The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [120]
“I beg you for the king’s sake, and in the king’s name!” To each of them Burcan said the same. “For the king and Deverry!”
But Merodda could guess that the men were thinking the same as she, that in these moments Burcan was the king, and it would be for him that they’d fight on the morrow.
Dinner in the great hall was an agony. Since he couldn’t sit without enormous pain, Burcan walked through the tables with a goblet of mead in his hand, laughing with his allies and cheering his lords on. Merodda could see him turning pale, then white, then a drained horrible death-white. Finally, with one last jest, he turned and strode out of the hall. She rushed after to find him just outside, hanging on to the wall with one hand and swaying. The sunset sent a last flare of gold over the sky, but in the ward the shadows lay cold.
Burcan turned to her, started to speak, and collapsed. Merodda flung herself to the ground beside him. Through the bandages and his shirt both red blood oozed. She cradled his head in the crook of her left arm and stroked his hair and face with her other hand, while he squinted at her as if he could barely see.
“Rhodi?” he whispered. “Do you truly love me?”
“I do. I always have.”
He smiled, seemed to be about to speak, seemed to be staring up at her face. Then she realized that he was dead. She kissed him once, then sat up and closed his eyes. His blood soaked the front of her dress; she sat there staring at it and wondering if she’d told him the truth, if she’d ever loved him at all. No matter—he’d done so much for her that she’d owed him the lie, if it was one.
“My lady!” It was Lord Belryc, standing over her. “Oh, my lady!”
“He’s dead, truly.” Merodda stood up and looked around her.
Everything seemed oddly small and oddly far away, even the lord, who was holding out one hand as if offering to steady her. Men shouted, men came running from the broch to gather around.
“We should bury him somewhere in the dun,” Merodda said. “He loved it so.”
The world spun once sharply to the left. When she woke again, she was lying on her bed with the queen and the serving women clustered around her. Abrwnna was holding her hand and weeping. So should we all, Merodda thought. Tomorrow is the end of everything.
“Oooh, it’s going to be terrible on the morrow, my lady,” Clodda said. “I’ve heard all the men talking. A terrible hard battle, they say.”
“No doubt,” Lilli said. “I don’t want to think about it. I wish we were back in Cerrmor.”
“Well, I’ve had a longing or two that way myself.”
They were sitting just outside of Lilli’s tent with a candle lantern on the ground between them. The dapples of light from the cut tin flickered on their faces and stamped strange patterns onto the canvas of Nevyn’s tent nearby. Nevyn himself was gone, off at the council of war with the prince and the great lords, those who had lived through the day’s fighting, that is.
“I feel like a murderess,” Lilli said abruptly. “If I’d not come forward, the prince would have had to siege the dun, and none of this ghastly slaughter would have happened.”
“What, my lady?” Clodda looked up in sincere confusion. “But the gods want Prince Maryn to be king, and so you had to tell him.”
“But still, if I hadn’t told him—”
“It was the prince’s decision to strike, my lady, not yours.”
The voice came from Branoic, standing just outside the lantern light, and he’d come up so quietly that Lilli had never heard him. With a yelp she scrambled to her feet. Although he’d washed and put on a clean shirt, he wore his mud-crusted brigga still.
“Oh ye gods!” she stammered. “You gave me such a start!”
“Then my apologies.” He walked the last few steps to stand in front of her. “But I’ll not have you berating yourself for the fortunes of war.”
“Don’t you blame me for what happened to Caradoc?”
“Not in the least, though I’m sick at heart over losing him. How can you know someone else’s Wyrd? Maryn’s the one who decided to attack, not siege, and Caradoc’s the one who talked him into letting the silver daggers open the gates.