The Red Wyvern Page 7

  “Why? If we’re keeping her close to the clan’s hearth, then let’s do so. Some of our distant cousins would slit my throat gladly if it came to saving their own necks with the Usurper. They’d do the same for you.”

  “I can’t argue with that, but—”

  “But what?” Tibryn waved the objection away. “A cousin marriage is a grand way to keep land in a great clan, anyway. Lilli will bring her late father’s land as a dowry, of course, since her brothers are dead. I’d like to see Braemys have it. The holding will be worth keeping in the Boar’s hands.” He turned to Merodda. “As the regent’s son, he and his wife will be living at court much of the time.”

  “Just so, Your Grace.” Merodda favored him with a brilliant smile. “Brother? You look troubled.”

  Actually, Lilli decided, Burcan looked furious enough to choke her; then the look vanished in a wry smile.

  “It makes a man feel old, seeing his youngest son marry,” Burcan said and smoothly.

  “Happened to me, too.” Tibryn nodded. “Well, let’s consider the matter settled. Rhodi, how about pouring some of that mead?”

  “Of course.” Merodda got up from her chair and started toward the table, then glanced back. “Lilli, you don’t have any objections, do you?”

  “None, Mother. I’ve always known I’d marry where the clan wished.”

  “Good,” Tibryn said. “Good child. Braemys is a well-favored lad, anyway, and a good man with a horse.”

  “And what about you?” Merodda turned to Burcan. “Does this suit you well enough, brother?”

  Burcan raised bland eyes.

  “Well enough,” he said. “We’d best start discussing the dowry and the bride-price.”

  “Oh come now,” Tibryn said. “The land she brings should be enough for any man, Burco!”

  “Very true.” Merodda turned to Lilli. “You may leave us now.”

  Lilli rose, curtsied, and gladly fled. She hurried down the stone staircase to the first turn, then paused, looking out over the great hall, roaring with armed men in the firelight. Braemys had left Dun Deverry some days earlier, she knew, gone off to his father’s lands to muster their allies, but then, his father would have to be the one to inform him of the betrothal, anyway. Perhaps Uncle Burcan would send him a messenger; more likely the matter would wait until her cousin returned to court. She wondered if he would be pleased instead of feeling merely relieved she wasn’t someone else.

  Lilli did however spot Lady Bevyan, standing by the royal table with two of Queen Abrwnna’s serving women. Smiling, Lilli trotted down the steps and made her way over to her foster-mother, who greeted her by holding out one arm. Lilli slipped into that familiar embrace with a comfortable sigh. With nods and farewells, the serving women drifted away.

  “My, you look pleased!” Bevyan said. “The talk with your mother wasn’t as bad as all that, then.”

  “It wasn’t. They’ve settled my betrothal, and it’s not to one of Uncle Tibryn’s awful vassals.”

  “Good! I was afraid they’d be considering Nantyn.”

  “They were, but Uncle Burcan spoke up for me. It was such an odd thing, Bevva! He even offered to cede Nantyn some land somewhere if Uncle Tibryn wanted to give the old sot that instead of me.”

  “Well, may our Goddess bless him for it!” Bevyan’s voice sounded oddly wary. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d do such a thing, Burcan, that is.”

  “But he did, and now I’ll be marrying Braemys, my cousin, you know?”

  Bevyan’s arm tightened fast and sharp around her shoulders, then released her. Lilli stepped away and looked at her foster-mother, whose face had gone as bland as her uncle’s had, a few minutes before.

  “Is somewhat wrong with him?” Lilli said.

  “Not in the least. A decent young man and quite well-spoken, he is.” Her voice wavered ever so slightly. “Well. I’ll wager you’re glad to have it settled, dear.”

  “I am, truly. And this way I’ll be staying at court, and I’ll still be able to see you, now and again.”

  “Just so, and that will be lovely.”

  But the distant look in Bevva’s eyes—it was fear, Lilli realized suddenly—bespoke thoughts that were far from lovely. She hovered, wondering what could be so wrong, until Bevyan broke the mood with a little laugh.

  “It’s so noisy here,” Bevva said. “Shall we go up to my chambers? Sarra will want to hear all about your betrothal.”

  With that, both Bevyan and the evening returned to their normal selves. Up in Bevva’s suite various court ladies joined them for a long gossip. Lilli felt like a cat lying down for a good nap by a fire, all safe and warm at last. Here in the company of other women she could forget, for at least a little while, the black ink and its secrets.

  In the morning Bevyan’s suspicions woke with her. While she dressed, they seemed to sit on the edge of her bed, muttering in low voices, “Could it be? Could it really be?” One never knew what Merodda might be thinking; she did, after all, lie as easily as a bard sang. Finally she could stand it no longer and went to Merodda’s chambers, just to hear what she could hear, she told herself, just to prove herself wrong. When Merodda’s maidservant let Bevyan in, she found the lady washing her face. In the corner of her bedroom stood a crockery basin on a wooden stand. Dressed in a plain white shift, Merodda was dabbling a thin cloth in strange-smelling water.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Bevyan. I shan’t be able to talk while I’m doing this.”

  “Of course. I’m in no hurry. Is it an herb bath, dear?”

  Merodda gave her a brief smile for her only answer, then wrung out her cloth and began wiping her face with it. Every now and then she’d dip a corner of the rag back in the basin, but Bevyan noticed that she never let it get too wet and that she kept her lips tightly closed the while. No doubt the stuff tasted as bad as it smelled. When she finished, she laid the cloth at her windowsill to dry, then rinsed her hands with clean water from a crockery pitcher that stood on the floor.

  “Now then,” Merodda said. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

  “Lilli told me about her betrothal last night.”

  “Ah, did she? What do you think of Braemys?”

  “He’s a very decent lad. A bit close kin, perhaps.”

  “Oh, Burcan wanted a cousin marriage. It’s the lands, of course. With my sons dead, my poor dear Garedd’s lands came to Lilli. It’s a nice holding.”

  “It is, indeed, and worth the Boar’s keeping.”

  Merodda picked up a bone comb and began combing her hair, starkly gold in the sunlight. Another herb potion, or so Bevyan supposed, kept it that girlish color.

  “I did foster the lass,” Bevyan said. “I’m not merely prying.”

  “Of course not! And you did a fine job, I must say. Lilli’s turned out to be a lovely child with very courtly ways.”

  “My thanks. I’m so glad you’re pleased.”

  “And I am.” Merodda hesitated, glancing away. “I did the best I could for her, with this marriage. I hope you believe me about that. I did the best I could.”

  “What? Of course I believe you! No doubt your brothers did the real deciding, anyway. I’m just so glad that Tibryn didn’t send her off to Nantyn to be beaten to death.”

  “That was my worst fear.” Merodda looked at her again, and never had Bevyan seen a woman more sincere. “It truly was.”

  “Then we can both thank the Goddess—and Burcan—that it didn’t happen.”

  “Ah. Lilli told you about the way he intervened.”

  “She did. It was very good of him.”

  For a moment they considered each other.

  “It was,” Merodda said at last. “But Braemys is a decent lad. Lilli will be very well provided for, and I’ll be able to keep her near me at court much of the time. She’s my last child, after all, the last one these wars have left me. I know that you can understand how I feel.”

  “Unfortunately, I can. You know, dear, I’d never do a
nything that would ever harm Lilli.”

  Merodda nodded, then hesitated, studying Bevyan’s face. It was a habit of hers, to peer at someone so intently you would have thought she was reading omens in their eyes. Bevyan had always assumed that she was nearsighted and nothing more, but this morning the scrutiny bothered her.

  “I shouldn’t take up more of your time,” Bevyan said.

  “Oh, Bevva, don’t be foolish! It’s good to see you. In fact, may I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come with me on an errand. I’ve got to consult with the heralds on an odd matter. Unless perhaps you know: is there a clan named the Red Wyvern among the Usurper’s following?”

  “I have no idea. I vaguely remember hearing the name once, years and years ago, but that’s all.”

  “Then let me dress, and we’ll pay the heralds a visit.”

  Merodda smiled; Bevyan smiled; the suspicions began their nattering again. And yet what was she to do, Bevva asked herself. Come right out and ask: Lilli is Burcan’s child, isn’t she? You’re marrying her off to her own brother, aren’t you?

  In one of the side brochs the king’s heralds lived and had their scriptorium, where they copied over and preserved the genealogies of the various clans and their intermarrying as well as the devices proper to each. When the two women arrived, a servant trotted off to fetch the chief herald himself, leaving them in the sunny room. A row of tables with slanted tops sat underneath the windows, while on the walls hung small shields, each about a foot high, the official record of each device. Merodda began circling the room and studying the shields, but what caught Bevyan’s attention was a glass sphere filled with water that sat upon the window ledge. She was just puzzling over it when the chief herald himself, Dennyc, trotted in with low bows for the regent’s sister and her companion.

  “Ah, there you are, good herald,” Merodda said. “My thanks for attending upon us.”

  “It’s my honor, your ladyship. And what may I do for you?”

  “I’ve a question,” Merodda said, pointing. “On this shield here, whose device is this? The red wyvern, I mean.”

  “Sadly, the clan that bore it is long gone.” Dennyc ambled over to join her. “The last heir died before I was born, and so I know only what my predecessor told me. They held land off in the west and were related to the blood royal of both Deverry and Pyrdon. Just exactly how I don’t remember, though I could of course look it up for you.”

  “Oh, do spare yourself the effort. It doesn’t matter.” Merodda suddenly laughed. “Since they’re gone and all.”

  Bevyan could only wonder why, but there was no doubt that Merodda looked profoundly relieved. Dennyc bowed again.

  “I’d been hoping for a word with your ladyship,” the herald said. “I understand that she’s betrothed her daughter to Braemys of the Boar.”

  “I have, indeed.”

  “Ah, I was thinking, you see, being as I do study such things, Your Ladyship, the best to serve my king and all who serve him, that perhaps the marriage is a bit too much of a close one.”

  For the briefest of moments Merodda went as still as a rabbit in the bracken when it hears the hounds. Perhaps it was merely the bright light in the room, but she went a little pale around the mouth as well—again, for a brief moment. With what must have been an effort, she smiled.

  “Cousin marriages are common in all the great clans,” Merodda said.

  “Just so, my lady.” Dennyc bowed with the air of a man who wasn’t quite sure of what else to do. “But there have been so many first cousin marriages among the Boar that I thought perhaps it was my duty to warn her ladyship, merely warn her of course as the decision will always remain hers and her brother’s, but,” he paused for a brief breath, “perhaps if there were some other candidate who pleased her ladyship equally well—”

  “There’s not.” Merodda spoke firmly but politely. “My thanks, good Dennyc. Lady Bevyan, shall we go?”

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  Bevyan and Merodda parted company at the door of the king’s broch, but all that morning, as she walked in the gardens as part of the queen’s retinue, Bevyan found her worry gnawing at her. Apparently the news of Lady Lillorigga’s marriage had reached royalty as well as the heralds. With a wave of one slender hand, Abrwnna motioned Bevyan up to walk beside her.

  “I hear your foster daughter is to marry Lord Braemys,” the queen said.

  “She is, Your Highness.”

  “And here I was going to take him into my fellowship.” Abrwnna tossed her head with a ripple of red-gold hair in the sunlight. “I’m glad now I didn’t.”

  “I see, Your Highness.”

  They walked a bit farther down a gravelled path to a wall where climbing roses were just beginning to bud. The queen picked one and forced the tiny petals open with her thumb.

  “I let your son know that he’d be welcome to join my fellowship. He declined. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t, Your Highness. I hope you weren’t offended.”

  “Of course I was. But it’s not your fault.”

  Before Bevyan could think of a tactful comment, the queen dismissed her again.

  As Bevyan was entering the great hall for dinner with her women behind her, chance brought her face to face with Regent Burcan, followed by his own retinue. They smiled and exchanged pleasantries, but Bevyan found herself studying his broad face, the distinctive wide blue eyes, the thin mouth, both so like Lilli’s—but like her mother’s as well, she reminded herself.

  “I must congratulate you, Regent,” Bevyan said at last. “I hear you’ve made a good marriage for young Braemys.”

  Burcan’s expression changed; he kept smiling, but his entire face went tight from the effort of doing so.

  “Lilli will make him a good wife,” Burcan said, and his voice was oddly tight as well. “And she brings a nice parcel of land with her.”

  “So she does. My congratulations to the lad.”

  As Bevyan made their way through the tables to her own seat, she glanced back to find Burcan staring after her, his face set and unreadable. All at once she realized that letting him see her suspicions would be dangerous.

  After the meal, there in the great hall before the assembled lords and the king himself Tibryn announced the betrothal of his niece to his nephew. Everyone cheered and called out their congratulations while Lilli smiled and blushed—everyone but the queen, that is, who pouted. Bevyan could only hope that Lilli could keep her happiness safe from jealousy as well as death, that little bit of happiness allowed to a woman in the midst of the endless wars.

  As always, the black ink seemed to rise out of the basin in a vast wave, catching her, pulling her under. This time the wave seemed so real that Lilli gagged and coughed, sure that she would drown. She could feel her mother’s hand pressing on her neck and pushing her down into trance. All at once she floated in blackness, and the choking vanished.

  “Tell us what you see.” The words swam after her, imploring. “What do you see, Lilli?”

  At first, nothing—then in the blackness the familiar circle of light appeared. Lilli floated through and found herself back in the dun, back in her mother’s chambers, in fact, but a pale sunlight poured in through the open windows.

  “Who’s there, Lilli?” The voice sounded so strange, all syrupy and drawn out, that she could not tell if Brour or Merodda spoke. “Who do you see?”

  “No one. But there are things.”

  A wooden chest stood open; dresses lay scattered on the floor; an empty silver flagon lay in the ashes on the hearth. In one corner sat a little doll, made of cloth scraps stuffed with hay. Lilli recognized it as something that had belonged to her years ago; Sarra had made it for her, and Bevyan had embroidered the little face. With a laugh she ran to it and picked it up, hugged it to her chest as she used to do, back in Hendyr.

  “Can you leave the room?” The voice poured into her ears.

  “There’s no door to be seen.” br />
  “Look into the chest.”

  Still holding her doll, Lilli skipped across the chamber. She leaned over the chest and nearly screamed. Only her fear of her mother’s slap kept her from screaming. Yet she must have made some sound, because the voice sounded urgent.

  “What is it?”

  “Brour’s head, just his head, and the neck’s all black with old blood.”

  “Come back!” Her mother’s voice said, and this time it was clearly her mother’s. “Come back now. Go through the window.”

  Lilli found herself floating up and out, as light as a dandelion seed, up up into the blue sky and through the sky to the candle flame. She found herself on her knees by the table in her mother’s chamber. Merodda knelt in front of her, her waxy face sweaty-pale in the dancing candlelight.

  “We’ve done enough for one night,” Merodda said. “You need to rest.”

  “Just so,” Brour said. “Just so.”

  With Merodda’s help Lilli got to her feet. In a moment her head cleared enough for her to stand without help.

  “Shall I go with you to your chamber?” Brour said. “Will you get there safely?”

  “I will, truly.” Lilli couldn’t bear to look at him, not with the vision of his severed head still hanging behind her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

  Lilli hurried across the chamber and out, but as she closed the door she paused briefly and glanced back to see Brour and Merodda standing facing each other like a pair of swordsmen. She shut the door quietly and for a moment leaned against it to gather her strength. All at once she realized that she was—of course—no longer holding the doll. She would have wept, but she was learning that tears were merely her reaction to the scrying sessions and no true thing.

  Yet all that evening and on into the night she found herself missing that doll. In her dreams she searched for it in strange chambers filled with armed men, who never noticed her as she crept along the walls and slipped through half-open doors. In the morning when she woke, she reached for the doll, which had always slept with her when she’d been a child.

  “Of course it’s not there, you dolt,” she told herself. “You lost it when they brought you back here.”