The Fire Dragon

by Katharine Kerr

“Ah horseshit!” Caudyr muttered. “That's one death I'd hoped never to see.”

  “Me either.” Nevyn could barely speak. “Well, there's naught to be done here. You'd best get back to work. I'll follow in a moment.”

  Caudyr nodded, then got up, shaking his head, and hurried off, heading back to the circled wagons and his improvised surgery. Still kneeling, Nevyn opened his dweomer sight and looked up, searching for Branoic's etheric double. Dimly he saw great shafts of silver light, vaguely man-shaped, surrounding the pale blue form that once had been Branoic's soul. The Lords of the Elements had come to guide him—no, her—to the Light that lies beyond death. In her true female form she was staring down at the male body she had worn, as if perhaps in disbelief.

  “My thanks,” he whispered to the lords. “My solemn thanks.”

  They nodded his way. Nevyn closed down the sight and scrambled to his feet, grabbing his sack of supplies. There were other men dying on this field, and his duty lay with them, no matter how badly he wished he could say farewell to the soul that he would always think of as his Brangwen.

  Maddyn had spent the battle lying under one of the wagons and cursing himself for a weakling for being unable to fight. Finally, when he heard men yelling, others sobbing or crying out, the hurrying of horses and the curses, he knew that the wounded were being brought in. He went out, found a couple of waterskins, and made himself useful as a water carrier for the wounded men. He had just refilled the skins for the fifth time when Caudyr hailed him.

  “Maddo, Maddo! Branoic's dead.”

  Maddyn turned fast to see the chirurgeon limping over. He felt nothing but a chill that seemed to have frozen his mouth shut. He shrugged, tried to speak, then merely stared at Caudyr in a blind hope that he'd misheard.

  “I thought mayhap we could dig him a proper grave,” Caudyr went on. “When there's time.”

  Maddyn nodded to show that he understood, then turned on his heel and walked away. By then the men of the army were reclaiming their possessions from the heap in the middle of the protective wagons. Tents were already rising, men were talking about finding provisions and firewood. Maddyn found his own bedroll with Branoic's piled under it. For a moment he nearly wept. He grabbed one of Branoic's blankets, then headed for the long sprawl of dead men brought back to camp. He could see their friends wrapping them in blankets like the one he held to lay them out for the morrow's burying. By then the sun hung low and striped the sky with pale gold at the horizon. As he walked down the long grim lines, Maddyn began to wonder if he'd be able to find Branoic's body, but at length he saw Owaen, standing next to one of the dead.

  “Over here,” Owaen called out. “I can guess who you're looking for.”

  Maddyn joined him. Owaen had cast off his mail to reveal his rust-stained and filthy shirt; his hair lay plastered against his skull with sweat. Branoic lay on the ground, stripped of his mail and sword. Maddyn swore at the sight of the wound, a ghastly gape of red as if Death herself smiled up at them. When he knelt, he threw the blanket over Branoic's face first. With Owaen's help he wrapped Branoic up. For a moment they knelt at his side.

  “Remember us in the Otherlands,” Maddyn whispered. “The gods all know we'll be joining you soon enough.”

  Together they rose, then stood together, shoulders touching. Maddyn looked down at the old blue blanket wound round what was left of a man he'd known for more years than he could remember. He felt his grief like a blanket pressed into his face, smothering him. Involuntarily he shuddered, tossing his head as if to throw it off. He heard Owaen step back.

  “Did you see it happen?” Maddyn said.

  When Owaen didn't answer, Maddyn looked up to find him staring off at the sunset, his head thrown a little back, his jaw set tight.

  “Ah well,” Maddyn said. “See that stone wall over there, across the pasture? On the morrow, when they bury him, I'll be wanting to haul some stones to set up a cairn. Will you help?”

  Owaen nodded.

  “And what about his poor lass?” Maddyn went on. “It aches my heart, thinking of her praying he'll ride home soon, and here he's already ridden through the gates of the Otherlands.”

  “Just so.” Owaen kicked the ground hard with the toe of his boot. “Oh horseshit and a warm tub of it!” He turned and ran, trotting down the long line of their dead.

  Despite the warmth of the night, Lilli had her maid build a small fire in the hearth in her chamber. She wanted light, and lanterns would, she felt, cast only shadows. As she sat in her chair and tried to read, her mind kept turning to the war and to Branoic. No matter how hard she concentrated on the book in front of her, the horrors she'd seen earlier kept breaking into her studies. Finally she laid the book aside and stared into the flames. She found herself thinking of Branoic, remembering the blood sheeting from his face. Nevyn will save him—she told herself this repeatedly but didn't believe it once.

  Suddenly in the glowing coals she could see Nevyn, a tiny figure, it seemed, walking among the ashes. She leaned forward in her chair, concentrated on the image, saw the embers turn into the image of another fire as the darkness of a night camp appeared through the flames. The fire faded away, and it seemed to her that she walked beside Nevyn, who was carrying a cloth sack as he threaded his way through the tents. At length he returned to the tent she recognized as his from the past summer's expedition. In a stone circle a tidy stack of wood waited for him. When Nevyn snapped his fingers, salamanders rushed forward to light it. He tossed the sack into his tent, then sat down on a stool in front of the fire. Lilli saw him lean forward—the view changed. It seemed to her that she sat on the other side of fire and looked across at him.

  “Lilli!” Nevyn's voice sounded in her mind. “How did you reach me?”

  “I don't know, my lord.”

  “Think to me, don't speak aloud. I can't hear you when you actually talk.”

  “Well and good, then. I was looking into the fire, and then I saw you. Can you hear me now?”

  “I can. You must be badly troubled, to reach me this way.”

  “It's Branoic. I saw it—I mean, I had one of my visions, and I saw him take that wound. How does he fare?”

  “Oh my poor child! I'm afraid he died soon after.”

  A flood of tears washed the vision away. Lilli covered her face with her hands and sobbed, rocking back and forth on the edge of her chair.

  Although Nevyn tried for some while to reach Lilli again, he failed, picking up only her grief like the sound of distant keening. Finally, he broke the link and threw a few more sticks onto his sputtering fire. As the flames leapt, he became aware that someone was standing in the shadows beyond the pool of light and watching him.

  “Who is it?” Nevyn snapped. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Owaen, my lord, and not long at all.” The silver dagger captain took a few steps forward. “I—er, well—I wanted a bit of a talk with you.”

  “Very well. Come sit down.”

  Owaen sat down on the ground about an arm's length away. For a few moments they stared into the fire together. Owaen's face was as expressionless as a mask.

  “Ah well,” Owaen said at last. “It's about Branoic.”

  “I see. You're surprised that you're sorry he's dead. You thought you'd be glad, but you're not.”

  “Just that!” Owaen looked up sharply. “Ye gods, you truly can see into a man's soul, can't you?”

  “Only when his feelings are obvious.”

  Owaen tried to smile but failed. “He got that wound saving my worthless life. I got cut off at the head of our countercharge, and he came up to pull me out of a mob. Ye gods! I thought he hated me. Why would he do it?”

  “You're a silver dagger and the captain,” Nevyn said. “That's reason enough.”

  Abruptly Owaen raised one arm and buried his face in the crook, but in a brief moment he lowered it again. His voice shook. “I was thinking about his woman. She's left with no one to protect her, if our prince tires of her, I me
an. Do you think I should offer to marry her?”

  Nevyn's first impulse, quickly stifled, was to laugh.

  “That's an honorable thought,” he said instead. “But she has me and her studies. The prince would know better than to try to send her away from court or some such thing.”

  “True spoken.” Owaen smiled, relieved. “I wouldn't have made her much of a husband, anyway. But I felt I should offer.”

  It seemed that the prince was worried about Lilli as well. The next morning, when the army was digging trenches to bury its dead, Maryn summoned Nevyn to his side. They escaped the noise and confusion by walking clear of the encampment. Out in the middle of what had once been a field, they could see a pair of men pulling stones off its boundary wall and carrying them out onto the grass.

  The prince shaded his eyes with one hand. “That's Maddyn and Owaen. I wonder what they're doing.”

  “Building Branoic a cairn, most like,” Nevyn said. “I saw Maddo earlier, and he said that he and a couple of the lads had dug him a proper grave.”

  “Oh.” Maryn lowered his hand and looked at him with bleak eyes. “I thought I'd got used to men dying for my sake. I was wrong.”

  “Well, Your Highness, this particular death—” Nevyn let his words trail away.

  “Indeed. Do you want me to find Lilli some other husband?”

  “I don't. I think me the dweomer will give her all the position in court that she'll need.”

  Maryn nodded, staring at the ground. “I'm sending messengers back this morning. I tried to write her a letter, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. I don't know why. I felt as if I'd never known how to read and write.”

  Nevyn choked back his own words: it's because this death gladdens your secret heart. “Well, you could send a special messenger,” he said instead.

  “Good thought. I know! Maddyn. He's still blasted weak from that spoiled pork. We're sending the wounded back to Dun Deverry, and he can join the escort.”

  For a moment Nevyn felt struck dumb. The dweomer-cold seemed to freeze his lips and fill his mouth with ice.

  Maryn glanced his way and considered him with narrow eyes.

  “What's so wrong?”

  “My apologies, my liege.” Nevyn had to force out the first few words; then his voice steadied. “That escort? Will it be substantial? I have the oddest feeling that Maddyn and the wounded will be in some sort of danger.”

  “I'll double it, then.” Maryn smiled briefly. “I know those odd feelings of yours by now.”

  Lilli woke and found her chamber filled with cold grey light. For a moment she lay in bed. Her eyes burned, and her head throbbed with pain. Did I sleep? she wondered. Did I sleep at all? I must have. All at once, she remembered.

  “Branno,” she whispered.

  Her hot and swollen eyes refused to deliver more tears. She sat up, pushing the blankets back. She had wept for half the night, or so it seemed as she looked back upon it. In her hearth a pile of ash testified to the fire in which she had seen Nevyn's face and heard him speaking. It was odd, she realized, but never once, not even in the depths of her grief, had she tried to pretend to herself that the vision had been merely some unreal dream. She knew it beyond doubting. Branoic was dead.

  Someone pounded on the door.

  “Who is it?” Lilli called out.

  “Just me, my lady.” Clodda's normally cheerful voice trembled. “You've barred the door, and I can't get in.”

  “I'm sorry.” Lilli got up and went to the door. “I didn't mean to worry you.”

  She unbarred the door, opened it wide, and let Clodda come in. The maidservant dropped her a brief curtsy.

  “I was ever so afraid you'd been taken ill,” Clodda said.

  “Not ill, truly.” Lilli hesitated. Telling someone about Branoic's death would make it horribly real—but it's real anyway, she told herself. “Branoic's dead. Nevyn told me last night. He used dweomer.”

  Clodda's face turned pale. “Oh my lady!” Her voice shook with tears. “That wrings my heart.”

  “Mine too.”

  “No doubt.” Clodda pulled up a corner of her dirty apron and wiped her eyes. “Oh, it's so sad. My poor lady.”

  With a sigh Lilli sat down on the edge of the bed. “It must be well into the morning. Why is the light so cold?”

  “Clouds, my lady.” Clodda looked at her sharply, as if wondering if Lilli had gone mad with grief. “It's going to rain, I wager.”

  “Oh. Rain. Could you go to the great hall and find me somewhat to eat? Bread would do.”

  “I will. Lady Elyssa has been asking for you. That's why I came up and knocked.”

  “I'll dress, then. If you see her, ask her if she'd just come to my chamber.”

  Clodda must have seen the lady in the great hall, because Elyssa herself brought Lilli a basket of bread and butter in but a little while, just as Lilli had finished combing her hair. Elyssa set the basket on the table and considered Lilli for a moment in the harsh grey light streaming in the window.

  “Clodda's right,” Elyssa said. “You do look ill. Your cheeks—they're all red and raw!”

  “I'm always a little bit ill.”

  “Or is it from tears? She told me that you're convinced Branoic's dead.”

  “Don't you believe me?”

  “It was Clodda I was doubting, not you. I suppose you must have been—er, what does Nevyn call that?”

  “Scrying.”

  “My heart goes out to you, lass.” Elyssa looked away, biting her lower lip. “Another good man gone.”

  “Oh ye gods, I wish I could weep some more. I feel like a bit of old rag the cook used to scrub a pot or suchlike. All soiled and wrung out and twisted.”

  Elyssa nodded. She seemed to be searching for words, then sighed and held out the basket of bread.

  “Here. Do eat.”

  Lilli took a piece of bread and bit into it. Her grief robbed it of all its savor, but she forced herself to keep eating to reassure Elyssa.

  “You look more than a little unwell,” Elyssa said, watching her. “I was going to ask if you'd like to visit us up in the women's hall, but I think me you'd best stay here and rest.”

  After Elyssa left, Lilli threw the half-eaten chunk of bread back into the basket. She went to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, knelt, and opened it. Right on top lay the pieces of Branoic's wedding shirt, which she'd not quite finished embroidering. He'd never wear it now. He had died too far away to even be buried in it. Next to it lay the little knife she used for cutting thread, a short blade but sharp. She took it out and her little mirror with it.

  She propped the mirror up on the mantel, and by twisting this way and that, she could see well enough to chop off her hair, a twist at a time, sawing it short with the sewing knife as a sign of her mourning for her betrothed. She'd heard bards recite old tales from back in the Dawntime, when mourning women gashed their faces as well. For a moment she was tempted—not to mourn Branoic but to keep Maryn away. With a shudder she laid the knife down. In the mirror her face looked back, puffy-eyed, pinched, the short hair all ragged. She turned away, remembering how he looked, sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “I did love you,” she whispered. “I'll pray to the Goddess that you believed me.”

  Lilli put the mirror and knife away, then wrapped up the cut-off hair in the sleeve of the shirt that would have been Branoic's. She put the shirt away, then returned to her chair and stared out the window. Every breath she drew made her chest ache, as if her grief had filled her lungs and turned them heavy.

  The sun had barely started to climb into the sky when Nevyn left his tent and went to tend the wounded. He found Caudyr there ahead of him, and as they started their work, other chirurgeons came to join them and some of the servants as well. As Nevyn had feared, several men had died in the night. The servants wrapped them in blankets and carried them away. Nevyn had finished his rounds and was just washing the gore off his hands and arms when Gavlyn, the prince's chief herald, came
running, carrying a long staff bound with ribands.

  “My lord Nevyn!” Gavlyn called out. “Lord Braemys wants to parley.”

  “Indeed?” Nevyn said. “Well, that's welcome news!”

  Together they hurried across the camp. The night before, servants had pitched Maryn's tent apart from those of the other noble-born; a good ten feet of bare ground surrounded it. Out in front a groom waited with Gavlyn's dun gelding, saddled and bridled. In the horse's black mane hung ribands of red and yellow. Maryn himself came out of the tent just as Nevyn arrived; he wore the red-and-white plaid of Cerrmor, pinned at one shoulder with the huge silver brooch that marked him as a prince.

  “This is good news,” Maryn remarked to Nevyn. “I'm hoping and praying that Braemys wants to swear fealty and end this thing.”

  “So am I, Your Highness,” Nevyn said, “so am I.”

  “We should know soon. Gavlyn, you have my leave to go.”

  But in the end they waited a good long while to hear Lord Braemys's decision. All that morning, while Maryn paced, stewing with impatience in front of his tent, the heralds rode back and forth, negotiating the conditions for the meeting between Prince Maryn and Lord Braemys. Each side suspected the other of having treachery in mind, and as Maryn remarked to Nevyn, he could understand why.

  “The war's been hard enough fought,” the prince said, “and my men did kill his father.”

  “And his men did his best to kill you,” Nevyn said, “by a ruse.”

  Over the next long while, Maryn's vassals strolled over to join him in ones and twos. Daeryc and Ammerwdd paced up and down with him. The lower-ranked men sat on the ground and talked among themselves in low voices. Finally, not long before noon, Gavlyn returned, leading his horse with one hand and carrying the staff in the other. Everyone got up fast, but no one spoke, not even the prince. The groom trotted forward and took the dun gelding's reins, but when he started to lead the horse away, Gavlyn stopped him.

  “I'll be going back out, lad,” Gavlyn said. He turned to the prince and bowed. “Your Highness, this is going to be a long slow thing. We've spent what, half the morning? And we've only got this far: Braemys wishes to discuss terms, but he'll only do so under certain conditions.”