One was the greatest expert alive in one particular part of the dark dweomer, that of wresting hints of future events from a universe unwilling to reveal them. His personal perversion of astrology was only part of the art, which involved meditation and a dangerous kind of astral scrying as well. Since he was scrupulously honest in his own way as well as valuable, he commanded
