“By all means. Let's go over. If I'm there Owaen will have to stop screaming like that.”
“Truly, and my thanks.”
Indeed the royal presence did bring Owaen to his senses. He fell silent and bowed to the princess, but he trembled all over, and his face had gone dead-white. Branoic was smiling, Bellyra suddenly realized, a wicked tight curve of his mouth, as if he were enjoying each and every moment of Owaen's rage.
“Your Highness.” Branoic bowed low. “Your husband has given me a splendid boon, and I'll thank you for it as well. I know you must have spoken with him about bestowing land upon me.”
“I did, and you're most welcome.” She turned to Owaen with as pleasant a smile as she could muster. “But what's so wrong, Captain?”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but your husband is going to make him a lord as well.”
“Of course.”
“But the blazon—forgive me—you wouldn't understand, Your Highness.”
“Oh ye gods!” Maddyn broke in. “He didn't give Branno the eagles back?”
“He did.” Owaen could barely force the words out. “Just that.”
Branoic tossed back his head and howled with laughter. With one smooth curve of his body Owaen turned and hit him so hard in the stomach that Branoic doubled over. Maddyn grabbed Owaen's arm, but he could hold him for only a brief moment—just long enough for Branoic to get his wind back.
“You bastard!” Branoic snarled.
Owaen shook Maddyn off and charged. Branoic met him with the slap of one huge hand, then swung on him with the other. Screaming curses, Owaen grabbed his shirt with both hands and shook him like a rat whilst Branoic pounded on his enemy's back. For a moment they swayed back and forth like drunken men; then Owaen tripped, and they both fell. Clasped in each other's arms they rolled around on the cobbles while they swore and kicked and punched each other. All Maddyn could do was dance around them and try to make himself heard.
“Stop it!” Maddyn was screaming. “Not in front of the princess! You cursed hounds, stop it!”
“Here!” It was Nevyn, running with all the speed and grace of a young man. “What—by Lord of Hell!”
Nevyn flung up one hand, then snapped it down with the gesture of a man throwing dice. Silvery-blue flames shot from his fingers and struck the cobbles with a crack like thunder and a burst of light. With a yelp the two wrestlers broke their holds and rolled a little way apart. Owaen sat up, rubbing his right eye, which was swelling shut. Maddyn darted forward and grabbed Branoic to keep him off his prey, but Branoic made no objection. He sat up, rested briefly, then got up and stood rubbing his bloody, bruised knuckles while he panted for breath. Owaen scrambled up after him. Dirt and muck smeared their white shirts and the rest of them as well.
“There,” Nevyn said mildly. “That's better. Now what's all this?”
“Prince Maryn gave Branoic his grant of land and letters patent today,” Maddyn said. “He gave Branoic the right to use eagles for his blazon.”
“And?” Nevyn said. “Oh wait. The feud. Ye gods, lads! When did it start? Over ten years ago at least!”
Branoic nodded, staring at the ground. Owaen started to speak, then suddenly turned to Bellyra and knelt. Blood ran down his cheeks. His face was so pale that it reminded her of a fish's belly.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” Owaen stammered. “For losing my temper like this in front of you. I meant no insult. Ye gods, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
If she didn't, Bellyra realized, Prince Maryn would have him flogged.
“Of course I forgive you,” she said hastily. “Do get up, Owaen! Branoic, I forgive you, too. But I'd much prefer never to see such again.”
“My lady is too generous.” Branoic ducked his head in her direction. “I'll do my best not to shame myself in front of her again.”
“Good. Don't. And now you owe me an explanation. What eagles?”
“It was my father's blazon, Your Highness,” Branoic said. “Not that I was ever a legitimate son of his. But when I joined the silver daggers, Owaen had me take it off my gear. It looked like his mark, says he—that falcon he puts on everything he owns.”
Owaen crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at the cobbles.
“And now my husband's given you an eagle blazon?” Bellyra thought for a moment. “Well, make them a different color. That's what the heralds did with the wyvern device, isn't it? The usurper's clan used green for theirs, and so we took the same wyvern but made it red.”
“My lady is as clever as she is beautiful,” Nevyn said. “Branoic?”
“A wise thought, Your Highness, and do it I will. Here. Owaen's falcon is red. What if I have a silver eagle? And I can have the heralds turn its head in the opposite direction, too.”
“Owaen?” Nevyn turned to the captain.
“That will suit, my lord.” Owaen looked up at last. “My apologies to you again, Your Highness.”
Bellyra collected her pages with a wave and turned to go. In the doorway to the main broch Lilli stood shading her eyes with one hand while she watched the scene in the ward. Yet when she saw Bellyra looking her way, she spun around and ran, disappearing into the shadows inside. Poor child! the princess thought. She's still terrified of me, and here I would have liked her so much if only she weren't Maryn's mistress.
“You've both had a silver dagger's luck,” Maddyn said. “The prince could have had you both flogged for this, fighting out in the ward like a pair of drunken bondmen.”
“True spoken,” Owaen mumbled. He was gingerly exploring his injured eye with dirty fingers. “I didn't know the princess would be right there.”
“You might have looked.” Maddyn turned to Branoic. “You too.”
Branoic shrugged and refused to look at him.
“Owaen?” Nevyn put in. “You'd better stop poking at that eye. Let the chirurgeon look at it. Tell him I said to make you up a poultice to draw the swelling off.”
“I will.” Owaen hesitated, then turned on his heel and strode off.
“Very well, lads,” Nevyn said. “I'd best be getting back to my chamber. I—” He stopped at the sight of Lilli, trotting across the cobblestones toward them. “So you've come down? No doubt you're worried about your betrothed.”
“I am, my lord,” Lilli said, “if you'll forgive me.”
“Of course. The memory work can wait till later.”
Nevyn left Branoic in Lilli's care and strode across the ward to the side broch that housed his tower room. He wondered if Lilli realized that Branoic had as much of a gift for dweomer as she did. Once the wars were done, and they married, he was planning on teaching both of them. Normally a dweomermaster could take only one apprentice at a time, but the circumstances were hardly normal. He owed Branoic a deep debt from an earlier life, when the person who was a burly silver dagger now had been not only a woman, but Nevyn's betrothed, Brangwen. I failed her so badly then, he thought. May the Great Ones grant that I may redeem myself now! Yet even though the thought carried the force of a prayer, no omen came to him, as if the matter lay beyond the power of the Great Ones to control.
Up in the big half-round room of the women's hall, warmth and comfort reigned. When Bellyra walked in, her maidservant took her cloak, curtsied, and hurried off to the bedchamber. Near the hearth, where a fire crackled, the princess's serving women rose to greet her. Through the wickerwork partition that separated the hall from the sleeping rooms, she could hear the nursemaid's voice, singing the two little princes to sleep for their nap.
“Your Highness, you look exhausted,” Degwa said. “Do you think it's wise, the way you climb around the towers and suchlike?”
“Most unwise, I'm sure,” Bellyra said. “But it's better than brooding about the baby and wondering what's going to happen to me once it's born.”
Degwa winced. Bellyra took her usual chair close to the fire, but she sat spraddled, propped up by cushions. Degwa sat opposite. Elyssa brought a cushioned stool for the
princess's feet, then fetched a chair for herself and placed it beside.
“My poor highness!” Degwa said. “You look so uncomfortable.”
“I am,” Bellyra said. “And tired, too.”
“It's all that climbing around in the dun,” Elyssa joined in. “Do you truly think you should, my lady?”
“You could quite wear yourself out,” Degwa said.
“You're both right enough,” Bellyra said. “But it gets tedious, sitting around all day. I don't know what I'm going to do when I finish my book.”
“That troubles me, truly,” Elyssa said. “But mayhap you'll think up another one. About the Holy City itself, say.”
“It's the oldest place in all Deverry, after all,” Degwa put in. “There must be splendid tales about it.”
“And all the legends, too,” Elyssa went on. “About King Bran and how he saw the white sow and all of that. It would make a lovely beginning.”
“Now there's a good idea!” Bellyra suddenly smiled. She could just see how to do the opening pages. “My thanks.”
Elyssa and Degwa glanced at each other, then away, as if perhaps they had planned this suggestion together. She should be grateful to them, Bellyra supposed. Yet she felt like snarling because they had reminded her of the birthing madness, prowling at the edge of her mind just as Braemys's army prowled at the borders of her husband's lands. It will be different this time, she told herself. She wished she could believe it.
The silence grew heavy around them. With a little shake of her head, Degwa stood up, stepping toward the hearth. In the firelight a silver brooch pinned to the left shoulder of her dress sparkled with a long glint of light.
“There's not a lot of firewood left, Your Highness. Shall I send one of the servants for more?”
“Please do,” Bellyra said. “Or wait! What's that on your dress, Decci?”
“A little gift.” Degwa smiled, glancing away. “From an admirer.”
“Not Councillor Oggyn?” Bellyra clapped her hands together. “It's quite pretty.”
“So it is,” Elyssa put in. “Is that real glass set in it?”
“It is.” Degwa's face had turned a pleasant shade of pink.
Elyssa and Bellyra exchanged a pointed glance that made Degwa giggle.
“If only he were noble-born!” Degwa said. “As it is, I can hardly count him a true suitor.”
“Oh, now here!” Bellyra said briskly. “After all the fine service he's paid our prince, who would scorn you if you should marry him?”
Degwa blushed again. She was no longer a lass, but certainly not an old woman, though she'd been widowed for many years now. With her dark curly hair and fine dark eyes, she was attractive, as well, despite her weak mouth and weaker chin.
“I'll take pity on you, Decci,” Elyssa said smiling, “and talk of somewhat else. Speaking of jewelry reminds me, Your Highness. I met Otho the smith down in the great hall this morning, after you'd left. He asked for news of you and sends his humble greetings.”
“How kind of him. I hope you told him I was well.”
“I did.”
“Good. I've always had an easy time of it with the babies. Until afterwards.”
“Oh, don't!” Elyssa leaned over and laid her hand on Bellyra's arm. “Don't think about it. Just don't.”
“You're right. I'll try not to.”
Bellyra wasn't able to say why this mention of Otho gave her the idea, but it occurred to her that afternoon to give Maddyn a token of some sort, a little trinket such as queens often bestowed upon favored courtiers, to take to the wars and bring him luck. That evening, she had Otho summoned and met him outside the door to the women's hall, while her serving women stood with her for propriety's sake.
“I want to give my bard a pin to match that silver ring,” Bellyra told the smith. “One with a rose design.”
“Easy enough to do, Your Highness,” Otho said. “I've still got a bit of silver left over from the—er well, let's just say I found it, like, after your husband took Dun Deverry.”
“I don't want to know any details.”
“Just as well, Your Highness. I'll get right to work on that.”
“My thanks, good smith.”
All smiles, Otho bowed, then stumped down the corridor to the stairway. Degwa waited till he was well out of earshot.
“Your bard, Your Highness?” Degwa raised an eyebrow.
“Well, my husband's, truly, but then, my husband was the one who set him guarding me.”
“Of course.” All at once Degwa blushed. “Er, ah, I'll just see if the servant girls have swept out your chamber. I asked them rather a long while ago, and they'd best have done it properly.”
Degwa turned and rushed back into the women's hall. Bellyra and Elyssa exchanged a weary smile, then followed her inside.
On a wet chilly morning Prince Maryn and his councillors assembled in the main ward. With them stood young Prince Riddmar, Maryn's half brother, who would receive the Cerrmor rhan when Maryn became king. He was a lean child, Riddmar, blonde and grey-eyed like his brother, with the same sunny smile. At Nevyn's urging, Maryn had taken the boy on as an apprentice in the craft of ruling. Riddmar accompanied the prince everywhere these days, listening and watching as Maryn prepared to claim the high kingship of all Deverry.
This particular morning Maryn was sending off a message to the rebel lord, Braemys. For one last time the prince was offering him a pardon if he would only swear fealty—a small price, in the eyes of the prince and his councillors both. Gavlyn, the leader of the prince's heralds, knelt at Maryn's feet; he would be taking this message himself, rather than entrusting it to one of his men.
“His guards are waiting by the gates, my liege,” Nevyn said. “I've taken the liberty of providing our herald with an escort. The roads aren't safe.”
“I thought Braemys had taken all the bandits into his army,” Maryn said.
“He offered. Who knows how many took him up on it?”
“A good point. They may be as suspicious of him as he is of me.”
“True spoken.” Nevyn held up the long silver tube containing the prince's message and waved it vaguely at the sky. “I'd pray to the gods and ask them to make him take your pardon, but it would be a waste of breath.”
A fortnight later Nevyn's remark proved true when the herald returned. After the noon meal Nevyn was sitting at the table of honor with the two princes when Gavlyn strode into the great hall, still carrying his beribboned staff. Maryn rose and beckoned him over.
“I'm too impatient to send a page to summon him,” Maryn remarked, grinning. “Once I'm king I'll have to mind my formalities, I suppose.”
Nevyn nodded his agreement but said nothing. He was watching Gavlyn make his way through the crowded tables. Gavlyn walked fast, snapping at any servants in his path; he was scowling, Nevyn realized, more furious than he'd ever seen the man. As he passed, the men at each table fell silent so that it seemed he worked some dweomer spell to turn them all mute as he passed. By the time he reached the table of honor, the entire great hall, riders, servants, even the dogs, sat waiting in a deathly stillness to hear his news. When he started to kneel, Maryn waved him up.
“Stand, if you'd not mind it,” the prince said. “Your voice will carry better.”
“Very well, my liege.” Gavlyn turned toward the waiting crowd and cleared his throat.
Maryn picked up his tankard of ale and took a casual sip. Gavlyn raised his staff.
“Lord Braemys, regent to Lwvan, Gwerbret Cantrae in his minority, sends his greetings and this message,” Gavlyn paused, as if steadying himself. “He says: my ward, Lwvan of the Boar clan, is the closest living kin of King Olaen, once rightful high king of all Deverry, now dead, murdered by the usurper or mayhap his men. Therefore, Lwvan, Gwerbret Cantrae, is the true heir to Dun Deverry. Lord Braemys requests that Maryn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, keep the holding in good order till Lwvan rides to claim it at Beltane.”
Maryn's hand tightened so hard on the ta
nkard that his knuckles went white. “Is there any more?” Maryn's voice held steady.
“None, my liege. I thought it quite enough.”
Gavlyn lowered the staff and pounded it once upon the floor. His audience burst out talking, and rage flooded the great hall. The riders were cursing and swearing, the servants gabbled together, the message went round and round, repeated in disbelief. With a final bow, Gavlyn left the prince's presence. Maryn rose, glanced at Nevyn, then strode off, heading for the staircase. Young Riddmar got up and ran after him. More slowly Nevyn followed, and Oggyn joined him at the foot of the stairs.
“The gall,” Oggyn snapped. “My prince—”
Maryn pushed past him and started up, taking the stairs two at a time, too fast for Riddmar to keep up. Nevyn let Oggyn and the boy go ahead of him and paused, glancing around the crowd. He finally saw Owaen and Maddyn, standing at the rider's hearth. Getting their attention was even harder, but at last Maddyn did look his way.
“You and Owaen!” Nevyn called out. “Come with me!”
They found the prince in the council chamber, standing at the head of a long table with Oggyn to one side.
Afternoon sun spread over the polished wood and gilded the parchment maps lying upon it. In one smooth motion Maryn drew his table dagger and stabbed it into a map, right through the mark that signified Cantrae.
“That arrogant little pissproud bastard,” Maryn said, his voice still level. “I'll have his head on a pike for this.”
No one spoke. With a shrug the prince pulled his dagger free and sheathed it, then turned to them with his usual sunny smile.
“No doubt Lord Braemys planned to vex me,” Maryn said. “An angry man takes foolish risks.”
“Just so, my liege.” Oggyn bowed to him. “Most well said.”
“What gripes my soul the hardest,” Maryn went on, “was that reference to poor little Olaen. Ye gods, if I ever find the man who murdered that child, I'll hang him!”
Nevyn turned his attention to Oggyn, who was struggling to keep his face bland and composed despite its being beaded with sweat. Fortunately for Oggyn, Prince Maryn turned away and started for the door.
The Fire Dragon Page 2
