Bristling Wood (21 page)

“Very well, Maddo. Who
is
that old man?”

“The herbman who saved my life up in Cantrae. Remember me telling you about Brin Toraedic? And he’s the same one who tipped Caudyr off to leave Dun Deverry.”

“An herbman for a prince’s tutor? Horseshit.”

“Oh, by the gods, can’t you see what’s been stuck under your face? The old man’s dweomer.”

Caradoc choked on his ale.

“Well, he’s the one who sent you the dream,” Maddyn said after he’d recovered. “He admitted as much to me.”

“Ah well, if we get this hire, it cursed well won’t be dull, will it now? Dweomermen, impressive young princes— it all sounds like one of your songs.”

“Oh, it’s stranger than any song I know. If Nevyn’s come to live in Pyrdon, I’ll wager he’s got grave things afoot, and the gods only know what they are.”

“Now here,” Casyl snapped. “When I spoke of getting you a personal guard, I was thinking of twenty men, not ninety.”

“But, Father, there’s bound to be fighting next summer. It would be splendid if I could lead close to a hundred men.”

“Lead? Listen, you young cub, I’ve told you a thousand times that you’re staying in the rear for your first campaign.”

“Well, if you’re so worried, then the more men I have, the safer I’ll be.”

Casyl growled under his breath, but it was a fond exasperation.

“My liege the king?” Nevyn said. “If I may interject a word?”

“By all means.”

“Although I doubt the prince’s motives, he does speak the truth. The larger the guard, the better. The time might well come soon when he’ll need many men around him.”

Casiyl turned and looked at him with narrowed eyes. They were sitting in the shabby council chamber at a round table, set with only a pair of wobbly bronze candelabra.

“Father.” Maryn leaned across the table. “You know that Nevyn’s omens always come true.”

“It’s not a matter of his prediction, but of the coin. How are we going to pay and shelter ninety mercenaries?”

“I’ve got the taxes from that bit of land in my own name. They’ll help provision the troop. I get two whole cows this fall, just for starters.”

“And how long will it take hungry men to dispatch that much beef?”

“But, Father! You’ve heard all those tales about the silver daggers. If even half of them are true, why, they fight like demons, from hell!”

Casyl leaned back in his chair and idly rubbed his chin, with the back of his hand while he thought it over. Nevyn waited silently, knowing that Maryn was bound to get his own way in the end.

“Well,” Casyl said at last. “I haven’t even gotten a look at them yet. I’ll review them when they arrive tomorrow, and then we’ll see.”

“My thanks, Father. You know that the prince will always put himself under the king’s orders.”

“Out, you little hypocrite! Go talk to your mother. She told me earlier that she wanted a word with you.”

Maryn made him a formal bow, nodded to Nevyn, then ran out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him, and breaking into a loud whistle as he trotted down the hall.

“Ah ye gods, next summer my son rides to war! Tonight, Nevyn, I feel as old as you.”

“No doubt, Your Highness, but I still hear a lad, not a man, when he talks of the glories of war.”

“Of course, but he’ll learn. I only pray that our next campaign is an easy one. Here,
have
you had some kind of omen?”

“Of sorts. Your Highness, the king in Cerrmor is fated to die soon, I think before the winter’s out.”

Casyl went very still, his hands tight on the arms of the chair.

“His only son is dead.” Nevyn went on. “His three daughters are too young to have sons yet. Tell me, Your Highness, have you ever fancied yourself as king in Deverry? When Glyn dies, you’re the heir.”

“Ah, by the hells, it can’t be! He’s just a young man.”

“Fevers and suchlike come to the young as well as the old. Your Highness had best think carefully, because with a Cantrae wife he won’t be terribly popular with his new vassals.”

Casyl sat so still, his eyes so heavy-lidded, that he seemed asleep. Nevyn waited for a few minutes to let him think before he went on.

“And about the silver daggers, Your Highness? You’ll need men like that if you’re going to have a chance to claim the Cerrmor throne.”

“Chance? Don’t be a dolt, man! Even if I had an army twice the size of the one I do, my chance is about as good as a flea’s in a soap bath, and I think me you know it.”

“If the Cerrmor lords accept you, then you have a very good chance, my liege.”

Casyl rose and paced to the open window, where the cold night air came in with a heavy scent of damp.

“If I strip my kingdom of men to march on Cerrmor, Eldidd will march north. It’s a question of trading one kingdom for another, isn’t it? Throwing away the land I have in a bid to gain land I’ve never seen. There are men in Cerrmor who have claims as good as mine. Somewhere back in my family line is a bastard son, and the other factions could easily use that against me. And while we all squabble over Cerrmor, the Cantrae line will be taking over the rest of the kingdom. Does it sound like a fair bargain to you?”

“It doesn’t, my liege, especially since I know a man who has a better claim to the throne of all Deverry than any other man alive.”

“Indeed?” Casyl turned, leaning back casually on the window frame, smiling a little in academic interest. “And who might that be?”

“Does His Highness truly have no idea?”

Casyl froze, only his mouth working in a twist of pain.

“I think me he does.” Nevyn was inexorable. “Your son, my liege. While a Cantrae wife would be held against you, a Cantrae mother strengthens Maryn’s position a hundredfold. He has ties to every royal line, even Eldidd, strong ties.”

“So he does,” Casyl’s voice was a whisper. “Oh ye gods! I never gave a moment’s thought to it before, truly. I never dreamt the Cerrmor line would fail like this. Do you think that Maryn has a chance at acceptance, or will he have to fight for his throne?”

“I think me Cerrmor will welcome him. Will they want a Cantrae king on the throne instead?”

“Of course not.” Casyl began pacing back and forth. “It’s going to be a hard and dangerous road to the throne, but how can I deny my son’s claim to his Wyrd?”

“There’s more at stake than Maryn’s Wyrd. This is a matter of grave import for the entire kingdom. Truly, I know that I’ve talked of strange omens and suchlike without a shred of proof, but you’ll know that I’ve spoken the truth when news comes of Glyn’s death. In the meantime, it might be politic to hire Maryn as large a guard as possible.”

“Politic indeed if he’s the heir to two thrones. Done, then. I’ll have a look at those silver daggers on the morrow.”

On the morrow morning, Maryn was restless beyond a simple excitement at the chance to acquire a personal guard. When Nevyn suggested that they have a talk, the prince insisted on leaving the dun and going down to the narrow sandy beach of the island where they could be completely private. Although it was unseasonably warm still, thin cirrus clouds mackereled the sky, and the leaves on the birches were a sickly yellow.

“Very well, Your Highness,” Nevyn said once they were settled on an outcrop of rock. “What grave matter is troubling you?”

“Maybe it’s naught. Maybe I’m going daft or suchlike.”

“Indeed? Out with it.”

“Well, when I met those silver daggers yesterday, I got the strangest feeling. This is the beginning, the feeling said. You hear about men’s Wyrds talking to them, but I never truly understood before. I do now, because I heard my Wyrd say that to me. Or am I daft?”

“Not daft at all, truly. Your Wyrd is gathering, sure enough.”

Slack-mouthed, the prince stared out over the lake, rippling as the wind rose in a gust that shook the birches.

“Are you afraid, Your Highness?”

“Not for myself. I just thought of somewhat. Nevyn, if I’m meant to be king, then men are going to die for me. There’ll have to be a war before I can claim the throne.”

“That’s true.”

He was silent for a long while more, looking so young, so absurdly smooth-faced and wide-eyed, that it seemed impossible that here sat the true king of all Deverry. For all that Maryn had taken his training well, at fourteen he was far from ready for the work ahead, but then, Nevyn doubted if any man, no matter how old and wise, would ever be truly ready.

“I don’t want all those deaths on my head.” He spoke abruptly, with the ring of command in his voice.

“Your Highness has no choice. If you refuse to take your Wyrd upon you, then more men will die fighting to put some false king on your throne.”

Tears welled in his eyes; he brushed them irritably away on his sleeve before he answered.

“Then I’ll follow my Wyrd.” He rose, and suddenly he looked older. “Let no man bar me from my rightful place.”

Just at noon the message came that the silver daggers had arrived. Nevyn rode out with Maryn and the king to conduct something of a test of his plans. Out in the meadow at the end of the causeway, the men sat on horseback in orderly ranks with Caradoc, Maddyn, and a young man that Nevyn didn’t recognize front and center. Behind them was a disorderly mob of pack horses, wagons, women, and even a few children.

“That’s a surprise,” Maryn remarked. “I didn’t think men like this would have wives.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them wives,” Casyl said. “There’s still a few things you have to learn, lad.”

Nevyn and Maryn rode behind the king as he trotted over to Caradoc. Nevyn was not impressed with the troop at first sight. Although they were reasonably clean and their weapons were in good repair, they were a hard-bitten, scruffy lot, slouching in their saddles, watching the royalty with barely concealed insolence. At every man’s belt, the silver hilt of the dagger gleamed like a warning. Caradoc, however, bowed low from the saddle at the king’s approach.

“Greetings, Your Highness. I’ve brought my men as the young Prince ordered. I most humbly hope Your Highness will find them acceptable.”

“We shall see, but if I should offer you shelter, then you’ll be riding at the prince’s orders, not mine.”

Caradoc glanced at Maryn with a slight, skeptical smile, as if he were reckoning up the lad’s age. In his mind Nevyn called upon the High Lords of Air and Fire, who promptly answered the prearged signal and came to cluster around the lad. Their force enveloped him, giving him a faint glow, an aura of power. A light wind sprang up to ruffle his hair and swell his plaid, and it seemed that the very sunlight was brighter where it fell upon him. Caradoc started to speak, then bowed again, dipping as low as he could.

“I think me it would be a great honor to ride for you, my prince. Would you care to review my men?”

“I would, but let me warn you, Captain. If you take this hire you’ll be riding with me on a long road indeed. Of course, only the hard roads lead to true glory.”

Caradoc bowed again, visibly shaken to hear the lad talk like the hero of a bard’s tale. The silver daggers came to a stiff-backed attention in a sudden respect, and the young lieutenant beside Maddyn caught his breath sharply. When Nevyn glanced his way, he nearly swore aloud: Gerraent, with the falcon mark on shin and sword hilt just as it always seemed to be.

“This is Owaen, good councillor.” Caradoc noticed his interest. “Second-in-command in battle. Maddyn’s our bard, and also second-in-command in peaceful doings.”

“You seem to keep things well in hand, Captain,” Maryn said.

“I do my best, my prince.”

Owaen was looking Nevyn over with more curiosity than he showed for either the prince or the king. In those hard blue eyes Nevyn saw the barest trace of recognition, a spark of their old, mutual hatred, that lasted only briefly before it was replaced by bewilderment. Doubtless Owaen was wondering how he could feel so strongly about an unarmed old man that he’d only just met. Nevyn gave him a small smile and looked away again. He was seething with a personal excitement; here were Gerraent and Blaen, now called Owaen and Maddyn, and there was Caradoc, who in a former life had been king himself in Cerrmor under the name of Glyn the First. Glyn had been such a good king that Nevyn was shocked to find him as an outcast man and a silver dagger until he reminded himself that just such a man was essential now to the well-being of the kingdom. A mercenary like Caradoc fought for only one thing: victory. Not for him the niceties and snares of honor; he would stoop to any ruse or low trick if he had to in order to win. The members of his charmed circle of Wyrd were all gathering for the work, and that meant that somewhere soon Brangwen’s soul would join them. Soon he would have another chance to untangle his snarl of Wyrd.

All at once he remembered the camp followers, hovering at a respectful distance behind their men. He felt sick, wondering i she were among them. Could she have fallen so low in this life? For a moment, he was honestly afraid to look; then he steeled himself. When Casyl and Caradoc began discussing the terms of the hire, Nevyn left the prince in the care of the lords of the elements and jogged his horse along the ranks, as if the prince’s councillor were having one last good look at the men his liege wished to take into his guard. Maddyn broke ranks to join him.

“Let’s leave the horse trading to Carro and your king. By the hells, Nevyn, it gladdens my heart to think we’ll be spending the winter in the same dun. I know Caudyr will want to talk with you, too.”

“Caudyr?” It took him a moment to remember the young chirurgeon of Dun Deverry. “Well, now, is that young cub the chirurgeon Caradoc spoke of? I take it he followed my advice, all those years ago.”

“So he did, and I’ll wager it saved his life when Slwmar died, too.”

“Good. It seems he took my advice about abortions as well, judging from the pack of children I see over there. How many lasses have you picked up along the road, Maddo? I seem to remember that you’ve always had luck with women.”

“Oh, these are hardly all mine. We share what we can get when we can, you see.”

Nevyn did see, entirely too well. The thought of Brangwen living passed from man to man was like a bitter taste of poison in his mouth. Most of the women were riding astride, their skirts hitched up around them, some with a small child behind them, but all of them, mothers or not, were as hard-eyed and suspicious as their men. At the very rear, a pale blond woman was sitting in a mule cart, cushioned by blankets as she nursed a baby.