Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [84]
Maddyn turned back into the room, then perched on the window sill to consider Nevyn for a long moment.
“Slip away?” Maddyn said at last. “And where shall we go then?”
“Ever have a fancy to see Bardek? I've come to realize that their physicians know a great deal more than ours, or certainly more than I do. Besides—” Nevyn heard his own voice tremble and forced it steady. “Besides, I need to get far far away, where Maryn won't hear of me and my doings.”
“The prince was like a son to you. This all must burn like poison.”
“It does. And the worst part is thinking that I should have done somewhat to prevent it.”
“Ah by the hells, Nevyn! You're only a dweomermas-ter, not a god!”
Nevyn stared, then suddenly laughed, a bitter creaky noise.
“True spoken, bard. Well, then. Shall we ride west together in the spring?”
“We shall. Here's somewhat I never thought I'd ever say: I'll be cursed glad to leave the king and his court behind me once and for all.”
Nevyn nodded in sad agreement, but he knew a thing he could never tell Maddyn. While they could ride away from Maryn and his court in this life, neither of them would be so easily free of the souls involved in this tragedy, not for many a long lifetime ahead.
In 863, King Maryn died. The chirurgeons, who wanted his legend to end with a worthy death, stated that an old wound, never properly healed, had burst open. The tale baffled those who knew him, because thanks to his dweomer luck Maryn had never received a wound in all his long years of battle. But over time these witnesses died themselves, of course, leaving the bards free to put the lie into their songs and the priests to copy it into their chronicles.
In truth, a consumption of the lungs killed Maryn. All unwittingly Lilli had poisoned him when they'd lain in each other's arms—her disease the instrument of her mother's curse fulfilled.
PART TWO
SUMMER 1118
The North Country
The priests say that studying magic drives men mad, but they lie to guard their privileged position. How can they pretend to stand between their people and their gods if other men can work miracles as well or better than they? On the other hand, dabbling in sorcery without plan or principle will expose every fault and weakness in any mans mind. If some break along those hidden cracks, is it the fault of sorcery?
—The Pseudo-Iamblichos Scroll
In far-off Bardek, where Maddyn the bard had met his death some two centuries before, winter turned into spring by degrees. The rains came less frequently; the sun stayed above the horizon longer each day; muddy tracks dried out and turned once again into roads. Merchants and travelling shows alike began to consider their first long journey of the new season. For their winter camp, Marka and Keeta had chosen the public caravanserai near Myleton. Normally Marka's husband, Ebañy, would have made this decision, but over the winter his madness had burgeoned like the grass, turned green and lush by the rains.
“I can't tell you how glad I am that spring's here,” Marka said. “Maybe Ebañy will be more his old self once we're on the road. He always did love to travel.”
“That's true,” Keeta said. “It's been a long hard winter for you.”
“It was the way he kept hearing the voices. It seemed like every time it rained, he'd find some new ones.”
“It broke my heart, listening to him babble about water spirits.”
“It was worse when he answered them.”
They were perched together on the tailgate of an empty wagon, where they could watch the camp around them. The various performers bustled about, whitewashing another wagon, mending horse gear, or practicing their juggling and tumbling out in the bright sun. Marka's oldest son, Kwinto, was leading their elephant, Nila, to the watering trough on the far side of the caravanserai. From the way she curled her trunk and trumpeted, she seemed to be welcoming the spring herself.