“So they can’t, true enough.” He forced out a smile of his own. The captain had insisted that he keep the truth to himself until they were miles from the dun. “Where’s young Branoic?”
“Here, sir.” Branoic came up, leading his horse into line. The lad was grinning as broadly as if they were going to some royal entertainment. “Let’s hope our enemies can fight well enough to give us some sport, huh? Ye gods, I thought I’d go mad this winter, shut up in the dun with naught to do but loll around and dice.”
“Listen to him!” Aethan rolled his eyes heavenward. “I’ll wager we get our fill of blood soon enough.”
The words stabbed Maddyn like an omen, but he kept smiling.
“Aethan, do me somewhat of a favor, will you? Ride with our young Branno here, and keep an eye on him.”
Although the lad bristled, as if to say he didn’t need such help, Aethan forestalled him with a friendly punch on the arm.
“I will, at that, at least until the fighting starts. Then he can keep an eye on me.”
They laughed, both as excited as young horses turned into pasture after a winter in the stables. The sight of them together wrung Maddyn’s heart for reasons that he hated to put into words, the one dark and grizzled, his oldest friend, the other blond and young, so new to his life that winter, and yet it seemed that he’d known Branoic for a hundred years. When the captain started yelling orders, the moment passed, but still, as they rode south, laying their false trail, Maddyn found himself brooding over it. It was a dangerous thing for a fighting man to care so deeply for his friends, especially when they were starting out on the bloodiest road they’d ever ridden.
“What’s so wrong with you?” Caradoc said abruptly. “Your bowels stopped or suchlike?”
“Oh, hold your tongue!”
“Listen to him! Feisty today, aren’t we?”
“My apologies, Carro. I hate lying at the best of times, and these are the worst. Saying farewell to Clwna, and her and the other women thinking we’ll be back in an eightnight or so—it ached my heart.”
“They’ll have to live with the truth just like the lads will. Listen to me, Maddo. Today we start a ride ordained by the gods themselves. Our petty little troubles are of no moment. None. Do you understand me?”
“I do, at that.” He shivered suddenly, just from the quiet way that Caradoc spoke of such grave things. “Well and good, then. A man’s Wyrd comes when it comes.”
“So it does, and ours is upon us now.”
Maddyn turned in the saddle to look at him and wonder all over again just who Caradoc had been, back in his other life before dishonor sent him down the long road. It occurred to him that at last he was going to find out—if, of course, they all lived long enough to ride through the gates of Dun Cerrmor.
Branoic was surprised at how little ground the silver daggers covered that afternoon. Even though the spring days were short, they could have made some twelve miles before sunset, but instead they stopped for their night’s camp on the banks of the Elaver just some five miles from the dun. Branoic tethered out his horse and Aethan’s while the elder man carried their gear to a campsite and drew them provisions from the pack train. As glad as he was to be out of the dun and riding, Branoic’s mood was dark that evening, and he swore at the horses for ducking their heads and grabbing grass while he was trying to change bridle for halter. He was disappointed, that was all, heartsick that he was stuck in Pyrdon instead of riding behind the true king on his journey to Cerrmor—or so he told himself. Since he’d never been an introspective man, the excuse rang true enough.
When he went back to the camp he found the troop settling in. Some men were spreading out their bedrolls; others were cursing flint and tinder as they struggled to light a fire. He found Maddyn and Aethan by a fire that was already blazing; although no one was sure why, it was common knowledge that fires always lit easily for the bard. As he walked up he felt his heart pounding in the strange way it did lately, a fearful sort of wondering as he looked over the campsite until he saw that Aethan had indeed dumped his gear there along with his own and Maddyn’s. That he would be allowed to camp with them was so welcome, such a relief, really, from his fear that he’d be put somewhere else, that he briefly thought of going elsewhere just to pretend that he didn’t care. Maddyn looked up with an easy smile, and he broke into a jog, drawn by that smile like a thirsty man to water.
“Does your horse need tethering, Maddo? I’ll do it for you.”
“Oh, I’ve already got him out. Are you lads hungry? We’d best eat now, because there might be a bit of a surprise later.”
“A what?” Aethan looked vaguely annoyed. “Talking in riddles again, are you?”
“It’s good for you, makes you exercise your wits. Well, what few wits you have, anyway.”
Aethan threw a fake punch his way and grinned. They had known each other so long that at moments like these Branoic’s heart ached from feeling that he was an outsider, some foreigner who would never know their private language.
“But I’m hungry, sure enough,” Aethan went on. “What about you, Branno? Care to gnaw on some of the king’s stale hardtack?”
“It’ll do, truly. Maybe when we’re raiding we can snag us a barrel of ale to wash this foul stuff down with.”
At that perfectly ordinary remark Maddyn looked sly, but Branoic let it pass. The bard would tell him his secret when he wanted to and not a minute before.
As it turned out, they didn’t have long to wait. Just as the sun was setting, they heard a guard shout from the outer limits of the camp and rose to see what the trouble was. Two men came riding toward them from the east, and as the setting sun washed them with gold, Branoic realized that it was the Marked Prince and the councillor. Beside him Aethan laughed, a crow of triumph.
“So we’re going to Cerrmor after all, are we? Well played, Maddo! They took us in good and proper with that fanfare and pomp in the ward this morning.”
Cheering, laughing, the entire troop left the camp and jogged down the road to meet their liege. Since he was acutely aware of his place as the newest man in the troop, Branoic lingered off to one side rather than shove his way forward to get near to the prince. Muttering under his breath, Nevyn made his way free of the mob and came over, leading his horse.
“Ye gods!” the old man snapped. “They’ll be able to hear all this shouting back in Dun Drwloc if it keeps up.”
“Well, sir, we were all cursed disappointed when we thought we wouldn’t be riding with the prince.”
“Were you now? An honorable sentiment, that. Now listen, lad. From now on Maryn is a silver dagger and naught else. No doubt Caradoc will impress that upon you all, but it won’t hurt to say it more than once.”
“Of course, good sir. I take it he’ll have a new name and suchlike?”
“He won’t.” Nevyn gave him a sly smile. “I decided that if our enemies saw through this ruse at all, they’d be expecting a false name, so he’ll just be Maryn. It’s a very common name in this part of the world.”
“Well, so it is, but—”
“Trust me, lad. There are times when the safest place to hide something is out in plain sight.” The smile faded, and he looked suddenly very weary. “I’ll pray that this is one of those times.”
“Well and good, then, sir. So will I.”
“My thanks. Oh, by the way, lad, I have a favor to ask of you and Maddo—and Aethan, too, of course. Can Maryn share your fire and generally camp with you?”
“Of course! Ye gods, we’ll all be honored beyond dreaming, good councillor.”
“No doubt, but please, do your best to treat him the way you’d treat any other man. He won’t take offense—he knows that his life depends on it.”
Branoic nodded his agreement, but mentally he was half-giddy with pride—not because the true king of all Deverry would be dining with him that night, but because Nevyn had somehow assumed that Maddyn and he formed a unit, a pair you co
uld take for granted. Me and Maddyn, he thought, it sounds right. Then he blushed, wondering why his heart was pounding so hard, the same way it did when he saw some pretty lass he fancied
Although he of course never explained them to Branoic or indeed any of the silver daggers, Nevyn had several tricks at his disposal to hide the prince. For one thing, he simply withdrew all the glamours that the elemental spirits had been casting over the boy, so that when he changed into the scruffy brigga and much-mended shirt that Caradoc had ready for him, all his supernatural air of power and magnetism vanished along with the fine clothes. For another, with Maryn’s complete cooperation he ensorcelled the prince and suggested to his subconscious mind that he had difficulty in speaking—though in nothing else. He also suggested that on a simple cue, the difficulty would vanish. Once he removed the ensorcellment, the suggestion took effect, and the prince who’d always held forth like the hero of an ancient epic now stammered as he struggled to find the right words to express a simple, routine thought. All of the silver daggers swore in amazement and said that they wouldn’t recognize him themselves if they didn’t know better, but they, of course, thought that the prince was merely acting a part.
Which in a way he always was, or, what was perhaps worse, the prince always lived his part in the strange epic that they were composing not with their words, but with their lives. At times, when he remembered the happy, charming little lad that Maryn once had been, Nevyn felt like a murderer. Over the years he had trained the prince so well that he’d stripped away all trace of the lad’s individuality, pruned and sheared him as ruthlessly as a gardener in the king’s palace shapes an ornamental hedge or splays a climbing rose over its trellis in order to torture it into an unnatural form. It was hard to tell at times whether Maryn was larger than life or smaller, a grand hero out of the Dawntime or a picture of a hero such as a Bardek illuminator would draw, all ink lines and thin colors. Either way, the kingdom needed him, not some all-too-human and complex man who would use the kingship rather than the kingship using him. Nevyn could only hope that in some future life either he himself or the Lords of Wyrd would make it up to Prince Maryn for slicing his personality away like the peel of an apple.
First, of course, they had to get the lad and his councillor safely to Cerrmor before he could be any kind of king. Nevyn figured out a way to hide himself, too. Since there had to be some reason for an old man to be traveling with a mercenary troop, he decided to pass himself off as a jewel merchant who’d paid the troop a fee for allowing him to ride in the safety of their numbers. He knew enough about precious stones to bring this ruse off, and since Casyl had given him what few royal jewels there were to take to the Cerrmor princess, he could use them as his stock-in-trade. The real danger now lay in their desperate need to keep up these ruses. Since working dweomer leaves obvious tracks on the etheric and astral planes for those who know how to look for them, Nevyn could use no dweomer at all until the prince was safely in Cerrmor territory—not one single spell, not even lighting a fire or scrying someone out. He’d also asked the kings of the elements to keep their people away from him and the prince, which meant that he was deprived of any danger warning that the Wildfolk might give him, too. After two hundred years of living wrapped round by dweomer, he felt naked, just as in one of those hideous dreams where you find yourself being presented to the High King only to realize that your skirts or brigga have somehow been left behind at home.
In the morning they had a more mundane problem to worry about, or at least, Nevyn profoundly hoped that it was mundane. They woke to a slate-gray sky and a western wind that smelt of spring rain, and just after noon the storm broke. Although the rain held steady, the wind dropped in a few hours. Nevyn agreed with the captain that they’d better keep riding as long as the roads were passable. What troubled him was wondering if the storm was a natural phenomenon or if some dark dweomerman had called it up. There was nothing he could do to find out without giving their ruse away, and much less could he fight back with dweomer.
That evening, when he shared a cold dinner with Caradoc, he had to force his eyes away from the campfire lest he start seeing the Wildfolk in it. Since the captain was wrapped in a black hiraedd of his own, they had an unpleasant meal of it until Nevyn decided to ease Caradoc’s mood.
“What troubles your heart, Captain? It must be a grave thing indeed.”
“Do I look as glum as that?”
“You do, truly.”
Caradoc sighed, hesitated, then shrugged.
“Well, good councillor—I mean, good merchant—I’ve just been wondering what kind of welcome I’m in for down in Cerrmor.”
“Well, the king’s pardoned you already—for all and sundry and in advance.”
“But I’d never hold him to it if it was going to cause him trouble, and it might. There’s a powerful lord who just might take umbrage at that kind of pardon, and I don’t want him stirring things up behind the prince’s back, like.”
“Oh.”
They sat in silence for a moment more.
“Ah horseshit!” Caradoc said abruptly. “What happened was this. I wasn’t welcome at home for a number of reasons that I’ll keep to myself, if you don’t mind and all, and my father found me a place in the warband of a man named Lord Tidvulc. Ever hear of him?”
“I haven’t, truly.”
“Well, he was decent enough in his way, but his eldest son was a slimy little tub of eel snot, not that you could tell his lordship that, of course. And so our young lordling—gods, I’ve almost forgotten his name—let me see, I think it was Gwaryn or Gwarc or suchlike—anyway, this little pusboil went and got a bondwoman with child. I guess he was enough of a hound to not mind the fleas. And then he had the stinking gall to try to kill her to keep the news from getting out! I happened to be passing by her hut, and luckily there werfc a couple of the lads with me for witnesses, because we heard the poor bitch screaming and sobbing as his noble lordling tried to strangle her. So I grabbed him and broke both his arms.” Caradoc looked shame-struck rueful. “Don’t know what came over me all of a sudden. She was only a bondwoman, but it rubbed me wrong, like.”
“I wouldn’t let myself feel shamed if I were you, Captain. Rather the opposite.”
Caradoc shrugged away the implied praise.
“So of course Lord Tidvulc had to kick me out of the warband. I got the feeling he didn’t want to, but it was his first-born son and all. The trouble is, his lordship was no young man when I left, all those years ago, and I’ll wager anything you please that his son’s the lord now.”
“And no doubt he’ll be less than pleased to see you? Hum, I see your point, but you know, he may be dead himself by now. There’s been plenty of fighting down Cerrmor way.”
“True spoken.” The captain looked a good bit more cheerful. “Let’s pray so, huh? Naught I can do about it now, anyway.”
For five days the silver daggers rode wet and slept that way, too, as they picked their way across Pyrdon, keeping to the country lanes and wild trails and avoiding the main-traveled roads. Although the mercenaries grumbled in the steady stream of foul oaths typical of men at arms, they stayed healthy enough, but Nevyn began to feel the damp badly. At times he needed help to stand in the mornings, and he could hear his joints pop and complain every time he mounted his horse. Even his dweomer-induced vitality had its natural limits. Just when he was thinking of dosing himself with some of his own herbs, the storm blew itself out, only to have the weather turn hot and muggy. The midges and flies came out in force and hovered above the line of march as thick as smoke. Finally, though, just on the next day, they reached the river that marked the Pyrdon border, and, at its joining with the Aver Trebyc, the only truly large town in the west.
At that time Dun Trebyc was a far different place from the center of learning and bookcraft that it is today. Although it was nominally in Cantrae-held territory, and its lord sent some small tribute to reinforce the fiction, in truth it was a free city
and scrupulously neutral, a town where spies from both sides mingled to the profit of both or neither, depending on how many were lying at any given time. Since it was also a place where everyone went armed, and mercenaries were common, no one remarked on the silver daggers when they rode through the gates late on a steamy-hot afternoon. After the slop-muddy road, the streets were welcome, even though they were paved only with logs instead of cobbles, and the prospect of a night in an inn more welcome still.
“I only hope we can find a place to ourselves,” Caradoc remarked to Nevyn. “Last thing we need is a brawl on our hands, and when you mix two free troops in the same tavern, brawls are about what you get.”
Much to Nevyn’s relief, and doubtless the captain’s, too, they were indeed lucky enough to find an inn over by the east gate that had just been vacated by another pack of mercenaries. Although the men had to sleep four and five to each small room, everyone had a place to spread their blankets and a roof over their heads. As befitted his supposed station as a wealthy merchant, Nevyn had a tiny chamber with a proper bed all to himself. Branoic carried his gear up for him, and Maryn insisted on coming along with a bucket of charcoal for the brazier.
“Nobody’s going to believe a pr-prince would c-carry c-coals,” the lad said. “Ye gods, I’ll be g-glad when we reach the harbor town! Its rotten name is too hard for me to say. I’ll never make f-f-fun of anyone who st-st-st-st who has trouble talking again, I sw-sw-swear it.”
“Coming down for dinner, my lord?” Branoic said.
“I’m not, truly. I’ve already told the serving wench to bring me up a tankard of dark and some cold meat. These old bones are tired, lads.”
They were indeed tired enough to make him take a nap for a couple of hours after the girl had brought his scant supper. Since Nevyn usually only slept about four hours a night, he was quite surprised when he woke to a dark room and a charcoal fire that was burning itself out in the brazier. He added more sticks, blew on them like an ordinary man, then wiped his hands on his brigga and sat down to think.
Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 4