The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [79]
“He’s going to heave,” Nevyn said calmly. “That’s all right, lad. Get it all out.”
Branoic dropped to his knees and vomited, his stomach burning from Owaen’s fist. Never in his life had he felt so humiliated, that Nevyn would see him like this, but when he was finally done and looked up to apologize, the old man was gone.
Nevyn returned to his chamber, lit the ready-laid fire with a wave of his hand, and sat down in a comfortable chair to think about this blond, young Eldidd man that Caradoc had brought in from the road like a stray dog. Nevyn had recognized him the moment he’d seen him, or rather, he knew perfectly well that he should recognize the soul looking out through those cornflower-blue eyes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite remember who he’d been in former lives. While Maddyn felt well disposed to the lad, Owaen had hated him on sight, a mutual feeling, it seemed. Logically, then, in his last life Branoic might have been a loyal member of Gweniver’s warband, still bearing his old grudge against the man who had tried to rape a holy priestess. Since Nevyn had never paid any particular attention to the warband, it was also logical that he wouldn’t remember all its members. On the other hand, he’d felt such a strong dweomer touch at the sight of the lad that surely he had to be someone more important than one of Gwyn and Ricyn’s riders.
“Maybe her brother-in-law?” he said aloud. “What was his name, anyway? Ye gods, I can’t remember that either! I must be getting old.”
Over the next few days, his mind at odd moments worried over the problem of Branoic’s identity like a terrier in front of a rat cage—it growled and snapped but couldn’t get the rat out. He did decide, however, that the lad’s arrival was an omen of sorts, a true one rather than another faked and theatrical glamour such as those that he and the priests were spreading about the coming of the king. One or two at a time, men he had trusted in lives past were coming to help him bring peace to the kingdom.
Soon enough he had news of an ominous kind to occupy his attention. Some weeks past, he had sent to the temple of Bel at Hendyr for copies of two important works on Deverry common law, and when the messenger returned, he also brought a letter from Dannyr, the high priest down in Cerrmor, a letter that was sealed twice and written in the ancient tongue of the Homeland that few could read.
“King Glyn has fallen ill,” Dannyr wrote. “Everyone whispers of poison, although such seems doubtful to me. The king’s chirurgeons have diagnosed a congestion of the liver, and truly, it is no secret that the king has indulged himself with mead in unseemly quantities ever since he was old enough to drink. Yet I thought it wise to inform you of these rumors nonetheless, for we cannot have it said that the true king poisoned one of his rivals. Any counsel you might send would be appreciated, but for the love of every god, write only in the ancient tongue.”
When he finished, Nevyn swore aloud with vile oaths in both the ancient and the modern tongues. Dannyr was exactly right; no one would believe Maryn the true king if they thought he’d used poison to gain a throne. All the blame—if, indeed, blame there were—had to be cast onto the other claimant up in Dun Deverry, or rather, onto the various minions of the Boar clan that surrounded the eighteen-year-old king. At that point Nevyn remembered Caudyr, and he thanked the Lords of Light with all his soul for giving him the weapons he needed to win this battle. The chirurgeon’s evidence about the circumstances surrounding the death of the last king would no doubt throw any suspicion firmly where it belonged. Smiling grimly to himself, Nevyn went to his writing desk and drafted a letter to Dannyr straightaway.
Yet when he was done, and the letter safely sealed against the off chance that there was someone around who could read it, he sat at his desk for a long time and considered this matter of poison. Even though it seemed that