Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [52]
As he was walking back to his tent, Owaen hailed him.
“Messengers rode in, my lord,” Owaen called out. “The prince has letters for you.”
“My thanks!” Nevyn said. “I'll go fetch them.”
There turned out to be two personal letters for Nevyn—one from Princess Bellyra, one from Lilli. The princess had sent only the briefest of notes, acknowledging his earlier message. Lilli's letter supplied the reason. She had written it herself in her big blocky letters rather than trust her meaning to a scribe.
“My dear master,” it began, “I am writing about the princess. Her illness still lies upon her, and it aches my heart to see. Maddyn the bard did cheer her somewhat upon his return with his songs, but in only a few days she fell into a deeper sadness than ever. Lady Elyssa is beside herself with worry, saying that this fit of madness is worse than the last. Is there some herb I might brew to lift some of her clouds? I would be ever so grateful for any advice upon this matter.”
The letter continued with comments upon her studies and some gossip from the dun, then ended with a line that brought tears to his eyes.
“I think about Branoic every night at sunset and weep for him. I understand now why bards call grief a monster that gnaws at your heart.”
Nevyn rolled the letter up and slipped it into his shirt to keep it safe. Was there any advice he could give her about helping Bellyra recover? When he did think of a possible remedy, it required no mighty magicks or even herb lore. The next morning, while they waited for the first scouts to return, Nevyn took the prince for a little stroll into the forest edge.
“If I remember rightly, Your Highness,” Nevyn said, “there's a proper road just beyond this stretch of forest.”
“Splendid!” Maryn said. “I'll send a couple of men to scout it out. Is there a path through here?”
“I think so. I'm fairly sure I know this spot. If I'm right, there's a grave marker along in here somewhere.”
Sure enough, in a short walk's space they came to a neat stack of stones, some four feet high, in the midst of a small clearing. Just beyond it they could see a worn dirt path through the trees.
“Is this the grave?” Maryn said. “It looks like a cairn.”
“It is, and of a noble-born lady,” Nevyn said. “I heard the story from a gamekeeper years and years ago, my liege. The lass was betrothed to a prince, but she died before they could marry.”
“A sad Wyrd, then.”
“Made sadder because he spurned her, or so the story runs, and there was naught she could do but throw herself away on an unworthy man. Noble-born women have so little power over their own lives.”
“True spoken.” Maryn nodded absently, looking away into the trees.
Nevyn paused to wonder if he were wasting his breath, but the thing needed saying, he decided, whether the prince chose to listen or not.
“I was remembering the days when I was your tutor,” Nevyn said. “We studied the laws, the history of the great clans, the Dawntime. But we never touched upon how a man might comport himself around the women of his household. I begin to think that was an oversight on my part.”
Maryn whipped his head around and glared at him, his mouth tight-set.
“I see you see my line of thought,” Nevyn said calmly.
“Lady Lillorigga is your apprentice.” Maryn's voice grated close to a growl. “I understand that you need to have her welfare at heart.”
“I wasn't talking about Lilli.”
“Oh.” Maryn relaxed. “My apologies.”
“The woman I fear for, Your Highness, is your wife. Those fits of madness—”
“Well, they trouble me, too. Ye gods, don't you think I realize that they've appeared after every child? There are three heirs to the throne back in Dun Deverry now. That's enough for safety's sake. I see no reason to put her at risk again.” Maryn shook his head sadly. “I'm fond of her, truly I am, but there are other women. I'm not some animal who can't control himself.”
It took a moment for Nevyn to parse the prince's meaning—quite the opposite conclusion