The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage by Katharine Kerr Page A
Authors: Katharine Kerr
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army ended the war this summer? He’d promised amnesty if he should conquer, promised full pardons even to the lords who’d fought most bitterly against him. What if next summer there would be no march to war?
“My lady?” Sarra said. “You look so distant.”
“Do I, dear? Well, perhaps I’ve got a bit of the headache. Let’s go down to the great hall and get somewhat to eat.”
In the great hall lords and riders gathered, standing more than sitting, drinking ale, talking in urgent voices, but they stood out of nerves, not for want of benches, and their voices seemed oddly quiet in the half-empty hall. Bevva ran a quick count of lords: a mere four of them, and each obliged to bring no more than forty men apiece to augment her husband’s eighty and the gwerbret’s one hundred sixty. At the head of the table of honor sat her husband’s overlord, Daeryc, Gwerbret Belgwergyr, while Tieryn Peddyc sat on his right and their last living son, Anasyn, stood behind his grace to wait upon him like a page. No one who saw them together would ever have doubted that Anasyn was Peddyc’s son. They shared a long face, long thin nose, and a pair of deep-set brown eyes, though Peddyc’s hair had turned solidly grey and Anasyn’s was still chestnut. When he saw his wife enter, Peddyc rose, swinging himself clear of the bench and smiling as he strode over to meet her.
“There you are,” he said. “I’d wondered if you were ill.”
“Not ill, my love, merely thinking. I’ve decided I’d best ride with you when you go to Dun Deverry.”
“Good.” He let his smile disappear. “You’ll be safer there. I’m stripping the fort guard.”
Bevyan laid a hand on her throat. She wondered if she’d gone pale—her face felt so suddenly cold.
“Well, we’ve not lost yet.” Peddyc pitched his voice low. “If the time comes for you and your women to leave Dun Deverry, I’ll send you back with a full escort of men. Don’t worry about that. You’ll need to hold the gates long enough to negotiate a settlement with the Pretender.”
“I see.” Bevyan swallowed heavily and freed her voice. “As my lord thinks best, of course.”
He smiled and touched her face with the side of his hand.
“Let’s pray I don’t need to do that kind of thinking, Bevva. Come entertain our gwerbret. You and I will ride to court together, at least, and after that, only the gods know.”
Peddyc looked up, and when Bevyan followed his glance she realized that he was looking at the row of cloth banners in gold and green, faded and stained with age, that hung above the main hearth—the blazons of the Ram from time beyond remembering. She could only wonder if someday soon an enemy hand would rip them down.
• • •
“The omens?” Merodda said. “The omens are hideous.”
“You sound frightened,” Burcan said.
“Of course I’m frightened. I suppose that makes me a poor weak woman and beneath contempt.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Burcan, second son of the Boar clan and regent to the king, allowed himself a wry twist of a smile. “I’d say it makes you sensible.”
Merodda sighed once and sharply.
Close to the mid-watch of the night they were sitting in her private chamber, she in a carved chair by the fire, he in another near the table. The candles burning there were freshly lit, and Brour and his bowl of black ink both had long since been tidied away.
“I wish I had better news to tell you,” she went on. “But we have an enemy here at court.”
“I don’t need omens to tell me that. Everyone envies our clan.”
“This is different. In the omen a red wyvern dropped out of the sky and slew a boar.”
“What? I wish you wouldn’t speak in riddles.”
“I thought it was clear enough. The king’s blazon is a green wyvern, and so someone close to but not of the royal family must be plotting to drop down upon us and supplant us.”
Burcan started to speak, then merely stroked his thick grey moustaches
“My lady?” Sarra said. “You look so distant.”
“Do I, dear? Well, perhaps I’ve got a bit of the headache. Let’s go down to the great hall and get somewhat to eat.”
In the great hall lords and riders gathered, standing more than sitting, drinking ale, talking in urgent voices, but they stood out of nerves, not for want of benches, and their voices seemed oddly quiet in the half-empty hall. Bevva ran a quick count of lords: a mere four of them, and each obliged to bring no more than forty men apiece to augment her husband’s eighty and the gwerbret’s one hundred sixty. At the head of the table of honor sat her husband’s overlord, Daeryc, Gwerbret Belgwergyr, while Tieryn Peddyc sat on his right and their last living son, Anasyn, stood behind his grace to wait upon him like a page. No one who saw them together would ever have doubted that Anasyn was Peddyc’s son. They shared a long face, long thin nose, and a pair of deep-set brown eyes, though Peddyc’s hair had turned solidly grey and Anasyn’s was still chestnut. When he saw his wife enter, Peddyc rose, swinging himself clear of the bench and smiling as he strode over to meet her.
“There you are,” he said. “I’d wondered if you were ill.”
“Not ill, my love, merely thinking. I’ve decided I’d best ride with you when you go to Dun Deverry.”
“Good.” He let his smile disappear. “You’ll be safer there. I’m stripping the fort guard.”
Bevyan laid a hand on her throat. She wondered if she’d gone pale—her face felt so suddenly cold.
“Well, we’ve not lost yet.” Peddyc pitched his voice low. “If the time comes for you and your women to leave Dun Deverry, I’ll send you back with a full escort of men. Don’t worry about that. You’ll need to hold the gates long enough to negotiate a settlement with the Pretender.”
“I see.” Bevyan swallowed heavily and freed her voice. “As my lord thinks best, of course.”
He smiled and touched her face with the side of his hand.
“Let’s pray I don’t need to do that kind of thinking, Bevva. Come entertain our gwerbret. You and I will ride to court together, at least, and after that, only the gods know.”
Peddyc looked up, and when Bevyan followed his glance she realized that he was looking at the row of cloth banners in gold and green, faded and stained with age, that hung above the main hearth—the blazons of the Ram from time beyond remembering. She could only wonder if someday soon an enemy hand would rip them down.
• • •
“The omens?” Merodda said. “The omens are hideous.”
“You sound frightened,” Burcan said.
“Of course I’m frightened. I suppose that makes me a poor weak woman and beneath contempt.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Burcan, second son of the Boar clan and regent to the king, allowed himself a wry twist of a smile. “I’d say it makes you sensible.”
Merodda sighed once and sharply.
Close to the mid-watch of the night they were sitting in her private chamber, she in a carved chair by the fire, he in another near the table. The candles burning there were freshly lit, and Brour and his bowl of black ink both had long since been tidied away.
“I wish I had better news to tell you,” she went on. “But we have an enemy here at court.”
“I don’t need omens to tell me that. Everyone envies our clan.”
“This is different. In the omen a red wyvern dropped out of the sky and slew a boar.”
“What? I wish you wouldn’t speak in riddles.”
“I thought it was clear enough. The king’s blazon is a green wyvern, and so someone close to but not of the royal family must be plotting to drop down upon us and supplant us.”
Burcan started to speak, then merely stroked his thick grey moustaches
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