The Fire Dragon. Katharine Kerr

at the edge of her mind just as Braemys’s army prowled at the borders of her husband’s lands. It will be different this time, she told herself. She wished she could believe it.

      The silence grew heavy around them. With a little shake of her head, Degwa stood up, stepping towards the hearth. In the firelight a silver brooch pinned to the left shoulder of her dress sparkled with a long glint of light.

      ‘There’s not a lot of firewood left, your highness. Shall I send one of the servants for more?’

      ‘Please do,’ Bellyra said. ‘Or wait! What’s that on your dress, Decci?’

      ‘A little gift.’ Degwa smiled, glancing away. ‘From an admirer.’

      ‘Not Councillor Oggyn?’ Bellyra clapped her hands together. ‘It’s quite pretty.’

      ‘So it is,’ Elyssa put in. ‘Is that real glass set in it?’

      ‘It is.’ Degwa’s face had turned a pleasant shade of pink.

      Elyssa and Bellyra exchanged a pointed glance that made Degwa giggle.

      ‘If only he were noble-born!’ Degwa said. ‘As it is, I can hardly count him a true suitor.’

      ‘Oh now here!’ Bellyra said briskly. ‘After all the fine service he’s paid our prince, who would scorn you if you should marry him?’

      Degwa blushed again. She was no longer a lass, but certainly not an old woman, though she’d been widowed for many years now. With her dark curly hair and fine dark eyes, she was attractive, as well, despite her weak mouth and weaker chin.

      ‘I’ll take pity on you, Decci,’ Elyssa said smiling, ‘and talk of somewhat else. Speaking of jewellery reminds me, your highness. I met Otho the smith down in the great hall this morning, after you’d left. He asked for news of you and sends his humble greetings.’

      ‘How kind of him. I hope you told him I was well.’

      ‘I did.’

      ‘Good. I’ve always had an easy time of it with the babies. Until afterwards.’

      ‘Oh, don’t!’ Elyssa leaned over and laid her hand on Bellyra’s arm. ‘Don’t think about it. Just don’t.’

      ‘You’re right. I’ll try not to.’

      Bellyra wasn’t able to say why this mention of Otho gave her the idea, but it occurred to her that afternoon to give Maddyn a token of some sort, a little trinket such as queens often bestowed upon favoured courtiers, to take to the wars and bring him luck. That evening, she had Otho summoned and met him outside the door to the women’s hall, while her serving women stood with her for propriety’s sake.

      ‘I want to give my bard a pin to match that silver ring,’ Bellyra told the smith. ‘One with a rose design.’

      ‘Easy enough to do, your highness,’ Otho said. ‘I’ve still got a bit of silver left over from the – er well, let’s just say I found it, like, after your husband took Dun Deverry.’

      ‘I don’t want to know any details.’

      ‘Just as well, your highness. I’ll get right to work on that.’

      ‘My thanks, good smith.’

      All smiles, Otho bowed, then stumped down the corridor to the stairway. Degwa waited till he was well out of earshot.

      ‘Your bard, your highness?’ Degwa raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Well, my husband’s, truly, but then, my husband was the one who set him guarding me.’

      ‘Of course.’ All at once Degwa blushed. ‘Er, ah, I’ll just see if the servant girls have swept out your chamber. I asked them rather a long while ago, and they’d best have done it properly.’

      Degwa turned and rushed back into the women’s hall. Bellyra and Elyssa exchanged a weary smile, then followed her inside.

      On a wet chilly morning Prince Maryn and his councillors assembled in the main ward. With them stood young Prince Riddmar, Maryn’s half-brother, who would receive the Cerrmor rhan when Maryn became king. He was a lean child, Riddmar, blond and grey-eyed like his brother, with the same sunny smile. At Nevyn’s urging, Maryn had taken the boy on as an apprentice in the craft of ruling. Riddmar accompanied the prince everywhere these days, listening and watching as Maryn prepared to claim the high kingship of all Deverry.

      This particular morning Maryn was sending off a message to the rebel lord, Braemys. For one last time the prince was offering him a pardon if he would only swear fealty – a small price, in the eyes of the prince and his councillors both. Gavlyn, the leader of the prince’s heralds, knelt at Maryn’s feet; he would be taking this message himself, rather than entrusting it to one of his men.

      ‘His guards are waiting by the gates, my liege,’ Nevyn said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of providing our herald with an escort. The roads aren’t safe.’

      ‘I thought Braemys had taken all the bandits into his army,’ Maryn said.

      ‘He offered. Who knows how many took him up on it?’

      ‘A good point. They may be as suspicious of him as he is of me.’

      ‘True spoken.’ Nevyn held up the long silver tube containing the prince’s message and waved it vaguely at the sky. ‘I’d pray to the gods and ask them to make him take your pardon, but it would be a waste of breath.’

      A fortnight later Nevyn’s remark proved true when the herald returned. After the noon meal Nevyn was sitting at the table of honour with the two princes when Gavlyn strode into the great hall, still carrying his beribboned staff. Maryn rose and beckoned him over.

      ‘I’m too impatient to send a page to summon him,’ Maryn remarked, grinning. ‘Once I’m king I’ll have to mind my formalities, I suppose.’

      Nevyn nodded his agreement but said nothing. He was watching Gavlyn make his way through the crowded tables. Gavlyn walked fast, snapping at any servants in his path; he was scowling, Nevyn realized, more furious than he’d ever seen the man. As he passed, the men at each table fell silent so that it seemed he worked some dweomer spell to turn them all mute as he passed. By the time he reached the table of honour, the entire great hall, riders, servants, even the dogs, sat waiting in a deathly stillness to hear his news. When he started to kneel, Maryn waved him up.

      ‘Stand, if you’d not mind it,’ the prince said. ‘Your voice will carry better.’

      ‘Very well, my liege.’ Gavlyn turned towards the waiting crowd and cleared his throat.

      Maryn picked up his tankard of ale and took a casual sip. Gavlyn raised his staff.

      ‘Lord Braemys, regent to Lwvan, Gwerbret Cantrae in his minority, sends his greetings and this message,’ Gavlyn paused, as if steadying himself. ‘He says: my ward, Lwvan of the Boar clan, is the closest living kin of King Olaen, once rightful high king of all Deverry, now dead, murdered by the usurper or mayhap his men. Therefore Lwvan, Gwerbret Cantrae, is the true heir to Dun Deverry. Lord Braemys requests that Maryn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, keep the holding in good order till Lwvan rides to claim it at Beltane.’

      Maryn’s hand tightened so hard on the tankard that his knuckles went white. ‘Is there any more?’ Maryn’s voice held steady.

      ‘None, my liege. I thought it quite enough.’

      Gavlyn lowered the staff and pounded it once upon the floor. His audience burst out talking and rage flooded the great hall. The riders were cursing and swearing, the servants gabbled together, the message went round and round, repeated in disbelief. With a final bow, Gavlyn left the prince’s presence. Maryn rose, glanced at Nevyn, then strode off, heading for the staircase. Young Riddmar got up and ran after him. More slowly Nevyn followed, and Oggyn joined him at the foot of the stairs.

      ‘The gall,’ Oggyn snapped. ‘My prince –’

      Maryn