The Fire Dragon

‘Just so. I hate to bring Lilli up –’

‘Don’t apologize! I’m truly sorry I got so angry with her. It’s hardly her fault. Maryn’s very charming, and she’s very young.’ She leaned her head against the high back of the chair and seemed to be studying the ceiling beams. ‘Men are just like that, I suppose.’

Nevyn made a non-committal noise.

‘But about that brooch.’ Bellyra looked at him again. ‘Does Lilli want it back?’

‘Not in the least. I’m just afraid there might be a curse upon it.’

‘Like that other wretched thing? The lead tablet?’

‘Somewhat like that. Not as strong, surely, but even a little evil is too much. I can probably break it, the spell I mean, if Lady Degwa will let me have it for a night or so. That is, if it truly is ensorceled.’

Nevyn had his chance to examine the brooch in but a little while, when Degwa returned to the women’s hall with a basket of fresh-baked bread and a bowl of butter for the princess. She curtsied to Nevyn as well as she could with her hands full, then set her burdens down on a small table near Bellyra’s chair.

‘Would you like some of this bread, Lord Nevyn?’ Degwa said.

‘I wouldn’t, but my thanks.’

Degwa drew her table dagger and began to cut a chunk off the round loaf. ‘Your highness? It’s quite warm and nice.’

‘It smells wonderful,’ Bellyra said. ‘Slather on the butter, please. Don’t spare it.’

Degwa smiled and did as she’d been asked. Once the princess had her chunk of bread, Degwa pulled up another chair and sat down, facing Nevyn.

‘Her highness is looking quite well,’ Nevyn said. ‘You and Elyssa are taking splendid care of her.’

‘My thanks, my lord. We do try.’

‘Despite my nasty habit of climbing all over the dun?’ Bellyra joined in, smiling.

‘Er, well, your highness, I wouldn’t call it nasty. Worrisome, mayhap.’

Bellyra laughed and took another bite of bread.

‘That’s a lovely brooch,’ Nevyn said to Degwa. ‘May I see it?’

‘Certainly.’ Degwa unpinned it. ‘It was a gift from an admirer.’

When she handed it over, Nevyn examined it: a flat riband of silver, twisted into a knot and set with two pieces of ruby-red glass. The feel of it bothered him, and while the two women chatted, he opened his dweomer sight. Although metals have no auras, of course, it exuded a faint greyish mist, particularly thick around the glass sets. When he turned it over, he saw a small mark graved at one end of the band: the letter A, the first letter of the word for boar. He’d seen it used before as a clan mark for the Boars of Cantrae.

Although he disliked the idea of spoiling Degwa’s pleasure in the gift, he valued her safety more. He shut down the dweomer sight.

‘How very odd,’ Nevyn said. ‘This seems to have belonged to Lilli’s mother at one time.’

‘What, my lord?’ Degwa leaned forward. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Her mark is on the back. It’s quite small.’

Degwa took the brooch back and made a great show of looking for the mark, but like most women of her class, she’d weakened her eyes with long years of fine needlework. At length she gave it up with a shrug.

‘Well, if you say so, my lord,’ she said, and her disappointment trembled her voice. ‘I do wish it hadn’t. We’ve heard far too much about that woman from the servants since we’ve been here.’

‘I could be wrong,’ Nevyn said. ‘Would you mind if I took it to show Lilli? She’ll know for certain.’

‘If it has the Boar mark upon it, I shan’t want it.’ Degwa held it up, then tossed it to Nevyn. ‘Have the silversmith melt it down, for all I care.’

‘Now here,’ Bellyra joined in. ‘It’s still lovely, and Oggyn –’

‘I shall talk to the councillor about this,’ Degwa said. ‘I must say it doesn’t speak well of the man, that he’d give a woman friend a gift of battle loot and from her long sworn enemies at that.’

‘Oh come now,’ Bellyra said. ‘I’ve got lots of lovely things that Maryn got in ransom from some lord or another.’

‘I assure her highness that I meant no insult.’ Degwa turned slightly pink in the cheeks. ‘But I’d rather not accept cast-off jewellery from the Boar clan’s stye.’

With that Degwa got up and swept out, leaving Nevyn with the brooch. When the door slammed behind her, he winced.

‘My apologies, your highness,’ Nevyn said. ‘I seem to have botched that thoroughly.’

‘Better than letting her wear a thing with a curse on it,’ Bellyra said. ‘I take it, it must be cursed, or you wouldn’t have made up that story about wanting Lilli to see it.’

‘Just so. That’s what I get for lying.’

‘Not exactly lying. Stretching a point, mayhap. But poor Decci! She’s really quite demented when it comes to the Boars.’

That evening, when Nevyn was leaving the great hall after dinner, Oggyn followed him out, pulling on his beard and harrumphing under his breath. They walked a little way out into the open ward, where they couldn’t be overheard.

‘A word with you, if I may,’ Oggyn said.

‘Certainly. Did Degwa tell you about the brooch?’

‘She most assuredly did. I fear me I’ve greatly displeased her.’

Although Nevyn was expecting the councillor to be angry with him, in the twilight Oggyn looked mostly miserable. He shoved his hands into his brigga pockets and kicked at a loose cobblestone with the toe of his boot.

‘I’m sorry,’ Nevyn said. ‘But the brooch has some sort of spell on it, and she couldn’t go on wearing it.’

‘By the gods! I never thought of that.’ Oggyn looked up sharply. ‘That Merodda woman –’

‘Exactly. After this, if I might make a suggestion, could you consult with me before you give away any more of the lady’s possessions? They’re yours by right of conquest, but just in case –’

‘I understand, never fear! I’ll do that.’ Oggyn sighed heavily. ‘The true trouble is, I’m always short up for coin, and even if I had any, where would I find the smith to make Lady Degwa some new trinket?’

‘Otho is quite a bit more skilled than any Cerrmor silversmith.’

‘I do not traffic with silver daggers.’ Oggyn’s voice turned cold. ‘Good eve. My thanks for the warning.’

Oggyn turned on his heel and strode away, head held high. Ye gods! Nevyn thought. A matched pair!

Nevyn took the brooch up to Lilli’s chamber, where he found her sitting at her table. In front of her the open dweomer book lay in a pool of candlelight from a silver candelabra.

‘Is this enough light for you to read?’ Nevyn said.

‘Not truly.’ Lilli paused to rub her eyes with both hands. ‘It’s given me a bit of a headache.’ She shut the book and put it to one side. ‘What brings you to me?’

‘I thought you might want to see this brooch. It does have some sort of weak warding spell upon it.’

When he laid it upon the table, Lilli leaned forward to study it, but she left her hands in her lap. ‘I remember my mother wearing that,’ she said at length. ‘It was a gift from Uncle Tibryn.’

‘Can you see the dweomer upon it?’

‘I can. It looks like grease, dirty kitchen grease.’

‘Ah. I see it as a sort of grey mist. Do you remember what I told you about dark dweomer casting shadows?’

‘I do. And how the shadows will look different to different minds. It’s a good thing you got this away from Degwa. It must be nasty, though I can’t say what it would have done.’

‘No more can I, but let’s be rid of it.’

Nevyn raised one hand above his hand, then summoned the silver light. In his mind he saw it flow down from the astral like a trickle of water. He concentrated on the image, focused it, strengthened it with his imagination, then with a simple word of power brought it through to the physical. It swirled around his hand and burned like a torch, though without smoke. He heard Lilli gasp and knew she’d seen it.

‘Begone!’ Nevyn snapped his hand down and pointed at the brooch. Silver fire poured over silver metal, then vanished.

‘It’s lifted!’ Lilli said. ‘The shadow, I mean.’

‘Good. It was a weak spell, so it cost very little to banish it. Unlike that wretched curse tablet.’

‘Just so.’ Lilli reached for the brooch, then stopped. ‘May I?’

‘By all means. Do you want it back? Degwa refuses to have it, since it once belonged to the Boar clan.’

Lilli picked up the brooch and held it up to the candle-light. It gleamed as if it had been newly polished with ash and river sand. Most likely Merodda had cast the spell herself, Nevyn decided. Creating the curse tablet, however, had lain beyond her skill. Only a master of evil could have ensorceled that.

‘I think I do want it,’ Lilli said at last. ‘Not to wear, but to keep. There were times, you know, when I felt that my mother did love me. She gave me to Lady Bevyan to foster, and she made sure that Uncle Tibryn wouldn’t marry me off to Lord Nantyn, if naught else.’

‘Then keep it in remembrance of her better nature,’ Nevyn said. ‘Every soul has one, and it deserves a little honour.’

Five days after the call to muster, the first of Maryn’s vassals rode in to Dun Deverry. The gathering of the full contingent took some weeks, as Maryn’s most loyal – and most prosperous – vassals lived far to the south on the sea coast. With the lords and their warbands came carts, driven by servants and piled high with provisions, as each vassal owed Maryn not only men for his army but the food for three months’ campaigning – not such an easy thing to raise, here in the ravaged north. The long years of civil war had starved a good many farm families and killed their sons in battle as well.

As the fighting men arrived, Branoic started keeping a count by the twenties on a bit of smooth board, but when he got up to a thousand, he stopped. Councillor Oggyn would be doing a better job of it, as he remarked to Maddyn.

‘Just so,’ Maddyn said. ‘The prince must be happy to see such a good turnout.’

‘No doubt,’ Branoic said. ‘Well, we’re cursed near to the victory. That always inspires a little extra loyalty among the noble born.’

They shared a laugh. Since Maryn could not officially ennoble Branoic until he was proclaimed king, Branoic still lived among the silver daggers, and they were sitting together in the barracks on a blustery morning. As they talked, Branoic was polishing his mail shirt with a bit of rag. All around them other men were working on their gear: cleaning mail, replacing leather straps or wooden toggles wherever they needed fixing, talking together in low voices about the fighting ahead or boasting about their exploits of the summer past.

‘Are you looking forward to riding out?’ Maddyn said.

‘Not truly,’ Branoic said. ‘Odd of me. I used to be eager enough to get free of winter quarters.’

‘Well, you’ve got somewhat to stay for now.’

‘Lilli, you mean?’ Branoic concentrated on threading the rag through a rusty ring. ‘If our prince ever lets her go.’

Maddyn said nothing for a long moment. Branoic looked up to find him solemn.

‘He promised you,’ the bard said at length, ‘that you’d be wed once he had the victory. Our prince doesn’t break his promises.’

‘He’s never done it before.’ Branoic paused, groping for words. ‘But it’s like he’s half-mad or somewhat. Lilli tells me he’s starting to frighten her. He’s jealous, like, and all the time.’

Maddyn muttered something foul under his breath.

‘And him with his own lady, as beautiful and sweet as ever a man could want.’ Branoic felt his bitterness rise in his throat like bile. ‘It gripes my soul, Maddo lad, if you don’t mind me saying it.’

‘Not at all.’ Maddyn seemed to be measuring each word. ‘His lady’s devoted to him, as well.’

‘She is that.’ Branoic was about to continue his tirade, but he could see that Maddyn looked oddly distracted – no doubt all this talk of women was boring him. ‘Ah well, I don’t mean to croak like a frog, the same blasted chorus over and over. We made our bargain, the prince and me, and I’ve no call to be thinking he’ll break it till he does.’

Maddyn was about to reply, but from outside they suddenly heard shouting and cheers. Owaen got up and went to look out the window. ‘It’s Glasloc!’ he called out. ‘Gwerbret Daeryc’s held loyal to the prince!’

The silver daggers cheered as well, whether anyone could hear them or not, then went back to their work. Maddyn, however, neither spoke nor moved, merely sat staring out at nothing.

‘Here,’ Branoic said, ‘are you ill?’

‘In a way, truly.’ Maddyn turned to him with an odd twisted smile. ‘In a way.’

Once again Branoic wondered if he was understanding what Maddyn meant. Since his usual way of dealing with things he couldn’t understand was to shrug them off, he changed the subject.

Yet speaking of Lilli had brought his feelings for her to mind, and in but a little while he got up and left the barracks. Since Daeryc had just ridden in, no doubt Prince Maryn would be safely occupied by greeting his guest in the great hall. Sure enough, Daeryc’s riders and their horses filled the main ward with confusion. Near the gates a line of carts stood waiting to be unloaded. Servants rushed around, leading horses away, inviting the men inside to drink, and in general sorting things out as best they could.

Branoic left the ward proper and ducked around a half-destroyed wall. He knew a back way into the central broch complex. He was picking his way through the clutter of servant huts and animal pens when he caught sight of Councillor Oggyn, leaning against the wall of a shed ever so casually, as if he always took the air among the chickens and the onions. Branoic stopped and waited; Oggyn never looked his way. Slowly Branoic took a few steps to the side until he stood half concealed behind a big pile of stones kept in case of siege.

Not long after he saw a grey-haired man hobbling along with the aid of a long stick. He wore a stained, torn linen shirt and a filthy pair of brigga that once might have been grey, but for all that he looked like a beggar, Oggyn strode forward to meet him. They spoke just loudly enough for Branoic to catch part of the conversation. Apparently the lame fellow wished to speak with Prince Maryn, and apparently Oggyn was telling him that such was impossible. At length the man produced a silver coin from the pouch at his belt. Oggyn became all smiles as he took the coin; he bit it, then slid it into the pouch at his own belt. For a moment more they talked together; then Oggyn strode off back in the direction of the main broch complex. The other man wiped tears from his face on his dirty sleeve, then began to hobble off. Branoic left his hiding place and ran after him.

‘Wait! Good sir!’ Branoic caught up with him near the kitchen hut. ‘You’ve just been robbed.’

Uncomprehending, he stared up at Branoic with rheumy eyes.

‘The prince will listen to any one that comes to him,’ Branoic said. ‘You didn’t need to give Oggyn a copper, much less a blasted silver piece.’ He glanced around and saw the councillor lurking in the doorway to the side tower. ‘Slimy Oggo! Get yourself over here!’

With a toss of his head Oggyn disappeared inside. Branoic laid a friendly hand on the old man’s shoulder.

‘Just come with me,’ he said. ‘We’ll get that silver piece back for you at dinner tonight.’

‘My thanks, my profound thanks,’ the fellow said. ‘It’s all the coin I have in the world.’

Whether or not Maryn officially reigned as king, his decisions were the only justice that Dun Deverry had. Every night after dinner he lingered in the great hall so that suppliants could come to him with disputes and complaints they wished settled. And we’ll have a fine show tonight, Branoic thought. Slimy Oggo’s gone too far this time.

Just that morning, Otho the silversmith had finished the silver token for Maddyn, and Princess Bellyra took care to present it to her bard as openly as she could. With the muster nearly complete, close to a hundred lords ate in the great hall at the tables of honour. Servants had combed the dun and crammed every table and bench they could find into the riders’ side of the hall, but still, most of the men from the warbands ate outside. The prince’s silver daggers, however, stayed in his presence, eating just beyond the ranks of the noble-born.

As Maryn’s wife, Bellyra ate beside him and shared his trencher. That particular evening, before she and her women withdrew to the quiet safety of their hall, Bellyra took the pin from her kirtle.

‘I nearly forgot,’ she said to Maryn. ‘I’ve got a little gift for your bard, to thank him for being so patient all winter.’

‘Good.’ Maryn held out his hand. ‘May I?’

‘By all means.’ Bellyra gave him the pin. ‘It’s awfully nice, I thought.’

‘It is indeed.’ Maryn held the slender silver rose, barely an inch long, twixt thumb and forefinger. ‘Must be Otho’s work.’

‘It is. He looted some silver when you took the dun. Er, or I should say, he miraculously found some silver that no one was using.’

Grinning, Maryn handed it back, then got up, glancing around the hall. At length he gestured to one of the waiting pages.

‘Maddyn the bard’s sitting over by the front door,’ the prince said. ‘Go fetch him for me.’

With a bow the lad trotted off. Just as Maryn sat back down again, Branoic strode in the back door and headed for the prince’s chair. Limping along after him came a grey-haired man, dressed in a linen shirt and wool brigga made of cloth that had been once fine, but now was all frayed and patched. When Branoic knelt at Maryn’s side, the elderly man started to follow suit, but the stick he’d been leaning on nearly tripped him. Maryn swung round in his chair and caught his elbow in one hand.

‘Don’t kneel,’ the prince said. ‘My rank can give way to your age, sir.’

The prince let him go, then stood up. The man bowed as best he could with both hands clutched on his stick.

‘My thanks, my prince.’ The fellow was stammering. ‘I have a matter to lay before you, you see, and –’

‘Two matters,’ Branoic interrupted. ‘Your highness, Councillor Oggyn demanded a coin from this fellow for the privilege of coming to you for justice.’

‘Oh by the gods!’ Maryn snarled. He rose and spun around, looking out over the hall, then bellowed at the top of his lungs. ‘Oggyn! Get over here!’

With a tight little smile Branoic rose, dusting off the knees of his brigga, and escorted the old man and his stick out of the way. Bellyra slewed round in her chair and saw Oggyn making his way across the hall. Like a hound with chicken feathers still clinging to his muzzle, Oggyn slunk through the tables. The talk and jesting among the lords died down as they turned, a little puzzled, to see what the prince was up to. Bellyra also noticed Maddyn and the page, stopping a little distance away to wait their turn for the prince’s attention. At last Oggyn reached the table of honour and knelt at the prince’s feet.

‘Branoic tells me you extorted money again,’ the prince said.

‘My liege, I never did such a thing!’ Oggyn’s voice swooped on an obvious lie. ‘Truly, I –’

‘Can you look me in the face and deny it?’

Oggyn started to speak, then merely sighed and shook his head no.

‘I told you, no more of this.’ Maryn’s voice was level but cold. ‘My justice is free to all who ask. Do you understand that?’

‘I do, my prince.’ Oggyn spoke so softly that Bellyra could hardly hear him. ‘I welter in apologies. I beg your pardon most humbly.’

‘Give him the money back,’ Maryn said.

Slowly and with trembling hands Oggyn fumbled with the pouch at his belt. His lips trembled as well, and his face had turned scarlet all the way up and over his bald skull. When he held out a silver piece, the suppliant snatched it from his sweaty fingers. Oggyn slumped down and stared at the prince’s boots.

‘Good,’ Maryn went on. ‘Now then, what shall we do with you? I made you a threat the last time I caught you grafting. I think me I’d best live up to my word.’

‘Not that, my prince.’ Oggyn looked up, his lips working, his hands trembling. ‘I beg you –’

‘It behooves a noble born man to carry out what he threatens, councillor, lest his men think him weak-willed. Maddyn! Where’s your harp? There’s a song I want you to sing.’

‘My lord.’ Bellyra got up and laid a hand on the prince’s arm. ‘The poor man! Isn’t it a bit much?’

Maryn hesitated, glanced at Oggyn, who was studying the straw on the floor, then back to her. ‘It’s only what he deserves, but your kind heart becomes you, my lady.’

With a little sigh Bellyra took her chair again. For a few moments confusion swirled around the table of honour. Nevyn appeared from somewhere and rushed forward to speak with the suppliant. Maddyn and a Cerrmor bard talked earnestly; then the bard’s apprentice hurried forward and handed Maddyn a small lap harp. Through it all Oggyn stayed kneeling, folding over himself with his face as low to the floor as he could get it. At length Gwerbret Daeryc, who had been dining across the table from the princess, got up and pulled his chair out of the way so that Maddyn could climb up onto the table and sing.

For a moment or two Maddyn fiddled with the harp while the great hall gradually fell silent. Bellyra studied his face, carefully impassive. She should have known, she felt, that he would refrain from gloating. Maddyn looked up with a polite smile and a nod for the prince, cleared his throat, and began to sing the song of Farmer Owaen and the fox. At first the cheerful little melody and the subject matter made it sound like some sort of children’s song, and Bellyra could see Daeryc and the other nearby lords looking puzzled.

As the song progressed, however, and the fox found himself snatched bald by the farmer, the true import became clear. Verse after verse bounced by, and the resemblance to Oggyn grew more and more obvious. A few men snickered, a few others laughed. Bellyra could see some whispering and pointing at the councillor crouched at the prince’s feet, as if they were explaining the joke to those around them.

‘So a fox went to the henhouse,’ Maddyn finished, ‘but he found a wolf on guard. And he ended up as smooth and bald as any stone in the yard.’ He ran a trill up and down the strings, then struck a chord with a flourish of his wrist.

The great hall cheered and clapped, but Bellyra was watching Oggyn. Tears ran down his face. She leaned over and grabbed her husband’s arm.

‘It’s enough, Marro,’ Bellyra said in his ear. ‘Do let him go.’

Maryn nodded his agreement and pointed at Oggyn to give him leave to speak.

‘My liege!’ Oggyn howled, then choked on his words.

‘You may leave us, truly,’ Maryn said. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony.’

Blubbering thanks, Oggyn hauled himself to his feet. He turned and headed for the staircase on the other side of the great hall as fast as he could manage – not very in the clutter of tables and human bodies. Long before he reached it the laughter started, a huge wave of it that followed him up, lapping over the steps as he ran for the safety of the floor above. Scarlet-faced, Oggyn was puffing and panting so badly as he staggered up the staircase that Bellyra felt a sudden concern. She leaned over and yelled so that Maryn could hear.

‘What if he has an apoplexy or suchlike?’

‘Nevyn’s on his way after him,’ Maryn answered. ‘Fear not.’

Indeed, the dweomermaster had reached the staircase and was bounding up, as vigorously as a young warrior. He caught up with his fellow councillor, and for a moment Bellyra could see them both. Then, somehow, things got confused. She stopped watching the stairs, glanced back, found the two councillors no longer visible, glanced around and saw that no one else in the great hall seemed to be looking at the stairs either. I must ask Nevyn how he did that, she thought, but in a few beats of the heart she’d forgotten what she wanted to ask him. Out among the tables, the normal talk picked up again.

Maddyn had climbed down from the table and was handing the harp back to its owner. Bellyra waited till he’d done, then waved him over. He knelt in front of her and the prince.