Bristling Wood by Katharine Kerr Read Free Book Online

that, all of you!” Nevyn yelled from the door. “That’s a wretched discourteous way to treat our guest!”
    The little fingers disappeared. The fire fell low, as if in embarrassment. Maddyn felt like weeping in relief as the herbman strode in, carrying a pair of saddlebags.
    “Truly, it was a nasty way to behave,” Nevyn went on, addressing the seemingly empty air. “If you do that again, then Maddyn won’t ever play his harp for you.”
    The room went empty of presences. Nevyn tossed the saddlebags down on the table and gave Maddyn a grin. With shaking hands, Maddyn set his harp down and wiped the sweat from his face on his sleeve.
    “I should have warned you about that. They love music. My aplogies, lad.”
    Maddyn tried to speak, failed, and sat down heavily on the bench. Behind him, a harp string twanged. Nevyn scowled at the air beside it.
    “I said stop it!”
    A little puff of wind swept away.
    “Aren’t you going to ask me a few questions, Maddyn lad?”
    “To tell you the truth, I’m afraid to.”
    The old man laughed under his breath.
    “Well, I’ll answer anyway, question or no. Those were what men call the Wildfolk. They’re like ill-trained children or puppies, all curiosity, no sense or manners. Unfortunately, they can hurt us mortal folk without even meaning to do so.”
    “I gathered that, sure enough.” As he looked at his benefactor, Maddyn realized a truth he’d been avoiding for days now. “Sir, you must have dweomer.”
    “I do. How does that strike you?”
    “Like a blow. I never thought there was any such thing outside of my own ballads and tales.”
    “Most men would consider me a bard’s fancy, truly, but my craft is real enough.”
    Maddyn stared, wondering how Nevyn could look so cursed ordinary, until the old man turned away with good-humored laugh and began rummaging in his saddlebags.
    “I brought you a bit of roast meat for your supper, lad. You need it to make back the blood you lost, and the villager I visited had some to spare to pay for my herbs.”
    “My thanks. Uh, when do you think I’ll be well enough to ride out?”
    “Oho! The spirits have you on the run, do they?”
    “Well, not to be ungrateful or suchlike, good sir.” Maddyn felt himself blush. “But I . . . uh . . . well . . . ”
    Nevyn laughed again.
    ‘No need to be ashamed, lad. Now as to the wound, it’ll be a good while yet before you’re fit. You rode right up to the gates of the Otnerlands, and it always takes a man a long time to ride back again.”
    From that day on, the Wildfolk grew bolder around Maddyn, the way that hounds will slink out from under the table when they that their master’s guest is fond of dogs. Every time Maddyn picked up his harp, he was aware of their presence—a liveliness in the room, a small scuffle of half-heard noise, a light touch on his arm or hair, a breath of wind as something flew by. Whenever they pinched or mobbed him, he would simply threaten to stop singing, a threat that always made them behave themselves. Once, when he was struggling to light a fire with damp tinder, he felt them gather beside him. As he struck a spark from his steel, the Wildfolk blew it into a proper flame. When he thanked them automatically, he realized that he was beginning to take spirits for granted. As for Nevyn himself, although Maddyn studied the old man for traces of strange powers and stranger lore, he never saw any, except, of course, that spirits obeyed him.
    Maddyn also spent a lot of time thinking over his future. Since he was a member of an outlawed warband, he would hang if Tieryn Devyr ever got his hands on him. His one chance at an honorable life was slim indeed. If he rode down to Cantrae without the tieryn catching him, and then threw himself upon the gwerbret’s mercy, he might be pardoned simply because he was something of a bard and thus under special protection in the laws. Unfortunately, the pardon was unlikely, because it would depend on his