The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [74]
“Just so. We have about four thousand fighting men in good health. Braemys can’t have more than a bare thousand at the utter most.”
“He does have one strong ally, of course. Distance. It’s well over two hundred miles from here to Cantrae.”
Maryn swore briefly.
“The road runs through some hilly country as well,” Nevyn went on. “If I may make a suggestion, my liege?”
“Of course.”
“You’d best hold a council of war soon. Gwerbret Daeryc of Glasloc is going to be invaluable. Glasloc lies between here and Cantrae.”
“It does?” Maryn stared in puzzlement. “What’s he doing as overlord to the Rams, then? Hendyr lies to the west.”
“You know, I haven’t the slightest idea. I’d best ask him.”
When Nevyn left the prince, he started to return to his own chamber, but living in Dun Deverry was bringing back memories. He himself had lived in a chamber in a side broch that no longer seemed to exist—if indeed he’d correctly puzzled out the overall plan of the palace. He glanced at the candle in the lantern he carried and judged it good for a long while’s burning. Much to his surprise, he went straight to the little door that led to an obscure stairwell. He remembered climbing these steeply wound stairs two at a time; now he paused several times to rest. The stairs led him to a window little more than an arrow slit. Just opposite it there had once been a door, leading into the side broch and, eventually, to his suite. When he held up the lantern, he saw that some of the stonework formed a patch, roughly door-shaped, and much newer than the rest. His old tower, then, was indeed gone.
The stairs continued up, however, and out of curiosity he followed them to the old storeroom at the top of the royal broch. A splintering door hung at an angle from a single hinge. In his long-ago youth, two guards always stood before this door, which led to the royal treasury, but now, when Nevyn pushed the door open, he saw a pair of splayed wooden chests and a lot of dust. He heard little things scuttling away in the shadows, rats and spiders, he supposed. Holding the lantern high, he took a few steps in.
Outside the tower, the wind howled, whistling through the arrow slits. In the drafts the candle flame danced, throwing drunken shadows. Nevyn hung the lantern on a rusty metal hook driven between two stones on the wall, then out of sheer idle curiosity opened the first chest. It held nothing but a pile of cloth so old it had turned stiff as straw. The other chest stood empty as well, except for a water stain. With a shrug he turned his back on the door and retrieved his lantern.
Suddenly Nevyn knew that he wasn’t alone. He had heard no one walk up the stairs, heard no rustle of skirts or cloak, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Cold damp worse than that of the stones made him shiver. Someone—or something—had followed him in.
“And a good evening to you,” he said.
No answer. Holding the lantern high he turned around. In the doorway stood a woman, wrapped in a black mourning cloak. Her honey-blonde hair hung free, all matted and disheveled, over her shoulders. She had built her illusions so well that had he not known dweomer, Nevyn would have thought her human. As it was, he noticed that her eyes never blinked. He turned his head to look at her with his peripheral vision and saw etheric substance playing at the edges of her form like glimmers of far-distant lightning.
“A spirit, then,” Nevyn said aloud. “What do you want here?”
Her lips parted, but instead of speaking she moaned.
“What torments you?” he said. “Let me help you find peace.”
“My child.”
Nevyn felt his stomach clench. There had been a dead baby buried with the tablet that cursed Prince Maryn.
“Your newborn son?” he said.
“Nah nah nah! My daughter, my beautiful little daughter. They plan to steal her away from me.”
“Who? Let me help you!”
She flickered like a dying candle and vanished. Nevyn swore under his breath. She was no ghost, he was sure of that, but a being of great power from some other plane. He remembered the apparition