The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [131]
“Done, then,” Maryn said. “She’s yours, once Nevyn figures out the legalities.”
Abrwnna looked back and forth between them, seemed to be about to speak, then wept in a sudden burst of sobs, just as suddenly stifled. No doubt she could figure out for herself that no one was going to ask her opinion on this matter. Anasyn rose, then helped her up. Clinging to his arm she allowed herself to be escorted out of the great hall.
When the guards started to follow, Nevyn caught their attention.
“No sign of Lady Merodda?” Nevyn asked.
“None, my lord,” one guard said.
The other shook his head and shrugged.
“I begin to wonder if she escaped,” Nevyn said. “We know that some of the Boars did. Well, keep looking. She’s cursed important.”
“I just thought of somewhat,” Branoic said. “None of those lords who deserted the regent ever returned.”
“True enough,” Maddyn said. “I wonder how many of them are gathering around Lord Braemys in Cantrae?”
“No doubt we’ll find out before we want to. Let’s hope most of them are holed up in their duns like scared rabbits.”
The two silver daggers were standing up on the catwalk of the innermost wall. Below them the city spread out, a pool of ruins lapping around a ravaged hill.
“Think the folk will come back?” Branoic spat reflectively over the wall.
“Sooner or later. It’s still the Holy City, the King’s City. And the real wars are over, whether Braemys decides to rebel or not.”
“So they are. Ye gods, I never thought I’d live to see this day.”
“No more did I. I only wish we’d all—” Maddyn couldn’t finish the sentence.
Branoic spat again. Maddyn looked out across the ruins, but he was seeing Caradoc, laughing as he hoisted a tankard.
“Let’s go down,” Maddyn said. “See where old Nevyn’s got to, maybe.”
When they reached the ward by the main gates, they found it mobbed. Despite the prince’s blanket pardon, the old king’s retainers were leaving the dun—noble-born servitors and page boys, the artisans and higher ranks of servant, all walking out of the gates with only what they could carry on their backs. Most of the women wept; a few of the men did, too. Maddyn wondered if it were grief for the fallen dynasty or worry at what lay ahead of them. Some of the men were pushing handcarts, piled with blankets and children.
Behind the carts a servant girl was walking—no, a woman, because despite her yellow hair and lithe body, her face in the harsh sunlight showed a fine webbing of wrinkles. Dressed in dirty brown, with an old grey shawl tied round her waist and over one hip, she plodded along, staring at the ground as if in despair. Maddyn stared, then swore softly under his breath.
“What is it?” Branoic said.
“That woman. Come with me.”
As they strode over, she looked at them with such a complete disinterest that Maddyn hesitated, wondering if he were wrong, but her hands gave her away—fine and soft with well-trimmed nails. Maddyn laid a hard hand on her shoulder.
“Lady Merodda, by the gods!”
She screamed, flailing at him with useless fists. Branoic grabbed her arms from behind and pinned her against his chest while she squealed and squirmed.
“We’ve got ourselves a prize,” Maddyn said. “Merodda of the Boar, aren’t you?”
“I’m not! I’m not! She’s been taken by the prince’s men. Oh, don’t hurt me! I’m but her maidservant.”
“Then you won’t mind if the lady’s daughter takes a look at you.”
“So Lilli is here.” She went limp in Branoic’s hands. “Oh ye gods, that my own daughter would turn against me!” Tears ran down her cheeks in silent lines. “Very well, silver dagger. I am Lady Merodda, or truly, just Merodda now, an old woman like any other, since I’ve no kin and clan. What do you want with me? Ransom? Who’s to pay it? Please let me go. I can’t swing a sword to ride against you. What’s my life to you?”
Branoic’s grip loosened as she began to sob, but Maddyn noticed that her eyes stayed dry.
“I’ve got a question for you,” Maddyn said. “Tell me, do you remember a man named Aethan? He rode for your brother a long while ago.