Bristling Wood (16 page)

“It doesn’t, lad, but my thanks for your concern. I’ve got a good heavy cloak of my own.”

“Good. I like the fogs. They make a man feel safe, somehow.”

Cinrae led the way through the gray-shrouded complex and out to the gardens, where Pedraddyn was waiting. Although it was only about a hundred yards away, the top of the broch was lost in fog. Without speaking they walked up the grassy hill to the small round temple at the top. Inside was a single plain room of worked stone, with eight freestanding pillars set around and eight small oil lamps on the altar. Pedraddyn and Nevyn knelt before the altar while Cinrae lighted the lamps, an eerie pale glow in the heavy air. It seemed that the fog had followed them inside and hung over the altar and the niche behind, where there was a statue of Wmm, or Ogmios, as he was known in the Dawntime. The god was sitting cross-legged on a stool, with his right hand raised in benediction and his left holding a reed pen. As the light flared up, his calm face seemed to smile at his worshippers. Cinrae knelt down beside Nevyn and stared at his god in sincere devotion.

Pedraddyn prayed aloud, asking the god to favor Nevyn’s request and to grant them both wisdom, and he went on at a good length, his voice echoing through the room. Although the usual worshipper would have been listening to the priest and little more, Nevyn had the skills to make a direct link with the force—or the part of the Innerlands, if you prefer—that Wmm represented. In his mind he built up a thought form of the god behind his statue, carved it from the blue light, worked and perfected it until the image lived apart from his will. Then he used a trick of the mind to force his imaginings out through his eyes until he saw it standing behind the altar. Slowly, the god force that Pedraddyn was summoning came to ensoul it. Nevyn knew he was successful when Cinrae cried out, a sob of joy, and raised his hand to greet what he saw as a visitation of the god. Nevyn felt a bit dishonorable, as if he’d tricked the lad, but on the other hand, the image did represent a truth.

At the end of the prayer, the three of them sat for a long moment of silence. A bit at a time, Nevyn withdrew the force he’d put into the actual image and thanked the god for appearing to them. Cinrae’s devotion kept it alive a little longer, but soon the unstable etheric substance went its own way, spinning off, swirling, and dissolving as the god force left its temporary home. Cinrae sobbed once under his breath, like a child who sees his mother go off to work in the fields but knows he can’t call her back. Pedraddyn rose and closed the temple working with a short chant, then clapped his hands eight times in slow, stately succession.

“We are blessed,” Pedraddyn said. “He has appeared to us.”

Again, Nevyn felt rather shabby. He felt sorry for the priests, particularly young Cinrae, who would never know the truth about the object of his devotion, never realize that he could learn to call the god at will. Yet, as he thought about it, perhaps it was better that way. How, after all, can one love an objective natural force that can be summoned in cold blood to ensoul an artificial image? In a way, there’s little room for love in the dweomer, which is why mankind needs priests like Cinrae.

Silently, in single file, they left the temple and walked down the far side of the hill. The fog still lay thick, but through the clinging damp came the distant boom and echo of wave striking rock. As they picked their way through a vast meadow of coarse sea grass, the waves grew louder and louder, until at last they reached the cliff at the far side of the island. Down below, across a graveled beach, great rocks rose jagged out of the swirling white surf. The ocean crashed over them with sheets of spray like birds’ wings, then flowed all white and foaming through the narrow channels between.

“Behold the voices of the god!” Pedraddyn cried.

The ocean roar answered him with a hundred tongues. As they slowly made their way down the damp, treacherous stairs cut into the side of the rocky cliff, the roar and boom of the surf grew so deafening that it seemed to echo inside Nevyn’s mind as well as in his ears. At the tide line the three of them knelt on the slimy gravel and raised their hands palm outward to the oracle. Each great wave swept in like an omen, spraying over the rocks and swirling with white foam up almost to their knees.

“O mighty Wmm,” Nevyn called out. “We beg you: guide us in choosing the one true king of all Deverry. O mighty Wmm, put the true king on the throne and no other. O mighty Wmm, lend us your power to tell truth from falsehood.”

One after the other, the waves swept in from the gray, misty ocean that might have broken on Eldidd’s shore or on that of the Otherlands, for all they could tell. The voices roared and boomed incomprehensible answers to Nevyn’s question. All at once, Cinrae sobbed and rose slowly to his feet, his eyes staring all-unseeing in deep trance. When he spoke, his thin lad’s tenor had changed into a voice as deep and hollow as wave on rock.

“Look in the north and west. The lad who will be king has been born in the north and west. The king of all Deverry and all Eldidd has been born in a lake among the fishes and the water reeds. He who will give peace trains for war.”

With a sharp cry Cinrae fainted, falling forward headlong as the god left him. Nevyn and Pedraddyn raised him up, then carried him away from the tide line to the tenuous shelter of the foot of the cliff. Pedraddyn stripped off his own cloak and wrapped it around the boy.

“Nevyn, he’s the priest you get only once in a hundred years, if that. He’ll succeed me and surpass me a thousand times. I thank the god every day for bringing him here.”

“So you should, and for his sake, too. I don’t know what would have happened to him if he hadn’t found the way of the god.”

“Oh, his family thought he was a bit simpleminded, sure enough. They brought him here to ask the god’s advice when he was but a tiny lad, and he’s never left. Sometimes I wonder if there’s some Westfolk blood in our Cinrae, but of course I couldn’t possibly go asking his kin a shameful thing like that.” He laid a fatherly hand on the boy’s cheek. “He’s icy cold. I wish we could get him away from the damp.”

“Naught easier. Just give him to me.”

Nevyn called on the spirits of the elements, an almost automatic task there in that rage and vortex of elemental force, and asked them to support the lad’s weight. With their help, he picked Cinrae up like a sack of grain and carried him up the steps without even having to pause for breath. He brought the lad well away from the edge, then laid him down gently in the cushioning grass while Pedraddyn stared in utter amazement. In a few minutes Cinrae tossed his head this way and that, then opened his eyes.

“I can walk soon, Your Holiness,” he whispered.

“When you’re ready, lad, and not before.” Pedraddyn knelt down beside him. “And someday soon you’ll learn how to control the force of the god.”

Nevyn walked a few steps away and turned to look over the distant swirl of fog and ocean. The voices of the god echoed softly in the distance. North and west, he thought; I would have been wasting my time if I’d gone to Cerrmor. He had no doubt that the omen was a true one; reinforced by the ritual and the dramatic physical setup of the oracle, Cinrae’s raw psychic talent had tapped in deep to the Deverry racial soul. Born in the midst of reeds and fishes—that particular phrase bothered him but he was sure that in time everything would become clear. All in all, he was well pleased. Only later did he remember that ominous phrase, king of all Deverry
and
of all Eldidd, and wonder just what mighty forces he had set in motion.

That afternoon, while Cinrae slept, Nevyn and Pedraddyn went to the Chamber of Records, which occupied the entire second floor of the broch. Aided by another neophyte, they sat at a table by a window and pored over dusty codex after dusty codex of genealogies. As they compiled lists of heirs, both direct on the male line and indirect through the sons of royal women, one name reappeared three times: Maryn, marked prince of the small kingdom of Pyrdon, related vaguely to the Eldidd throne, tightly to the Cantrae claimant through his mother, and most directly indeed to the Cerrmor line through Prince Cobryn, Dannyn’s son. Realizing that a man of Dannyn’s line might someday hold the throne of all Deverry made Nevyn shudder with the dweomer cold. It was just the sort of irony that the Lords of Wyrd seemed to love.

“This lad interests me.” Nevyn tapped the name with a bone stylus. “Do you know anything about him?”

“I don’t. Pyrdon’s a long way away. At times I even have trouble getting correct information for my records.”

“You don’t think the lad might be dead or suchlike?”

“I doubt that. Usually someone will make an effort to tell me of a thing as important as the death of a marked prince. I only meant that I’ve never laid eyes on the lad or his mother. I saw his father once when Casyl was . . . oh, twelve, I’d say. He impressed me as a nice child, but still, who knows what’s happened since then?”

Since, if their plan was to succeed, they would need the help of at least one powerful priest of Bel, Nevyn headed directly back to Deverry rather than going hundreds of miles out of his way to Pyrdon. He gave the job of looking over young Prince Maryn to Aderyn, who was roaming with his alar near the border of the kingdom. Nevyn had just crossed into Deverry proper when Aderyn contacted him through his campfire.

“I think we’ve found our claimant.” Aderyn’s image was smiling, but in a thoughtful sort of way. “Pyrdon’s a harsh place, but it’s the right sort of harshness, the kind that keeps a man mindful that he needs other people to survive. I was most impressed with King Casyl; he has an honor that’s rare even in the best of times. The young prince seems bright beyond his years, but he’s only five, so it’s a bit early to tell how he’s going to turn out. He seems healthy, though. It would be a pity if he died in childhood.”

“True-spoken, but then Casyl might have another son or two yet. I hate storing all my mead in one skin.”

“So do I, but we’ve got to. The whole problem is that we’ve got too beastly many would-be kings.”

“Just so. What about the omens?”

“They couldn’t be more right. Dun Drwloc is Casyl’s primary residence, and that’s where the young prince was born. It’s a fortified island, right out in the middle of a lake.”

“Excellent! My thanks for your help. I’m on my way to Lughcarn. I remember the high priest of Bel there as being a decent, honorable man—well, if he hasn’t up and died on me, anyway.”

Since it was far enough from the Cerrmor border to be spared the worst ravages of war, Lughcarn was still prosperous, and the biggest city left in Deverry. The center of the iron workings, it was continually dusted with fine dark ash from its smelters, forges, and of course the big beehive ovens where wood was turned into charcoal. In the still summer air, the haze hung over the city and turned the sky yellow. Nevyn made his way to the center of town, where the temple of Bel stood among soot-dusted ancient oaks. He was well known there, and neophytes came running to take his horse and mule as soon as he entered the sacred grove. Much to his relief, Olaedd the high priest was very much alive, though severely troubled by pains in his joints. A neophyte ushered Nevyn into Olaedd’s chamber, which was bare except for a narrow, hard pallet on the floor and one chair.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t rise, Nevyn. The pain in my back is bad today.”

“You’ve got to get yourself a proper bed. It doesn’t have to be soft or some such sinful thing; you’ve just got to get out of the draft.”

“I’ll consider it, then.”

The neophyte brought Nevyn a low stool, then took himself away. Nevyn launched straight into his plans. The priesthood of Bel was in the perfect position to interpret oracles and omens in the “correct” way, simply because so many men came to them with puzzling dreams or events. When the time came, too, they would be the ones to proclaim the new king and marry him to the sovereignty of the kingdom.

“And I’ve no doubt he’ll reward the temples once he’s gained the throne,” Nevyn finished up.

“No doubt, oh no doubt, but why are you coming to me instead of the high priest of the Holy City?”

“I was recently there. I heard Gwergovyn is the new high priest.”

“Um. He is, of course, my superior, no matter what I may think of him.”

For a moment they considered each other, each wondering just how much could be said aloud. Since he was running the lesser risk, Nevyn spoke first.

“I realize that traditionally the priesthood of Deverry has always claimed supremacy, but as I remember, anyway, it’s only tradition—not law—that gives them their place.”

“True enough.” Olaedd’s dark eyes blinked once. “So it is, truly.”

“That tradition might be badly shaken if the priesthood there supports the wrong claimant to the throne.”

“While Lughcarn supports the right one?” Olaedd put the tips of his fingers together and studied his arched hands for a moment “In just an eightnight there’ll be a convocation of the northern temples here in Lughcarn.”

“Won’t the Dun Deverry priesthood send an envoy?”

“Of course, but there are always ways for a few trustworthy men to talk privately. Ride back when the convocation’s over. We’ll speak of this matter again.”

Nevyn went to a small village about ten miles north of the city and camped in a farmer’s barn on the pretense of gathering herbs in the neighborhood. Since not only the farmer in question but the whole village was glad to have an herbman nearby, he was soon well known. During his second week there, the miller’s little daughter came running to tell him that a marvel had happened: one of the goats had given birth to a two-headed kid. Mostly because she expected him to, Nevyn went to look and found most of the village crowded round the pen. Weighed down by its deformity, the kid couldn’t even stand, while its mother bleated in a hopeless sort of way even as she licked it clean.

“It doubtless won’t live the day,” Nevyn remarked to the miller.

“Couldn’t agree more. Do you think someone bewitched my goats?”

“I don’t.” Nevyn was about to launch into a long discussion of the interrelationships of the four humors in animals when he got a much better idea. “The gods sent it as an omen, I’ll wager. Here, can an animal with two heads live? Of course not. So, then, can a kingdom with two kings do much better?”