“You said you read about this sorcerer in a book, Your Highness?” Nevyn said. “May I inquire as to which one?”
“It was just a record book of sorts that I found up in one of the towers. There’s bales and bales of stuff crammed into the upper rooms, you see. Actually this was a codex, not a true book. The head scribe told me the difference, and he says it’s very important. But anyway, someone—it never does give his name—wrote the history of Dun Cerrmor, when everything was built, and who lived here, and sometimes he even puts in what they spent on a feast or suchlike. And whenever he talks about the years from 760 to 790, he mentions the great sorcerer named Nevyn, who planted the old willow tree we’ve got in the inner garden and who ended up advising the king.”
“Ah, I see. Well, by all accounts my grandfather was an amazing man, but I doubt me very much if he was a sorcerer. For a man to rise from gardener to councillor is very, very rare, Your Highness, and I imagine it must have looked like sorcery to some.”
“Oh.” Bellyra was bitterly disappointed. “No doubt you’re right, good sir, but I had so hoped he was a real sorcerer! But still, it’s rather splendid to get to meet his grandson after reading about him and all. I take it your family became merchants with the inheritance he left?”
“In a way, truly. I used to deal in herbals and medicinals, but the times are grave enough for me to lay aside my old trade and do what I can for the true king.”
“Well, iron is the best medicinal for the army, sure enough. Do you really believe the true king will ever come?”
“I do, and with all my heart, Your Highness, I believe it will be very soon.”
“I hope so. We can’t go on like this much longer. I’m going to have to marry him, you know. I hope he won’t be too ugly, or old like Tieryn Elyc, but it doesn’t truly matter. Cook says that all cats are gray in the dark.”
“I take it you and your mother will have no objections to such a match.”
“My poor mother! The only thing she ever objects to anymore is her wine jug running empty. And as for me, well, if he really is the one true king of all Deverry, I’d be awfully stupid to turn him down, wouldn’t I? I don’t want to molder here the rest of my life.”
“Your Highness has a very direct and refreshing way of expressing herself, and I think, if I may speak so boldly, that you’re going to make an excellent queen.”
“My thanks, good sir. You’re the only one who seems to think so.” With a sigh she rested her chin on one hand and looked away out to the floor of the hall, where the men were drinking and laughing over their perennial dice games. “But then, we’ve got a lot in common. You’re named ‘no one,’ and I was never properly born.”
“What, Your Highness?”
“I was born on Samaen—just after sunset, the worst time of all. The midwife sat on my mother’s legs to try to stop me coming so soon, and when that didn’t work she tried to shove me back in, but my mother hurt so bad that she made her stop shoving. So the midwife ran screaming out of the chamber and my mother’s serving women had to deliver me. They had all sorts of priests in and everything to bless me straightaway so the Wildfolk or the dead spirits couldn’t get me. I don’t remember any of that, of course. They told me when I was older.”
“That’s an amazing tale! But you know, children are born on Samaen every now and then. Most of them are quite ordinary, too.”
“I’ve always felt quite ordinary, actually.” She pinched her wrist. “Rather solid, don’t you think?”
“It looks that way to me, Your Highness.”
By then the pages and serving lasses were bringing round baskets of bread and plates of cold meats and cheeses along with goblets of mead for the noble-born and ale for their men, including, of course, the mercenaries who belonged to Elyc’s foster brother. Bellyra took a slice of ham and nibbled on it while she considered the regent and the captain, who were discussing old times with a deliberate intensity, as if they were trying to keep the present moment far away. Every now and then one of them would hit the other on the shoulder or arm, which she took as meaning they truly loved each other. Nevyn coughed politely to regain her attention.
“Have there been many omens of the coming of the true king, Your Highness?”
“There have indeed, good sir. Let’s see, Elyc talks about them all the time, so I should be able to remember them. First of all, he’s supposed to come before the last full moon before Beltane, which means he’d better get here soon, because that’s tomorrow night. And then he’s supposed to be from the west, but not from Eldidd. And then there’s lots of stuff about stallions running before him or bearing him, which I think is truly odd, because no one rides a stallion as a battle horse. He’s supposed to come in an army that’s not an army, be a man but not a man—”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“Odd, isn’t it? I mean, either you’re a man or you’re a woman, and there’s not a lot in between, is there? But omens are that way sometimes. Let’s see, what else? Some say he’ll come as practically a beggar to his own gates, which I guess means Dun Cerrmor….” She paused, struck all at once by a number of odd things. “Here! They say no one will be his herald.”
“Do they indeed?”
“They do, at that. And a mercenary troop is an army that isn’t an army, and that full moon is tomorrow night, isn’t it?” She looked out over the hall, found herself staring at each mercenary in turn as her heart started to pound. She knew that Nevyn was smiling, but she was afraid to look at the old man for fear he’d break her hopes again. “A man that isn’t a man? What about someone who’s still a lad but who rides with the men and fights like one. He doesn’t even have a beard yet, does he?”
“Who, Your Highness?”
“That blond lad over there at the last table, the one who’s sitting next to that great big tall fellow with the scar on his face and not talking to anyone. Do you know his name?”
“The tall fellow’s?”
“I don’t mean him. Don’t tease, Nevyn. Who’s that lad?”
“His name is Maryn. It’s a common name in Pyrdon, where he’s from.”
“The Pyrdon blazon’s a stallion.”
“It is, truly.”
Her heart was pounding so badly that she felt it might thud into her mouth and keep her from speaking.
“What made you pick out that lad?” the old man said, and his voice had dropped to a whisper.
“I don’t know. Or, you know, I think he’s been looking at me.”
“He has, truly. Her highness is a very beautiful lass.”
“Oh, don’t flatter! I know I’m plain.”
“You’re not plain in the least. I can see that until perhaps a year ago you were all long legs and stumbles, and your face must have been too thin and pinched—but that, Your Highness, was a year ago. We shall have to get you a proper mirror.”
“I can’t have one, but I’ll make a wish that you’re telling me the truth.”
“Well, you know, there are times when wishes are granted.” He paused impressively. “And times when they’re not.”
“Oh, you’re only teasing me and naught more!”
“Wait, child. Wait and be patient for just a little while longer. I can’t promise you that everything will be well and wonderful for ever and ever, but things are going to take a turn for the better and soon.”
She hesitated, wondering why she trusted him so instinctively, but in truth, she’d simply never met anyone before who’d been kind to her.
“Well and good, then, Nevyn. And frankly, it’d be enough to know that things aren’t going to get worse.”
At a little cough at her shoulder she turned to find young Emryc, just twelve that summer and the head page. A copper-headed lad with squinty green eyes, he always looked down his nose at her as if he pitied her, and there were times when she daydreamed about having him beaten.
“Cook wants to know if we should start laying on the meal.”
“Listen, lad.” Nevyn leaned forwa
rd to intervene. “You should always add an honorific the first time you address royalty, and you should do it regularly after that, too.”
“And just who are you, old man?”
Nevyn caught his glance and held it, stared at him and stared him down with his ice-blue eyes.
“My apologies, good sir,” Emryc stammered. “My apologies, Your Highness.”
“You’re forgiven—well, for this time, anyway,” Bellyra said. “And by all means, we’ve got a hall full of men so we’d best feed them. Oh, and tell Lord Tammael it’s time to light the torches.”
Emryc hurried off so fast that Bellyra found herself wondering if perhaps Nevyn’s grandfather had been a sorcerer after all, and if the grandson had inherited a bit of his talent. The old man hardly looked magical at the moment; he was eating cheese and sipping ale, and yawning every now and then, too.
“It is getting dark in here, Your Highness,” he remarked. “Must be nearly sunset outside.”
“So I’d think, truly.”
“Good.”
“Is somewhat going to happen at sunset?”
“Wait, Your Highness. That’s all I can say.”
She had no choice but to do just that, wait and watch in an agony of impatience, as Lord Tammael made his slow round of the great hall, lighting the rush torches in their sconces and ordering the servants to push aside the chunks of sod in the hearth and mend up the fires that had been smoldering underneath all the warm day. When the light flared up, sending long shadows like spears across the hall, the warbands fell oddly silent, and Caradoc broke off his conversation with Tieryn Elyc to turn in his chair and look at Nevyn. The old man merely smiled, as bland as bland, and helped himself to more cheese.
“Do you bar the dun gates at sunset, Your Highness?”
“We don’t, not till the midnight watch, because some of the townsfolk work in the dun and don’t leave till late.”
“Ah. Very good.”
The torches suddenly seemed to burn brighter. Although there wasn’t a trace of a breeze in the great hall, they flared up, and flames rose straight and steady with only the barest traces of smoke. Distantly, from somewhere out in the ward, she heard voices—no, it was chanting, and the sound of a soft drum. All at once bronze horns shrieked and blared.
“Priests!” Elyc whispered. “What by every demon in hell is happening out there?”
Before he could get up to see, the huge carved doors into the hall were flung open. The horns rasped out another shriek; the drums pounded; the chanting swelled. Walking four abreast the priests of Bel came marching into the hall, so many that Bellyra could only assume that every temple from miles around had assembled there in Cerrmor. They were shaven-headed and dressed in the long plain linen tunics of their calling, and round every neck was a solid gold tore, and at every waist glittered a golden sickle. In a long line they maneuvered their way through the crowded hall in time to the pounding drums and the long wailing chants from the Dawntime. At their head was Nicedd, the ancient leader of the temple, so old that he rarely walked abroad anymore, but that night he stepped as firmly as a young man up to the dais. Shaking a little, Tieryn Elyc rose to confront him.
“Your Holiness! Why are we honored this way?”
“Save your words, Regent! Where is the one true king?”
“What, Your Holiness? I don’t know—I only wish I did—-but I don’t know.”
“You lie! All the omens say that at this moment the one true king of all Deverry dwells within this dun; Where is he?”
The horns shrieked once; the drums fell silent. Every man in the great hall turned to stare at Elyc as if accusing him of the worst treason. The regent could only stare back, bewildered and terrified both.
“Bel has spoken this very day. Bel has given us omens. Bel has blessed us with true speaking.”
“Blessed be the name of the Holy One,” murmured the priests behind him. “Blessed be the Light of the Sky.”
“When the Lawgiver speaks, all men and in truth all women too must listen. The one true king is within these walls, Regent.”
Elyc tried to speak but failed miserably, and sweat was beading his forehead. Bellyra found herself considering her detailed knowledge of the dun; surely if the king was being held prisoner in some hidden chamber, she’d be the one to puzzle it out. Then she realized that during this mind-gripping ceremony Nevyn had slipped away from the table, and for the second time that evening, her heart started thudding in her throat. As Nicedd climbed up the three steps to the dais, the gold sickle swinging at his belt like a weapon, Elyc sank to his knees.
“Where is the one true king of all Deverry?” The priest turned on his heel to face the crowd. “He sits among you! Do you know him not?”
At the back of the hall Maryn stood up, a simple gesture, just a very young man standing up and tossing aside a dirty, torn cloak, but at that moment every person in the hall, noble lord and serving wench alike, caught their breath with an audible gasp. It seemed that the sun had returned to shine on him, just for a moment before it hurried about its business in the Otherlands; it seemed that a summer wind sprang up to breathe upon him, ruffling his golden hair and filling the smoky hall with the scent of roses; it seemed that the very air around him came alive, as if his simple presence were enough to fill the great hall with as much snap and power as a summer thunderstorm.
“Who calls for the king?” His voice rang out firm and clear.
“I do.” Slowly and carefully Nicedd knelt beside Elyc. “Your Highness.”
The crackling of the fires in the hearth seemed louder than thunder as the one true king of all Deverry strode the long way from the back of the hall and up the steps to the dais. Bellyra could neither cheer nor move nor even think clearly. Like a priestly chant words ran through her mind of their own accord: this is my husband, why didn’t I comb my hair? When Maryn reached the dais, he stopped in front of Elyc and smiled at him with a boyish innocence that was like a flash of light.
“Am I welcome here, Regent?”
“My liege.” Elyc tried to say more, but he was crying too hard. “O my holy liege.”
Maryn bent down, caught the tieryn’s hands in his, and raised him to his feet. At that the warbands could stand it no longer. They cheered and called his name and howled war cries; they stood and climbed on benches and tables; they began to stamp their feet while they cheered and screamed the more. Maryn smiled that same bewitching smile at them all, then flung up one hand for silence. As if they’d been rehearsed, every person in the hall stopped shouting. All at once Bellyra was afraid of him, this beautiful boy who seemed half a sorcerer himself, that he should ride in so suddenly and conquer them all without even unsheathing his sword.
“Men,” Maryn was saying. “For this day I was born. For this day we were all born. This is the beginning. Some fine day there’ll be a true king on the throne in Dun Deverry, and all the kingdom will be at peace. For the kingdom’s sake far more than mine, let’s every one of us pray that day will come soon.”
When the cheers broke out again, a near-demented howling, Bellyra’s fear turned to blind panic. No one noticed as she left the table and made her way through the shadows on the dais and slipped out the little door that led to a corridor. She stood in the darkness for a moment and felt the walls around her trembling from the cheers as if the very dun were in ecstasy at the coming of the king. Then she bolted, running down the corridor and up the stairs at the far end, round and round, up and up, until at last she could plunge panting into the safety of the nursery and her silence.
Out of habit some servant had lit the candles in the wall sconces and laid her childlike supper out on her writing desk: a bowl of bread and milk, another of dried apples soaked in watered wine and honey. Bellyra took the bread and milk to Melynna, then sat on the floor nearby and watched her eat. The cat’s sides bulged, and she stood all spraddle-legged to lap her meal.
“You know what, Melynna? The king’s here. His name’s Maryn.”
; She actually looked up, licking her whiskers briefly, before she went back to work on the milk.
“Soon I’ll be married, I suppose. And then one day I’ll look like you do now. I’ll only have one kit at a time, though. I’ll bet men would like it if women could have litters like you do. They’d know straightaway how many heirs they’d have.”
All at once she realized that she was crying. Even as she sobbed, she wondered at herself, that she would weep. Maryn was handsome, young, awe-inspiring, far more wonderful than she had any right to expect—she had never allowed herself to hope for so much, even to dream of so much in her husband. He’ll never love someone like me, she thought, that’s why I’m crying.
“Your Highness!” It was Nevyn’s voice, soft and sympathetic, from the doorway. “What’s so wrong?”
“He’ll never love me, but he’ll have to marry me anyway.”
Although the room was all swimmy from her tears she could see the honest pity on the old man’s face as he walked over, hesitated, then sat down next to her on the floor. Melynna looked up and went tense; normally she ran from everyone but Bellyra, but when Nevyn held out his hand, she sniffed his fingers, considered for a moment, then went back to slurping up the milk. Nevyn pulled an old rag out of his brigga pocket and handed it to Bellyra as solemnly as a courtier would hand over a square of fine linen. She blew her nose, wiped her face, and still felt completely miserable.
“Your Highness, Maryn is never going to love any woman, but he’ll grow fond of you. I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart, but that’s the way it will be. His one true love will always be the land and people of Deverry. I raised him, you see, so I know.”
“You raised him?”
“I was his tutor from the time he was a child.”
“Are you a sorcerer? Don’t you put me off this time!”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am.”
“That’s somewhat to the good, at least. I did so hope you were.”
“I’ll ask you, though, to keep the secret to yourself.”
Much to her relief, Nevyn restrained himself from lecturing further. Unlike every other adult she’d ever known, he didn’t wag his finger and tell her she should be grateful that the Goddess had chosen her for such a splendid Wyrd, or point out that most women would be glad to have any husband at all, much less a handsome one. He merely got up and stood looking round the nursery with a slight frown.