Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [78]
The prince was unarmed with his back turned. Maddyn felt his hand touch his silver dagger of its own will. Madness rose in his throat like a howl; madness blinded his eyes with a red mist. He could draw, step forward, stab, avenge. The word vengeance throbbed in his blood. Vengeance—and then what? He would have broken every vow he'd sworn to Prince Maryn, shattered the last bit of his honor and ground it underfoot. I'll not, he told himself. The thought seemed to clear his vision, and he could see Nevyn, watching him calmly but for the rise of one bristling eyebrow.
Maryn spun around, his arms held a little out to each side, as if he'd just realized that Maddyn stood behind him. Maddyn forced himself to kneel as the courtesy to his sworn lord demanded.
“Get up,” Maryn snarled. “For gods' sake, don't kneel to me tonight. I'm not worthy of it.”
Unable to speak, Maddyn nodded and rose. For a long moment they looked at each other, bard and prince; then Maddyn bowed, turned, and strode out of the hall. He trotted down the corridor, clattered down the stairway, and rushed out into the damp night air where at last, it seemed, he could breathe.
All night Lilli lay awake, terrified that Maryn would come to her. If he wanted comfort, what would she say to him? He never opened her door, and toward dawn she fell asleep at last and dreamt of being an exile again. Once again she rode into Cerrmor and stood in the sunny ward, but this time it was the princess who walked up to her and smiled in welcome. She woke in tears, dragged herself up, and dressed. She crept downstairs, afraid at every turn that she'd see Maryn, but the great hall stretched out silent in the grey light. A few servants were just rising from their beds in the straw by the hearths. They ignored her as she hurried outside.
The storm had broken, and brilliant sunshine glittered on the freshly washed cobbles. The blue sky above seemed like some insult to Bellyra, as if the sun himself should have been mourning her. Lilli ran into the shelter of Nevyn's tower and puffed up the stairs. His chamber stood open, and he himself sat on the windowsill.
“I thought you might come here early,” Nevyn said. “Did you talk with Maryn last night?”
Lilli shook her head and sat down, panting for breath, on the chair. Nevyn leaned forward in concern.
“You look decidedly unwell.”
“I am. I hardly slept.”
“No doubt. I didn't either. This is a horrible thing.”
With one last gasp, Lilli got her breath back. “And it's my fault,” Lilli said. “At least partly.”
“It's not,” Nevyn snapped. “It's to no one's shame, not even Maryn's, though I must admit I'm feeling very ill disposed toward him this morning.”
“You don't understand. He was going to send her to Cerrmor because of me. I mean, because I ended the thing between us.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“And he grew furious and decided to send her away, where you'd not worry about her?”
“I think so, truly.” Lilli could barely speak. She felt the tears running down her face and let them. “She was so good to me when I had naught.”
In the morning light Nevyn suddenly seemed not merely old but ancient, with every line on his face etched deep, his skin pale around the brown discolorings of old age, his eyes clouded and distant. His hands, all knuckles and wrinkled skin, clasped each other, then relaxed, flaccid on his thighs.
“If Maryn had half your sense of honor,” Nevyn said at last, “Bellyra would be alive today. Do not blame yourself. As your master in your craft, I forbid it.