Bristling Wood (20 page)

“If an old man may speak frankly,” Nevyn said. “He’s a much better man than any of that pack of ferrets around the throne in Cantrae.”

“Oh, I agree with you
now
, but what does a lass of nineteen know? All I could think of was that he was such a young lad, and that I’d never get to attend any of my mother’s splendid feasts again.”

And with a sigh, the queen changed the subject away from such personal matters to a particular song the bard had sung in hall the night before.

Not long after Nevyn’s arrival, the first snows came. The lake froze to a solid glitter of white, and the farmlands lay shrouded with only the distant trails of smoke to mark where the houses stood. Life in the dun settled into a slow routine centered on the huge hearths in the great hall, where the noble-born sat close to the fire and the servants lay in the warm straw with the dogs. As the drowsy weeks slipped past, Nevyn began to grow honestly fond of Maryn. He was a hard child to dislike—always happy, always courteous, supremely confident because of his position as marked prince yet. honestly concerned, with the welfare of others, Nevyn knew that if his work were successful and Maryn did indeed take the throne of Deverry, everyone would look back on his childhood and say that obviously the lad had been born to be king. No doubt little legends about a gallantry beyond his years would spring up, and the ordinary events of childhood would be viewed as mighty omens. That his mother was a highly intelligent woman and his father an unusually honorable man would never enter into that kind of thinking. Nevyn was quite willing to have things that way. After all, he was there to create a myth, not write history.

And the myth seemed determined to get itself created. Shortly before the Feast of the Sun, which would also mark Maryn’s tenth birthday, the prince came to his tutor’s chamber for his lessons in an unusually thoughtful mood. Since the lad’s mind wandered all through the reading, Nevyn finally asked him what was wrong.

“Oh, naught truly. But, sir, you’re a wise man. Do you know what dreams mean?”

“Sometimes, but some dreams only mean that you ate too much before you went to bed.”

Maryn giggled then cocked his head to one side in thought.

“I dont think this was that sort of dream. It seemed ever so real while I was sleeping, but then I woke up, and it seemed daft.” He squirmed on his chair and looked away in embarrassment. “Father says a real prince never gives himself airs.”

“Your father’s right, but no one can blame you for what you do in dreams, Tell me about it, if you’d like.”

“I dreamt I was king of all Deverry. It was ever so real. I was leading my army, you see, and I could smell the horses and everything. We were in Cantrae and we were winning. You were there, too, sir. You were my royal councillor. I was all sweaty and dirty, because I’d been fighting, but the men were cheering and calling me the king.”

For a moment Nevyn found it hard to breathe. It was possible that the prince had only picked up the images from his tutor’s mind, in the uncanny way that children can sometimes read the minds of adults they want to please, but the detail, such as the smell of horses, was so exact that he doubted it.

“You think it’s daft, don’t you?” the prince said.

“I don’t. How good are you at keeping secrets?”

“Truly good, and I’ll swear a vow if you like.”

Nevyn stared into the boy’s eyes, where his soul lay, like a fire ready in a hearth, waiting for a spark in the tinder.

“Swear to me you’ll never repeat what I say, not to your father or your mother, to priest or peddler, not to anyone.”

“I swear it, on the honor of my clan, my royal line, and the gods of my people.”

“Well and good. You
will
be king someday, king of all Deverry. The great god Wmm has marked you out in his oracle and sent me here to aid Your Highness.”

When Maryn looked away, his face pale, his soft boy’s mouth was slack, but his eyes were those of the king to come.

“You’re dweomer, aren’t you, sir, just like in the tales? But oh, Father says there’s no such thing as dweomer anymore, that it was all in the Dawntime.”

“Indeed, my liege? Watch the hearth.”

Nevyn summoned the Wildfolk, who first obligingly put the fire out cold, then lit it again with a great gust of flame when Nevyn snapped his fingers. Maryn jumped up and grinned.

“Oh, that’s splendid! Then my dream was truly, truly true?”

“It was, but not a word to any living soul until I tell you that the time is ripe.”

“I won’t. I’d die first.”

He spoke so solemnly that he seemed more a man than a child, caught in one of those rare moments when the levels of the soul blend and let something of its Wyrd slip through to the conscious mind. Then the moment vanished.

“Well, if I’m going to be king, I guess I’d better know all these wretched laws, but oh, they’re so boring! Can’t we read about battles and stuff for a while?”

“Very well, Your Highness. As the prince wishes.”

That night, Nevyn had to admit to himself that he was well pleased by the way things were going. He could only hope that he’d have enough time to train the lad properly, at least five more years. Although he’d never leave Maryn’s side again until the long wars were over and the land at peace, he wanted to put, not a puppet on the throne, but a king.

FOUR

The year 842. While he was walking down by the riverbank, Retyc the high priest saw this omen. A flock of sparrows was pecking in the grass. Suddenly a raven flew by. All the sparrows flew up and followed the raven, just as if he were another sparrow and the leader of their flock. Someday, His Holiness said, a man from another people will come to lead Deverry men to war . . . 

—The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn

Late on a warm autumn day the silver daggers made their camp on the grassy banks of the Trebycaver. It was an organized chaos: ninety men tending a hundred and fifty horses, the fifteen women who followed the camp pitching tents and getting supplies out of the pair of wagons, the handful of bastard children running around and shouting, free at last after a long day behind one saddle or another. While the others worked, Maddyn and Caradoc strolled through, shouting an order here, a jest there. By a pile of saddles a weary Clwna was nursing her fussy new daughter, Pomyan. Clwna looked so pale and faint that Maddyn hunkered down beside her.

“How do you fare, lass? You shouldn’t have ridden so soon after having the babe.”

“Oh, I’m as well as I need to be. It was better than never catching up to you again.”

“We could have waited a few days.”

“Huh. I’m sure the captain would have waited for the likes of me.”

When she moved the baby to her other breast, the tiny lass raised her head and looked cloudy-eyed at Maddyn. He smiled at her and wondered who her father was, a perennial question about every child bom to the camp followers, although he was the only man who seemed to care one way or the other. When Caradoc called him to come walk on, he mentioned to the captain that he thought Clwna looked ill.

“Well, she’ll have a couple of days to rest now,” Caradoc said. “I think we’ll leave this ragtag piss-poor excuse for a troop here while you and I ride to see this so-called King Casyl.”

“Very well. I’ll admit we’re not much to look at these days.”

“Never were, and all these wretched women and barracks brats don’t help us give ourselves fine military airs.”

“You could have ordered us to leave them behind when we left Eldidd.”

“Horseshit. Believe it or not, there’s a bit of honor left in your old captain’s heart, lad. They’re a bunch of sluts, but it was my men who swelled their bellies, wasn’t it? Besides, there was enough grumbling about leaving Eldidd as it was. Didn’t want open mutiny.” Caradoc sighed in profound melancholy. “We got soft there. That’s the trouble with staying in one place too long. Should’ve left Eldidd long ago.”

“I still don’t see why we left it now.”

Caradoc shot him a sour glance and led the way out of the camp to the riverbank. In the slanting sun, the water ran rippled gold through banks soft with wild grass.

“Don’t repeat this to anyone, or I’ll smash your face for you,” Caradoc said. “But I moved us out because of this dream I had.”

Maddyn stared, frankly speechless.

“In the dream someone was telling me that it was time. Don’t ask me why or time for what, but I heard this voice, like, and it sounded like a king’s voice, all arrogant and commanding, telling me that it was time to leave and ride north. If we starve in Pyrdon, then I’ll know the dream came from the demons, but by the gods, I’ve never had a dream like that before. Tried to ignore it for a blasted eightnight. Kept coming back. Call me daft if you want.”

“Naught of the sort. But I’ve got to say that I’m surprised to the bottom of my heart.”

“Not half as surprised as I was. I’m getting old. Daft. Soon I’ll be drooling in a chair by a tavern fire.” Caradoc sighed again and shook his head in mock sadness. “But we’re about ten miles from this King Casyl’s dun. Tomorrow we’ll ride up there and see just how daft I was. Let’s get back to camp now. I’ll be leaving Owaen in charge, and I want to give him his orders.”

On the morrow, Maddyn and Caradoc left the camp early and followed the river up to the town of Drwloc. After the splendors of Abernaudd, the town wasn’t much as royal cities went, about two thousand houses crammed inside a timber-laced stone wall. As they led their horses along streets paved with half-buried logs for want of cobbles, Maddyn began to wonder if Caradoc was indeed going daft. If this was the jewel of the kingdom, it seemed that the king wouldn’t be able to afford the silver daggers. They found a tavern over by the north gate, got themselves ale, then asked casual questions about the king and his holdings. When the tavernman held forth upon his liege’s honor, bravery, and farseeing mind without ever mentioning luxuries or reserves of cash, Caradoc grew positively gloomy.

“Tell me somewhat,” the captain said at last. “Does His Highness keep a large standing army?”

“As large a one as he can feed. You never know what those Eldidd dogs are going to do.”

This news made him a good bit more cheerful. They took their ale outside to sit on a small wooden bench in front of the tavern. In the warm hazy day, the townsfolk hurried past on assorted errands, an old peasant leading a mule laden with cabbages, a young merchant in much mended checked brigga, a pretty lass who ignored them both in the most pointed fashion.

“We should have ridden north earlier,” Caradoc said. “His Highness isn’t going to want to feed extra men all winter when the summer’s fighting is done. Ah, curse that dream! May the demon who sent it to me drown in a tub of horse piss.”

“Well, there’s no harm in riding out to ask.”

With a gloomy nod, Caradoc sipped his ale. Down the twisting street, a silver horn rang out; a squad of horsemen appeared, walking their mounts at a stately pace. At their head were two riders with rearing stallions blazoned on their shirts, and a guard of four more rode behind. In the middle, on a splendid bay gelding, rode a handsome blond lad of about fourteen. His white, red, and gold plaid cloak was thrown back and pinned at one shoulder with an enormous ring brooch of gold set with rubies. Beside him on a matched bay was an old man with a thick shock of white hair and Piercing blue eyes. Maddyn stared briefly, then jumped up with a shout.

“Nevyn! By all the gods!”

Grinning broadly, the old man turned his horse out of line and waved, paused to say something to the lad, then rode over, dismounting as Maddyn ran up to greet him. Maddyn clasped his outretched hand and shook it hard.

“By the hells, it gladdens my heart to see you, sir.”

“And mine to see you,” Nevyn said with a somewhat sly smile “See, I told you that our paths would cross again.”

“And right you were. What are you doing in Pyrdon?”

“Tutoring the marked prince. Are the rest of the silver daggers with you?”

“Not far, just camped down the river. Wait—how do you know about them?”

“How do you think? Has your captain had any strange dreams lately?”

Maddyn turned cold with an awe that ran down his back like melting snow. Tankard in hand, a puzzled Caradoc strolled over to join them as the young prince dismounted and led his horse over to join his tutor. When Maddyn and Caradoc knelt to him, the prince gave them a courteous nod of acknowledgment, but the gesture was splendidly firm for one so young. Maddyn was instantly struck by how noble the young prince was, the gallant way he stood, the proud set to his head, the easy way his hand rested on his sword hilt, as if he’d seen many a battle beyond his years. A prince indeed, he thought, born to be king. At the thought, his cold awe grew stronger, and he wondered just why Nevyn the sorcerer was here in this obscure kingdom.

“Your Highness,” the old man said, “Allow me to present Maddyn the silver dagger, and the captain of the troop, Caradoc of Cerrmor. Men, you kneel before Maryn, marked prince of Pyrdon.”

At the casual mention of his name by one he didn’t know, Caradoc glared at Nevyn, who ignored him with a bland smile.

“Silver daggers, are you?” Maryn said with, an engaging, boyish smile. “Pyrdon may be at the ends of the earth, but I’ve heard of your troop. How many of you are there?”

“Ninety, Your Highness,” Caradoc said. “And we have our own smith, chirurgeon, and bard.”

Maryn glanced at Nevyn for advice.

“It would pay to look them over, Your Highness, but you’ll have to consult with your father the king first, of course.”

“Well and good, then. Men, you may rise and stand in our presence.” The prince glanced Nevyn’s way again. “I don’t suppose I could go look them over right now.”

“Not with the king expecting you back. Have the captain bring them to you on the morrow.”

“Oh, very well. Captain. Caradoc, assemble your troop before the gates of the royal palace on the morrow. Send me word through the guards on the causeway.”

“Well and good, Your Highness. We’ll arrive around noon.”

With a laugh of excitement, the young prince strode back to his men. Nevyn winked at Maddyn, then rejoined his lord. As the royal escort rode on, Caradoc stared openmouthed until they were out of sight. He retrieved his ale from the street and led the way back to the bench, where he sat down with an exaggerated heavy sigh.