The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [68]
“By rights it would belong to her, truly.” Nevyn considered for a moment. “Alas, I doubt me if we could convince either your vassals or the priests.”
Maryn laughed, nodding his agreement.
“Don’t let me forget,” the prince went on, “to send messengers to my father with this news.”
“I’m always mindful of Pyrdon, never fear. Once you’ve settled things with the Boar clan, it’ll be time to look west, and I fear me we won’t care for the view.”
“Oh, I agree. As soon as I claim Pyrdon, we have a war with the Eldidd on our hands.”
“Of course. The Eldidd king is likely to back your brother, you know, as a claimant for the Pyrdon throne.”
“Riddmar has no claim. I’m the eldest by a great many years and I have sons.”
“Just so. But I truly wish your father’s new wife had given him a daughter.”
As they walked on, Nevyn was feeling grim. Despite the prince’s spectacular victories of this summer, they had yet to achieve the final peace. Fighting over spoils had kept many a war alive before this. And hovering on the western horizon like a sunset storm lay the kingdom of Eldidd, whose tentative claim to the Deverry throne had helped prolong the civil wars for a hundred years.
Toward noon the rain finally hit, driving everyone indoors to the great hall of the royal broch. While servants set about bringing the men ale, Councillor Oggyn bustled in. He was a stout man, Oggyn, barrel-chested and egg-bald, though his brindled black-and-grey beard bristled with enough hair for two men. He climbed onto a bench so he could be seen and shouted at the top of his lungs for silence. When he got it, he called out the news of the birth of the prince’s second son. The noble lords in attendance, and there were a good many of them, all cheered and clapped at the prince’s good fortune.
“It’s their good fortune, too,” Maddyn said. “It’s a hard thing to fight for a new king only to see his line shrivel and die.”
“Just so.” Owaen raised his tankard in semisalute, then drank the ale off in one long swallow. “Two sons make a fourfold blessing for a lord.” He burped profoundly. “Pardon.”
The two silver daggers were sitting near the hearth they shared with the riders in the various lords’ warbands, across the circular great hall from the noble-born themselves. Most of Prince Maryn’s enormous army still camped at the bottom of the hill behind the outer ring of dun fortifications. Custom, however, demanded that each lord have an escort of picked men near them at all times, and the prince had his guards as well, all quartered within the dun proper.
Or what was left of the Prince’s Guard, all twenty-three of them, when once a hundred men had worn the silver dagger as their badge. They had lost the rest and their leader, Caradoc, in the summer’s fighting. Now Maddyn, who was something of a bard, and Owaen, one of the best swordsmen in the entire kingdom, were supposedly leading the unit together, as Caradoc had wished. Supposedly—Maddyn doubted that the arrangement would last much longer. He cared little for command, while to Owaen it was everything.
“We need to recruit,” Maddyn said. “The prince needs more guards than our handful.”
“Just so.” Owaen wiped his blond moustache dry on the back of his left hand, which sported a clot of scar tissue where the little finger should have been. “I’ve been approached by some of the regular Cerrmor riders.”
“Any of them any good?”
“They weren’t. But I’ve got my eye on a couple of other lads who can swing a sword well enough. Don’t know if they’ll fit in. What about you talk with them? You’re better at that kind of thing.”
“Very well. Point them out to me.”
Owaen swung a leg over the bench and stood straddling it while he looked round the great hall.
“They’re not here,” he said finally. “Let’s see if we can find them outside somewhere.”
“Ye gods, it’s storming out there!”
Owaen gave him a look of such disgust that Maddyn rose to join him.
“Oh very well. Truly, it won’t shorten my