The Red Wyvern

  Lilli saw her mother turn and leave the queen’s table, hurry up the staircase, and disappear into the shadows at the top. With a wrench of will, Lilli forced herself to follow. On the far side of the hall, near the stairway, a page was seating the messenger while a serving lass brought him ale. Lilli hesitated, then stopped beside the messenger, who hastily swallowed his mouthful of ale and started to rise.

  “Oh, do sit,” Lilli said. “You must be exhausted. I just wanted to ask you if Tieryn Peddyc of Hendyr’s gone over to the rebels.”

  “Not him, my lady. He’s steady as a stone.”

  “I’m so glad. He’s my foster-father.”

  “Ah.” The rider smiled briefly. “No wonder you wanted to know. He and the Lady Bevyan are in good health and as loyal as ever.”

  “My thanks.”

  Lilli hurried away and climbed the staircase. Maybe Bevyan would come to court with her husband when he joined the muster. She hoped—no, she prayed so, as hard as she could to the Lady of the Moon. Merodda had sent her and her wet nurse to Bevyan when Lilli had been a few weeks old; until she’d seen twelve summers, Bevyan had been the only mother she’d known. If only I could have stayed with Bevva—her eyes threatened tears, but she squelched them and at the top of the stairs paused for a moment to catch her breath. The fear clutched at her heart again, but she had nowhere to run or hide. With one last gasp, she hurried down to her mother’s chambers.

  Merodda herself opened the door. She was carrying a long taper in a holder, and in the candlelight her face, her hands, glistened like wax.

  “Good. You’re prompt tonight.”

  In a pool of candlelight near the chamber windows stood Brour, the man her mother called her scribe—a skinny little fellow, with an oversize head for his body and wispy blond hair, so that at times he looked like a child, especially since his full lips stuck out in a perennial pout. Merodda laid her hand on Lilli’s shoulder and marched her down the length of the room. On the table in front of Brour, among the candles, stood a grinding stone, a chunk of something black that looked like charcoal, and a flagon of water. Apparently the scribe had been making ink, and a prodigious amount of it at that. He put a handful of powder ground from the ink block into a heavy silver bowl, then added water from a pitcher a little at a time, while he pounded and stirred with a pestle.

  “Here she is,” Merodda said.

  Brour put his tools down on the table, then considered Lilli so coldly that she took an involuntary step back. Her mother’s hand tightened on her shoulder. In a hand black with dry ink Brour took the taper from Merodda and held it up to consider Lilli’s face.

  “No one’s going to hurt you, lass,” Brour said at last. “We’ve just got a new trick we’d like you to try.”

  “You have strange gifts, my sweet,” Merodda said. “And we have need of them again.”

  For a moment Lilli’s fear threatened to choke her. She wanted to blurt out a no, to pull free and run away, but her mother’s cold stare had impaled her, or so she felt, like a long metal pin pushing into her very soul.

  “Come now!” Merodda snapped. “We women must do what we can to serve the king.”

  “Of course, Mother. Of course I want to.”

  “Of course? Don’t lie to me.”

  Lilli blushed and tore her gaze away.

  “But I don’t care if you do or not,” Merodda went on. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Brour grunted and set the taper down among the others. On the table the candles danced and sent light glinting onto the black pool in the silver bowl. Lilli found herself watching the glints, staring at them, caught by them while her mother’s hand slid from her shoulder to the back of her neck. She felt her head nodding forward, pressed down by the weight of a hand grown suddenly heavy. The ink pool seemed to surge and heave like waves on a black sea that swelled to fill her sight, to fill the room, it seemed, and then her world. As she sank down into the blackness, she heard Merodda’s voice chanting, low and soft, but she could distinguish not a single word. The syllables clanged like brass and seemed to reverberate in her ears, foreign sounds linked into alien words.

  In the blackness, a point of candlelight, dancing—Lilli swam toward it but felt her body turn to dead weight, as if she hauled it behind her when she moved. The point brightened, then dilated into a circle of light that she could look through, as if she’d pulled back a shutter from a round window and peered out at the sunny world beyond. From some great distance she heard Merodda’s voice.

  “What do you see, Lilli? Tell us what you see.”

  She felt her mouth move and words slip out like pebbles, falling into the black. In the window things appeared, creatures, vast creatures, all wing and long tails. Around them a bluish light formed and brightened, glinting on coppery scales, blood-red scales, a pair of beasts sleeping, curled next to one another. One of them stirred and stretched, lifting its wings to reveal two thick legs and clawed feet. A huge copper head lifted, the mouth gaped in a long yawn of fangs.

  “Wyverns. I see red wyverns, and now they’re flying.”

  “Good, good.” Her mother’s voice slid out like drops of oil. “Where do you see them?”

  “Over a grassy plain.”

  Down from the mountains they swept, their massive wings slapping the air, and to Lilli it seemed that she flew with them while her voice babbled of its own accord. They circled round a meadow where a herd of swine fed, then suddenly stooped and plunged like hawks. Shrieking and cackling they struck. The blood-red wyvern rose, flapping hard, with a big grey boar clutched limp and bleeding in its talons.

  In her vision Lilli flew too close. The wyvern’s enormous head swung her way. The black eyes glittered, narrowed, and seemed to pierce the darkness and stare directly at her. Lilli screamed and broke the spell. She staggered, stumbling forward, knocking into the table. A candle tottered and fell with a hiss and a stench into the black ink.

  “You clumsy little dolt!”

  Merodda grabbed her by the hair and swung her round, then slapped her with her other hand. Lilli yelped and sank to her knees. Pain burned and crawled on her face.

  “Stop it!” Brour snarled. “She can’t help it. She can’t control the trance.”

  Merodda stepped away, but Lilli could hear her panting in ebbing rage.

  “She needs to be trained.” Brour’s voice had turned calm again. “I don’t see why you won’t let me—”

  “We will not discuss this in front of her.” Merodda leaned down. “Oh, do get up!”

  Lilli scrambled to her feet.

  “You may go to your chamber,” Merodda said. “Leave us. And if you ever tell anyone what happened here—”

  “Never, I promise. Never.” Lilli could hear her own voice swooping and trembling. “I’ve never told before, have I?”

  “You haven’t, truly.” Merodda considered her for a long cold moment. “You have some wits. Now go!”

  Lilli gathered up her long skirts and raced from the chamber. She dashed down the hall, ran into her tiny chamber at the far end, and barred the door behind her. For a long moment she stood in the twilight grey and wept, leaning against the cold wall; then she flung herself down on her narrow bed and fell asleep, as suddenly as a stone dropped from a tower hits the ground.

  • • •

  That same spring evening, at the stillness before the sunset, Lady Bevyan of Hendyr stood at her bedchamber’s narrow window and considered the ward of her husband’s dun. Stone framed her view: the stone sides of the window slit when she looked through, the stone billow of the squat broch tower when she looked down, the stone walls of encircling fort when she looked toward the distant west and the silent gold of an ending day. All her life, stone had meant safety, thanks to the civil wars, just as winter had meant peace, despite the snows, the storms, and the ever-present threat of hunger. Only lately had she come to think of stone as meaning imprisonment. Only lately had she come to wonder about a world in which summer, too, might mean peace.


  Not that such a world coincided with her world, not yet at least. Below her, deep in shadow, the preparations of war filled the cobbled ward: extra horses, tethered out for want of room in the stables; provision carts, packed for the morrow’s march. Her husband, Tieryn Peddyc of Hendyr, had called in his allies and vassals for the summer’s fighting, defending the true king in Dun Deverry from the would-be usurpers gathering on the kingdom’s southern borders. Or so her husband and his allies always called Maryn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, prince of distant Pyrdon—usurper, pretender, rebel. At times, when she wasn’t watching her thoughts, Bevyan wondered about the truth of those names.

  From behind her Bevyan heard a door opening and a soft voice.

  “My lady?” Sarra, one of her serving women, stepped in the door. “Are you unwell?”

  “I’m not, dear.” Bevyan turned from the window. “Just taking a moment’s solitude. I’m trying to make up my mind about going to court. Tell me, do you want to go to Dun Deverry?”

  Sarra hesitated, thinking. She’d come to Bevyan as an orphaned girlchild, long enough ago now that grey streaked her dark hair at the temples.

  “Well,” Sarra said at last. “Our place is at Queen Abrwnna’s side, but oh, my lady, I shouldn’t admit such a shameful thing, but I’m ever so frightened of being caught in a siege.”

  “So am I. The Cerrmor men are nearly to our lands, aren’t they? Sometimes I wonder what the summer will bring.”

  Sarra laid a hand over her throat.

  “But we mustn’t give up hope yet.” Bevyan made her voice brisk. “The gods will give us the Wyrd they choose, and there’s not a thing we can do about it.”

  “True spoken.”

  “As for things we can do something about,” Bevyan paused for a sigh, “I’m worried about little Lillorigga. She’s the only reason I’ll be going, frankly, if I do go. I keep asking for news of her, but no one ever sends me any.”

  “Well, certainly her mother wouldn’t bother.” Steel crept into Sarra’s voice. “Do you think we could persuade the Lady Merodda to let us bring her daughter back here? For the cleaner air and all. When you had the fostering of her, she thrived, poor child.”

  “Merodda might well be glad to be rid of her. It’s worth a try. I’ll tell you what. Let’s ride with my lord on the morrow, but there’s no reason that we need to spend all summer in Dun Deverry. If things do look grim, the lords will be sending their womenfolk away, anyway.”

  “That’s true. Shall I tell the pages, then?”

  “You should, indeed. We’ll need them to get our palfreys ready, and we need to fill a chest to go into one of the carts. There. I feel better already, with the decision made.”

  But Bevyan paused to glance out the window. The sun was setting in a haze that sent long banners of gold across the sky, as if they were the pinions of some approaching army. The traitorous thought returned full force. What if Maryn’s army ended the war this summer? He’d promised amnesty if he should conquer, promised full pardons even to the lords who’d fought most bitterly against him. What if next summer there would be no march to war?

  “My lady?” Sarra said. “You look so distant.”

  “Do I, dear? Well, perhaps I’ve got a bit of the headache. Let’s go down to the great hall and get somewhat to eat.”

  In the great hall lords and riders gathered, standing more than sitting, drinking ale, talking in urgent voices, but they stood out of nerves, not for want of benches, and their voices seemed oddly quiet in the half-empty hall. Bevva ran a quick count of lords: a mere four of them, and each obliged to bring no more than forty men apiece to augment her husband’s eighty and the gwerbret’s one hundred sixty. At the head of the table of honor sat her husband’s overlord, Daeryc, Gwerbret Belgwergyr, while Tieryn Peddyc sat on his right and their last living son, Anasyn, stood behind his grace to wait upon him like a page. No one who saw them together would ever have doubted that Anasyn was Peddyc’s son. They shared a long face, long thin nose, and a pair of deep-set brown eyes, though Peddyc’s hair had turned solidly grey and Anasyn’s was still chestnut. When he saw his wife enter, Peddyc rose, swinging himself clear of the bench and smiling as he strode over to meet her.

  “There you are,” he said. “I’d wondered if you were ill.”

  “Not ill, my love, merely thinking. I’ve decided I’d best ride with you when you go to Dun Deverry.”

  “Good.” He let his smile disappear. “You’ll be safer there. I’m stripping the fort guard.”

  Bevyan laid a hand on her throat. She wondered if she’d gone pale—her face felt so suddenly cold.

  “Well, we’ve not lost yet.” Peddyc pitched his voice low. “If the time comes for you and your women to leave Dun Deverry, I’ll send you back with a full escort of men. Don’t worry about that. You’ll need to hold the gates long enough to negotiate a settlement with the Pretender.”

  “I see.” Bevyan swallowed heavily and freed her voice. “As my lord thinks best, of course.”

  He smiled and touched her face with the side of his hand.

  “Let’s pray I don’t need to do that kind of thinking, Bevva. Come entertain our gwerbret. You and I will ride to court together, at least, and after that, only the gods know.”

  Peddyc looked up, and when Bevyan followed his glance she realized that he was looking at the row of cloth banners in gold and green, faded and stained with age, that hung above the main hearth—the blazons of the Ram from time beyond remembering. She could only wonder if someday soon an enemy hand would rip them down.

  • • •

  “The omens?” Merodda said. “The omens are hideous.”

  “You sound frightened,” Burcan said.

  “Of course I’m frightened. I suppose that makes me a poor weak woman and beneath contempt.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Burcan, second son of the Boar clan and regent to the king, allowed himself a wry twist of a smile. “I’d say it makes you sensible.”

  Merodda sighed once and sharply.

  Close to the mid-watch of the night they were sitting in her private chamber, she in a carved chair by the fire, he in another near the table. The candles burning there were freshly lit, and Brour and his bowl of black ink both had long since been tidied away.

  “I wish I had better news to tell you,” she went on. “But we have an enemy here at court.”

  “I don’t need omens to tell me that. Everyone envies our clan.”

  “This is different. In the omen a red wyvern dropped out of the sky and slew a boar.”

  “What? I wish you wouldn’t speak in riddles.”

  “I thought it was clear enough. The king’s blazon is a green wyvern, and so someone close to but not of the royal family must be plotting to drop down upon us and supplant us.”

  Burcan started to speak, then merely stroked his thick grey moustaches while he considered.

  “You’re right,” he said at last. “It’s perfectly clear, now that you’ve explained it. I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to grasp things like omens.”

  “You don’t need to. You have me.”

  They shared a smile. In the hearth the fire showered sparks as a log burned through and fell. Burcan rose, then strode over to take wood from the basket and lay it upon the flames. For a moment he stood watching it burn.

  “Any idea of who this enemy might be?” he said.

  “Not yet. You’re right about the envy. There are a lot of clans with reason to hate us. I just hadn’t realized how deep the hatred must run.”

  “I’ll think about it. A wyvern, was it? Someone with a touch of royal blood themselves, maybe.”

  “There! You’re beginning to puzzle this out.”

  “Am I? Maybe so. Don’t know if I like it, though. That so-called scribe of yours—are you sure we can trust him?”

  “I don’t know. He came to me for the coin, and if someone offered him more, I can’t swear he wouldn’t change his loyalties.”

  “Thought so. I do
n’t like the man.”

  “Why?”

  “He comes from the south coast, doesn’t he?”

  “Not truly. He’s from the northern lands, though he did live for some years in Cerrmor.”

  “Still! How do you know he isn’t a Cerrmor spy?”

  “I have ways to tell when someone’s lying, as you know perfectly well. There’s somewhat else, isn’t there?”

  Burcan scowled at the floor.

  “I don’t like the way he treats you,” he said at last.

  “What? He’s always courteous.”

  Burcan raised his head and looked at her. His eyes searched her face, probing for some secret. Merodda stood with a little laugh.

  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of poor Brour.”

  “I don’t like the way he’s always in your company.”

  When Burcan rose to join her, she laid one hand flat on his chest and looked up, smiling at him. In a moment he laid his hand over hers.

  “My dear brother,” she said. “He’s little and ugly. You’ve got no reason to vex yourself on his account.”

  “Good. And the moment you think he might turn disloyal, tell me. I’ll have the matter taken care of.”

  Travelling with Gwerbret Daeryc’s entourage, his attendant lords and their joined warbands, plus their servants and retainers, was no speedy thing, especially with carts along and a herd of extra horses. Rather than jounce around in a cart with the maidservants, Bevyan wore a pair of her son’s old brigga under her dresses and rode her palfrey, as did Sarra. In the long line of march they travelled just behind the noble lords, although at times Peddyc would drop back and ride beside Bevyan for a few miles. It was pleasant, riding in the spring weather through the ripening winter wheat and the apple trees, heavy with blossoms, so pleasant that Bevyan found herself remembering the first days of her marriage, when she and Peddyc would ride together around his lands, alone except for a page trailing at a discreet distance. They had brought such a shock, those days, when she realized that she’d been married to a man that she would learn to love.