The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [107]
“You have my leave to go,” Maryn snapped.
The prince turned and stalked back to his seat in the window. Nevyn allowed himself a sour smile at his retreating back, then let himself out the door.
Since Retyc had asked him to take the letters on to High Priest Gwaevyr, Nevyn had an ostler saddle him a horse, then left the dun. He rode through the valley ruins and up the road that spiralled around the second highest hill in the city. On its crest, behind high walls, stood the temple of Bel, the holiest land in all Deverry, or so its priests claimed. Since Nevyn was known there, the two neophytes guarding the gates let him in without a challenge, and a third ran off to deliver the news of his coming to the high priest.
While he waited, Nevyn handed his horse over to a servant and walked in the sacred oak grove among the graves of Deverry’s high kings. Fresh grass was growing on the newest, a pitifully short mound over little Olaen. Nevyn stood for a moment with bowed head and asked the child’s soul to forgive him. Although he knew that Councillor Oggyn had murdered the child-king, he’d done nothing to bring him to justice. Oggyn was proving his worth now, with his surveys and prudent plans, just as Nevyn had known he would. Still the memory haunted him, of the child’s death-pale face and unseeing eyes as he lay on his soiled bed.
“Lord Nevyn?” A soft voice hailed him from behind.
Nevyn spun around to find a middle-aged priest, shaved bald as his kind always were and wearing a simple linen tunic with a rope belt. At his waist hung a small golden sickle.
“My name is Trinyn. I’m afraid His Holiness is unwell and not receiving visitors.”
“Is there anything I can do? I’ve studied physic for many a long year.”
“We have our own healers.”
“Of course.” Nevyn inclined his head in Trinyn’s direction. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
Trinyn smiled thinly. Nevyn reached into his shirt and brought out the message tube.
“Letters from Retyc of Lughcarn,” Nevyn said. “He asked me to ensure that His Holiness received them.”
“My thanks.” Trinyn’s smile grew a trifle more hospitable. “I appreciate your delivering these yourself.”
“No doubt they contain important matters. I’d best leave you to the reading of them.”
As he rode back to the dun, Nevyn puzzled over the cold reception he’d received. Retyc’s letters had been nothing but reassuring; the Lughcarn temple was confident that they would find a white mare, all the omens seemed good, and the politicking between their temple and Dun Deverry had died down to a caution born of old distrust.
“I don’t understand,” Nevyn said to the prince. “I see no real obstacles to their proclaiming you king once the white mare turns up.”
“If you don’t understand it,” Maryn said, “then I fear the worst.”
“What?” Nevyn went on. “That they’ll never make the proclamation? I doubt that, my liege, very much indeed.”
“So do I. I’m afraid that they’ll wait so long that my allies will start deserting. I’ve cobbled together this reign on Wyrd and fancy promises, after all. Some men lose patience with such.”
Nevyn sighed. The candle flames in their sconces bobbed in the draft from the windows as if agreeing.
“That’s real enough,” Nevyn said at last. “Ah well, there’s naught to do about now. We’ll have to fight that battle when it rides our way—if indeed it does.”
8“All right, lads,” Owaen said. “The prince has asked me to detail some men to ride to Cerrmor and escort the princess on her journey here. Branoic, you’ll be going with them.”
“Now here!” Maddyn snapped. “Branno’s got important matters afoot here in the dun.”
Branoic started to speak, but Owaen was too fast for him.
“So what if he does?” Owaen said. “I say he’s going. Are you going to argue with me, bard?”
“Am I going to make a song about you that will have the great hall howling with laughter?”
Owaen took a step back, his face dangerously blank. They were standing in one of the many odd private corners found in Dun Deverry’s wards, an awkward triangle twixt a narrow tower and a wall.