The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [107]
“Blessed be the name of the god,” Maryn whispered. “I’ll gladly take whatever he would give me.”
“Done, then. The false kings have come to me, now and again over the past many years. ‘Where is the brooch?’ they said. ‘Where is the ring brooch that marks the one true king of all Deverry?’ But never have I told any man until now.” He gestured at one of the priests. “Retyc of Lughcarn has kept it hidden in his temple, lest any impious lord attack my temple and try to take it by force. Now the god has told me to give it to his chosen prince.”
Maryn sank to his knees before the altar. At Nevyn’s bidding the Wildfolk of Air and Aethyr rushed to his side. All at once the temple seemed to grow in size and brighten with a silvery light that put the candle flames to shame. The noble-born gasped audibly; the priests stood unmoving. Gwaevyr pried at the lock until at last it broke off clean in his fingers. Nevyn swore to himself—he had wanted the omens to show clear and clean without any fumbling. The old priest’s withered fingers shook as he opened the lid of the casket to reveal scraps of ancient silk, still bright red from their long confinement away from the sun, but when he lifted them out, the scraps cracked and crumbled in his hands.
“Ah.” Gwaevyr smiled. “Behold! The brooch of the one true king!”
Nevyn sent a ray of light upon it when, with both hands, the ancient priest lifted up the huge gold ring brooch, studded with rubies and engraved in a complex braid of interlace. Its long pin was shaped like a sword blade with a ruby for a hilt.
“As the braid winds round this brooch, so must the will of the High King lace his subjects into a single whole! With the sword, must he defend them!”
The men waiting at the door caught their breath in a collective gasp. Nevyn found himself studying the brooch, worn somewhat with age. It was the authentic piece, all right—not that anyone would have believed him, if he told them that he’d seen it new.
“Are you worthy of this mark, Prince Maryn?” Gwaevyr said.
“With the help of the gods I shall become so, Your Holiness. If not, then may the gods strike me down.”
The old priest smiled, nodding.
“Well and good, then! Until the war is done and the battle over, I will keep this brooch here in safety. Once the kingdom is at peace, then return here, and by the ancient rites you shall be made High King.”
Pushed beyond the enduring of silence, Maryn’s vassals cheered, their voices loud as brass bells in the temple. Gwaevyr laughed and held the broch up with both hands as high as he could reach.
“Fight well for your prince, my lords! And then you shall see him become a king!”
The cheers rang out again, but deep in his soul, Nevyn felt a cold needle of fear. What was causing this delay?
Early in the morning, long before Maryn could wake and send for him, Nevyn returned alone to the temple of Bel. Apparently word had been left at the gates; the young priests on guard allowed him past immediately. He found Retyc, a solid man of middle years, strolling under the oaks alone. The morning sun slanted through the leaves and created long pillars of light between the trees, as if they walked in the god’s own house with the sky for a ceiling. All round them birds sang.
“I figured you’d come up, Nevyn,” Retyc said, and he was smiling. “Let me guess. You’re wondering why we didn’t declare him king last night and be done with it.”
“Just that,” Nevyn said. “Have the omens gone sour?”
“Naught of the sort! It’s a blasted strange little thing, and it irks me, but there’s no way round it. The rites of kingship demand a white mare, and we can’t find one.”
“What?”
“I’ve sent messengers all over Deverry proper, and up into Gwaentaer, too. It’s this wretched war. Horses of any sort are at a premium, with so many of them killed each summer, and there’s not a white mare to be found. I did hear of one old lass with a spot of grey on her forehead, but the ancient laws are absolutely unshakable: a white mare with no blemish. And young. It’s best if she’s never borne a foal, though