The Fire Dragon (5 page)

“Well, if you say so, my lord,” she said, and her disappointment trembled in her voice. “I do wish it hadn't. We've heard far too much about that woman from the servants since we've been here.”

“I could be wrong,” Nevyn said. “Would you mind if I took it to show Lilli? She'll know for certain.”

“If it has the Boar mark upon it, I shan't want it.” Degwa held it up, then tossed it to Nevyn. “Have the silversmith melt it down, for all I care.”

“Now here,” Bellyra joined in. “It's still lovely, and Oggyn—”

“I shall talk to the councillor about this,” Degwa said. “I must say it doesn't speak well of the man, that he'd give a woman friend a gift of battle loot and from her long-sworn enemies at that.”

“Oh come now,” Bellyra said. “I've got lots of lovely things that Maryn got in ransom from some lord or another.”

“I assure Her Highness that I meant no insult.” Degwa turned slightly pink in the cheeks. “But I'd rather not accept cast-off jewelry from the Boar clan's sty.”

With that Degwa got up and swept out, leaving Nevyn with the brooch. When the door slammed behind her, he winced.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Nevyn said. “I seem to have botched that thoroughly.”

“Better than letting her wear a thing with a curse on it,” Bellyra said. “I take it must be cursed, or you wouldn't have made up that story about wanting Lilli to see it.”

“Just so. That's what I get for lying.”

“Not exactly lying. Stretching a point, mayhap. But poor Decci! She's really quite demented when it comes to the Boars.”

That evening, when Nevyn was leaving the great hall after dinner, Oggyn followed him out, pulling on his beard and harrumphing under his breath. They walked a little way out into the open ward, where they couldn't be overheard.

“A word with you, if I may,” Oggyn said.

“Certainly. Did Degwa tell you about the brooch?”

“She most assuredly did. I fear me I've greatly displeased her.”

Although Nevyn was expecting the councillor to be angry with him, in the twilight Oggyn looked mostly miserable. He shoved his hands into his brigga pockets and kicked at a loose cobblestone with the toe of his boot.

“I'm sorry,” Nevyn said. “But the brooch has some sort of spell on it, and she couldn't go on wearing it.”

“By the gods! I never thought of that.” Oggyn looked up sharply. “That Merodda woman—”

“Exactly. After this, if I might make a suggestion, could you consult with me before you give away any more of the lady's possessions? They're yours by right of conquest, but just in case—”

“I understand, never fear! I'll do that.” Oggyn sighed heavily. “The true trouble is, I'm always short up for coin, and even if I had any, where would I find the smith to make Lady Degwa some new trinket?”

“Otho is quite a bit more skilled than any Cerrmor silversmith.”

“I do not traffic with silver daggers.” Oggyn's voice turned cold. “Good eve. My thanks for the warning.”

Oggyn turned on his heel and strode away, head held high. Ye gods! Nevyn thought. A matched pair!

Nevyn took the brooch up to Lilli's chamber, where he found her sitting at her table. In front of her the open dweomer book lay in a pool of candlelight from a silver candelabrum.

“Is this enough light for you to read?” Nevyn said.

“Not truly.” Lilli paused to rub her eyes with both hands. “It's given me a bit of a headache.” She shut the book and put it to one side. “What brings you to me?”

“I thought you might want to see this brooch. It does have some sort of weak warding spell upon it.”

When he laid it upon the table, Lilli leaned forward to study it, but she left her hands in her lap. “I remember my mother wearing that,” she said at length. “It was a gift from Uncle Tibryn.”

“Can you see the dweomer upon it?”

“I can. It looks like grease, dirty kitchen grease.”

“Ah. I see it as a sort of grey mist. Do you remember what I told you about dark dweomer casting shadows?”

“I do. And how the shadows will look different to different minds. It's a good thing you got this away from Degwa. It must be nasty, though I can't say what it would have done.”

“No more can I, but let's be rid of it.”

Nevyn raised one hand above his head, then summoned the silver light. In his mind he saw it flow down from the astral like a trickle of water. He concentrated on the image, focused it, strengthened it with his imagination, then with a simple word of power brought it through to the physical. It swirled around his hand and burned like a torch, though without smoke. He heard Lilli gasp and knew she'd seen it.

“Begone!” Nevyn snapped his hand down and pointed at the brooch. Silver fire poured over silver metal, then vanished.

“It's lifted!” Lilli said. “The shadow, I mean.”

“Good. It was a weak spell, so it cost very little to banish it. Unlike that wretched curse tablet.”

“Just so.” Lilli reached for the brooch, then stopped. “May I?”

“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.