Maddyn heard a strange noise. It was a moment before he realized that he and Nevyn both were laughing.
‘I doubt me if they’ll be re-forming for another charge,’ the old man said in the mildest possible tone of voice.
‘True enough, and look, my lord, there’s the prince, safe and sound and riding to meet you. Here, I’d best go fetch Caudyr and his wagon. We’ll have wounded men down there.’
Maddyn had gone only about a half-mile when he met the chirurgeon trotting his team to meet him. They went to the battlefield together to find Nevyn already supervising as the silver daggers pulled the wounded free of dead and dying horses, while Caradoc, Owaen and the prince held a hasty council of war off to one side. Since the battle had been so brief, the damage was small. A number of men were badly cut, but all in all, as Maddyn coursed the battlefield with a squad to look for prisoners, he found only three dead silver daggers, and a couple of horses so badly hurt that they’d have to be put out of their misery. Maddyn was just congratulating himself on their light losses when he found Aethan.
His legs trapped by his dead horse Aethan lay on his back near the riverbank. A chance thrust had split his mail and gone through his side to catch a lung. Although he was still alive, at every rasped breath he drew a bubble of blood broke on his lips and trickled down his chin. Maddyn dropped to his knees beside him and half-kicked the horse away, half-pulled him free, then slipped an arm around his shoulders to cradle his head against his chest. Aethan stared up at him with cloudy eyes.
‘It’s me – Maddo. Do you want some water?’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I won’t. We’ve got to get Caudyr over here.’
‘Won’t do any good.’
Like a spear in his own heart Maddyn felt the truth of it.
‘I’ll make a song for you. Just like you were a lord.’
Aethan smiled up at the sky with bloody lips. It was a long time before Maddyn realized that he was dead. He shut Aethan’s eyes, laid him down, and sat back on his heels, simply sat there for a long time, staring at nothing, trying to put together a proper gorchan for Aethan and wondering why the words wouldn’t come. Out of nowhere, it seemed, Caradoc materialized and knelt down beside him.
‘He was a good lad. I’ll miss him.’
Maddyn nodded. When Caradoc laid a hand on his arm, he shook it off, and after a few minutes the captain went away again – Maddyn never noticed in what direction or why. All at once he was so tired that the world seemed distant and faint, stripped of all colour and sound. He lay down next to Aethan on the blood-soaked earth, threw one arm around him and rested his head on his shoulder. Dimly he heard his own voice in his head telling him that he was daft, that nothing in this world or under it was going to bring Aethan back, but at the time reason no longer mattered. Daft or sane, he wanted to stay there with Aethan for a while, just a little while before they dumped him into a shallow grave on the battlefield. 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