The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [135]
“I hope to all the gods,” the prince said, “that I did the right thing.”
“You did the only thing you could do, my liege,” Nevyn said. “Whatever Wyrd was born from this will fall on Maddyn’s head, not yours.”
Nevyn turned on his heel and rushed out after the guards. They were marching Merodda across the ward to one of the side brochs, and it seemed that the men among the former king’s servants must have hated her, because a crowd of them were jeering and calling her names. She walked proudly past, head high, eyes fixed on naught but the tower ahead of her. Nevyn trailed along behind until the guards had led her inside, then caught up with them at the foot of a winding staircase that led up. Fortunately, one of the soldiers recognized him.
“I want a word with the lady,” Nevyn said. “Alone.”
“Of course, my lord.” He glanced around. “Here’s an empty room. We’ll be right outside here should you need us.”
After the soldiers hustled the prisoner inside, Nevyn shut the heavy door and leaned against it. Smashed furniture lay across the stone floor of the narrow chamber. Merodda glanced at it, then back to him.
“Who are you, old man?”
“Brour’s teacher.”
She flung up her head and took a step back.
“Indeed.” Nevyn said, smiling. “I understand a great deal more than the prince does about this supposed ‘witchcraft’ of yours, my lady.”
“What do you want with me?”
“The answer to a question. If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll do my level best to help you escape. Your nephew Braemys escaped with some of his men. He’s doubtless in Cantrae, waiting to bargain from a position of strength. You’d have somewhere to go. I can get you a good horse and plenty of provisions for the journey.”
“I see.” Life flooded back to her eyes. “Will you swear you’ll get me out of here if I tell you what you want to know?”
“I’ll swear on the dweomer itself, and I’ll wager that Brour told you just what that means.”
“He did. Ask your question.”
“Many years ago, when Maryn was still a prince in Pyrdon, a retainer of yours worked an evil spell. A lead tablet, it was, carved with words right out of the Dawntime. What do they mean? How do I lift it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why that?” Merodda tossed her head and looked away, her mouth working in pain. “Why of all the things in the world must you ask that?”
“Oh here, do tell me.” Nevyn softened his voice. “What’s it to you now? The spell failed, after all.”
“Now you’re the liar.” With a grimace she began pacing back and forth on a tight and narrow track. “You wouldn’t be here questioning me if you thought the dweomer spent and over with.”
“True spoken. I’ll admit it.”
Merodda stopped and turned to face him.
“Not that! I’d tell you anything but that, but by the Dark Goddess herself, I’d rather die than lift that spell. Or will you put me to the torture? Do your worst! You won’t break me.”
“Never would I use torture, not even for a matter this grave.”
She started to speak, her mouth half a sneer, then stopped.
“Nor would I let anyone else do such a thing.” Nevyn kept his voice quiet. “The dweomer of Light would never allow it. Please tell me, and I’ll protect you, no matter what boon the prince granted.”
She was searching his face as if she were scrying out the truth of what he said. For a moment he thought he had her—he could see the beginning of something like trust in her eyes—but she tossed her head and stepped back.
“Your prince has his wretched victory,” Merodda said. “The man who loved me lies dead, and even if I got away, with the prince’s judgment upon me I’d end up begging some temple for sanctuary. My clan is dead, my king’s imprisoned, you and your precious prince have stripped everything from me, even my daughter.” Her voice caught, but she steadied it. “Well, you shan’t take my vengeance, too! I’d rather hang than give that up.”
“Vengeance, is it?”
She swore and turned her back, her hands so tight in fists that her knuckles went white. Nevyn calmly walked around to face her.
“So, my lady, a slip on your part! I’m beginning