Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [46]
“Good,” Nevyn said. “I hope the other herald's there to meet him.”
“Me too. I'll just send my manservant to see if Owaen's picked our twenty guards. If he has, let's ride.”
The location of the parley proved to be some five miles north of the Wyvern camp. With ten silver daggers riding in front and ten more behind, Nevyn, Maryn, and Gavlyn followed a narrow dirt track that led through flat green fields where weeds and brambles grew as high as their horses' chests. The track brought them to a road of packed earth, and there they paused. Some distance ahead, in a long stretch of flat pasture where, just as Braemys had promised, there was neither wall nor copse to hide so much as one traitorous swordsmen, they could see a gathering of men on horseback. Owaen rose in his stirrups and shaded his eyes with one hand while he counted. He sat back down with a satisfied grunt.
“Just twenty, Your Highness,” Owaen said, “and one man well out in front. Braemys, I'd say, but there's no sign of his councillor or herald.”
“It matters not to me,” Maryn said. “He's the one who asked for them.” With a wave to Nevyn to follow, Maryn turned his horse and headed in the direction of the waiting riders.
By then the wind was driving the storm away, but while the western half of the sky shone clear, in the east clouds hung dark like a huge wall, so that it seemed they met outside of some fortress of the gods. On a blood bay gelding with black mane and tail Lord Braemys rode out to meet them. He wore neither helm nor sword, though Nevyn could see the bulky lines of a mail hauberk worn under his shirt. In the flood of sunlight his blond hair gleamed. A wary five yards or so away he stopped his horse and sat, reins in one hand while he looked them over. Braemys was just raising his first beard, Nevyn noticed—a sprinkling of fine hair on his chin and upper lip. Nevyn heard Maryn swear under his breath and glanced at the prince, who was staring at his enemy in a kind of amazement. Only then did it occur to Nevyn that with his fine features and wide blue eyes, Braemys looked very much like Lilli.
With a toss of his head Maryn recovered himself.
“Greetings, Lord Braemys,” Maryn said.
“And mine to you, Your Grace,” Braemys said, “Gwer-bret Cerrmor.”
For a moment they considered each other. When Nevyn opened his etheric sight, he saw the young lord's aura gleaming a steady gold, shot with red. Rage, no doubt, but not treachery. Satisfied, Nevyn closed the sight down.
“Gwerbret I am of that city,” Maryn said at last. “But I hold a bit more rank besides. I take it that you refuse to swear fealty to me as the rightful high king in Dun Deverry.”
“I do.” Braemys looked him straight in the face. “But who reigns in the Holy City is no longer a concern of mine or of those to whom I owe protection.”
Maryn blinked, caught off guard. Braemys smiled, just slightly, and went on speaking.
“I wish to remind you of the terms you laid me, Your Grace, before the summer's fighting. You told me that I had two choices, to swear to you or leave your lands forever. Very well. My clan, those few of our vassals who hold loyal, my retainers, the farmers who have served my clan, my artisans and my servants, my warband and the warbands of my vassals—” Braemys paused for breath. “They're all waiting for me to the north of here with their possessions and livestock. We shall quit your lands forever, just as you demand.”
“What?” Maryn blurted. “Where will you go?”
“North,” Braemys said. “North of Gwaentaer lies unclaimed land. It's rough country, I hear, full of hills and rocks. You need not fear I'll found a rich kingdom there to threaten you or suchlike.”
“That's daft!”
Braemys merely smiled for an answer. It was daft, Nevyn thought, but rather splendidly so, a wild gesture of a very young lord. When Maryn glanced his way, as if for advice, Nevyn shrugged.
“Lord Braemys seems to have thought this all out,” Nevyn said. “If he wishes to withdraw from your jurisdiction, then no law of the land