“Come down yourself and teach me if you can,” he answered hoarsely and called her a name in the lowest vernacular of the streets—a name that said there was nothing she could teach a man.
For a moment no one moved or spoke. Carse saw her face go white and he laughed, a hoarse terrible sound in the silence. Then Scyld drew his sword and vaulted over the rail into the oar pit.
The blade flashed high and bright in the torchlight. It occurred to Carse that he had traveled a long way to die. He waited for the stroke but it did not come and then he realized that Ywain had cried out to Scyld to stop.
Scyld faltered, then turned, puzzled, looking up. “But Highness—”
“Come here,” she said, and Carse saw that she was staring at the sword in Scyld’s hand, the sword of Rhiannon.
Scyld climbed the ladder back up to the deck, his black-browed face a little frightened. Ywain met him.
“Give me that,” she said. And when he hesitated, “The sword, fool!”
He laid it in her hands and she stood looking at it, turning it over in the torchlight, studying the workmanship, the hilt with its single smoky jewel, the etched symbols on the blade.
“Where did you get this, Scyld?”
“I—” He stammered, not liking to make the admission, his hand going instinctively to his stolen collar.
Ywain snapped, “Your thieving doesn’t interest me. Where did you get it?”
He pointed to Carse and Boghaz. “From them, Highness, when I picked them up.”
She nodded. “Fetch them aft to my quarters.”
She disappeared inside the cabin. Scyld, unhappy and completely bewildered, turned to obey her order, and Boghaz moaned.
“Oh, merciful gods!” he whispered. “That’s done it!” He leaned closer to Carse and said rapidly while he still had the chance, “Lie, as you never lied before! If she thinks you know the secret of the Tomb she or the Dhuvians will force it out of you!”
Carse said nothing. He was having all he could do to retain consciousness. Scyld called profanely for wine, which was brought. He forced some of it down Carse’s throat, then had him and Boghaz released from the oar and marched up to the afterdeck.
The wine and the sea wind up on deck revived Carse enough so that he could keep his feet under him. Scyld ushered them ungently into Ywain’s torchlit cabin, where she sat with the sword of Rhiannon laid on the carven table before her.
In the opposite bulkhead was a low door leading into an inner cabin. Carse saw that it was open the merest crack.
No light showed but he got the feeling that someone—something—was crouching behind it, listening. It made him remember Jaxart’s word and Shallah’s.
There was a taint in the air—a faint musky odor, dry and sickly. It seemed to come from that inner cabin. It had a strange effect on Carse. Without knowing what it was he hated it.
He thought that if it was a lover Ywain was hiding in there it must be a strange sort of lover. Ywain took his mind off that. Her gaze stabbed at him, and once again he thought that he had never seen such eyes. Then she said to Scyld, “Tell me—the full story.”
Uncomfortably, in halting sentences, he told her. Ywain looked at Boghaz.
“And you, fat one. How did you come by the sword?” Boghaz sighed, nodded at Carse. “From him, Highness. It’s a handsome weapon and I’m a thief by trade.”
“Is that the only reason you wanted it?”
Boghaz’ face was a model of innocent surprise. “What other reason could there be? I’m no fighting man. Besides, there were the belt and collar. You can see for yourself, Highness, that all are valuable.”
Her face did not show whether she believed him or not. She turned to Carse.
“The sword belonged to you, then?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I bought it from a trader.”
“Where?”
“In the northern country, beyond Shun.”
Ywain smiled. “You lie.”
Carse said wearily, “I came by the weapon honestly”—he had, in a sense—“and I don’t care whether you believe it or not.”
The crack of that inner door mocked Carse. He wanted to break it open, to see what crouched there, listening, watching out of the darkness. He wanted to see what made that hateful smell.
Almost, it seemed, there was no need for that. Almost, it seemed, he knew.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Scyld burst out, “Your pardon, Highness! But why all this fuss about the sword?”
“You’re a good soldier, Scyld,” she answered thoughtfully, “but in many ways a blockhead. Did you clean this blade?”
“Of course. And bad condition it was in, too.” He glanced disgustedly at Carse. “It looked as though he hadn’t touched it for years.”
Ywain reached out and laid her hand upon the jeweled hilt. Carse saw that it trembled. She said softly, “You were right, Scyld. It hadn’t been touched, for years. Not since Rhiannon, who made it, was walled away in his tomb to suffer for his sins.”
Scyld’s face went completely blank. His jaw dropped. After a long while he said one word, “Rhiannon!”
VIII. The Thing in the Dark
Ywain’s level gaze fastened on Carse. “He knows the secret of the Tomb, Scyld. He must know it if he had the sword.”
She paused and when she spoke again her words were almost inaudible, like the voicing of an inner thought.
“A dangerous secret. So dangerous that I almost wish…”
She broke off short, as though she had already said too much. Did she glance quickly at the inner door?
In her old imperious tone she said to Carse, “One more chance, slave. Where is the Tomb of Rhiannon?”
Carse shook his head. “I know nothing,” he said and gripped Boghaz’ shoulder to steady himself. Little crimson droplets had trickled down to dye the rug under his feet. Ywain’s face seemed far away.
Scyld said hoarsely, “Give him to me, Highness.”
“No. He’s too far gone for your methods now. I don’t want him killed yet. I must—take thought to this.”
She frowned, looking from Carse to Boghaz and back again.
“They object to rowing, I believe. Very well. Take the third man off their oar. Let these two work it without help all night. And tell Callus to lay the lash on the fat one twice in every glass, five strokes.”
Boghaz wailed. “Highness, I implore you! I would tell if I could but I know nothing. I swear it!”
She shrugged. “Perhaps not. In that case you will wish to persuade your comrade to talk.”
She turned again to Scyld. “Tell Callus also to douse the tall one with sea water, as often as he needs it.” Her white teeth glinted. “It has a healing property.”
Scyld laughed.
Ywain motioned him to go. “See that they’re kept at it but on no account is either one to die. When they’re ready to talk bring them to me.”
Scyld saluted and marched his prisoners back again to the rowers’ pit. Jaxart was taken off the oar and the endless nightmare of the dark hours continued for Carse.
Boghaz was crushed and trembling. He screamed mightily as he took his five strokes and then moaned in Carse’s ear, “I wish I’d never seen your bloody sword! She’ll take us to Caer Dhu—and the gods have mercy on us.”
Carse bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. “You talked differently in Jekkara.”
“I was a free man then and the Dhuvians were far away.”
Carse felt some deep and buried nerve contract at the mention of that name. He said in an odd voice, “Boghaz, what was that smell in the cabin?”
“Smell? I noticed none.”
“Strange,” Carse thought, “when it drove me nearly mad. Or perhaps I’m mad already.”