The Black Raven

by Katharine Kerr

  “And one more,” Owaen said, “for the troop’s general coffer. Consider it lwdd.”

  “May the gods piss upon you!” Oggyn snarled—but he paid.

  Still muttering, Oggyn trotted to the staircase on the far side of the great hall to the accompaniment of snickers and downright laughter from the servants and riders present. Owaen’s face had gone blank again, but he stood jingling the coins and watching the councillor hurry up the stairs.

  “Branoic’s good for somewhat after all,” Owaen said at last.

  “Truly,” Maddyn said. “I’m glad our new men found him easy to talk to.”

  “Where is he, anyway?” Owaen glanced around.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  The bard, however, was lying. Branoic was off courting the lady Lillorigga, and Maddyn knew it. He simply saw no reason to give Owaen anything more to hold over Branno’s head.

  Although Dun Deverry sported no proper gardens like those in Cerrmor, it did have a kitchen garden out in back of the cookhouses and storage sheds. In search of a little privacy, Lilli and Branoic found it one morning when the summer air hung warm and heavy. They sat down on a wood bench and breathed the scents of rosemary, sage, and spicy thyme. Branoic lounged back and laid one long arm on the bench back behind her. She could feel the warmth of it, it seemed, and she stared straight out ahead of her.

  In a little eddy of dust a big grey gnome appeared. He set his twiggy hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side like a miniature silver dagger. Lilli felt herself smiling, then stifled it. What if Branoic had noticed her watching invisible things? But when she glanced his way, she found him smiling as well, his eyes moving as the gnome strutted back and forth.

  “You see him,” she whispered.

  “Ye gods!” Branoic swung his head round to look at her. “So do you.”

  For a long moment they merely stared at each other, each a little aghast. I don’t know this man, Lilli thought. I thought I knew exactly what he was, but I was wrong!

  “Ah well,” Branoic said, and his voice was just barely above a whisper. “Either we’re both daft, or the cursed little things do exist after all.”

  “Not daft,” Lilli said. “Does Nevyn know you see them?”

  “He doesn’t, and I’ll beg you, my lady, to never let him know. Or anyone else, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean why not?” Branoic turned on the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. “Should be cursed obvious.”

  “It isn’t.”

  He scowled at her, and then, without any reason that she could see, they both burst out laughing.

  “Well, I do understand,” Lilli said. “I shan’t say a word to anyone. I was just teasing you.”

  “I’d rather have teasing from you than flattery from any other lass.” All at once he turned solemn. “We’re riding out tomorrow. Will you miss me?”

  Because he deserved an honest answer, she considered her feelings while he waited, watching her solemnly.

  “I will,” she said at last. “It aches my heart, having someone to fear for, but I do worry about what could happen to you. Please ride back again?”

  “If my Wyrd allows it, I will. And you stay safe for me.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  For a moment they sat smiling at each other. She thought that he might kiss her, but he rose and bowed instead.

  “Shall we walk back, my lady? I’d not have anyone speaking scandal about you.”

  “My thanks, but I doubt if they would.” She rose to join him. “I’m not important enough.”

  “Well, most likely that’s a blessing, you know.”

  “True spoken.”

  When he offered her his arm, she slipped hers through it, and they walked together back to the great hall. At the door, however, she heard Nevyn calling her name and turned to see the old man striding toward them. His energy always amazed her; with his white hair and frog-spotted skin he looked ancient in repose, but when he moved, he seemed more vigorous than many a young warrior. She gave Branoic’s arm a pat, then pulled hers free.

  “You go on in,” Lilli said. “Nevyn seems to need me for somewhat.”

  “Well and good, then, my lady.” Branoic bowed to her. “It’s doubtless best that the noble-born don’t see us together, anyway.”

  Nevyn did indeed wish to speak with her, as it turned out. Cautioning secrecy, he escorted her up to her new chamber, where the maids had finished tidying up her things. Lilli sat down on the chair while Nevyn perched on the wide windowsill.

  “I need you to put your memory to the test,” Nevyn said. “About your mother.”

  “Very well.” Lilli folded her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking.

  “I hate to distress you, but this could be extremely important.”

  “Oh, I do understand. I just hate thinking about the way—the way she died.”

  “No doubt.” Nevyn hesitated, his ice-blue eyes sympathetic. “But did she ever talk with you much about her dweomer workings?”

  “At times, my lord, and Brour did let things slip now and then.”

  “Good. Did either of them ever mention that she talked with spirits? Or to be precise, one particular spirit, who would have appeared to her as a woman.”

  “I don’t think so, although—wait.” Lilli paused, letting her mind wander around an image of her mother, sitting in a candlelit room and speaking. “She did mention once that she had seen a ghost walking these halls, a woman dressed in mourning.”

  “Indeed? Go on.”

  “Brour remarked that a lot of women had died miserably here, in childbed and suchlike, and my mother laughed and agreed.”

  “Laughed?”

  “Well, it was one of those ghastly nervous laughs. She didn’t see any humor in it or suchlike. And then she said that mayhap she’d try to find out what the poor restless soul wanted. But that’s all I remember.”

  “It may very well be enough. My thanks.” Nevyn rose, glancing at the table and the book lying upon it. “I’d like you to work upon your studies this afternoon. We have much to cover before I leave with the prince and his army.”

  When Prince Maryn rode out the next day, he left over half of his army behind on fortguard. As much as he wanted to make an overwhelming show of force, the full contingent of four thousand men would travel too slowly. Time and supplies both were running out. Every day the night fell a little faster. If they stripped much more food from the countryside, farm families would begin to starve, and then, as Nevyn was quick to point out, who would grow the next crop? The vassals talked openly of riding home to their own lands as soon as the prince would allow.

  “If Braemys meets us on the road, well and good,” Maryn told Nevyn. “If not, we won’t be able to ride all the way to Cantrae, and we couldn’t mount a siege if we got there, and I suspect he knows that as well as I do.”

  “No doubt,” Nevyn said. “It’s a pity, though. I can’t help wondering how many of your newest allies will come to your muster in the spring.”

  “Some, certainly. More than we had before, which will mean Braemys will have less, and that will be all to the good. Even if they all desert, what will it amount to? Another five hundred riders, more or less, and we’ll still outnumber Braemys handily. I doubt if any of the northern lords will strip their fortguards for the Boar cause again.”

  “Now that’s true spoken. Well, it’s in the laps of the gods now.”

  For three days the army travelled northeast, following the main road that led from Dun Deverry to Cantrae. Every dun they passed belonged to one or another of the prince’s new allies. At each, the lord who held it would open the gates to the prince himself and greet him by grasping his stirrup in a show of fealty. These lords, Nevyn decided, were likely to hold true to Maryn’s cause—not because of their ritual greeting, but because their duns were too small and shabby to stand off an attack by the prince’s forces.

  The army was still a fair ways from Glasloc, a
nd it had just made camp for the night in a meadow, when the Cantrae herald returned. Nevyn heard the commotion among the camp guards and trotted out to see what was wrong. His beribboned staff in one hand, his black horse’s reins in the other, Avyr was walking into camp with two guards on either side of him.

  “Good morrow, good herald,” Nevyn said. “I trust you’ve got a message for the prince?”

  “Just so. If His Lordship would be so kind as to take me to him?”

  They found Maryn sitting in a chair in front of his tent with some of his lords standing nearby, talking over the day’s ride. Behind him, stiff at attention, stood Branoic and another silver dagger. A page boy took the herald’s horse, and Avyr bowed low to the prince.

  “Lord Braemys would have me speak to several points, Your Highness,” Avyr began. “First, if the Rams of Hendyr refuse to honor the betrothal of Lady Lillorigga, they then owe him twenty-five horses as lwdd for their offense.”

  Maryn laughed, one sharp bark of utter amazement. The men standing nearby either did the same or shook their heads in disbelief.

  “Your lord doesn’t lack for gall, does he?” Maryn said.

  “There’s naught I can say about that, Your Highness.”

  “Well, of course you can’t. What else does Lord Braemys wish me to hear?”

  Avyr hesitated, looking round the circle of lords. Nevyn had the distinct feeling that the man was wondering if he’d live out the night. At length he licked his lips and began.

  “Lord Braemys begs to point out, Your Highness, that as yet you are but Prince of Pyrdon and Gwerbret Cerrmor. He has received no word that the priests of Bel have declared you king. If such should happen, that is, if the priests should so declare, he begs you to send him a messenger with all speed so that he may reconsider your claim to be his liege lord.”

  Maryn’s face went dead-white, then reddened. The herald stepped back as if to put himself out of reach of a blow and nearly stepped on Gwerbret Daeryc’s feet. Daeryc patted him on the shoulder with the same motion he’d use to calm a nervous horse.

  “Here, here, lad,” Daeryc muttered. “Our prince is an honorable man. He doesn’t go about slaying heralds.”

  “Just so.” Maryn’s voice was more of a growl; he paused to collect himself with a pair of deep breaths. “Very well, good herald. Rest in our camp tonight, and on the morrow I’ll give you a message to take back to your lord the regent.”

  The news spread fast. Before Maryn could call for a council, it assembled itself as his noble-born allies came running to his tent. Nevyn had never seen Maryn so angry. The entire time he talked, he paced back and forth, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Yet there was little that anyone could suggest that would ease the situation or end it. After wrangling deep into the night, the lords disbanded at last to get some sleep, but for most of the night Maryn was awake, walking back and forth in front of his tent with a lantern in his hand. Toward dawn Nevyn gave up on sleep and went over to join him there.

  “My liege?” Nevyn said. “Is somewhat wrong?”

  “Naught,” Maryn said, yawning. “I’ve been thinking about my answer to Braemys, that’s all.”

  “I rather did assume you were.”

  “Oh of course.” Maryn suddenly grinned at him. “Do you remember a dream I had once, back when I was but a little child, and you’d just become my tutor? I dreamt that I was in a battle in Cantrae, and everyone was calling me the king of all Deverry.”

  “I do remember it, oddly enough. It was a very important dream.”

  “So it was, and you know, it looks like it’s going to come true.” Maryn yawned again, hugely, covering his mouth with both hands. “So, I told myself, I shouldn’t be surprised that Braemys is spoiling for a fight. It’s a thing of Wyrd for both of us, and there’s no arguing with Wyrd.”

  “So there’s not, Your Highness. And that said, I suggest you get some sleep.”

  In the morning, the camp slept late, but the prince was up before many of his men. After he’d eaten, Maryn called the herald and his allies as well to him to hear his answer. Avyr bowed, then stood ready to memorize.

  “Tell your lord this for me,” Mary said. “The high priest of Bel in Dun Deverry charged me with the holy task of bringing peace to the kingdom. If your lord refuses to make peace, then he defies the will of the gods themselves. If he surrenders now, the Boar clan will continue to hold the Cantrae rhan. Should he continue to defy the gods, he will lose it.”

  The herald winced and bowed for want of anything else he could do.

  “As for the other thing,” Maryn went on. “I cannot settle this matter betwixt him and Tieryn Anasyn of the Ram because Lord Braemys refuses to acknowledge me as heir to the kingship. Should he wish me to hold malover upon the matter, he may swear fealty to me, and then I’ll be happy to give him a fair hearing.”

  “So I shall tell him, Your Highness,” Avyr said. “Every word.”

  The prince, his councillor, and some of his lords walked with the herald to the edge of the camp, where a servant stood holding his black horse. Avyr bowed all round, mounted, and rode out fast. Maryn stood by the road and watched until the dust of his leaving had settled.

  “Cursed little bastard,” Maryn remarked. “And I don’t mean the herald.”

  “He’s much like his father,” Anasyn said. “There always was a lot of inbreeding among the Boars. My mother used to say that if they were dogs their kennelman would have to drown half their pups for having two tails.”

  “Braemys may not live to grow old, dog or not, if he keeps on like this. Not that I’ll be drowning him, exactly.” Maryn was glaring down the road as if he could see his enemy lurking on the horizon. “Pissproud little whoreson! He drew me out of Dun Deverry just to make us waste our days and provisions both.”

  “And to infuriate you,” Nevyn said. “Angry men don’t think as clearly as they might.”

  “Your point is well taken.” Maryn took another long deep breath. “Very well, my lords. Let’s get our men ready to ride. The sooner we return to the Holy City, the sooner you may all disperse to your own lands.”

  By the time the army left camp, the sun hung near its zenith. At the very head of the line rode two men carrying the Red Wyvern banners; next were Maryn and Nevyn, who generally rode beside the prince. Just behind them came the silver daggers, with Owaen and Maddyn at their head. Branoic rode about halfway back in the troop, out of reach of Owaen’s sarcasm. Although he understood why Caradoc had made Owaen his heir, he didn’t have to like it. Ever since he’d taken over, Owaen had made Branoic’s life miserable—assigning him the worst duties, giving him the worst horses, chewing him out over every petty thing he could find. It was time, Branoic decided, to ask the prince for that boon he’d promised. Although he never would have left the silver daggers while Caradoc lived, Caradoc was riding in the Otherlands these days. Branoic decided that he’d rather be cursed than ride under Owaen for another summer’s fighting.

  With such a late start the army didn’t get far. They camped in fallow fields near a stream that fed into a farmer’s duck pond. Although a couple of the silver daggers speculated about those ducks and how easy they’d be to catch, the prince himself forbade the stealing of a single one.

  “And not a single apple from that tree, either,” Maryn said. “Pass the word around the riders, will you? We’ve taken enough from my people, and we’re not taking any more.”

  Once the silver daggers had pitched their tents, Owaen strolled through their section of the camp and assigned guard duty. Branoic wasn’t in the least surprised that he drew the middle watch—the worst, as it broke a man’s sleep and then sent him back to his blankets with only a few hours left before dawn. Oddly enough, though, in the event he would be grateful to Owaen.

  In the dark of the night, when his predecessor woke him, Branoic went to Maryn’s tent to stand guard. Yawning and shivering in the chilly air, he stood outside the tent-flap on the off chance, he supposed, that an enemy would manage
to creep unseen and unheard through an army of several thousand to murder the prince. He had just taken up a comfortable stance when he heard Maryn moving around inside. In a few moments more the prince came out to join him.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Maryn remarked. “I’ve been having trouble that way, of late.”

  “That saddens my heart to hear, Your Highness,” Branoic said. “Can’t Nevyn brew you up some herbs?”

  “He won’t. I did ask, but he says a man gets used to them after a while and then can’t sleep without them.”

  “Well, then, they sound a bit dangerous.”

  For a few moments they stood looking up at the clear sky, where the Snowy Road glittered and the bright stars hung like candles in a vast lantern. By the sky’s light Branoic could distinguish the dark shapes of the tents, spread out through the silent camp, and beyond them the supply wagons.

  “Excuse me, Your Highness,” Branoic said. “I’ll just be taking a look round back, like.”

  Maryn nodded his permission. Branoic glanced this way and that as he strolled around the tent, found nothing, then paused for a moment. He had a clear view, between two straight rows of tents, of the tethered horses in the distant meadow. Something—someone—was moving among them. Several someones, and he saw a glint of light that might have come from a knife. Branoic yelled the alarum at the top of his lungs.

  “Guards! Wake up! Raiders!”

  He kept screaming until he could see and hear others rousing. Since his first duty lay with the prince, he started round the tent only to find Maryn coming to meet him and buckling on his sword belt as he moved.

  “Let’s go!” Maryn was laughing. “We’ll spread the alarum!”

  They both drew their weapons, then ran, yelling like banshees through the camp. By then they were part of a mob, men half-dressed and half-awake, waving swords as they rushed to defend their mounts. Out in the meadow they found chaos. Panicked horses raced away, trailing cut tether ropes, whilst others reared neighing as they tried to pull their tethers and run. Over the general noise Branoic heard one he recognized all too well.