The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (18 page)

“Cerrmor?” she whispered it like a dweomer spell. “I could go to Cerrmor?”

“Cursed right, and welcome you’ll be,” Peddyc said. “The Boar’s own niece, gone over to …” He hesitated, his eyes filling with tears. “Gone over to the True King.”

For the last few hours of that night no one slept. While Anasyn stood watch at the door, Peddyc’s old manservant cut off Lilli’s hair, which she wrapped in a bit of old cloth, every scrap of it, to take with her lest her mother find it and use it to work dweomer against her. She rubbed ashes in the cropped remainder, too, and added a smear of the same along the line of her jaw and on one temple, as if she were a page, sleeping at the hearth. In the privacy of the bedchamber she changed into the scruffiest clothes the men could find her. The three of them looked over the result and pronounced her well-hidden, but all she could do was nod and tremble.

Yet when the grey dawn’s light finally broke, her terror vanished into a welcome numbness. When they left the chamber, she carried an armload of saddlebags and tried to swagger like a lad. No one noticed or spoke to her, not even Peddyc’s captain when he joined the tieryn out in the ward, where the warband was assembling by the great gates. Lilli followed the manservant into the stables and helped him saddle Peddyc’s and Anasyn’s horses.

“Hah, here’s a mule for you, lad,” he said, pointing down the line of stalls. “Put that saddle on him, and then we’ll tie a load of grain sacks behind you, and you’ll ride with me at the end of the line, like, and who’s to cast a look your way?”

No one, in the event. Lilli rode out of Dun Deverry in a cloud of dust and a crowd of yawning men. Ahead lay the long parkland of the hill on which the dun stood. The road down twisted through a maze of baffles and walls, each one manned. They rode through gate after gate, but the gatekeepers never looked at her, nor did the sleepy guards, coming down from their night’s watch on the walls. The last gate—out and safe! The old manservant caught Lilli’s attention and grinned. As the warband made their slow way through the ruins of the city, she slouched in the saddle and leaned against the sacks of grain stowed behind her. No one ever looked her way.

Ahead the city gates stood open. Beyond them she could see green fields and a flash of silver river. As the warband plodded through, four abreast, she twisted in the saddle and looked back to the dun, rising towered and grey in the brightening light. What would her mother do when she found her gone? Use her dark dweomer and scry her out? The terror came back like a blow to her heart, and she gasped for breath while sweat beaded and ran.

“Hush, lass,” the manservant whispered. “We’re out now. You’re free, and the good tieryn will keep you that way. Ye gods, I’d lay down my life to keep you safe myself, for bringing the truth of our lady’s death.” His rheumy old eyes overflowed, and he turned away, wiping them on his sleeve.

“I’ll pray you never have to,” Lilli said. “From the bottom of my heart.”

While the sun climbed and the dawn turned into morning, the warband rode straight west, heading for Camlyn’s dun and Lady Bevyan.

“Brour’s gone!” Merodda snapped. “I never had time to look yesterday, what with the uproar over Bevyan’s death. But he’s gone good and proper—his clothes, his book, everything!”

“Indeed?” Burcan said. “Do you think he’ll be heading back to Cerrmor to sell what he knows?”

“I don’t. He left there in bad enough odor to never dare go back. He’s gone north, I’ll wager. He comes from the far Northlands, and he’s oft mentioned how he misses his kin and country.”

Burcan considered with a scowl. The morning light streamed through the windows of her reception chamber, and in the brightness his lined face sagged, all stubbled and pouchy-eyed.

“Lilli told me he might have a lass here in the dun,” Merodda went on. “No doubt he lied to her—set up a ruse, perhaps.”

“Could she scry him out?”

“Now there’s a thought! Wait here. I’ll fetch her.”

When Merodda went to Lilli’s chamber, she found it empty, though the bed had obviously been slept in. Swearing under her breath, she headed toward the great hall, but at the head of the stairs she found a page, returning from some errand.

“Go find my daughter and have her come to my chamber.”

“I will, my lady.” The page bowed and hurried off.

Merodda returned to her suite of rooms to find Burcan pacing back and forth by a window. She sat down in her chair by the hearth and watched him.

“Is your heart troubled?” she said at last. “By killing Bevyan, I mean?”

“What makes you think that?” He paused to give her a puzzled look. “I’m wondering about your scribe, and what he might be in a position to know and tell. A great deal, I should think.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.”

“Indeed.” Burcan flung himself down into the chair opposite her and stretched out his legs with a long sigh. “Not much sleep last night.”

“I doubt if anyone in the dun did sleep well.”

While they waited for Lilli, Burcan drowsed, his head nodding against his chest. Merodda watched him, but she was remembering their father, all those years ago before she’d been married off to serve the clan. Father and Tibryn, his little namesake—a perfect pair they were, she thought. How I hated them! And I had naught, unless they threw a few scraps my way, not so much as a decent dress after Mother died. But once she’d made an ally out of her brother, seduced Burcan the only way she knew how, then things had improved for her. Only then, with a man to speak up for her, did they listen to what she wanted and even on occasion give it to her.

“My lady?” It was the page, standing in the doorway. “I can’t find Lillorigga anywhere.”

“Oh, she’s probably moping around somewhere because of Lady Bevyan. Never mind—I’ll speak to her at dinner.”

In his chair Burcan had roused, yawning and stretching. He waited to speak until the page had left.

“Can’t you do the scrying yourself?” he said.

“I can, at that. Wait here.”

Merodda hurried into her bedchamber and barred the door behind her. Under the bed lay a collection of small chests; she knelt and pulled one out. Inside lay two big leather bottles, their mouths plugged and tied shut, and a collection of small pottery jars. There was as well one small glass bottle, containing greyish-white crystals called Dwarven Salts—a gift from Brour, who had got it from the Northlands, or so he claimed—a dweomer-potion indeed, because it worked both fair and foul. Mixed with liquid and drunk, it would poison the drinker; used as a face wash, it kept the skin young and radiant. Merodda held the bottle up to the light from the window; it was nearly full, but she felt a stab of worry. With Brour gone, she’d not be getting any more of these miraculous salts.

For a moment she allowed herself the luxury of wishing he’d escaped. The man had dweomer, after all. She could lie to Burcan and say that Brour had hid himself with some magic spell and that she couldn’t scry him out. But what if Burcan were angry with her? She could remember his anger all too well, the sudden way he turned on her, the slap from the back of his hand that flung her against the wall. Without thinking she laid her free hand on her face, as if she could feel the welt and broken skin there still. Over Aethan, that was. Oh ye gods! Aethan! She’d not thought of him in years, the one man she’d ever loved for himself alone—and Burcan had forced her to betray him.

“I feared he’d kill me. I truly did.”

Her sweaty hand tightened on the bottle so hard that it threatened to slip out of her fist. And who was she talking to, anyway, she asked herself? Aethan, perhaps, or perhaps, the gods.

With a shake of her head, Merodda put the dweomer crystals away and took out the leather bottle of black ink, then found the silver basin, also cached beneath the bed, and emptied the ink into it. She sat cross-legged on the floor with the basin in her lap and stared into the pool of darkness. Although she lacked Lilli’s natural talent for seeing omens, she had learned from her first teacher of dark things to scry out people she knew well. When she turned her mind to Brour, she murmured a chant, not magical in itself, but the memory key that unlocked this particular power of her mind. The surface of the ink seemed to swirl and tremble.

Merodda first saw flecks of sunlight, then a dusty road and Brour. Carrying a pack like a peddlar, he was trudging along beside the river. Ye gods! was he heading to Cerrmor after all? At that point she saw trees and realized that the morning sun was casting clear shadows toward the west, which lay at Brour’s left hand. With a toss of her head she broke the vision. The moment had come. Lie to Burcan or tell him Brour’s whereabouts? She could remember his face in a rage, the purple veins throbbing on his temples. Carefully she set the basin on the floor and rose, then left her chamber.

Burcan looked up at her with one eyebrow raised.

“I’ve seen him,” Merodda said. “He’s heading north, all right, strolling along beside the river as happily as you please. He’s got up like a peddlar with a pack.”

“Good!” Burcan snarled. “I’m going to take some of my men and ride after him. If he’s burdened he can’t have gone far. If he gives us the slip, I’ll tell my vassals there’s a price on his head. They’ll bring it to me soon enough.”

“Wonderful!” She forced herself to smile. “And he’s carrying a treasure, too, a book.”

“A book?”

“It’s filled with dweomer secrets, a big thing, bound in leather.”

“Very well. If you want it, it shall be yours.”

Burcan rode out around noon, and still Merodda had found no sign of Lilli. The dinner hour arrived but brought no Lilli, either. Merodda sent other servants to scour the dun, but they all returned without the girl. She could scry her daughter out, and she was just heading for the staircase to return to her chambers when a page came rushing up to her.

“My lady, my lady!” He was near tears. “The queen just tried to kill herself.”

“Oh ye gods!” The stupid little dolt! Merodda thought. Aloud she said, “Does she live?”

“She does, my lady. Her throat is ever so bruised, though. She tried to hang herself.”

Everyone in the great hall was turning to look, to listen. In a ripple of hushed noise the news spread out like a ripple in a pond.

“I’ll attend upon her straightaway,” Merodda said.

She turned on her heel and hurried up the staircase, but at the landing she looked back to see the page mobbed by members of the queen’s fellowship. The lad was talking and gesturing while the men listened, white-faced.

Merodda swept into the women’s hall without knocking and found Abrwnna’s maidservants huddled together and weeping. Merodda hurried through to the queen’s chamber on the far side. They’d laid Abrwnna on her bed with her copper-colored hair spread out away from her face like a sunset over the white linen. Two of the royal chirurgeons were attending her; a young man held a flask of liquid to the queen’s bluish-tinged lips and tried to force a few drops down. Old Grodyn stood nearby, leaning on the bedstead and frowning. Abrwnna lay so still that at first Merodda feared her dead; then the girl’s eyes opened and flicked her way.

“Rhodi.” Her voice was a ghastly whisper, like the sound of a metal shovel scraping up coals from a dead hearth. “Let me die.”

“Nonsense!” Merodda hurried to the bedside. “My dearest liege!”

A welt of red and purple bruises circled her throat, with a fist-shaped bruise, bleeding from a scrape, just under one ear. Merodda felt herself turn cold all over, a sick kind of cold, as if she’d just vomited. Her hands shook with terror, but she could not force her gaze away until the chirurgeon spoke.

“It’s a nasty sight, eh?” Grodyn said calmly. “That’s from the knot. They found her just in time. She didn’t give herself enough of a drop, and so she was strangling in the noose.”

“Oh, ah, indeed.” Merodda had to force out the words. Deep in her heart she knew that it wasn’t the sight that had sickened her, but some horrible omen—would she see the same mark on Burcan’s neck one day?

“Are you all right, my lady?” Grodyn said.

“I’ll be fine in a heart’s beat or two. It’s just so awful! Our poor queen!”

Abrwnna stared up at the ceiling and refused to look at either of them. Merodda caught the chirurgeon’s attention and mouthed the words, “Will she live?” He shrugged and held both hands palm up.

“Her throat’s all raw,” the young physician said. “I’m trying to give her somewhat to soothe it.”

“Come now!” Merodda laid one hand on Abrwnna’s face. “Be a good lass and open your mouth, my liege. Just a few drops? Please? Do it for your Rhodi? No one blames you for our poor Bevyan’s death. It was those fiends from Cerrmor.”

Abrwnna flicked her eyes Merodda’s way, but she kept her lips pressed together.

“Just a little swallow,” Merodda went on. “For the sake of the men in your fellowship. Why, just think: if you ask them, my liege, they’ll swear an oath to avenge our Bevva’s death.”

Abrwnna considered, then opened her lips and sipped the liquid.

“Just a bit at a time,” Grodyn said sharply. “Don’t choke her, lad.”

Merodda found a chair and watched the two men fuss over their royal patient. What if the queen did die of her crushed throat? The king would have need of a new wife, then. What a pity that Tibryn had insisted on settling Lilli’s betrothal already! Of course, betrothals had been broken before. Or would it be too obvious? Probably so, and she might find herself suspected. It was a good thing that Abrwnna had tried to hang herself, not eaten poison, what with all the nasty gossip about dear Caetha’s death still very much alive. I should have known they’d suspect me, Merodda thought. But what if Caetha had taken Burcan’s affections away? What place would I have then?

The sick cold swept over her again. Merodda laid a hand at her throat and sat shivering in the warm room.

The sun was well on its way toward setting when Tieryn Peddyc, his men, and Lilli arrived at Lord Camlyn’s dun. Lady Varylla, with a black scarf thrown over her head, met them at the gates.

“Tieryn Peddyc—” Varylla started to speak, then merely wept.

Fortunately her old chamberlain, the only real servitor in the dun, had seen so much death and misery in his life that he kept his composure. While the servants and riders took the horses to the stables, old Gatto stood with Peddyc, Anasyn, and Lilli in the ward and told them how he’d handled matters. The dead riders were all buried in a mass grave by the road along with the two common-born maidservants; the horses left alive had been rounded up; the bridles and saddles from the dead ones had been collected and were waiting for the tieryn to take with him. Lady Bevyan, Sarra, and the young page, who was also of noble blood, had been laid out here in the dun.