Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“There’s plenty of guesses, but the tale making the rounds is that Mael’s gone over to the rebels in Pyrdon, who’ll shelter him for the chance to make trouble here in Eldidd. Fortunately, they’re too weak to back him in a drive for the throne—too weak as yet, anyway. After all, once a man’s been a prince, who’s to blame him if he wants it all back again?”

On the morrow Primilla made her visit to the prince and princess. Laligga’s face was so drawn that it seemed she hadn’t slept in nights; Ogretoryc merely looked baffled.

“Your Highness, I have a letter from your father to you.”

Ogretoryc was up like a bow shot. Laligga crouched in her chair and stared wide-eyed as Primilla handed over the message tube.

“And where have you seen my father?”

“On the roads. His highness knows that I often travel. He seemed much distressed and asked me to take the letter when he found out I was going to Abernaudd.”

“It’s the seal of Aberwyn, all right.” Ogretoryc was looking over the tube. “It must be the one he had with him when he was captured.”

While he read the letter, Laligga watched with eyes that revealed far too much fear to be becoming.

“Well,” Ogretoryc said at last, “this should put a stop to these rumors that we had him murdered on the road. I fear I forget myself, good dame, but my heart has been heavy this past few weeks.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Doubtless concern for your father’s life was hard to bear.”

“It was.” The way he spoke convinced her of his sincerity, as did the disdainful way he threw the letter in his wife’s lap.

With a toss of her head Laligga picked up the letter and read it. Primilla could see the currents in her aura, where fear and suspicion whirled around it like demons.

“And is my lady satisfied?” Ogretoryc spit out.

“And is my lord thinking that I would be anything else?”

When their eyes locked, Primilla turned away and busied herself with admiring a floral arrangement. After a moment Ogretoryc broke away with a small snarl under his breath.

“Allow me to escort you to the door, good dame,” he said. “You have my thanks for bringing me the letter.”

The prince didn’t speak again until they were well out of the princess’s hearing.

“Can you tell me where Mael is?” he said.

“In Cannobaen, Your Highness.”

“I thought he might be, but, here, don’t tell another soul until I have things arranged. My beloved wife can just stew over it a little longer.”

Every morning Mael and Gavra went for a long walk along the cliffs and looked at the ocean. Since memories of Cannobaen had haunted his imprisonment, it still seemed unbelievable that he was really there, feeling the sun warm on his back and breathing in the sharp, clean smell of the sea. Often in the afternoon he would climb the tower and sit by the ashes of the beacon as he kept watch on the road. As time slipped past, he began to wonder how many days of contentment were left to him. Every day without an answer from Abernaudd was an evil omen of court intrigue.

Yet when the answer did come, he was taken by surprise. He was in his chamber, using a stylus to rule lines onto parchment, when Avascaen’s son Maryl burst in.

“Your Highness, there’s twenty-five men at our gates, and your son with them.”

Hardly thinking, Mael grabbed his tiny penknife for a weapon and ran outside, but the men were dismounting in a friendly sort of confusion. Mael had no trouble picking out the prince in the bustle, simply because his son strikingly resembled him. Smiling, Ogretoryc strode over and held out his hand.

“It gladdens my heart to see you, Father. All my life I’ve heard tales about you, and now at last we meet.”

“And so we do.” Mael took the offered hand.

“Your letter ached my heart. You’ve got nothing to fear, I swear it.”

“Then the court must have changed since last I rode there.”

“I’ve had plenty of impious advice, if that’s what you mean, but I’ll kill any man who raises his hand against you.”

He spoke so sincerely that Mael nearly wept with relief.

“Then you have my thanks.”

Ogretoryc turned, looking up at the broch and the tower.

“I’ve never been here before, you know. When I was a child, Mother never visited it, because thinking of how much you loved this place made her weep. When I was grown, I was off at war much of the time. It’s yours again. I’ve made it over to you, and the king’s most graciously bestowed a title with it. I’ve got the letters patent in my saddlebags.”

“By the gods! That was generous of you.”

He shrugged, still looking away.

“There’s one thing I’ve got to say,” Ogretoryc went on. “Some years ago, when they sent the letter of disclaimance, everyone was sure Glyn would hang you. I would have begged the king not to send the letter, but I was away from court.” At last he looked at Mael. “My wife arranged for me to be away from court during the councils when the king made his decision. I found that out much later.”

“Well, I wouldn’t ache your heart over it overmuch. I doubt me if the king would have listened to your plea. But I’ll ask you a favor, that I never have to meet your lady.”

“I’m putting her aside. She can live out her life in some quiet place of retirement.”

And there was malice in his voice.

On the morrow Ogretoryc took his leave with the promise to return soon if the summer’s fighting allowed. Mael waved him out of the gates, then went looking for Gavra, whom he found studying the ward near Scwna’s kitchen garden.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Thinking of taking up these cobbles so we can put in an herb garden. Scwna tells me there’s lots of sun out here.”

“I can see it now. For years the folk will talk about the eccentric Lady Gavra of Cannobaen and her herbs.”

“I can’t be a lady. I refuse.”

“Can’t refuse. You sealed your fate when you married me. You know, many a lass has won a title with beauty, but you’re the first one I ever heard of who won hers with a decoction of febrifuges.”

When she laughed, he kissed her, then merely held her tight, free in the warm sunlight.

In the summer of 797, in his fiftieth year, Glyn, Gwerbret Cerrmor and would-be king of all Deverry, died of a congestion of the heart. Although Nevyn had been worrying about the king’s health for some time, the suddenness of it caught him off guard. One morning Glyn rode out at the head of his men; at noon they brought him home dead. He’d been stricken while mounting his horse and died within minutes. While his sobbing wife and her serving women washed and laid out his body, his eldest son, Camlann, assumed the kingship before his loyal vassals in the great hall, where the head priest of Bel first blessed him, then pinned the enormous ring-brooch of kingship onto his plaid. As the vassals came forward, one by one, to kneel to their new liege lord, Nevyn slipped away from the confusion and went to his chambers. The time had come for him to leave Cerrmor.

Late that night Nevyn was in the midst of packing when the new king sent for him. Camlann had already moved into the royal apartments. He now stood by the hearth where Nevyn had so often watched his father pace restlessly. At thirty, the new king was heavily built, but he was just as handsome as his father, and he stood as straight and as tall.

“I hear you plan to leave us,” Camlann said. “I was hoping that you’d serve me as you served my father.”

“My liege is most kind.” Nevyn sighed at the necessary lies ahead of him. “But your father’s death has dealt a heavy blow to one as old as I. I have no more strength for court duties, my liege. I only wish to eke out my last few years honoring your father’s memory.”