The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [39]
“And when will you march?”
“As soon as the full northern contingents ride in. They’re on their way.”
In the morning, when Lilli came down to the great hall, she found Braemys waiting for her near the foot of the staircase. He was a tall lad, as all the Boarsmen were, blond and blue-eyed and with the clan’s squarish face as well. Since last they’d met, his upper lip had sprouted a line of hair that could be called a moustache for courtesy’s sake if naught else. When he saw her, he strode over and bowed. She curtsied in return.
“My lady,” Braemys said. “Does this betrothal please you?”
“It does. What about you, my lord?”
“Well enough.” He turned to look away—when she followed his glance, Lilli could see Uncle Burcan standing near the doorway. “I’d best get myself to the council of war.”
He turned and strode off to join his father. Lilli watched them as they made their way through the crowded hall and out. Ah well, she reminded herself, he’s ever so much better than Nantyn.
Over the next few days Lilli had scant time to worry about her betrothed. He was much involved with the councils of war, while she and Brour had their practicing to do. Once as well, late of a rainy night, her mother called her to scry in the black ink. With Brour holding the long candle as usual, Lilli stared into the silver bowl, where shadows danced, black on a deeper black. She could hear the wind howling around the broch, and as the spell took her over, the sound transmuted into voices, screaming and crying out.
“Tears and rage.” It was the only thing Lilli could say about the wailing. “I hear tears and terror.”
She could feel her mother’s hand squeezing the back of her neck.
“Try to listen,” Merodda hissed. “What are they saying?”
“No words. Weeping and fear.”
In the blackness images were beginning to form of headless riders on black horses, huge, towering over entire cities as they galloped through a stormy night. The wailing faded away, and Lilli heard her own voice start describing the omens. Swords that burned with blue fire formed a huge wall in front of Dun Deverry. An army all dressed in red threw itself against the wall but fell back, tattered and dying, only to regroup on a far hill.
“They’re riding again,” Lilli said. “I see them riding—wait. It’s going away, it’s all going away.”
In the basin the flaming swords winked out like sparks on a hearth stone. The images turned pale and watery, then faded in turn. For a moment, blackness—then lantern light revealed a pleasant chamber with bright-colored tapestries on the walls. In the middle of the chamber stood an elderly man with a shock of untidy white hair. He was leaning over a table and staring into a basin of water. All at once he looked up—looked right at her with ice-blue eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul.
“Well, here’s a surprise!” He sounded amused, and his voice was oddly resonant for someone who looked so old. “Who are you, lass? You’ll hurt yourself spying on me like this, if you’re not careful.”
Lilli started to answer but found she couldn’t speak. All at once the vision broke. The image separated into pie-slice fragments like the design on a shattered plate—then disappeared. A white-faced Brour was shaking her by the shoulder.
“Are you back? Are you back?”
“I am, Brour. What’s so wrong?”
“I’d rather like to know that myself,” Merodda said. “Why did you stop her?”
“Because that old man is dangerous. He’s the Usurper’s personal advisor and a sorcerer of the greatest power.”
“I saw into Cerrmor?” Lilli said.
“You did.” Brour paused to wipe his sweaty face on his sleeve. “Or Nevyn tricked you into revealing yourself.”
“Who?” Merodda broke in. “No one? Don’t talk in riddles.”
“I’m not. That’s his name, nev yn, Nevyn, some miserable jest of his father’s, it was, naming his son no one.”
Merodda was studying her scribe with her mouth caught in a sour twist. With a long sigh Brour composed himself.
“I studied under the man,” Brour said. “I know him quite well.”
“He wasn’t trying