The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [128]
“She’s not.” Abrwnna rose with a toss of her hair. “I’ve no idea if she lives or lies dead.”
“No doubt. Well, come along. You’re going to be imprisoned elsewhere.”
With her head held high, Abrwnna strode out of the room. She’s a queen at last, Merodda thought to herself—at the last, indeed.
Lilli had spent the entire day lying on top of her blankets in her tent. Since her maidservants kept badgering her, she did dress in the morning and eat some of the food they brought her, too. But forcing herself outside lay beyond her. She felt exhausted or perhaps paralyzed; at times it seemed she lacked the energy or will even to sit up. Distantly she could hear the noise of the battle, and now and then one of the girls would go outside and bring back news of the fighting. At times Lilli would drift off to sleep, only to have dreams of wyverns grappling with boars, which would wake her, screaming.
“What is it, my lady?” Clodda would ask.
“I’m being torn in half,” Lilli would answer. “I don’t know how else to put it.”
When the sound of battle died away, Lilli finally managed to step outside her tent. The sun was setting, and up atop the hill the humbled towers of Dun Deverry gleamed in the heavy light.
“Mistress?” Clodda said. “Shall I bring out your chair?”
“If you would, please.”
Lilli sank into the chair and sat looking up at the dun. All around them swept the noise and bustle—men carrying wounded, men yelling and leaping at the victory, men weeping for dead friends. She herself felt beyond tears or hope, but Anasyn at last returned, striding across the camp, calling out to her when he drew near. Still in his mail, he was carrying his helm in one hand, swinging it the way he used to swing some toy when they’d both been children in Dun Hendyr. She rose to greet him, but she couldn’t force a smile to match his.
“We’ve done it!” Anasyn crowed. “The broch’s ours and the false king’s in Maryn’s hands!”
“That gladdens my heart.” The words seemed to stick in her mouth.
Anasyn considered her, then stopped smiling. He tossed the helm to a maidservant and laid his hand on Lilli’s shoulder.
“I shouldn’t gloat,” he said.
“Why not? Bevva’s avenged, and this rotten, horrid war is over. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She turned away, afraid of tears. “I should be happy.”
“Nah, nah, nah, no one expects that of you, little sister. You’ve lost the clan of your birth, and I’ve lost a lot of good men today, and ye gods, I’ve lost friends, too! It would be best for me to mourn instead of gloating.”
At the honest pain in his voice she could look at him again. They clasped hands, and he drew her close. In that moment he looked so like Peddyc that she feared she would choke on tears.
That night the last of the silver daggers gathered around a fire in front of Maddyn’s tent—twenty-three out of the hundred who’d left Cerrmor in the spring, and two of those were wounded. Otho and Caudyr joined them, and Otho had loot, a whole barrel of mead.
“I figure the cursed false king owes it to us,” Otho said, and he was actually smiling. “I had a bit of a struggle getting it away from one of Gwerbret Daeryc’s servants, but in the end I won.”
With a kindling axe Owaen broke open the top of the barrel, and they dipped mead out like ale into whatever cups they could find. Maddyn raised his high.
“To our dead!” He splashed a few drops into the fire. “And to our captain.”
“For Caradoc,” the murmur and the libations went round. “And all our dead.”
Everyone drank, then merely stood, looking at each other. Maddyn was remembering another time when the silver daggers had numbered so few—after the first battle he’d ever ridden with Caradoc, far away in Eldidd and a long time ago. Then they’d been dishonored scum and taken the brunt of the fighting; now, even as honor-bound warriors, they’d taken it again.
“Otho?” he said. “Do you remember making these knives of ours? And the battle that gave Caradoc the idea of them?”
“I do, at that. It