to rise, but he ducked back out of her way.
“Good night, my lady, and may all your dreams be holy ones.”
He hurried away before she could challenge him to a fight. He could see it coming in her eyes.
Nevyn was not quite sure when the king had begun to suspect that his shabby old servitor had the dweomer. When he’d come to Dun Cerrmor, some six years ago now, he’d offered his services as an herbman who could grow and prepare medicinals. An underchamberlain had taken him on and given him shared quarters in a typical servant’s hut. As the years passed, Nevyn had seen Glyn only from a distance, usually during some ceremonial parade. The anonymity suited Nevyn well; he was there only to keep an eye on events, not meddle in politics, or so he saw it, and he’d chosen Glyn’s court only because he could not abide Slwmar of Cantrae, who was sly, treacherous, and suspicious to the point of paranoia.
Yet, since Glyn was gracious to those who served him, at some point during the second year he’d found out about the man who’d offered his dun the medicines sorely needed in a war, and called Nevyn into the great hall for a formal audience. The audience was very short, of course, and Nevyn shared it with several other servitors, but he must have said something that caught the king’s attention, because not long after, Glyn had actually visited the herb garden behind the stables and talked with him again. It became something of a habit; whenever the king had an odd moment, he would come out and ask various questions about this herb or that, about the cycle of the seasons and the growing of things. It seemed to give him some relief from the pressures upon and the intrigues around him.
In the third year Nevyn had been given a pleasant chamber of his own in one of the side brochs, with no explanation but that he deserved a bit of privacy. Soon after came a place on the floor of the great hall at a table with more courtly servitors. The king’s visits became longer, too, especially in winter when he had more leisure, and at times the liege asked the servitor for blunt advice about the doings of the court. Although Nevyn was always cautious with his answers, they seemed to please the king, who onoccasion dropped little hints about considering Nevyn more than the grubby old man he seemed.
Now, apparently, the king had decided that the time had come to be blunt. On the morning that the men of the Stag led out an army to start their raid against the Boar, Nevyn was weeding a row of comfrey plants when a page came, announcing that the king wished to see him in the council chamber. Hurriedly Nevyn washed his hands in a leather bucket of water and followed the lad into the broch.
In the narrow chamber Glyn was alone, sitting casually on the edge of the table and staring at the parchment map, struck with sunlight through the window. Cut from an entire calfskin, the map was worn, the writing faded in places. Here and there lines had been drawn in red ink, then scraped away again, the old frontiers and battle lines showing through, a bleeding palimpsest. At the sight Nevyn couldn’t help thinking that it was his kingdom that other men were fighting for. Of anyone in Deverry, he had the best claim to the Wyvern throne, if, of course, he’d been able to convince anyone that Prince Galrion was still alive after all these years—not a very likely task, no.
“I called you here to ask you somewhat,” Glyn said abruptly. “You’re the only man I can trust to hold your tongue about it. Even priests talk among themselves like old women.”
“Old women hold their tongues better, my liege.”
“Yet this question of mine takes a priest’s kind of knowledge to answer.” And here Glyn paused. “I was hoping the dweomer might be able to advise me.”
“And does my liege think I have such knowledge?”
“He does. Is your liege wrong?”
“He’s not.”
Glyn smiled in triumph, very briefly.
“Then answer me this,” he went
“Good night, my lady, and may all your dreams be holy ones.”
He hurried away before she could challenge him to a fight. He could see it coming in her eyes.
Nevyn was not quite sure when the king had begun to suspect that his shabby old servitor had the dweomer. When he’d come to Dun Cerrmor, some six years ago now, he’d offered his services as an herbman who could grow and prepare medicinals. An underchamberlain had taken him on and given him shared quarters in a typical servant’s hut. As the years passed, Nevyn had seen Glyn only from a distance, usually during some ceremonial parade. The anonymity suited Nevyn well; he was there only to keep an eye on events, not meddle in politics, or so he saw it, and he’d chosen Glyn’s court only because he could not abide Slwmar of Cantrae, who was sly, treacherous, and suspicious to the point of paranoia.
Yet, since Glyn was gracious to those who served him, at some point during the second year he’d found out about the man who’d offered his dun the medicines sorely needed in a war, and called Nevyn into the great hall for a formal audience. The audience was very short, of course, and Nevyn shared it with several other servitors, but he must have said something that caught the king’s attention, because not long after, Glyn had actually visited the herb garden behind the stables and talked with him again. It became something of a habit; whenever the king had an odd moment, he would come out and ask various questions about this herb or that, about the cycle of the seasons and the growing of things. It seemed to give him some relief from the pressures upon and the intrigues around him.
In the third year Nevyn had been given a pleasant chamber of his own in one of the side brochs, with no explanation but that he deserved a bit of privacy. Soon after came a place on the floor of the great hall at a table with more courtly servitors. The king’s visits became longer, too, especially in winter when he had more leisure, and at times the liege asked the servitor for blunt advice about the doings of the court. Although Nevyn was always cautious with his answers, they seemed to please the king, who onoccasion dropped little hints about considering Nevyn more than the grubby old man he seemed.
Now, apparently, the king had decided that the time had come to be blunt. On the morning that the men of the Stag led out an army to start their raid against the Boar, Nevyn was weeding a row of comfrey plants when a page came, announcing that the king wished to see him in the council chamber. Hurriedly Nevyn washed his hands in a leather bucket of water and followed the lad into the broch.
In the narrow chamber Glyn was alone, sitting casually on the edge of the table and staring at the parchment map, struck with sunlight through the window. Cut from an entire calfskin, the map was worn, the writing faded in places. Here and there lines had been drawn in red ink, then scraped away again, the old frontiers and battle lines showing through, a bleeding palimpsest. At the sight Nevyn couldn’t help thinking that it was his kingdom that other men were fighting for. Of anyone in Deverry, he had the best claim to the Wyvern throne, if, of course, he’d been able to convince anyone that Prince Galrion was still alive after all these years—not a very likely task, no.
“I called you here to ask you somewhat,” Glyn said abruptly. “You’re the only man I can trust to hold your tongue about it. Even priests talk among themselves like old women.”
“Old women hold their tongues better, my liege.”
“Yet this question of mine takes a priest’s kind of knowledge to answer.” And here Glyn paused. “I was hoping the dweomer might be able to advise me.”
“And does my liege think I have such knowledge?”
“He does. Is your liege wrong?”
“He’s not.”
Glyn smiled in triumph, very briefly.
“Then answer me this,” he went
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