The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [23]
“It’s even worse this summer,” she remarked. “The city I mean. It’s so desolate.”
“Just so,” Peddyc said. “Everyone who could get out of here did.”
“Where did they go?”
“To kinsfolk, I suppose. The gods all know that there’s plenty of farmland lying fallow these days. Hands to work it would be welcome enough.”
“It’s so eerie, seeing all these empty houses. There can’t be any militia left to help hold the city walls.”
“There’s not, truly.” Peddyc looked abruptly away. “If there’s a siege this summer, we’ll have to cede the Usurper the town and hold the dun.”
Or try to—Bevyan seemed to hear that thought hanging in the air like a rebel lord. All at once she realized that this summer could easily bring her husband’s death. She had faced widowhood for so many years that the thought merely angered rather than frightened her.
The dun at least seemed in good repair. Through ring after ring of warding stone they rode, winding round on a spiral path to the top of the hill. A small village huddled around the final wall—the houses sheltering the king’s important servants, the blacksmiths and the like. Inside the palace ward itself Bevyan saw plenty of armed men, and these did cheer when they saw Gwerbret Daeryc and his contingent. Outside the double doors to the great hall, pages and servants stood waiting to take horses and unload carts. Bevyan waited until Peddyc had dismounted, then allowed him to help her down.
“I have to attend upon the gwerbret,” Peddyc said.
“Of course, my love.” Bevyan patted his arm. “I’ve been here often enough to take care of myself and my women.”
With a nod Peddyc strode off, yelling orders to his men. Anasyn followed his father without even a look back. Bevyan smiled—her son was growing up, all right, at home in the king’s own dun.
“Bevva!”
Dashing like a dog greeting its master, Lillorigga raced across the ward and flung herself into her foster-mother’s arms. Laughing, half on the edge of tears, Bevyan hugged her tight, then held her by the shoulders.
“Let me look at you, dear,” Bevyan said. “Oh, you are so tall now! It’s so good to see you!”
Lillorigga beamed. She was tall, yes, and far too thin, far too pale, with her long blond hair hanging limp and dead around her face. Bevyan first suspected roundworms, always a problem in a winter dun, even the king’s, but then she wondered, thinking of Lady Merodda. In the bustle of the open ward, with armed men trotting by, with servants flocking around, they could not talk openly, not even of matters of health.
“Come with me, dear,” Bevyan said. “I’ve got to get our things into our chambers, and then we can talk.”
At the queen’s orders, or so the servant said, Lady Bevyan and her serving woman had been given a large suite in the king’s own broch. While the servants hauled up chests and satchels, and Sarra fussed over each, Bevyan and Lilli stood by a window and looked down into the inner ward. This high up, sunlight could gain the walls and stream into the room. Lilli held her hands out to the warmth and laughed.
“It’s been a hard winter, has it?” Bevyan said.
“It has, truly. I’m so glad of the spring, although …” Lilli let her voice trail away.
“Although it brings the wars again?”
“Just that. Oh Bevva, I’m so sick of being frightened.”
“Well, we all are, dear, but the gods will end it when they will and not before. There’s so little that we womenfolk can do.”
Lilli turned to her with a look so furtive that Bevyan forgot what she’d been about to say.
“Lilli, is somewhat wrong?”
“Naught, naught.” Yet she laid a skinny hand on her pale throat.
“You’ve been ill, haven’t you, dear?” Bevyan said.