“By all means. Do you want it back? Degwa refuses to have it, since it once belonged to the Boar clan.”
Lilli picked up the brooch and held it up to the candlelight. It gleamed as if it had been newly polished with ash and river sand. Most likely Merodda had cast the spell herself, Nevyn decided. Creating the curse tablet, however, had lain beyond her skill. Only a master of evil could have ensorceled that.
“I think I do want it,” Lilli said at last. “Not to wear, but to keep. There were times, you know, when I felt that my mother did love me. She gave me to Lady Bevyan to foster, and she made sure that Uncle Tibryn wouldn't marry me off to Lord Nantyn, if naught else.”
“Then keep it in remembrance of her better nature,” Nevyn said. “Every soul has one, and it deserves a little honor.”
Five days after the call to muster, the first of Maryn's vassals rode in to Dun Deverry. The gathering of the full contingent took some weeks, as Maryn's most loyal—and most prosperous—vassals lived far to the south on the sea-coast. With the lords and their warbands came carts, driven by servants and piled high with provisions, as each vassal owed Maryn not only men for his army but the food for three months' campaigning—not such an easy thing to raise, here in the ravaged north. The long years of civil war had starved a good many farm families and killed their sons in battle as well.
As the fighting men arrived, Branoic started keeping a count by the twenties on a bit of smooth board, but when he got up to a thousand, he stopped. Councillor Oggyn would be doing a better job of it, as he remarked to Maddyn.
“Just so,” Maddyn said. “The prince must be happy to see such a good turnout.”
“No doubt,” Branoic said. “Well, we're cursed near to the victory. That always inspires a little extra loyalty among the noble-born.”
They shared a laugh. Since Maryn could not officially ennoble Branoic until he was proclaimed king, Branoic still lived among the silver daggers, and they were sitting together in the barracks on a blustery morning. As they talked, Branoic was polishing his mail shirt with a bit of rag. All around them other men were working on their gear: cleaning mail, replacing leather straps or wooden toggles wherever they needed fixing, talking together in low voices about the fighting ahead, or boasting about their exploits of the summer past.
“Are you looking forward to riding out?” Maddyn said.
“Not truly,” Branoic said. “Odd of me. I used to be eager enough to get free of winter quarters.”
“Well, you've got somewhat to stay for now.”
“Lilli, you mean?” Branoic concentrated on threading the rag through a rusty ring. “If our prince ever lets her go.”
Maddyn said nothing for a long moment. Branoic looked up to find him solemn.
“He promised you,” the bard said at length, “that you'd be wed once he had the victory. Our prince doesn't break his promises.”
“He's never done it before.” Branoic paused, groping for words. “But it's like he's half-mad or somewhat. Lilli tells me he's starting to frighten her. He's jealous, like, and all the time.”
Maddyn muttered something foul under his breath.
“And him with his own lady, as beautiful and sweet as ever a man could want.” Branoic felt his bitterness rise in his throat like bile. “It gripes my soul, Maddo lad, if you don't mind me saying it.”
“Not at all.” Maddyn seemed to be measuring each word. “His lady's devoted to him, as well.”
“She is that.” Branoic was about to continue his tirade, but he could see that Maddyn looked oddly distracted—no doubt all this talk of women was boring him. “Ah well, I don't mean to croak like a frog, the same blasted chorus over and over. We made our bargain, the prince and me, and I've no call to be thinking he'll break it till he does.”
Maddyn was about to reply, but from outside they suddenly heard shouting and cheers. Owaen got up and went to look out the window. “It's Glasloc!” he called out. “Gwerbret Daeryc's held loyal to the prince!”
The silver daggers cheered as well, whether anyone could hear them or not, then went back to their work. Maddyn, however, neither spoke nor moved, merely sat staring out at nothing.
“Here,” Branoic said, “are you ill?”
“In a way, truly.” Maddyn turned to him with an odd twisted smile. “In a way.”
Once again Branoic wondered if he was understanding what Maddyn meant. Since his usual way of dealing with things he couldn't understand was to shrug them off, he changed the subject.
Yet speaking of Lilli had brought his feelings for her to mind, and in but a little while he got up and left the barracks. Since Daeryc had just ridden in, no doubt Prince Maryn would be safely occupied by greeting his guest in the great hall. Sure enough, Daeryc's riders and their horses filled the main ward with confusion. Near the gates a line of carts stood waiting to be unloaded. Servants rushed around, leading horses away, inviting the men inside to drink, and in general sorting things out as best they could.
Branoic left the ward proper and ducked around a half-destroyed wall. He knew a back way into the central broch complex. He was picking his way through the clutter of servant huts and animal pens when he caught sight of Councillor Oggyn, leaning against the wall of a shed ever so casually, as if he always took the air among the chickens and the onions. Branoic stopped and waited; Oggyn never looked his way. Slowly Branoic took a few steps to the side until he stood half-concealed behind a big pile of stones kept in case of siege.
Not long after he saw a grey-haired man hobbling along with the aid of a long stick. He wore a stained, torn linen shirt and a filthy pair of brigga that once might have been grey, but for all that he looked like a beggar, Oggyn strode forward to meet him. They spoke just loudly enough for Branoic to catch part of the conversation. Apparently the lame fellow wished to speak with Prince Maryn, and apparently Oggyn was telling him that such was impossible. At length the man produced a silver coin from the pouch at his belt. Oggyn became all smiles as he took the coin; he bit it, then slid it into the pouch at his own belt. For a moment more they talked together; then Oggyn strode off back in the direction of the main broch complex. The other man wiped tears from his face on his dirty sleeve, then began to hobble off. Branoic left his hiding place and ran after him.
“Wait! Good sir!” Branoic caught up with him near the kitchen hut. “You've just been robbed.”
Uncomprehending, he stared up at Branoic with rheumy eyes.
“The prince will listen to anyone that comes to him,” Branoic said. “You didn't need to give Oggyn a copper, much less a blasted silver piece.” He glanced around and saw the councillor lurking in the doorway to the side tower. “Slimy Oggo! Get yourself over here!”
With a toss of his head Oggyn disappeared inside. Branoic laid a friendly hand on the old man's shoulder.
“Just come with me,” he said. “We'll get that silver piece back for you at dinner tonight.”
“My thanks, my profound thanks,” the fellow said. “It's all the coin I have in the world.”
Whether or not Maryn officially reigned as king, his decisions were the only justice that Dun Deverry had. Every night after dinner he lingered in the great hall so that suppliants could come to him with disputes and complaints they wished settled. And we'll have a fine show tonight, Branoic thought. Slimy Oggo's gone too far this time.
Just that morning, Otho the silversmith had finished the silver token for Maddyn, and Princess Bellyra took care to present it to her bard as openly as she could. With the muster nearly complete, close to a hundred lords ate in the great hall at the tables of honor. Servants had combed the dun and crammed every table and bench they could find into the riders' side of the hall, but still, most of the men from the warbands ate outside. The prince's silver daggers, however, stayed in his presence, eating just beyond the ranks of the noble-born.
As Maryn's wife, Bellyra ate beside him and shared his trencher. That particular evening, before she and her women withdrew to the quiet safety of their hall, Bellyra
took the pin from her kirtle.
“I nearly forgot,” she said to Maryn. “I've got a little gift for your bard, to thank him for being so patient all winter.”
“Good.” Maryn held out his hand. “May I?”
“By all means.” Bellyra gave him the pin. “It's awfully nice, I thought.”
“It is indeed.” Maryn held the slender silver rose, barely an inch long, twixt thumb and forefinger. “Must be Otho's work.”
“It is. He looted some silver when you took the dun. Er, or I should say, he miraculously found some silver that no one was using.”
Grinning, Maryn handed it back, then got up, glancing around the hall. At length he gestured to one of the waiting pages.
“Maddyn the bard's sitting over by the front door,” the prince said. “Go fetch him for me.”
With a bow the lad trotted off. Just as Maryn sat back down again, Branoic strode in the back door and headed for the prince's chair. Limping along after him came a grey-haired man, dressed in a linen shirt and wool brigga made of cloth that had been once fine, but now was all frayed and patched. When Branoic knelt at Maryn's side, the elderly man started to follow suit, but the stick he'd been leaning on nearly tripped him. Maryn swung round in his chair and caught his elbow in one hand.
“Don't kneel,” the prince said. “My rank can give way to your age, sir.”
The prince let him go, then stood up. The man bowed as best he could with both hands clutched on his stick.
“My thanks, my prince.” The fellow was stammering. “I have a matter to lay before you, you see, and—”
“Two matters,” Branoic interrupted. “Your Highness, Councillor Oggyn demanded a coin from this fellow for the privilege of coming to you for justice.”
“Oh by the gods!” Maryn snarled. He rose and spun around, looking out over the hall, then bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Oggyn! Get over here!”
With a tight little smile Branoic rose, dusting off the knees of his brigga, and escorted the old man and his stick out of the way. Bellyra twisted round in her chair and saw Oggyn making his way across the hall. Like a hound with chicken feathers still clinging to his muzzle, Oggyn slunk through the tables. The talk and jesting among the lords died down as they turned, a little puzzled, to see what the prince was up to. Bellyra also noticed Maddyn and the page, stopping a little distance away to wait their turn for the prince's attention. At last Oggyn reached the table of honor and knelt at the prince's feet.
“Branoic tells me you extorted money again,” the prince said.
“My liege, I never did such a thing!” Oggyn's voice swooped on an obvious lie. “Truly, I—”
“Can you look me in the face and deny it?”
Oggyn started to speak, then merely sighed and shook his head no.
“I told you, no more of this.” Maryn's voice was level but cold. “My justice is free to all who ask. Do you understand that?”
“I do, my prince.” Oggyn spoke so softly that Bellyra could hardly hear him. “I welter in apologies. I beg your pardon most humbly.”
“Give him the money back,” Maryn said.
Slowly and with trembling hands Oggyn fumbled with the pouch at his belt. His lips trembled as well, and his face had turned scarlet all the way up and over his bald skull. When he held out a silver piece, the suppliant snatched it from his sweaty fingers. Oggyn slumped down and stared at the prince's boots.
“Good,” Maryn went on. “Now then, what shall we do with you? I made you a threat, the last time I caught you grafting. I think me I'd best live up to my word.”
“Not that, my prince.” Oggyn looked up, his lips working, his hands trembling. “I beg you—”
“It behooves a noble-born man to carry out what he threatens, councillor, lest his men think him weak-willed. Maddyn! Where's your harp? There's a song I want you to sing.”
“My lord.” Bellyra got up and laid a hand on the prince's arm. “The poor man! Isn't it a bit much?”
Maryn hesitated, glanced at Oggyn, who was studying the straw on the floor, then back to her. “It's only what he deserves, but your kind heart becomes you, my lady.”
With a little sigh Bellyra took her chair again. For a few moments confusion swirled around the table of honor. Nevyn appeared from somewhere and rushed forward to speak with the suppliant. Maddyn and a Cerrmor bard talked earnestly; then the bard's apprentice hurried forward and handed Maddyn a small lap harp. Through it all Oggyn stayed kneeling, folding over himself with his face as low to the floor as he could get it. At length Gwerbret Daeryc, who had been dining across the table from the princess, got up and pulled his chair out of the way so that Maddyn could climb up onto the table and sing.
For a moment or two Maddyn fiddled with the harp while the great hall gradually fell silent. Bellyra studied his face, carefully impassive. She should have known, she felt, that he would refrain from gloating. Maddyn looked up with a polite smile and a nod for the prince, cleared his throat, and began to sing the song of Farmer Owaen and the fox. At first the cheerful little melody and the subject matter made it sound like some sort of children's song, and Bellyra could see Daeryc and the other nearby lords looking puzzled.
As the song progressed, however, and the fox found himself snatched bald by the farmer, the true import became clear. Verse after verse bounced by, and the resemblance to Oggyn grew more and more obvious. A few men snickered, a few others laughed. Bellyra could see some whispering and pointing at the councillor crouched at the prince's feet, as if they were explaining the joke to those around them.
“So a fox went to the henhouse,” Maddyn finished, “but he found a wolf on guard. And he ended up as smooth and bald as any stone in the yard.” He ran a trill up and down the strings, then struck a chord with a flourish of his wrist.
The great hall cheered and clapped, but Bellyra was watching Oggyn. Tears ran down his face. She leaned over and grabbed her husband's arm.
“It's enough, Marro,” Bellyra said in his ear. “Do let him go.”
Maryn nodded his agreement and pointed at Oggyn to give him leave to speak.
“My liege!” Oggyn howled, then choked on his words.
“You may leave us, truly,” Maryn said. “Don't stand on ceremony.”
Blubbering thanks, Oggyn hauled himself to his feet. He turned and headed for the staircase on the other side of the great hall as fast as he could manage—not very, in the clutter of tables and human bodies. Long before he reached it the laughter started, a huge wave of it that followed him up, lapping over the steps as he ran for the safety of the floor above. Scarlet-faced, Oggyn was puffing and panting so badly as he staggered up the staircase that Bellyra felt a sudden concern. She leaned over and yelled so that Maryn could hear.
“What if he has an apoplexy or suchlike?”
“Nevyn's on his way after him,” Maryn answered. “Fear not.”
Indeed, the dweomermaster had reached the staircase and was bounding up, as vigorously as a young warrior. He caught up with his fellow councillor, and for a moment Bellyra could see them both. Then, somehow, things got confused. She stopped watching the stairs, glanced back, found the two councillors no longer visible, glanced around and saw that no one else in the great hall seemed to be looking at the stairs either. I must ask Nevyn how he did that, she thought, but in a few beats of the heart she'd forgotten what she wanted to ask him. Out among the tables, the normal talk picked up again.
Maddyn had climbed down from the table and was handing the harp back to its owner. Bellyra waited till he'd finished, then waved him over. He knelt in front of her and the prince.
“Well sung, Maddo.” Maryn was grinning. “Oggyn will think twice before he extorts any more coin from my subjects.”
“So we may hope, Your Highness,” Maddyn said.
“I've got a little trinket for you,” Bellyra said. “May it bring you luck in the wars.”
“My lady is too generous,” Maddyn said.
“You deserve somewhat for esc
orting me round to all those dusty rooms all winter.”
Smiling, Maryn nodded at Maddyn, as if to say “take it.” When Maddyn held out his hand, Bellyra dropped it into his open palm. The bard looked at the rose pin, then grinned up at her.
“It's beautiful, my lady,” Maddyn said. “You and your husband have my humble thanks.”
“Most welcome,” Bellyra said with a little nod.
Maddyn pinned the rose to his shirt collar. “I'll treasure it always, Your Highness.”
“That gladdens my heart. And now I think I'd best summon my women and get back to our hall.” Bellyra rose, glancing idly away, as if Maddyn's smile meant naught to her.
At the end of the table Elyssa stood waiting for her, but Degwa seemed to have left already. Oh gods! Bellyra thought. Poor Decci, having to watch all that! With a wave to Elyssa to follow, she left the table and hurried for the stairs, but by the time the two women reached the upper landing, neither Nevyn, Oggyn, nor Degwa were anywhere to be seen.
Nevyn had led Oggyn into the first empty chamber they came to, a tiny room containing naught but one chair. Oggyn sank down upon it and allowed himself to sob aloud. Repeatedly he ran his face over his sleeve, and eventually the tears stopped coming. Nevyn leaned against the wall and waited while Oggyn pulled a rag from his pocket and blew his nose. He shoved the rag back, then sat slumped, his hands hanging limply between his knees.
“Ah ye gods,” Oggyn moaned. “My life is over.”
“Oh come now!” Nevyn said. “It's not as bad as all that.”
“But I'll have to leave court. How can I possibly stay in the prince's service now?”
“The prince will consider you amply punished and forget the matter.”
“But the shame! Ye gods, everyone will talk of this for years.”
“They won't. You forget their vanity.”
Oggyn looked up, startled.
“The noble-born in particular,” Nevyn went on, “think of very little but their own doings. The servants will remember for a few days, truly, but with the wars starting, soon everyone will have plenty of gossip, fears, and bereavements to occupy them. Besides, you'll be riding with the army, and you won't even be here to snicker at.”
The Fire Dragon Page 4