A Time of Omens. Katharine Kerr
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just who are you, old man?’
Nevyn caught his glance and held it, stared at him and stared him down with his ice-blue eyes.
‘My apologies, good sir,’ Emryc stammered. ‘My apologies, your highness.’
‘You’re forgiven – well, for this time, anyway,’ Bellyra said. ‘And by all means, we’ve got a hall full of men so we’d best feed them. Oh, and tell Lord Tammael it’s time to light the torches.’
Emryc hurried off so fast that Bellyra found herself wondering if perhaps Nevyn’s grandfather had been a sorcerer after all and if the grandson had inherited a – bit of his talent. The old man hardly looked magical at the moment; he was eating cheese and sipping ale, and yawning every now and then, too.
‘It is getting dark in here, your highness,’ he remarked. ‘Must be nearly sunset outside.’
‘So I’d think, truly.’
‘Good.’
‘Is somewhat going to happen at sunset?’
‘Wait, your highness. That’s all I can say.’
She had no choice but to do just that, wait and watch in an agony of impatience, as Lord Tammael made his slow round of the great hall, lighting the rush-torches in their sconces and ordering the servants to push aside the chunks of sod in the hearth and mend up the fires that had been smouldering underneath all the warm day. When the light flared up, sending long shadows like spears across the hall, the warbands fell oddly silent, and Caradoc broke off his conversation with Tieryn Elyc to turn in his chair and look at Nevyn. The old man merely smiled, as bland as bland, and helped himself to more cheese.
‘Do you bar the dun gates at sunset, your highness?’
‘We don’t, not till the midnight watch, because some of the townsfolk work in the dun and don’t leave till late.’
‘Ah. Very good.’
The torches suddenly seemed to burn brighter. Although there wasn’t a trace of a breeze in the great hall, they flared up, and flames rose straight and steady with only the barest traces of smoke. Distantly, from somewhere out in the ward, she heard voices – no, it was chanting, and the sound of a soft drum. All at once bronze horns shrieked and blared.
‘Priests!’ Elyc whispered. ‘What by every demon in hell is happening out there?’
Before he could get up to see, the huge carved doors into the hall were flung open. The horns rasped out another shriek; the drums pounded; the chanting swelled. Walking four abreast the priests of Bel came marching into the hall, so many that Bellyra could only assume that every temple from miles around had assembled there in Cerrmor. They were shaven-headed and dressed in the long plain linen tunics of their calling, and round every neck was a solid gold torc, and at every waist glittered a golden sickle. In a long line they manoeuvred their way through the crowded hall in time to the pounding drums and the long wailing chants from the Dawntime. At their head was Nicedd, the ancient leader of the temple, so old that he rarely walked abroad any more, but that night he stepped as firmly as a young man up to the dais. Shaking a little, Tieryn Elyc rose to confront him.
‘Your Holiness! Why are we honoured in this way?’
‘Save your words, Regent! Where is the one True King?’
‘What, Your Holiness? I don’t know – I only wish I did – but I don’t know.’
‘You lie! All the omens say that at this moment the one True King of all Deverry dwells within this dun. Where is he?’
The horns shrieked once; the drums fell silent; Every man in the great hall turned to stare at Elyc as if accusing him of the worst treason. The regent could only stare back, bewildered and terrified.
‘Bel has spoken this very day. Bel has given us omens. Bel has blessed us with true speaking.’
‘Blessed be the name of the Holy One,’ murmured the priests behind him. ‘Blessed be the Light of the Sky.’
‘When the Lawgiver speaks all men and in truth all women too must listen. The one True King is within these walls, Regent.’
Elyc tried to speak but failed miserably, sweat beading his forehead. Bellyra found herself considering her detailed knowledge of the dun: surely if the king were being held prisoner in some hidden chamber, she’d be the one to puzzle it out. Then she realized that during this mind-gripping ceremony Nevyn had slipped away from the table, and for the second time that evening her heart started to thud in her throat. As Nicedd climbed the three steps to the dais, the gold sickle swinging at his belt like a weapon, Elyc sank to his knees.
‘Where is the one True King of all Deverry?’ The priest turned on his heel to face the crowd. ‘He sits among you! Do you know him not?’
At the back of the hall Maryn stood up, a simple gesture, just a very young man standing up and tossing aside a dirty, torn cloak, but at that moment every person in the hall, noble lord and serving wench alike, caught their breath with an audible gasp. It seemed that the sun had returned to shine on him, just for a moment before it hurried about its business in the Otherlands; it seemed that a summer wind sprang up to breathe upon him, ruffling his golden hair and filling the smoky hall with the scent of roses; it seemed that the very air around him came alive, as if his simple presence were enough to fill the great hall with as much snap and power as a summer thunderstorm.
‘Who calls for the king?’ His voice rang out firm and clear.
‘I do.’ Slowly and carefully Nicedd knelt beside Elyc. ‘Your highness.’
The crackling of the fires in the hearth seemed louder than thunder as the one True King of all Deverry strode the long way from the back of the hall and up the steps to the dais. Bellyra could neither cheer nor move nor even think clearly. Like a priestly chant, words ran through her mind of their own accord: this is my husband, why didn’t I comb my hair? When Maryn reached the dais, he stopped in front of Elyc and smiled at him with a boyish innocence that was like a flash of light.
‘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 warcries, 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 childish 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