The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (40 page)

All that morning Maryn held an improvised malover. Although he refused to consider himself king until the priests performed the final ceremonies, no one was about to argue with his right of conquest. He was, after all, the Marked Prince of Pyrdon and Cerrmor as well as of Deverry now by default. A few at a time, stripped of all weapons and escorted by guards, the lords whom his victory had turned into rebels and traitors knelt before him to beg for his pardon and to swear fealty to him and his line forever. The lords whose lands lay to the south grovelled shamelessly; the northern lords were sullen, but they all knelt, every one of them.

The common-born in the dun and the women of all ranks were deemed beneath the king’s notice—except of course for the former queen of all Deverry. Late in the day Oggyn had her brought into the malover with a serving girl along as a protection of sorts for her honor. The queen wore a dark green dress, stiff with embroidery at hem and sleeve, and her flame-red hair spread uncombed over her shoulders like a shawl. Nevyn noticed the men in the hall turning to appraise her as the guards hurried her forward.

“Your Highness?” said a guard. “This is the would-be queen.”

Abrwnna knelt at the king’s feet. Strands of her hair stuck to her cheeks with tears; they looked like scratches, Nevyn found himself thinking, as if this were the Dawntime and she had raked her face bloody with her own nails.

“This is the wife of the false king?” Maryn said.

“She is, my liege,” Oggyn said, “and a pitiful sight, truly.”

“Just barely a woman, my liege,” Nevyn put in. “And married off to an outright child. I wouldn’t call her a threat to the kingdom.”

“I agree with my lord Nevyn,” Oggyn said. “No doubt we can find her shelter in some temple of the Goddess.”

“I’d rather die.” Abrwnna’s voice was a bare whisper. “Don’t lock me up. I’d rather die.”

“Now here, child!” Oggyn said. “You’ll feel differently once you’ve had a chance to think about things.”

Abrwnna raised her head and stared at the councillor until her rage made him turn away.

“Prince Maryn,” she said at last, “everyone tells me you’re merciful beyond belief. Then kill me and don’t shut me up somewhere to moulder. I’d rather die than go mad.”

Maryn sighed, just once but sharply.

“Well, can’t we make some other provision for her?” The king glanced Nevyn’s way. “She’s got no claim to the throne whatsoever.”

“Just so,” Nevyn said. “We could settle her upon one of your loyal lords. I’ve no doubt that she was married in name only.”

“That’s true.” Hope brought a flicker of life to Abrwnna’s eyes. “I’d swear any vow you wanted me to. I’d never do anything to harm you or yours, truly I wouldn’t.”

“She’s not in a position to do any harm,” Oggyn broke in. “I agree with Nevyn in
this
case.”

The stress was unmistakable. Maryn ignored it.

“Very well, then,” the king said. “Who handles things like this? The priests?”

“I’ll make the proper arrangements, Your Highness,” Nevyn said. “And perhaps one of your lords will speak and take her.”

“She’ll be a widow soon enough,” Oggyn muttered.

Out in the crowded hall Tieryn Anasyn leapt to his feet as fast as a grouse breaking cover, and swooped down on the king. He flung himself to a kneel beside Abrwnna.

“My liege,” Anasyn said. “I’d be honored to stand surety for this woman and take her into my clan as my wife.”

“Done, then,” Maryn said. “She’s yours, once Nevyn figures out the legalities.”

Abrwnna looked back and forth between them, seemed to be about to speak, then wept in a sudden burst of sobs, just as suddenly stifled. No doubt she could figure out for herself that no one was going to ask her opinion on this matter. Anasyn rose, then helped her up. Clinging to his arm she allowed herself to be escorted out of the great hall.

When the guards started to follow, Nevyn caught their attention.

“No sign of Lady Merodda?” Nevyn asked.

“None, my lord,” one guard said.

The other shook his head and shrugged.

“I begin to wonder if she escaped,” Nevyn said. “We know that some of the Boars did. Well, keep looking. She’s cursed important.”

“I just thought of somewhat,” Branoic said. “None of those lords who deserted the regent ever returned.”

“True enough,” Maddyn said. “I wonder how many of them are gathering around Lord Braemys in Cantrae?”

“No doubt we’ll find out before we want to. Let’s hope most of them are holed up in their duns like scared rabbits.”

The two silver daggers were standing up on the catwalk of the innermost wall. Below them the city spread out, a pool of ruins lapping around a ravaged hill.

“Think the folk will come back?” Branoic spat reflectively over the wall.

“Sooner or later. It’s still the Holy City, the King’s City. And the real wars are over, whether Braemys decides to rebel or not.”

“So they are. Ye gods, I never thought I’d live to see this day.”

“No more did I. I only wish we’d all—” Maddyn couldn’t finish the sentence.

Branoic spat again. Maddyn looked out across the ruins, but he was seeing Caradoc, laughing as he hoisted a tankard.

“Let’s go down,” Maddyn said. “See where old Nevyn’s got to, maybe.”

When they reached the ward by the main gates, they found it mobbed. Despite the prince’s blanket pardon, the old king’s retainers were leaving the dun—noble-born servitors and page boys, the artisans and higher ranks of servant, all walking out of the gates with only what they could carry on their backs. Most of the women wept; a few of the men did, too. Maddyn wondered if it were grief for the fallen dynasty or worry at what lay ahead of them. Some of the men were pushing handcarts, piled with blankets and children.

Behind the carts a servant girl was walking—no, a woman, because despite her yellow hair and lithe body, her face in the harsh sunlight showed a fine webbing of wrinkles. Dressed in dirty brown, with an old grey shawl tied round her waist and over one hip, she plodded along, staring at the ground as if in despair. Maddyn stared, then swore softly under his breath.

“What is it?” Branoic said.

“That woman. Come with me.”

As they strode over, she looked at them with such a complete disinterest that Maddyn hesitated, wondering if he were wrong, but her hands gave her away—fine and soft with well-trimmed nails. Maddyn laid a hard hand on her shoulder.

“Lady Merodda, by the gods!”

She screamed, flailing at him with useless fists. Branoic grabbed her arms from behind and pinned her against his chest while she squealed and squirmed.

“We’ve got ourselves a prize,” Maddyn said. “Merodda of the Boar, aren’t you?”

“I’m not! I’m not! She’s been taken by the prince’s men. Oh, don’t hurt me! I’m but her maidservant.”

“Then you won’t mind if the lady’s daughter takes a look at you.”

“So Lilli is here.” She went limp in Branoic’s hands. “Oh ye gods, that my own daughter would turn against me!” Tears ran down her cheeks in silent lines. “Very well, silver dagger. I am Lady Merodda, or truly, just Merodda now, an old woman like any other, since I’ve no kin and clan. What do you want with me? Ransom? Who’s to pay it? Please let me go. I can’t swing a sword to ride against you. What’s my life to you?”

Branoic’s grip loosened as she began to sob, but Maddyn noticed that her eyes stayed dry.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Maddyn said. “Tell me, do you remember a man named Aethan? He rode for your brother a long while ago.”

“Ah Goddess!” Merodda stared at him for a long moment. “Is he here, too?”

“He’s not, but dead these long years past, and all because of you. You shamed him and stole his honor, and your brother nearly stole his life along with it when he flogged him in his ward. What you did to him is going to hang you now. Branoic, we’re taking her to the king.”

Maddyn expected her to curse him, or even spit at him like a peasant woman, but she merely stared, her eyes empty of all feeling, all thought—the brazen hussy! he thought. The stinking little bitch! When Branoic gave her a little shake, she started walking and, her head held high, let them march her off to Maryn’s justice.

In Dun Deverry’s great hall Prince Maryn had finished with the noble-born prisoners. He was holding an impromptu court while servants poured his predecessor’s mead for lord and rider alike. Although he sat at the king’s old table, to honor Great Bel’s dictates he’d chosen a place at the right hand of the king’s chair, empty except for its pitiful cushions. With Anasyn in his dead father’s place, his lords sat at table with him, and out in the hall soldiers laughed and joked as the serving lasses poured the imprisoned Olaen’s mead round.

Nevyn was thinking of the child-king and how, against all odds, he might save the boy’s life. The only solution the laws had turned up was almost as harsh as death—castrate or blind him, so that he’d be unfit to rule according to ancient precedent, then turn him over to the priests of Bel to raise as one of their own. Perhaps it would be better to let Oggyn have his way and let the child be smothered as painlessly as possible, so that he could begin a new incarnation in, or so Nevyn could hope, better circumstances. But he’s so young, a bare five summers—the thought would not leave him, not even in the comforts of victory.

In but a few moments, though, Nevyn had a distraction that, in the event, he would rather have foregone. At the door someone shouted, someone else crowed with laughter, and Maddyn and Branoic appeared, shoving in front of them a blond woman dressed like a servant in dirty brown and grey. She walked like one already dead, her head high but her eyes staring at nothing as she made her way through the jeers and mockery of Maryn’s men and the former king’s servants alike. Nevyn heard a serving lass mutter, “Good! They got the slut, her and her poisons,” and knew then that the captive must be Lady Merodda. At last! Soon he would be able to pry the truth out of her. He glanced quickly around but saw Lilli nowhere.

“You!” He pointed to the serving girl. “There’s a couple of coppers for you if you fetch Lady Lillorigga here.”

“Done, my lord!” She curtsied, then hurried off, heading for the staircase across the great hall.

Anasyn got up and hurried after the girl, but Nevyn had no time to wonder why. He turned back to Merodda and studied her. Would she tell him the secret of the curse-tablet? He’d have to bribe it out of her, most likely. Her captors were making her kneel at Maryn’s feet, while he slewed round to face her in some surprise.

“What’s this, silver daggers?” Maryn said.

“My liege.” Maddyn bowed to him. “May I present Lady Merodda of the Boar?”

“Oh ho! A prize, then,” Maryn said. “My thanks!”

When Maryn rose and towered over her, Merodda looked at the floor and neither moved nor spoke. Although her face had gone pale, she seemed perfectly composed, perfectly calm, the very picture of someone who’d given up all hope. Maddyn, on the other hand, brimmed with fury like a goblet about to spill. His hands clenched into fists, he stood trembling behind her. Nevyn was alarmed enough to rise from his chair.

“Very well, Lady Merodda,” Maryn said. “You shall be placed under guard in your chambers. I would suggest you begin praying to the Goddess you women serve, because as soon as my councillors can arrange it, you’ll be taken to one of her temples to live out your days.”

“My liege!” Maddyn’s voice rose to a howl. “How can you pardon her?”

Branoic grabbed him by the arm.

“My apologies, my liege,” Maddyn said and fast, “for my discourtesy, but ye gods, if ever a woman was evil, it’s her! It gripes my soul to think of her living out her days at leisure.”

“She’ll be as good as imprisoned.” Nevyn walked round the table and came to stand beside the king. “I doubt me if such will please the lady.”

Maddyn shook his head like a wet dog trying to get dry. Out in the great hall, servants and riders alike had gathered in a circular press to watch.

“He’s thinking of Aethan, my lord,” Branoic said to Nevyn. “You’ll remember how he died.”

At the name Merodda’s expression changed—pain like a bird fluttered across her face, then was gone.

“I remember Aethan myself,” Prince Maryn said. “Is this the woman who—”

“It is, my liege,” Maddyn burst out. “I swore a vow of vengeance then, and I’ve kept it locked in my heart ever since.”

“Well, truly it was a grievous harm she worked him.” The prince hesitated, thinking. “But here, good bard, what do you want me to do? She’s a woman, an old woman at that, and she’s never lifted a sword against me. By the gods, if I’d spare Nantyn’s life, how could I not do the same for her?”

“But my liege! Everyone knows how she poisoned people and worked witchcraft.”

“Indeed? Lady Merodda, you must have some answer to these charges.”

Merodda lifted her head and looked first at the bard, then at the prince.

“And it will be worth the breath to make an answer?” Her voice held steady, but it sounded curiously flat. “Everything I ever honored and held dear is dead and gone, Prince Maryn. Kill me if it pleases you.”

“No one’s death pleases me, my lady.”

She sat back on her heels and considered him with a flicker of life in her eyes.

“I’d say that was true,” she said at last. “And a wondrous thing in a noble-born man.”

Again Maddyn shook himself. When Nevyn reached out a hand to steady him, Maddyn knocked it away. All the color had drained from his face, and he trembled as he stared at the woman he had hated for twenty years.

“The charges against me,” Merodda went on, “are true enough, though I only ever poisoned one woman, and I regretted it bitterly when I saw how hard it was for her to die. How many men have you slain, Prince Maryn? How many deaths lie at the feet of each and every man in this hall? Is the one death I made such a grievous thing, compared to all those slain men I saw lying in the ward and below the walls?”

Prince Maryn went tense.

“And as for the witchcraft, my prince, do you know what it means to be a woman born into a clan such as the Boar? Do you know what it feels like to be passed from one husband to the next at your brother’s decree with never a thought for what you might wish? Do you know what it means to wait and wait while the man you live for rides to war, and you never knowing if he lives or dies? Do you know what it means to grovel to get a few scraps for yourself while your brothers have the feast? Do you, my prince? I think not. And so I think I could talk all day and you still would never understand why I’d turn to spells and scrying, just to have a little something of my own.”