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the snows come, but these spirits are a harmless sort. All that talk about demons is simple exaggeration. The folk around here are starved for a bit of color in their lives.”
    “Are they now? Uh, here, good sir, just how long have I been here, anyway?”
    “Oh, a fortnight. You lay in a fever for a wretchedly long time. The wound went septic. When I found you, there were flies all over it.”
    Maddyn picked up his spoon and grimly went on eating. The sooner he got the strength to leave this spirit-plagued place, the better.
     
    As the wound healed, Maddyn began getting out of bed for longer and longer periods. Although Nevyn had thrown away his blood-soaked clothes, Maddyn had a spare shirt in his saddlebags, and the old man found him a pair of brigga that fit well enough. One of the first things he did was unwrap his ballad harp and make sure that it was unharmed. With his right arm so weak, he couldn’t tune it, but he ran his fingers over the sour, lax strings to make sure they still sounded.
    “I’m surprised that Lord Brynoic would risk a bard in battle,” Nevyn remarked.
    “I’m not much of a bard, truly, more a gerthddyn who can fight, know a good many songs and suchlike, but I never studied the triads and the rest of the true bard lore.”
    “And why not?”
    “Well, my father was a rider in our lord’s warband. When he was killed, I was but thirteen, and Lord Brynoic offered me a place in the troop. I took it to avenge my father’s death, and then, well, there never was a chance to study after that, since I’d given my lord my pledge and all.”
    “And do you regret it?”
    “I’ve never let myself feel regret. Only grief lies that way, good sir.”
    Once he was strong enough, Maddyn began exploring the old man’s strange home, a small complex of caves and tunnels. Beside the main living quarters, there was another stone room that the herbman had turned into a stable for his horse, Maddyn’s, and a fine brown mule. The side of that room crumbled away, leading back to a natural cave, where a small spring welled up, then drained away down the side of the hill. Just outside the stable door was the gully that had given Brin Toraedic its name of “broken hill,” a long, straight cleft slicing across the summit. The first time he went outside, he found the air cold in spite of the bright sun, and the chill worked in his wound and tormented him. He hurried inside and decided to take Nevyn’s word for it that winter was well on its way.
    Since the herbman had plenty of coin as well as these elaborate living quarters, Maddyn began to wonder if he were an eccentric nobleman who’d simply fled from the civil wars raging across the kingdom. He was far too grateful to ask such an embarrassing question, but scattered across the kingdom were plenty of the noble-born who weaseled any way they could to get out of their obligations to the various gwerbrets claiming to be king of all Deverry. Nevyn had a markedly courtly way about him, gracious at times, brusque at others, as if he were used to being obeyed without question. What’s more, he could read and write, an accomplishment rare for the simple herbman he claimed to be. Maddyn began to find the old man fascinating.
     
    Once every few days, Nevyn took his horse and mule and rode down to the nearby village, where he would buy fresh food and pack in a mule load of winter supplies: hay and grain for the stock, or cheeses, sausage, dried fruit, and suchlike for the pair of them. While he was gone, Maddyn would do some share of the work around the caves, then sleep off his exertion. On a gray morning with a sharp wind, Nevyn mentioned that he’d be gone longer than usual, because one of the village women needed his healing herbs.
    After the old man left, Maddyn swept the stable refuse into the cully, then went back for a rest before he raked it out onto the hillside. He laid a bit more wood on the hearth, then sat down close by to drive the chill from his