That night, when the moon was at its zenith, Primilla panted up the stone steps to join Avascaen on top of the tower. She helped lay the second load of wood on the beacon, then strolled over to the edge of the tower for a look at the view. Far down below them, the full moon was laying a silver road across the rippled sea, stretching out to the featureless horizon. In the clear spring air the stars seemed to be a mere arm’s reach high.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Avascaen said. “But few bother to come up for a look, except for me and my lads.”
“You must have strong legs, good sir, from all these cursed steps.”
“Oh, you get used to it in a bit, truly.”
As the fresh wood caught, gold light danced around them. Primilla leaned comfortably on the stone guardrail and contemplated the beach far below, where breakers rolled in like silver ghosts.
“Now, begging your pardon and all,” Avascaen said, “but it’s a rare thing to find a woman traveling alone. Aren’t you afraid of danger on the roads?”
“Oh, I can take care of myself when I have to,” Primilla said with a chuckle. “And besides, there’s not a lot of folk out here to give me trouble. It’s worth the trip, truly, to poke about in the woodlands and find my plants. You see, I’ve been a dyer all my life, learning my trade young, practicing it for many a year now. I’ve learned enough to try this plant or that, like, and find better colors for my guild. We’ll study what I’ve brought back, make up some bits of cloth dyed with it, and see how it washes and all. You never know when you’ll find somewhat worth a small fortune.” She held up her discolored hands. “Here’s my whole life, good sir, stained right into my skin.”
Since Avascaen was a great believer in taking pains to do things right, he could see her point. But occasionally, after Primilla was long gone, he would remember the woman with blue hands and wonder what she’d been up to.
The king’s city of Abernaudd spanned the Elaver some two miles upstream of the seacoast and the harbor. Behind ramparted stone walls, cobbled streets marched up and down terraced hills. At the top of the highest hill stood the royal dun, flying the blue-and-silver banner of the Dragon throne, while down in the valley huddled the stinking, close-packed huts of the poor. In Abernaudd how high up one lived showed literally how high one stood on the social scale. As head of the dyers’ guild, Primilla lived on the crest of a low hill in a spacious compound that came with her position. With her in the three-story roundhouse lived her five apprentices, who waited on her to earn their training. Out in back in the cobbled yard stood long sheds, housing the master workrooms of the guild. The cloth dyed there under her personal supervision went to the royal household for the guild’s taxes.
Although Primilla had indeed found rare dye plants on her trip to Cannobaen, she was annoyed at having to take the time away from guild affairs. Her duty to the dweomer, however, always took precedence over her duty to the dyers. When Nevyn had asked for her help, she could never have refused her old teacher in the magical arts. Although he had yet to tell her the reasons for his interest in the affairs of Mael, prince of Aberwyn and Cannobaen, she was willing to poke around and learn what she could. Now that she’d discovered that Cannobaen still stood loyal to him, she could concentrate on the more important matter of the prince’s standing in court.
As so often seemed to be the case, Nevyn had asked his questions at exactly the right time. This summer Primilla would have plenty of access to court circles, because the king was asking the city guilds for an enormous loan to continue his bid for the Deverry throne. Although normally the noble-born sneered at commerce, whenever the king needed hard coin, the guildsmen and merchants found themselves being courted by all the best people. The very night after her return, Primilla had the first of many meetings called by the guilds and merchants to select representatives to go to the palace for the actual haggling. Since she wanted the job, she got a place on the council easily. Although the merchants vied for the positions, few of the craftspeople could afford the time away from their work.
Finally, after a week of meetings and lobbying, the guild commission of five, with Grotyr the moneylender at their head, met with four of the king’s councillors in a narrow chamber on the second floor of the royal broch, while a scribe from each side took careful notes. Primilla was expecting a session of hedging and fencing, but the king’s chief councillor, a dark-eyed, paunchy fellow named Cadlew, flatly announced that the king wanted a thousand gold pieces.
“Ye gods!” Grotyr sputtered. “Do you realize, good sir, that the guilds would go bankrupt if such a loan wasn’t repaid promptly?”
Cadlew merely smiled, because everyone in the room knew that Grotyr was lying. While the haggling got under way in earnest, Primilla was pondering the size of the loan. If the king needed that much coin, it seemed that he was planning a major offensive, and such boded ill indeed for the captive prince in Cerrmor. The meeting ended inconclusively, as everyone knew that it would. As the guilds-people were leaving, Primilla lingered and asked Cadlew if he had a moment to show her the royal gardens.
“Of course, good dame. Doubtless they would interest you.”
“It’s quite a treat for me to see flowers whole, since my work mostly shreds and boils them.”
With a pleasant laugh he led her off round the broch. A low brick wall, there to keep horses out, set off a complex of tiny lawns twined round with flower beds, like green jewels set in colored wires. They passed a pleasant quarter hour discussing the various flowers before Primilla felt she could make her move.
“You know,” she said, “a while back I was hunting for rare plants near the western border, and I happened to stop at Cannobaen; you know, Prince Mael’s country lodge.”
“Ah. Do they even remember the prince out there?”
“Oh, very well, indeed. A sad thing, Mael’s Wyrd. I can’t help thinking that this loan means the king’s going to cut him adrift.”
“For your ears only, good dame, but you’ve guessed right enough. Our liege should have let Mael hang and got on with the war years ago, but the Princess Maddyan pleaded and kept her husband’s case alive. Since she was raised here at court, the king always thought of her as a daughter.”
“But now the princess is dead.”
“Just so.”
“And what of Mael’s son?”
“Well, out of honor, Ogretoryc pleads for his sire, but ye gods, the lad was newborn when his father rode away. How long can a man be sentimental over someone he’s never met?”
Especially when he stands to inherit that someone’s place, Primilla thought to herself. It was time, she decided, to take some direct action rather than hoping for more hints from injudicious councillors. Later in the week she selected several skeins of her finest blue embroidery threads and sent them as a gift to Ogretoryc’s wife, Laligga. Her woad-dyed blue was always in great demand, because only a master dyer could ensure that the entire skein came out an exactly even color. The gift earned her an audience with the lady on the next afternoon that Primilla came to court.
A page escorted her to a surprisingly small chamber on the third floor of one of the side brochs. Although the room was luxuriously furnished with carpets and cushioned chairs, it had a poor view out the one window. Laligga, a pretty blond lass of sixteen, received Primilla alone instead of in the company of the serving woman that would have marked high status. Her only companion was a little terrier, who sat on her lap and growled at intervals throughout the interview.
“My thanks for the fine thread, good dame. It will be put to good use on one of my husband’s shirts.”
“Then, my lady, I’m most honored.”
With a smile Laligga gestured at a padded footstool near her chair. Primilla obligingly sat down and let the lady look her over.
“I’ve spent my whole life at court,” Laligga remarked. “I doubt me if this gift is only a sweet thoughtfulness on your part. What sort of favor do you want from my husband?”
“A very small one. I only w
ant him to be aware of my existence. You see, out on the western border are some very rare dye plants. I’d eventually like our guild to have the right to hunt for them, even though the Aberwyn guild has first claim. After all, the prince controls both Aberwyn and Cannobaen.”
“Prince? He’s hardly a prince yet.”
“Well, more a prince than his father is, considering the circumstances.”
Abruptly, Laligga rose, placing the dog on the floor. When she paced to the window, the terrier kept close to her skirts.
“Have I upset my lady?” Primilla said. “My humble apologies.”
“It’s just that you’ve reminded me of the truth. No one knows what my husband is or what’s open to us. I don’t suppose you ever met the Princess Maddyan.”
“I never had that honor, truly, but I heard that she was a sweet and devoted wife.”
“She was. Everyone adored her, but look at all the good it ever did her. I felt so sorry for her, and now she’s dead.”
“And by all rights, you should have her rank.”
“I have no rank at all, good dame, until my father-in-law is dead. Oh, that sounds so horrible of me, but I’m just so frightened. The same thing could happen to me as happened to Maddyan, just sitting around the court, with no influence or anything, and the king doesn’t even like me the way he likes her.”
“I can understand my lady’s fears.”
Primilla understood something else, too; although Ogretoryc had never met his father, he saw his wife every night. She decided that she had best contact Nevyn straightway through the fire and tell him what poisoned grain she’d gleaned.
As King Glyn’s most trusted councillor, Nevyn had rights far beyond those of the usual courtier. As soon as he finished talking with Primilla, he went to the royal apartments without so much as sending a page ahead of him. In the past he’d often wondered if it were a right thing to tell the king military information gleaned by dweomer. Now that he had some to offer, he decided that it was, simply because Eldidd’s claim to the throne was so weak that he was clearly a usurper. He found a visitor there ahead of him, Prince Cobryn, now the leader of the King’s Guard. At twenty-one Cobryn was tall, slender, and handsome, looking so much like Dannyn that at times Nevyn and the king found it painful to look at him.
“Is your business urgent, my lord?” Cobryn said. “I can retire from our liege’s presence.”
“Urgent it is, but it concerns you, too.” Nevyn bowed to Glyn, who was standing at the hearth. “Eldidd is taking out an enormous loan from the guildmasters of Abernaudd. I can think of only one place he’d want to spend so much coin: our borders.”
“So! I was wondering how long we could milk tears for one prince out of three. Well, Cobryn, that means we’ll have to change our plans for the summer’s fighting. Huh. I’ll wager Eldidd was going to have his warband over our border before we received the formal message of disclamation. And I don’t need dweomer to tell me that.”
“Just so.” Cobryn laughed, a cold wolf’s mutter under his breath. “But we’re going to have a surprise waiting for the bastards.”
“My liege,” Nevyn broke in, “are you going to make good your threat and hang Prince Mael?”
Glyn rubbed his chin with the back of his hand while he thought the matter over. Always heavy, his face had turned square and stout with age, and a florid color lay across his cheeks.
“It would ache my heart to hang a helpless man, but Eldidd may leave me no choice. I’ll do naught till I have the formal renouncement in my hand. Eldidd might change his mind, but there’s no bringing the prince back from the dead once he’s hanged.”
That very week Prince Cobryn led five hundred men along the coast road to the Eldidd border, and they were supported by grain ships and war galleys. After an anxious three weeks, messengers returned; they’d fought a major victory over a very surprised Eldidd army. Two days later a herald arrived from the king of Eldidd with a letter formally renouncing Mael and putting his son, Ogretoryc, in his place. Nevyn went up straightaway to inform Mael.
He found the no-longer prince sitting at his writing desk, stacked with the prisoner’s beloved books and scattered with pieces of parchment, the beginnings of Mael’s commentary on the Ethics of the Greggyn sage, Ristolyn. Nevyn was sure that the commentary would be excellent, if only Mael lived to finish it. When Mael rose to greet him, the sun caught the thick streaks of gray in his raven-dark hair.
“I’ve got some cursed bad news for you,” Nevyn said.
“I’ve been renounced?” He spoke flatly, even dryly. “I thought that was in the wind when I heard the guards talking about war on the border.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.”
“Well, Ristolyn’s ideas about virtue are going to stand me in good stead. It seems that the entire goal or end of my life has been to make a good death down in the market square. I’d say that fortitude would be the most appropriate virtue to that end, wouldn’t you?”
“Listen. You’re not going to hang if I have one cursed word to say about it.”
“Then that gives me hope. I suppose it’s hope. Maybe it would be better to hang and ride free in the Otherlands than sit here and molder. You know, I’ve been here longer than I was a prince in Eldidd. Fancy that. Over half my life as Glyn’s guest.”
“I’ll wager the freedom of the Otherlands won’t look so attractive when the executioner’s putting a noose around your neck. I’ll return as soon as I’ve spoken to the king.”
It was late in the afternoon before court affairs would allow Nevyn to have a private word with his liege. They walked out to the walled garden behind the broch. By the ornamental stream a willow tree trailed long branches in the water; the roses were thick with blood-red blooms, the only touch of color in the tiny park land, carefully tended to look untended.
“I’ve come to intercede for Mael’s life, my liege,” Nevyn said.
“I thought you might. I’m half minded to release him and let him go home, but I see no way that I can, none. He’d be a bitter enemy there, and worst of all, how would Eldidd interpret my mercy? As a weakness, no doubt, and I can’t afford that. It’s the honor of the thing.”
“My liege is right about not being able to release him, but he might be useful again in the future.”
“He might, but again, will Eldidd take it as weakness?”
“The gods will count it as strength. Whose good opinion does my liege value more?”
Glyn plucked a rose, cupped it in his callused, broad palm, and considered it with a slight frown.
“My liege?” Nevyn said. “I’ll outright beg you for his life.”
With a sigh Glyn handed him the rose.
“Done, then. I can’t deny you that after all you’ve done for me. Eldidd has a clutch of heirs like a sly old hen, but who knows? The day may come when he’ll regret disclaiming Mael.”
Since she enjoyed the favor and patronage of the king’s most important councillor, Gavra’s herb business had prospered down in the city. She now owned her own house and shop in the merchant’s quarter and made plenty of coin to support herself and her two children, Ebrua and Dumoryc, the prince’s bastards. For years Gavra had endured gossip branding her as a slut who had children by any number of men she fancied. She preferred it to having her children slain as heirs to an enemy line. Now that Mael was formally disclaimed, she considered telling the children the truth, but it was pointless. Even though he lived not two miles away, they had never even seen their father.
She supposed that the men who guarded Mael knew perfectly well that she was his mistress, but they held their tongues, partly out of masculine sympathy for Mael’s dull life, but mostly because they were terrified of what Nevyn would do to them if they spilled the secret. When she went up to the tower room that particular day, they even congratulated her about Mael’s reprieve from the hangman.
As soon as she was inside, she flung herself into Mael’s arms. For a moment they merely held each other tightly, and she coul
d feel him shaking.
“Thank every god you’re going to live,” she said at last.
“I’ve been doing a good bit of thanking, truly.” He paused to kiss her. “Ah, my poor love, you deserve a proper husband and a happy life, not a man like me.”
“My life’s been happy enough, just knowing that you love me.”
When he kissed her again, she clung to him, feeling that they were two frightened children, clinging together in a dark full of nightmares. Nevyn will never let him hang, she thought, but oh, dear Goddess, how long can our dear old man live?
After three years of hard fighting, the Eldidd border war came to a stalemate when, in the middle of that summer, something happened for which none of the three sides was prepared: the province of Pyrdon rebelled against the Eldidd throne. Glyn’s spies, at a gallop, brought the news back that not only was it rebellion, but it looked to be a successful one. In Cwnol, formerly gwerbret of Dun Trebyc, the only large city in Pyrdon, the rebel forces had a leader so brilliant that his men whispered he was dweomer.
“Half of Pyrdon is still forest, too,” Glyn remarked. “He can have his men fade into the trees if they’re hardpressed, then fade right out again to attack in ambuscade. He seems to have a large force. Huh. I wonder if he’s getting coin from Cantrae.”
“I wouldn’t be in the least surprised, my liege,” Nevyn said. “And it would behoove us to send some, too.”
For the rest of that summer the Eldidd border stayed quiet, and by autumn it appeared that while Cwnol would be fighting for a long time, he had great chance of success. When Glyn sent the rebel messages, they went addressed to Cwnol, king of Pyrdon. As a final gesture Glyn betrothed Prince Cobryn’s six-year-old daughter to Cwnol’s seven-year-old son, a mark of royal honor that Cwnol repaid by increasing his raids into Eldidd. Yet even though the matter ended so well for the Cerrmor side, Nevyn was heartsick. As the endless war dragged on, the kingdom was torn into pieces.
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