The Bristling Wood
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 prearranged 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 shirt 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 if 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.
“That’s Clwna,” Maddyn said, gesturing at her. “When we’re back at the dun, I’d be ever so grateful if you or some other herbman would have a look at her. She hasn’t been well since the babe was born, and Caudyr can’t seem to mend her. She’s as much my woman as any of them are.”
“Oh, let’s talk to her right now.” Nevyn’s heart sank with dread. “The king and your captain will doubtless be a while yet.”
When they rode over, Clwna glanced up indifferently. There were dark circles like bruises under her blue eyes, and her skin was far too pale. Nevyn almost gasped in relief when he realized that she was not his Brangwen at all.
“This is Nevyn, the best herbman in the kingdom,” Maddyn said with forced cheer. “He’ll have you right as rain straightaway, my sweet.”
Clwna merely smiled as if she doubted it.
“Well, it’s a simple enough diagnosis, truly,” Nevyn said. “A good midwife would have spotted it in a minute, but the only women Caudyr’s ever tended were rich and well fed. Here, lass, your blood is weak because you just birthed a babe, and I’ll wager you haven’t been eating right. Get an apple, put an iron nail in it, and leave it there overnight. Then take it out and eat the apple. You’ll see the red streak of the sanguine humor, which is what you need. Do that every night for a fortnight, and then we’ll see.”
“My thanks,” Clwna was stammering in surprise. “It’s good of a courtly man like you to give advice to a silver dagger’s wench.”
“Oh, I’m not as courtly as I seem. Here, your babe is a pretty little thing. Who’s the father?”
“And how would I know, my lord?” She shrugged in sincere indifference. “Maddyn’s or Aethan’s, most like, but she could be the captain’s, too.”
In return for their winter’s keep and a silver piece a man if they should see any fighting, Caradoc pledged his loyalty to Prince Maryn through the spring, with terms to be renegotiated at Beltane. Getting so large a troop quartered in the cramped island dun was something of a problem. The chamberlain and the captain of Casyl’s warband conferred for an hour, then sent servants running all over the ward until at last the mercenaries had a barracks of their own, a stable for their horses, and a shed for their wagons and extra gear. The chamberlain was an old man with an amazing mind for details and a scrupulous sense of propriety. He was quite outraged, he told Nevyn, to find that the silver daggers found nothing wrong with keeping the women right in the same barracks with them.
“Well, why not?” Nevyn said. “It’ll keep the lasses safe from the king’s riders. Or do you want fights all winter long?”
“But what of those innocent children?”
“Let us profoundly hope that they’re sound sleepers.”
After the evening meal Nevyn went out to visit Maddyn in the barracks. When he came into the long room, dimly lit by firelight, he had to pause for a moment and catch his breath at the combined reek of horse, man sweat, and smoke. Most of the men were playing dice; the women huddled at the far end to gossip among themselves while the babies slept nearby. At the hearth Maddyn, Caradoc, and Caudyr sat on the floor and talked, while Owaen lay nearby, stretched out on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms. Although he seemed asleep, he looked up briefly when Maddyn introduced him to Nevyn, then went back to watching the fire.
“Come sit down,” Caudyr said, sliding over a bit to make room. “It gladdens my heart to see you again. I thought that a sorcerer like you would have more important work at hand than selling herbs.”
“Oh, the herbs are important in their own way, too, lad. Now tell me, how did you end up with that silver dagger in your belt?”
For a long while Caudyr, Maddyn, and Nevyn talked of old times, while Caradoc listened with close attention and Owaen fell asleep. At length the talk turned inevitably to Nevyn’s strange employment in the king’s palace. Nevyn put them off with vague questions until Caradoc joined in.
“Here, good sorcerer, what’s the dweomer doing hiring a piss-poor bunch of men like us? I think me we’ve got a right to know, since you’re asking us to die for the prince as like as not.”
“Now here, Captain, I’m not asking a thing of you. The prince is the one who gives you meat and mead.”
“Horseshit. The prince does what you tell him, at least when somewhat important’s at stake.” He exchanged a glance with Maddyn. “I was impressed with the lad, ver
y impressed, you might say.”
“Indeed?”
When Caradoc hesitated, Maddyn leaned forward.
“You’ve found the true king, haven’t you? Admit it, Nevyn. That lad has to be the true king, or no one on earth ever will be.”
Although he wanted to whoop and dance in triumph, Nevyn restrained himself to a small, cryptic smile.
“Tell me, Captain,” he said casually. “How would you feel about leading your men all the way to Dun Deverry someday?”
Caradoc pulled his silver dagger and held it point up to catch the wink and glint of firelight.
“This is the only honor any of us have left, and I’ll swear you an oath on it. Either I see the king on his throne, or I die over the prince’s body.”
“And you’re willing to die for a man you saw for the first time today?”
“Why not? Better than dying for some little pusboil of an arrogant minor lord.” With a laugh, he sheathed the dagger. “And when does the war begin?”
“Soon, Captain. Very soon.”
Smiling to himself, Caradoc nodded. Nevyn felt like weeping. He could see in the captain’s berserker eyes the bloody price they would all pay for victory.
Since everyone in Eldidd knew about the silver daggers, the news that they’d left for Pyrdon spread fast. It was just his luck, Branoic decided, that they’d move on just when he needed to find them. Even though a single rider could travel faster than a troop with a baggage train, they had a head start of some ten nights, and he never caught them on the road. After one last cold night of sleeping outside because he couldn’t afford an inn, he rode into Drwloc around noon and found a cheap tavern, where he spent his last two coppers on a tankard of ale and a chunk of bread. He ate standing up with his back to the wall while he kept an eye on the other patrons, who were a scruffy lot to his way of thinking. As soon as the trade would allow, the serving lass minced over to him with a suggestive little smile. Unwashed and skinny, she appealed to him about as much as the flea-bitten hounds by the hearth, but he decided that he might as well get some information out of her.