The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [124]
“Shall we try to sleep?” she asked.
Everyone agreed and began poking through the hasty armfuls of goods they’d gathered to bring to this refuge. A few at a time they found blankets or cushions and made themselves as comfortable as they could. Merodda herself fell asleep straight off, but soon after midnight she woke to lie in the dark and curse her Wyrd. So all her dweomer had come to this, that she could see her fate and not do one wretched thing to prevent it! All her scrying, all her omens and spells—nothing had saved her from this trap of a room, where queen and servant lass shared the same floor for a bed.
For comfort she had one thought: vengeance. Maryn thought himself the victor now, but he would pay for his strutting glory. If, of course, her first teacher in these dark matters had spoken the truth, and the spell he’d wrought would live up to his claims. He had boasted so much that she had lost her faith in him. Burcan would no doubt lie unavenged, and soon she would no doubt join him.
Still, there was other lore, other spells she’d learned. What if it were true, and she could take vengeance upon her enemies whether she lived or died? For a long time she lay awake and searched her memory for the dark things her master had taught her. If naught else they comforted her, here at the end of everything she had ever loved, with sweet hopes of revenge.
In the east dawn rose in a blaze of scarlet, an omen of the fighting to come. When Nevyn tried his usual meditation, such terrible images of death and despair flooded the astral plane that he broke off the attempt. He had just dressed when Maddyn came running toward him, howling his name like a banshee.
“You’ve got to get to the prince!” Maddyn yelled. “He wants to join the final attack on the royal broch.”
“Lead me to him, lad. And hurry!”
They found the prince at the edge of the encampment where Maddyn had left him, circled by impassive silver daggers. Prince Maryn was swearing and threatening them, but they kept close ranks and ignored him. Just as Nevyn came running up, Maryn drew his sword.
“May the gods forbid I injure one of my own men,” Maryn snarled. “But if you don’t let me through I will!”
“Here’s Nevyn, my liege!” Branoic said. “If after you talk with him you still want to lead that charge, I’ll step aside gladly.”
“Bastard!”
“You’ve done well, men,” Nevyn said. “Wait for us some ways away.”
The guards trotted off. When Maryn tried to follow, Nevyn stepped in front of him. Their eyes met; the king looked away and stayed where he was.
“In some ways,” Maryn said, “I’m still that little lad and you my fierce old tutor. Infuriating, but there we are.”
“My liege, my own true king, the first man through those doors is going to die, and so will most of those who come right after him. There’s no hope for otherwise.”
“Oh spare me the clever rhetoric! How can I stand here and let other men fight for me?”
“By keeping your two feet firmly planted on this bit of ground.” Nevyn added a “my liege” as an afterthought, then went on. “If you’re killed now, all the men who’ve died to put you on this throne will have suffered in vain. Is that what you want?”
Maryn let out his breath in a sigh that was closer to a moan and lowered his sword. From behind him Maddyn caught Nevyn’s glance and mouthed silent thanks.
“What happened to the parley?” Nevyn said.
“When Gavlyn came up to the door, they emptied chamberpots on him from the windows. The message seemed clear enough.”
“So it does. It’s a terrible thing, honor, when it makes a man die in a lost cause.”
Maryn shrugged and sheathed his sword with a slap of hilt against scabbard.
“I gave them their chance,” the prince said. “If they want to follow their false king to the Otherlands, who am I to stand in their way?”
The trapped women heard rather than saw the attack. Early on, Merodda risked sidling up to a window and taking a sideways look out, but all she could see was a welter of men swarming through the ward and surrounding the towers that sheltered