The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (33 page)

“I understand,” Lilli said quickly. “Truly I do.”

And yet for the long ride home she felt half-sick with grief, no matter how hard she tried to pretend she cared nothing for Prince Maryn’s favor.

On the way back to camp, the rain came with a boom of thunder and soaked everyone in the prince’s party before they could finish complaining about it. As they rode up to the city gates, Nevyn spotted another wet group of travellers there ahead of them. Five riders led the way; then came a cart with wickerwork sides, drawn by a single horse, and behind that two men on foot. All of them, riders and walkers alike, wore plain tunics that left their legs bare.

“Priests!” Maryn said. “What are they doing here?”

“I don’t know, my liege,” Nevyn said. “But I can hope.”

Maryn turned in the saddle to give him a puzzled glance. Nevyn laughed and clucked to his horse.

“Let’s get back to camp, Your Highness. If the priests wish to speak to you, they’ll know where to find you.”

That very night, indeed, the priests arrived at Prince Maryn’s pavilion. During all the many sieges of Dun Deverry, the priests of Bel had held neutral, safe on their holy hill where no sane man would spill blood. This time, however, with the omens running as high as a spring tide and an enormous army camped round the dun, the head priest Gwaevyr sent a pair of neophytes to Maryn, would-be king of all Deverry.

It was just after sunset when a servant pulled aside the tent-flap and ushered in two young men with shaved heads and golden torcs around their necks. Although they both bowed to the prince, neither knelt. The only lord they paid fealty to was Bel himself. Maryn returned their bow.

“And what brings you to me?” the prince said. “Though the gods themselves know that the vassals of the gods are always welcome here.”

“My thanks.” The elder had a dry little voice. “The high priest himself, his holiness Gwaevyr of Dun Deverry, sent us to summon you to the altars of the god.”

“Did he say why?”

“He didn’t.”

The priests bowed, turned, and strode out of the tent, leaving Maryn staring after them.

“Oho!” Nevyn said. “I think me we’d best go, my liege. This could well be to your advantage.”

“It’s not a summons I’d ignore, anyway. Very well. I’ll take a pair of guards.”

“Please do, and I think we’d best take your council of lords as well. For witnesses.”

By then the rain had stopped, and stars showed in the rifts between the sailing clouds above. The temple complex perched on the top of the second highest hill in Dun Deverry, though unlike the royal complex it sported only two circles of outer walls. When the prince’s party rode up to the first gate, they found the two messengers there to let them in. The elder raised a candle lantern and peered at them in its light.

“His holiness is waiting for you in the temple.” The younger turned to Nevyn. “High Priest Retyc of Lughcarn is here.”

Nevyn felt cold excitement run through his blood. The time had indeed come.

Escorted by the two priests, they rode on through a strip of meadowland, then through the second gate and into the complex proper. Priests’ houses, a cow barn, vegetable gardens, outbuildings, sheds—a small village spread out inside the complex. Other priests stood waiting to take their horses, but no one said a word to them, merely watched the prince with unreadable eyes.

In a grove of old oaks stood the round temple, a simple building made of whitewashed wood and covered by a thatched roof, as if it were some country shrine. Inside, under a smokehole in the roof, stood a stone altar at the center of the round room. At the edge, under the eaves, stood a ring of wooden statues, each carved from a single tree trunk, all huge and roughly man-shaped. Some had faces so beautifully carved you’d swear they were about to speak; others displayed rough-chiseled eyes and a single gash for a mouth. On all of them the arms were crudely cut, still attached to the body along the inside, but each broad-knuckled hand held a human skull.

In the Dawntime, Nevyn knew, those skulls would have been severed heads, tribute from the enemies of the tribe that supported this shrine. Now they were mementoes of the priests who had served at this temple over the past few hundred years—a last tribute to their god on earth as they went to join him in the Otherlands. At the altar stood a man so old and thin that his face seemed a mere stretch of skin over yet another skull, but his eyes were bright with life. As Nevyn, the prince, and his lords approached the altar from the front door, a back door opened and more priests filed in, each dressed in plain linen tunics, each with a golden sickle at their belts, each carrying a candle lantern. One at a time they took places in front of the statues until each wooden Bel had a living man to represent him, and the temple filled with dancing light.

“Welcome!” the high priest’s voice boomed, startlingly loud for one so frail. “Is this the man men call Prince Maryn of Cerrmor?”

“I am, Your Holiness.” Maryn stepped forward with a respectful bob of his head. “I’ve come in answer to your summons.”

Nevyn and the noble-born waited near the door while the prince walked forward alone. On the altar lay a small casket, once silver, now green with age. Gwaevyr laid one hand upon it.

“Prince Maryn, the god shows me many omens. At night in the darkest hour I come alone to this temple and pray, listening for his voice, looking for a vision for my eyes. He has spoken to me. He has shown me. You are the rightful owner of what lies within this silver box.”

“Blessed be the name of the god,” Maryn whispered. “I’ll gladly take whatever he would give me.”

“Done, then. The false kings have come to me, now and again over the past many years. ‘Where is the brooch?’ they said. ‘Where is the ring brooch that marks the one true king of all Deverry?’ But never have I told any man until now.” He gestured at one of the priests. “Retyc of Lughcarn has kept it hidden in his temple, lest any impious lord attack my temple and try to take it by force. Now the god has told me to give it to his chosen prince.”

Maryn sank to his knees before the altar. At Nevyn’s bidding the Wildfolk of Air and Aethyr rushed to his side. All at once the temple seemed to grow in size and brighten with a silvery light that put the candle flames to shame. The noble-born gasped audibly; the priests stood unmoving. Gwaevyr pried at the lock until at last it broke off clean in his fingers. Nevyn swore to himself—he had wanted the omens to show clear and clean without any fumbling. The old priest’s withered fingers shook as he opened the lid of the casket to reveal scraps of ancient silk, still bright red from their long confinement away from the sun, but when he lifted them out, the scraps cracked and crumbled in his hands.

“Ah.” Gwaevyr smiled. “Behold! The brooch of the one true king!”

Nevyn sent a ray of light upon it when, with both hands, the ancient priest lifted up the huge gold ring brooch, studded with rubies and engraved in a complex braid of interlace. Its long pin was shaped like a sword blade with a ruby for a hilt.

“As the braid winds round this brooch, so must the will of the High King lace his subjects into a single whole! With the sword, must he defend them!”

The men waiting at the door caught their breath in a collective gasp. Nevyn found himself studying the brooch, worn somewhat with age. It was the authentic piece, all right—not that anyone would have believed him, if he told them that he’d seen it new.

“Are you worthy of this mark, Prince Maryn?” Gwaevyr said.

“With the help of the gods I shall become so, Your Holiness. If not, then may the gods strike me down.”

The old priest smiled, nodding.

“Well and good, then! Until the war is done and the battle over, I will keep this brooch here in safety. Once the kingdom is at peace, then return here, and by the ancient rites you shall be made High King.”

Pushed beyond the enduring of silence, Maryn’s vassals cheered, their voices loud as brass bells in the temple. Gwaevyr laughed and held the broch up with both hands as high as he could reach.

“Fight well for your prince, my lords! And then you shall see him become a king!”

The cheers rang out again, but deep in his soul, Nevyn felt a cold needle of fear. What was causing this delay?

Early in the morning, long before Maryn could wake and send for him, Nevyn returned alone to the temple of Bel. Apparently word had been left at the gates; the young priests on guard allowed him past immediately. He found Retyc, a solid man of middle years, strolling under the oaks alone. The morning sun slanted through the leaves and created long pillars of light between the trees, as if they walked in the god’s own house with the sky for a ceiling. All round them birds sang.

“I figured you’d come up, Nevyn,” Retyc said, and he was smiling. “Let me guess. You’re wondering why we didn’t declare him king last night and be done with it.”

“Just that,” Nevyn said. “Have the omens gone sour?”

“Naught of the sort! It’s a blasted strange little thing, and it irks me, but there’s no way round it. The rites of kingship demand a white mare, and we can’t find one.”

“What?”

“I’ve sent messengers all over Deverry proper, and up into Gwaentaer, too. It’s this wretched war. Horses of any sort are at a premium, with so many of them killed each summer, and there’s not a white mare to be found. I did hear of one old lass with a spot of grey on her forehead, but the ancient laws are absolutely unshakable: a white mare with no blemish. And young. It’s best if she’s never borne a foal, though they give you a bit of leeway on that.”

“How kind of them. I trust you’re still looking?”

“Of course. Unfortunately, the best horses in the kingdom all come from Cantrae. I doubt if the Boars would honor my request even if I sent a man with a bag of silver their way.”

“Imph. What a wretched circumstance!”

“Now here, don’t look so distressed! We’ll find one. It’s a bothersome delay, truly, but white horses are sacred partly because they’re so rare. And well, with this war …” Retyc shrugged with spread hands.

Logically, rationally Nevyn knew he was right, but dread ate at him. He felt as if this setback marked a twining-point in some band of knotwork, one that he should be able to see. But although he brooded upon it all day, the pattern hid just out of his mind’s reach.

That evening Lilli dined with Peddyc and his overlord, an invitation which here in the middle of the war translated to their bringing food to her tent and sitting on the ground to eat it, while she sat in the only chair. Gwerbret Daeryc had brought her a present of three plums wrapped in a bit of rag, which he handed her with a bow.

“My thanks, Your Grace,” Lilli said, smiling. “Where did these come from?”

“One of the men found a plum tree down in the city. Whoever owns it is long gone. No use in letting them go to waste. A bit of fresh food means a lot in a long siege like this.”

“I can well imagine, Your Grace.”

Anasyn had found mead as well, and after they ate the three men formally toasted her from chipped ceramic stoups.

“To your courage, lass!” Daeryc said.

Anasyn and Peddyc raised their mead and joined the toast. I must have done the right thing, she told herself, if they honor me for it.

“My thanks, my lords,” she said. “I’m only grateful I can serve our prince.”

“Our mother trained you well.” Anasyn was grinning at her. “You know all the humble things to say, but I’ll bet you’re proud as proud in there.”

Lilli stuck her tongue out at him, and everyone laughed. Daeryc drained off his mead, then stood up and handed the stoup to one of Lilli’s maidservants.

“We’d best be off,” Daeryc said with a nod to Peddyc. “The prince will be convening his council of war.”

Lilli stood at the door of the tent under the darkening sky and watched them out of sight. She felt almost giddy with happiness, yet she sensed some darker feeling under her mood; somewhere, just beyond her consciousness, terror crouched, ready to spring.

“Well, my liege,” Caradoc said. “It seems to me that the silver daggers are the right men to open that gate for you.” He paused to glance around the assembled council of lords. “Begging your pardon and all, my lords, but the men on this little expedition need to be absolutely loyal to the prince, and not have kin and distant relations, like, in that dun.”

Nevyn winced. Sure enough, the noble-born began muttering among themselves. Caradoc pitched his voice above the noise.

“And what’s more,” Caradoc went on. “The men who do this can’t have the slightest shred of honor. If some serving lass surprises us and starts to scream, then she’ll have to die, and fast. Are any of you going to do such, my lords?”

The muttering stopped. They were all perfectly capable of such murders, Nevyn knew. But they’d never admit it, not even to themselves.

“My captain speaks the truth,” Prince Maryn said. “Although it aches my heart to condemn any man to a task like this, the silver daggers will be the ones opening the gates.”

The lords looked at one another, then nodded assent. If anything, Nevyn realized, they were relieved to be spared the job.

“So then,” Maryn went on. “First we’ll take the third wall in open assault. The army will rest afterwards, two days perhaps, depending on how well the assault went. Then we’ll move on the fourth wall. At night the silver daggers will go through the bolthole while we get our men ready. Once they open the gates of the fourth wall, we’ll charge across and take it. Are we agreed?”

The noble-born called out their assent, nodding to the prince and one another. Tieryn Peddyc, however, got to his feet.

“My liege,” he said. “The silver daggers will need a man along who knows Dun Deverry. I’ve been riding there every summer since I was but a lad.”

“Now here!” Daeryc rose and glared at him. “You’re right about the need, but it’s my place to go.”

“It’s not, Your Grace. You’re more valuable to the prince outside the walls.”

Both men turned and looked at the prince.

“I’d say it’s up to Caradoc,” Maryn said. “Which he chooses shall go.”

“I agree with the tieryn, Your Highness.” Caradoc kept his gaze on the prince and away from Daeryc. “His grace the gwerbret is far too valuable to risk.”