The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (23 page)

“Nevyn!” Caradoc called out. “A moment of your time, if you please?”

He dismounted; then oddly enough, like a servant he took the bridle of Owaen’s black gelding, which was snorting and tossing its head. Owaen dismounted with a great deal of care, which he needed, since he was holding his left hand up and out from his body. His face was almost as pale as his ash-blond hair, but his ice-blue eyes showed no feeling at all. He looked briefly at Nevyn, then away.

“What’s this?” Nevyn said. “An accident?”

“Just that, my lord,” Caradoc said. “And I’ve seen stupider ones but not very often.”

Owaen shot his captain a murderous glance. The little finger on his left hand stuck out at an impossible angle, and there was a blood-spotted bruise forming in the palm.

“Looks very bad,” Nevyn said. “Hold your paw out a little more, lad, so I can see it better.”

Behind them the rest of the men were dismounting; most were leading their horses away, but Branoic threw his reins to a friend and strolled over. He was enormous, Branoic, the tallest man in the silver daggers, broad-shouldered and a little fleshy at the moment after a winter of eating at the king’s bounty.

“It’s broken, isn’t it?” Branoic said.

“You hold your leprous tongue,” Owaen said, “or I’ll cut off your black and crusted balls. Well, if you’ve got two, which I doubt.”

Branoic laughed, then set his hands on his hips and watched Nevyn study Owaen’s injury.

“Broken it is,” Nevyn said. “And badly so. How did it happen?”

Owaen glared at the cobbles as if he hoped to shatter them by sheer malice.

“His horse got a stone in its hoof,” Branoic said, grinning. “And so he picked the hoof up with his left hand, but he didn’t hold it very firmly, and so the horse took exception to the liberty he’d taken with its person.”

“I thought Owaen was going to slit the poor beast’s throat,” Caradoc put in. “But I stopped him. It’s a good horse, except for its delicate temperament.”

“Give it to me,” Branoic said. “I can handle it.”

Owaen turned on him like a striking snake, but in his rage he forgot his injury. All at once sweat beaded his face; he swore under his breath. Caradoc grabbed him by the elbow and steadied him.

“Branoic, that’s enough!” Caradoc snarled. “Get out of here and right now.”

“Captain.” Branoic ducked his head Caradoc’s way and turned on his heel.

Nevyn watched him striding off across the ward to catch up with his fellows. Although he should have been used to it by then, at moments Nevyn still found himself amazed that the soul inhabiting that body had been for many incarnations a woman, and one he had loved. With a shake of his head he turned back to the immediate problem.

“Small injuries often hurt the worst,” Nevyn said to Owaen. “The hand’s not gone dead on you, at least. You need to get a chirurgeon to set it.”

Owaen let fly with a string of curses, ending with a sensible question.

“How long will it take to heal?”

“Weeks, and you won’t be able to hold a shield, you know, with it bound up against the other fingers. You’ll have to stay out of the fighting.”

“What? I can’t do that.”

“Will you fight without a shield, then?”

Owaen started to answer, then merely glared at the offending finger.

“What if I have the chirurgeon just cut it off?” Owaen said at last. “A clean cut should heal quicker than a break.”

“True, but ye gods! They don’t grow back, you know.”

“I don’t give a pile of horseshit about that. I can steady a shield with four fingers well enough. I want this god-cursed thing healed and done with before we reach the Holy City.”

“It’s your choice.” Nevyn rolled his eyes heavenward. “Tell Caudyr that I said he should let you have your way.”

Some while later, as he was sitting on the dais in the great hall with the prince, Nevyn saw Owaen and Caradoc walking in. Sure enough, Owaen’s hand was bound with a linen bandage instead of splints. Maryn followed his gaze.

“Ah, that reminds me,” Maryn said. “I wanted to ask you somewhat. It’s about Caradoc. You know how much I value his advice. He’s seen fighting in three different kingdoms, after all.”

“And he’s been seeing it for years,” Nevyn said. “Experience is always valuable.”

“Just so, but I worry. I’d hate to see him killed, but he insists on leading his men into battle.”

“Just so.” Nevyn considered for a moment. “Have you talked to Caradoc about this?”

“I hinted, but he turned my words away. He’s a proud man and a touchy one. I wanted your advice first.”

“Then I’ll have a word with him.”

Down in the great hall, Caradoc was pulling out a bench and helping Owaen sit at one of the tables reserved for the silver daggers. The younger man’s face glistened with sweat on pale skin. No doubt his hand hurt worse than he’d ever imagined it could.

“Owaen should be lying down,” Nevyn remarked. “If my liege will excuse me, I’ll tend to it.”

“Of course.”

By the time Nevyn reached them, Owaen was sipping ale from a tankard. He kept his left hand, a club of white linen, in his lap. Caradoc stood, leaning against the table, and watched him.

“I see you had the finger removed,” Nevyn said to Owaen.

“I did, my lord.” Owaen’s voice sounded very small, like a child’s. “It went fast.”

“Indeed? You should be lying down, and don’t argue with me. It’s not a sign of weakness. I don’t want you bleeding to death. The prince needs you, and you’ve got to keep that wounded hand motionless.”

Owaen gulped ale.

“He’s right,” Caradoc snapped. “Will it take a direct order to make you do what Nevyn says?”

“It will.”

“Then I order you to go to the barracks and lie down.” Caradoc glanced around the hall. “There’s Maddyn and red-haired Trevyr. I’m now ordering you to let them help you.”

“As the captain commands, then.”

Caradoc made a snorting sound, then waved Maddyn and the other silver dagger over.

“Why do you always call him red-haired Trevyr?” Nevyn said.

“Because there used to be a black-haired Trevyr in the troop as well. He’s been dead these four years, but somehow the name stuck, like.”

Nevyn gave Maddyn a few instructions on caring for Owaen and sent them off. Both he and Caradoc stood watching them leave the hall; Owaen was weaving a little but managing to walk on his own even though Trevyr Coch kept close to him.

“Stubborn little bastard,” Caradoc remarked.

“Well, some men show themselves less mercy than they’d show an enemy.”

“Owaen never shows anyone mercy. A consistent sort of lad.”

“He’s always been that, truly.” Nevyn was thinking of the other lifetimes in which he’d known this soul. “I suspect he’ll get his wish, though, and the thing will be healed fairly well by the time he sees fighting.”

“Good, because there won’t be any keeping him out of it. He’d feel shamed.”

“Well, some men are like that, truly. They won’t stay out of a battle unless they’re nearly dead already, and all for fear of what other men will think of them.”

“True enough, but you know, all a silver dagger’s got in life is the fighting. Look at Maddyn, now. I told him to give it up, and he did, but that’s because he’s a bard. He has somewhat to live for, like, besides glory and honor. The rest of us don’t.”

All at once it occurred to Nevyn that the captain remembered the prince’s hints perfectly well. Caradoc was watching him tight-lipped, as if squelching a smile.

“I’d say you have a lot to live for,” Nevyn said. “The prince’s favor, for one thing.”

“Huh! And how can a man like me earn favor if he’s not fighting?”

“Giving wise counsel, for one thing. And offering a different voice than Oggyn’s for another.”

“Ah. Now that I hadn’t thought of.” Caradoc spat reflectively into the straw on the floor. “Can’t stand the man. No more can you, I’d say.”

“You’d be right. He does understand questions of supply. I’ll give Oggyn that. For some years he was the leader of the spearmen that Cerrmor owes the gwerbret, you see, and arming and feeding them was the hardest part of the job. So he knows how to provision an army and organize such things. But matters of strategy and suchlike? You could do the prince a great service by joining his retinue.”

For a moment Caradoc was tempted. Nevyn could see it in the distant way he looked up at the dais, where the prince sat, pretending to ignore the captain and Nevyn both. But all at once Caradoc shook his head.

“I couldn’t live with myself,” he said. “Sending my men into battle while I stayed safely behind.”

“Ah. Do you hold me a shamed man, then, for not fighting?”

“What? Of course I don’t!”

“Why not?”

“Well, my lord, you’re a scholar. You’ve got your medicines, you’ve got your dweomer-lore and suchlike—how could the prince risk losing you? Me—all I’ve ever known is battle.”

“And that knowledge is just as valuable in its own way. Here, how long have you been riding to war?”

“Most of my life. I was born with the turning of the hundred, my lord. My mother told me that, she did, and I’ve remembered it. I was born in the year the priests call 800, and so what does that make me now? Nearly half a hundred years.”

“Well, then, at your age there’s no shame in retiring from the field.”

A blunder—Nevyn saw it instantly, but he couldn’t call it back. Caradoc bristled.

“I’m not as old as all that!” the captain snapped. “I can still swing a sword.”

“I never meant to imply otherwise. It’s just that—”

“Just what? Are you trying to tell me I’m too blasted old to ride to war?”

“Naught of the sort! I was just trying to point out that your experience is long enough to be valuable, that’s all.”

Caradoc set his hands on his hips and scowled.

“Ah well,” Nevyn said. “Keep it in mind, will you, Captain? No doubt the prince would like to speak with you about this later.”

“You can tell him my answer. I’m not decrepit yet, and cursed if I’ll lead my men from behind.”

Nevyn left the matter there. Much later, when he had a chance to think about the conversation, the significance of Caradoc’s birth date struck him. In those days, long before the priests began displaying the calendars in the temples for everyone to see, the dating of years meant nothing to most people. Only the oddity of his birth year’s date had made Caradoc remember it at all, but to Nevyn it revealed an interesting secret. Glyn had died in 797 only to be reborn as Caradoc a scant three years later, far faster than usual. If Glyn had been so eager to return to his unfinished war, no wonder that he was refusing to play an onlooker’s part now.

At dinner that evening, Lilli sat with Anasyn and Peddyc. In her current stage of pregnancy the princess preferred to eat in her own hall, and generally her women stayed with her. Lilli came down because Anasyn wanted to hear in detail how she was being treated. When she told him that she had her own little chamber and two pair of nearly new dresses from Bellyra herself, he seemed satisfied.

“But if you feel spurned, you come to me,” Peddyc put in. “I’ll not have my foster-daughter treated like a servant or suchlike. It would be an insult to our clan if naught else.”

“My thanks,” Lilli said. “But so far the princess has been wonderful to me.”

“Well, I’ve never known anyone as generous as our prince,” Peddyc said. “It gladdens my heart that his wife’s his match.”

At the end of the meal, a page came from the prince to invite Anasyn and Peddyc to drink with him. Lilli decided to return to the women’s hall rather than stay on display, as it were, among the men, some of whom were eyeing her with undisguised interest. She was particularly aware of a tall, beefy blond lad, wearing the shirt and dagger of the prince’s guard. He’d watched her all through the meal, and now, when she rose to go, he got up with an exaggerated air of indifference and walked her way. When they met by this carefully arranged accident, he bowed to her with a small smile.

Lilli pretended not to notice and hurried past. Near the door she saw Elyssa talking with a short man—exceptionally short, actually—with a grey beard and a mop of grey hair to match it. When Lilli joined them, the man gave her a sour glance, then ignored her.

“The princess is doing well, Otho,” Elyssa was saying. “The stairs tire her, is all.”

“Understandable, that. Well, you tell her to take care of herself.”

“I certainly will. Don’t let it trouble your heart.” She glanced at Lilli. “Lilli, this is Otho the silversmith.”

“How do you do?” Lilli said.

Otho looked at her, twitched his lips in what seemed to be a smile, then turned and stomped off.

“Manners our Otho lacks,” Elyssa said. “But he’s devoted to Princess Bellyra. He made that lovely silver casket, the one with the roses graved upon it, for a wedding gift, and he makes her little trinkets now and again as well.”

If Otho had made the casket, then did he know about its evil secret? Lilli had no intention of asking outright, but as if thinking about dweomer might draw dweomer, Nevyn came strolling up to join the two women.

“Good evening,” he said. “I was wondering if Lady Lillorigga might spare me a few moments for a little walk? The evening air is quite pleasant.”

Around back of the main broch complex Dun Cerrmor sported a large open garden as well as the secret one at its heart. A servant had hung candle lanterns here and there from the trees, and overhead a three-quarters moon was rising to match them. Since Lilli had never seen a formal flower garden before, she was enchanted. A long sweep of rosebushes was just coming into bloom, while in raised beds flowering herbs added their scent to the night air. Paths led among the glowing trees into mysterious darkness. From somewhere at the garden’s heart came the sound of water, trickling over rock.

“This is lovely!” she said. “What is it used for?”

“Naught. It’s here to enjoy, and that’s all.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. How wonderful!”

They walked down a gravelled path toward the sound of the water.

“I see you’ve met Otho,” Nevyn said. “I suppose he was rude to you. He’s rude to everyone, so please don’t let it upset you.”