A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [43]
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