The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [72]
“It doesn’t, my liege, especially since I know a man who has a better claim to the throne of all Deverry than any other man alive.”
“Indeed?” Casyl turned, leaning back casually on the window frame, smiling a little in academic interest. “And who might that be?”
“Does His Highness truly have no idea?”
Casyl froze, only his mouth working in a twist of pain.
“I think me he does.” Nevyn was inexorable. “Your son, my liege. While a Cantrae wife would be held against you, a Cantrae mother strengthens Maryn’s position a hundredfold. He has ties to every royal line, even Eldidd, strong ties.”
“So he does.” Casyl’s voice was a whisper. “Oh ye gods! I never gave a moment’s thought to it before, truly. I never dreamt the Cerrmor line would fail like this. Do you think that Maryn has a chance at acceptance, or will he have to fight for his throne?”
“I think me Cerrmor will welcome him. Will they want a Cantrae king on the throne instead?”
“Of course not.” Casyl began pacing back and forth. “It’s going to be a hard and dangerous road to the throne, but how can I deny my son’s claim to his Wyrd?”
“There’s more at stake than Maryn’s Wyrd. This is a matter of grave import for the entire kingdom. Truly, I know that I’ve talked of strange omens and suchlike without a shred of proof, but you’ll know that I’ve spoken the truth when news comes of Glyn’s death. In the meantime, it might be politic to hire Maryn as large a guard as possible.”
“Politic indeed if he’s the heir to two thrones. Done, then. I’ll have a look at those silver daggers on the morrow.”
On the morrow morning, Maryn was restless beyond a simple excitement at the chance to acquire a personal guard. When Nevyn suggested that they have a talk, the prince insisted on leaving the dun and going down to the narrow sandy beach of the island where they could be completely private. Although it was unseasonably warm still, thin cirrus clouds mackereled the sky, and the leaves on the birches were a sickly yellow.
“Very well, Your Highness,” Nevyn said once they were settled on an outcrop of rock. “What grave matter is troubling you?”
“Maybe it’s naught. Maybe I’m going daft or suchlike.”
“Indeed? Out with it.”
“Well, when I met those silver daggers yesterday, I got the strangest feeling. This is the beginning, the feeling said. You hear about men’s Wyrds talking to them, but I never truly understood before. I do now, because I heard my Wyrd say that to me. Or am I daft?”
“Not daft at all, truly. Your Wyrd is gathering, sure enough.”
Slack-mouthed, the prince stared out over the lake, rippling as the wind rose in a gust that shook the birches.
“Are you afraid, Your Highness?”
“Not for myself. I just thought of somewhat. Nevyn, if I’m meant to be king, then men are going to die for me. There’ll have to be a war before I can claim the throne.”
“That’s true.”
He was silent for a long while more, looking so young, so absurdly smooth-faced and wide-eyed, that it seemed impossible that here sat the true king of all Deverry. For all that Maryn had taken his training well, at fourteen he was far from ready for the work ahead, but then, Nevyn doubted if any man, no matter how old and wise, would ever be truly ready.
“I don’t want all those deaths on my head.” He spoke abruptly, with the ring of command in his voice.
“Your Highness has no choice. If you refuse to take your Wyrd upon you, then more men will die fighting to put some false king on your throne.”
Tears welled in his eyes; he brushed them irritably away on his sleeve before he answered.
“Then I’ll follow my Wyrd.” He rose, and suddenly