A Time of Omens (13 page)

“Am I welcome here, Regent?”

“My liege.” Elyc tried to say more, but he was crying too hard. “O my holy liege.”

Maryn bent down, caught the tieryn’s hands in his, and
raised him to his feet. At that the warbands could stand it no longer. They cheered and called his name and howled war cries; they stood and climbed on benches and tables; they began to stamp their feet while they cheered and screamed the more. Maryn smiled that same bewitching smile at them all, then flung up one hand for silence. As if they’d been rehearsed, every person in the hall stopped shouting. All at once Bellyra was afraid of him, this beautiful boy who seemed half a sorcerer himself, that he should ride in so suddenly and conquer them all without even unsheathing his sword.

“Men,” Maryn was saying. “For this day I was born. For this day we were all born. This is the beginning. Some fine day there’ll be a true king on the throne in Dun Deverry, and all the kingdom will be at peace. For the kingdom’s sake far more than mine, let’s every one of us pray that day will come soon.”

When the cheers broke out again, a near-demented howling, Bellyra’s fear turned to blind panic. No one noticed as she left the table and made her way through the shadows on the dais and slipped out the little door that led to a corridor. She stood in the darkness for a moment and felt the walls around her trembling from the cheers as if the very dun were in ecstasy at the coming of the king. Then she bolted, running down the corridor and up the stairs at the far end, round and round, up and up, until at last she could plunge panting into the safety of the nursery and her silence.

Out of habit some servant had lit the candles in the wall sconces and laid her childlike supper out on her writing desk: a bowl of bread and milk, another of dried apples soaked in watered wine and honey. Bellyra took the bread and milk to Melynna, then sat on the floor nearby and watched her eat. The cat’s sides bulged, and she stood all spraddle-legged to lap her meal.

“You know what, Melynna? The king’s here. His name’s Maryn.”

She actually looked up, licking her whiskers briefly, before she went back to work on the milk.

“Soon I’ll be married, I suppose. And then one day I’ll look like you do now. I’ll only have one kit at a time, though. I’ll bet men would like it if women could have
litters like you do. They’d know straightaway how many heirs they’d have.”

All at once she realized that she was crying. Even as she sobbed, she wondered at herself, that she would weep. Maryn was handsome, young, awe-inspiring, far more wonderful than she had any right to expect—she had never allowed herself to hope for so much, even to dream of so much in her husband. He’ll never love someone like me, she thought, that’s why I’m crying.

“Your Highness!” It was Nevyn’s voice, soft and sympathetic, from the doorway. “What’s so wrong?”

“He’ll never love me, but he’ll have to marry me anyway.”

Although the room was all swimmy from her tears she could see the honest pity on the old man’s face as he walked over, hesitated, then sat down next to her on the floor. Melynna looked up and went tense; normally she ran from everyone but Bellyra, but when Nevyn held out his hand, she sniffed his fingers, considered for a moment, then went back to slurping up the milk. Nevyn pulled an old rag out of his brigga pocket and handed it to Bellyra as solemnly as a courtier would hand over a square of fine linen. She blew her nose, wiped her face, and still felt completely miserable.

“Your Highness, Maryn is never going to love any woman, but he’ll grow fond of you. I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart, but that’s the way it will be. His one true love will always be the land and people of Deverry. I raised him, you see, so I know.”

“You raised him?”

“I was his tutor from the time he was a child.”

“Are you a sorcerer? Don’t you put me off this time!”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“That’s somewhat to the good, at least. I did so hope you were.”

“I’ll ask you, though, to keep the secret to yourself.”

Much to her relief, Nevyn restrained himself from lecturing further. Unlike every other adult she’d ever known, he didn’t wag his finger and tell her she should be grateful that the Goddess had chosen her for such a splendid Wyrd, or point out that most women would be glad to have any
husband at all, much less a handsome one. He merely got up and stood looking round the nursery with a slight frown.

“Why don’t you live down in the women’s hall? You’re certainly old enough.”

“My poor mother is very ill. Or, well, to tell you the truth, she drinks Bardek wine all day, and then she weeps and throws herself from side to side and keens for my father, and then she starts in mourning my elder brother, and everyone says it’s worse for her to have me there, because it bothers her that I lived when he didn’t.”

“Maybe I can cure her, once things settle down a bit. But I’ve brought jewels from Pyrdon to use as your dower-gift, and I think we’d best turn some into cold coin and outfit you a set of chambers of your own, splendid ones befitting your rank. Lyrra—may I call you Lyrra?”

“I’d be honored, Nevyn.” She got up and curtsied, pleased when he bowed in return.

“Lyrra, your life will offer compensations, as I say, and there’s no reason in the world that you shouldn’t have them. For the first one, we’ll get you out of this dismal nursery. Now, do you have any fancy clothes?”

“Lots, actually, but they’re all on the shabby side.”

“No doubt. Well, I know naught about such matters myself, but doubtless you’ll know what you want once you’ve got the coin for fine cloth and all. Oh, and don’t forget, now that you’re going to be queen, you’ll get to pick serving women of your own.”

“Can I ask anyone I want?”

“Just that, and I’ll wager they’re all going to jump at the chance to live at court.”

“Then Elyssa could come! That’s Elyc’s daughter from his first wife, you see, and she’s my best and only friend. When it looked for a while like I’d have to marry him, the only good thing was she’d get to be my stepdaughter, which would have been truly odd, because she’s fifteen. But anyway, after she’s here, she can help me with clothes and furniture.”

“It gladdens my heart that at least you won’t be marrying Elyc, good man though he is in his way. Now, put on your best dress, and comb your hair down like a lady’s. You can’t wear it in a braid anymore. I’ve come to fetch you back to
the great hall. Since the priests are here, Nicedd wants to solemnize your betrothal this very night.”

“Are we to marry soon? I’ll wager they all want me to get started on producing the beastly heirs.”

“Considering your age, they may have to wait a bit, which will serve them right. But Maryn’s going to have to go on campaign this summer. We’ve got to get you two married and him solemnized as king before Beltane.”

While Bellyra changed into her purple dress and arranged her kirtle to hide the gravy stains from its previous incarnation as a banqueting cloth, Nevyn wandered off and found a serving lass to press into service as a lady’s maid to do her hair. Since she had no mirror, Bellyra had to accept their word for it that she looked both lovely and years older with her hair combed down and clasped at the nape of her neck.

“Why don’t you have a proper mirror, anyway?” Nevyn said.

“I’m not supposed to look into them. Since I was born on Samaen everyone’s afraid that if I look into a mirror, I won’t have any reflection at all, or maybe even I’ll see a fiend looking back at me or some such thing.”

“O ye gods! What utter nonsense!” He turned to the servant. “Here, lass, you run down to the dowager’s hall and get a mirror. Now don’t you argue with me! No doubt the dowager’s fallen into a drunken sleep, and she’ll never even know.”

Even though she crossed her fingers to ward off witchcraft first, the lass did follow his orders, returning in a few minutes with a hand mirror of polished bronze glazed in Bardek silver. It took Bellyra a few minutes more, though, to overcome her fear and look. Although she knew she wasn’t a fiend, she truly was afraid that she’d see nothing at all. Instead she found a remarkably pretty lass with wavy blond hair and big green eyes staring back with her delicate lips half-parted in surprise.

“Is that truly me?”

“It is.” Nevyn got behind her and looked over her shoulder. “The reflection I see looks just like the princess I see.”

Only then could she believe him.

As they came down the stairs she could hear a happy uproar, loud talk and louder laughter, from the great hall.
At the little door she froze. If Nevyn hadn’t been right behind her, she would have turned and bolted again.

“Come now, child, you know you’ve got the strength for this. When the priest asks you if you’ll take him as your betrothed, all you have to do is say I will and let him kiss you—Maryn, I mean, not the priest. Kissing Nicedd would give me pause, too.”

Bellyra managed a giggle, but only just.

When they walked out together onto the dais, men gasped and turned to stare. Everywhere she heard whispers: Is that the princess? Has to be, couldn’t be, why here we never noticed how beautiful she is. She would never forget that moment; no matter what happened later in her life, she would always be able to pull it out of her mind like a jewel out of a treasure chest, the moment when she stepped through the little door into her womanhood, and the entire great hall fell silent to watch.

Maryn was sitting at the head of the table of honor, and some servant or other had found a cloak in the red, silver, and black plaid of Cerrmor to drape his chair, and a shirt embroidered with the ship blazon of Cerrmor for him to wear, so that when he rose to greet her he was already the king in the eyes of every man there. He bowed, caught her hand and kissed it, and smiled at her in a way that set her hand shaking in his.

“My lady,” he whispered. “I’m lucky as well as honored that you’re the Princess of the Blood.” And then he winked at her, as cheeky as a page.

For an answer she could only smile, the blood hot in her face, and she felt as if she were falling from the highest tower in ail of Dun Cerrmor, falling and falling, down and down into the little garden at its heart, falling toward yet never reaching the safety of the old willow and the tiny stream. He had conquered her, ridden in and captured her as well as the men without ever unsheathing his sword, and made her his prisoner for life. Although she was too young to see it at the time, only a few years later she realized that her Wyrd had given her an obsessive love that most women would have called a great treasure, but some, the wise ones, a cancer growing in her heart.

With the summer’s battle season coming on, the priests lost no time in marrying the royal couple and investing Maryn as king. For a solid week both the dun and the entire city were given over to splendid festivities: mock combats, feasts, bardic competitions, guild parades, more feasts, regattas out on the harbor and dancing in the city squares. Wherever the new king went, the silver daggers went, too, as his personal guard of honor, all decked out in ship-blazoned shirts and red cloaks as a mark of their sudden status. Since the king had to attend every festivity, even if he could only stay for a little while, the troop sailed through those warm spring days on a drunken tide of laughter. Through the lot of them Maddyn wandered like a haunt, never smiling, talking only rarely, occasionally snarling at Branoic, who followed him everywhere, and then just as suddenly apologizing again. Yet even in his grief-shot rage he saw himself clearly, knew that part of his pain was the simple and certain knowledge that in time the pain would disappear, the mourning be over, and Aethan become only a memory kept alive by the death-song his Mend the bard had made about him. In odd moments, when he could snatch a little peace from the celebrating, he would work on the gorchan and even at times get a word of advice or encouragement from one of the royal bards, who seemed to find his efforts at formal poetry touching in a childlike way.

Just after dawn one morning, before either the king or Branoic was up and around, he slipped off by himself to a hidden corner of the ward and sat down on a pile of old burlap sacks to tune his harp. He worked mechanically, humming out the intervals and tuning up the strings without consciously hearing himself, because he was thinking of all the times he’d done this job when Aethan was sitting nearby teasing him about how slow he was, or how sour the harp sounded, or other little jokes that somehow never rankled. All at once he was aware of being watched and looked up to find the queen herself standing nearby. She was barefoot, wearing a shabby pair of blue dresses, with her uncombed hair streaming over her shoulders, and she was carrying a bowl of milk.

“Your Highness! My apologies! I didn’t see you.”

“Don’t get up and bow and all that. I just crept out to get
a bit of milk for my cat. She had four kits in the last watch of the night.”

“Well, my congratulations to her, then, but, Your Highness, you should have let a servant—”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right, but truly, I’m not used to all this bowing and scraping, and having people swarm all around me all the time.” She yawned, covering her mouth with her free hand. “Maryn was still asleep when I left. I’d best get back, I suppose. But how come you’re sitting out here to play?”