Although he was never conscious of falling asleep, all at once it was dark and Caradoc was shaking him hard.
‘Get up. Get up, or I’ll slap you up. You’ve got to come away.’
When Maddyn sat up, Branoic grabbed him by one hand and the captain by the other and between them they hauled him to his feet.
‘Stay with him, Branno. I’ve got to get back to the prince. For the gods’ sakes keep him from watching the burying.’
Maddyn let Branoic lead him like a blind man to the camp upriver, where the barges were safely tucked into shore and already campfires bloomed in the meadow. Branoic sat him down by one of the fires, then rummaged in a saddle-bag and brought out a clean shirt.
‘You’re all over gore. Change – you’ll feel better.’
Maddyn nodded like a half-wit and changed his shirt, tossing the filthy one onto the ground, then took the tankard of ale Branoic handed him.
‘Those bastards on the barges had ale with them all along, but they were holding out on us. Old Nevyn made them hand it over. Said if we were going to risk our necks for them they could at least stand us a drink.’
Maddyn nodded again and drank a few sips. When Branoic sat down next to him, he saw that the lad’s calm was all a sham – tears were running down his face. Very carefully, very slowly, Maddyn sat the tankard down next to his blood-stained shirt, then dropped his face into his hands and sobbed, howling like a child and rocking back and forth until Branoic grabbed him and pulled him into his arms to hold him still. Even as he wept, Maddyn heard his own voice rise to a keen, and for a long time that night he mourned, caught tight in the comfort of a friend’s arms. Yet even in the depths of his grief, he felt that the most bitter thing was that Aethan had never lived to see Cerrmor and the True King come into his own.
‘N-n-nevyn, I don’t understand,’ Maryn said, picking each word carefully. ‘The enemy weren’t after me. They wanted Branoic. I was p-p-protecting him – or trying to, anyway.’
‘Trying, indeed!’ Caradoc broke in, and he was grinning like a proud father. ‘You did a splendid job of it, my prince. You can swing that blade like a silver dagger, sure enough.’
Maryn blushed scarlet from the praise, but he kept looking at Nevyn, waiting for his answer. The three of them were sitting at Caradoc’s fire, talking softly to keep the rest of the men from hearing. Although he debated, Nevyn decided that after the spectacle he’d put on that afternoon he might as well tell the whole truth of the tale.
‘Well, my liege, it was an oversight on my part, though I’ll admit it was a lucky one, all in all. I want both of you to keep this a secret.’ He glanced back and forth at prince and captain until they nodded their agreement. ‘Young Branoic has a natural talent for dweomer. Since it’s totally untrained, he can’t use it, mind – he’s not going to ensorcel anyone or suchlike. But consider our enemies, working in the dark, as it were, searching desperately for any trace they can find of the True King. Now, back in Pyrdon everyone knows what the prince looks like, but we’re a long way from home, lads. And so, as our enemies here scry and work their spells, what do they find but a magical – oh, what shall I call it? Here, you know how a hearthstone will radiate heat after the fire’s been burning for a good long time? You can see it glow red, and the air above it shimmers, like? Very good. Well, magical talent in a person puts out an emanation that’s somewhat like that. So here’s Branoic – tall and strong, a splendid fighter, a good-looking man – easy enough to mistake for a prince just on general principles, and on top of all that, he absolutely reeks of dweomer.’
‘They thought he was me!’ Maryn burst out. ‘They might have k-k-killed him, thinking him me! I’d never forgive myself if they had.’
‘Better him than you, your highness,’ Caradoc said drily. ‘And I know Branno would agree with me a thousand times over.’
‘Just so,’ Nevyn said. ‘You know, my liege, I’ll wager they think you’re the prince’s page. Excellent. Let’s let them go on wallowing in their error, shall we?’
‘What shall I do? S-s-saddle and c-c-comb his horse on the morrow? I will and gladly if it’ll help.’
‘Too obvious,’ Caradoc said. ‘We’ll just go on like we were doing, your highness, if it’s all the same to you. Seems to have worked splendidly so far.’
‘So it has.’ Nevyn thought for a moment. ‘Do you think I should go take a look at our Maddyn?’
‘Leave him alone with his grief, my lord. There’s naught any of us can do to heal that wound, much as it aches my heart. Ah by the hells, he knew Aethan these twenty years at least, more maybe, ever since he was a young cub and fresh to a warband.’
‘That’s a hard kind of friend to lose, then, and you’re right. I’ll leave him be.’
For a few minutes they sat there silently, looking into the flames, which swarmed with salamanders – though of course, only Nevyn could see them. Now that he’d rolled his dice in plain sight, he saw no reason to try to lie about his score, and Wildfolk wandered all over the camp, peering at every man and into every barge. Later, after the camp was asleep, he used the dying fire to contact the priests in Cerrmor. They needed to know that the one True King was only some three days’ ride away and that his enemies had tried to slay him upon the road.
The year 843. We discovered that Bellyra, the eldest daughter of Glyn the Second, King in Cerrmor, was born upon the night of Samaen. The High Priest declared it an omen. Just as she was born on the night that lies between two worlds, and thus partook of the nature of both, so she was destined to be the mother of two kingdoms. Yet some within the temple grumbled and said that no good thing could come from such a birth that bridged the worlds of the living and of the dead, because she would belong to the Otherlands and only be a real woman on Samaen itself. She was, or so these impious traitors said, the lass who wasn’t there …
The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn
In the very heart of Dun Cerrmor, at the centre of all the earthworks and the rings of stone walls and the vast looming circles of joined brochs and towers, lay a garden. Although it was only about thirty yards across, it sported a tiny stream with an equally tiny bridge, a rolling stretch of lawn, some rose bushes, and an ancient willow-tree, all gnarled and drooping, that (or so they said) was planted by the ancient sorcerer who once had served King Glyn the First, back at the very beginning of the civil wars. By hiking up her dresses and watching where she put her feet, Bellyra could climb a good way up into this tree and settle into a comfortable fork where the main trunk provided a backrest. In the spring and summer, when the leaves draped down like the fringe on a Bardek shawl, no one could see her there, and she would often sit for hours, watching the sun glint on the stream and thinking about the history of Dun Cerrmor and her clan, and indeed, at times, about that legendary sorcerer himself.
Some years before she’d found a dusty old codex in a storage room up at the top of a tower. Since her father had insisted that all his children be taught letters, she’d been able to puzzle out the eccentric script and discover that her new treasure was a history of Dun Cerrmor, starting when it was built – some ninety years before the war – and proceeding, year by year, down to 822, when, much to her annoyance, the history broke off in mid-page, indeed in mid-sentence. Over the past few years she’d used the old book as a guide to explore every room in every tower that
