Darkspell (10 page)

“That’s true enough, but this crescent embraces my whole life now. I swore to Her, and I stay faithful to Her.”

The quiet coldness in her voice left no doubts.

“I see,” he said hurriedly. “Well, far be it from me to question how a priestess has her visions. There’s somewhat else I wanted to ask you. Does your sister have a suitor that you favor for her? I’ll speak to the king on his behalf.”

“Would you? That’s an enormous favor you’re offering me.”

“What? What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come now, my lord, don’t you see what a treasure you’ve got in the eyes of the court? You’ve got more influence with the king than any man alive. If you don’t value it, it could turn into a curse.”

Dannyn merely smiled, puzzled by the urgency in her voice. He never knew what to say when women carried on about unimportant details. After a moment she shrugged.

“The suitor I favor is Lord Gwetmar of the Alder clan.”

“I’ve fought beside him, and he’s a good man. I’ll mention him to the king.”

“My thanks.”

With a little curtsy Gweniver walked away, leaving him filled with dark hiraedd for a woman he could never have.

Lord Dannyn kept his promise about speaking to the king much sooner than Gweniver had expected. That very afternoon Saddar the councillor came to her chamber with important news. As a deference to his age, she sat him down in a chair by the hearth and poured him a small serving of mead, then took the chair opposite.

“My thanks, Your Holiness,” he said in his thin, dry voice. “I wanted to tell you personally that it gladdens my heart that the Wolf clan will live.”

“And my thanks to you, good sir.”

He smiled and had a dainty sip of mead.

“Now, the king himself asked me to come speak to you,” he went on, stressing the words “the king himself.” “He has made an important decision, that Lord Gwetmar shall lay aside his allegiance to the Alder clan and marry your sister.”

“Splendid!” Gweniver pledge him with her goblet.
“Now all we’ve got to do is get Macla out of the temple safely.”

“Ah, I have further news on that. The king wishes you to fetch her soon. He’ll be lending you and Gwetmar two hundred men from his personal guard to add to your warbands.”

“By the gods! Our liege is most generous.”

“So he is. Lord Dannyn will accompany you at their head.”

Saddar paused, as if expecting some momentous reaction. Gweniver cocked her head to one side and considered him.

“Ah, well,” the councillor said at last. “And what does her holiness think of Lord Dannyn, if I may ask?”

“My men tell me that he’s splendid in battle, and truly, good sir, that’s all that matters to me.”

“Indeed?”

Something about the old man’s smile made her remember the odd warning she’d received from the Goddess, but still she said nothing.

“Well,” Saddar said, “it’s not my place to question those who have sworn holy vows, my lady, but let me give you a word of advice from one whose long years at times make him frank. Lord Dannyn is a very impetuous man. I would keep my eye on him, if I were you.” He paused to finish the mead in his goblet. “Ah, it gladdens my heart to see you here, Your Holiness. No doubt your Goddess has sent you as a mark of Her favor to our king.”

“Let’s hope not. Her favor is as dark and harsh as a blooded blade.”

Saddar’s smile froze on his lips. He rose, made her a polite bow, and hurriedly took his leave.

For some time Gweniver thought over the councillor’s troubling remark about Dannyn. She wanted to turn to the Goddess and ask Her advice, but in truth, she was unsure of how to go about it. Only a few fragments of the rites of the Darkened Moon had been preserved. The temple priestesses knew some chants and rituals to be worked at the waning of the moon; odd scraps of lore about certain battlefield
prayers had survived from the Dawntime; nothing more. Without a temple with mirror and altar, Gweniver simply didn’t know how to approach her Goddess. In her saddlebags she had a letter of introduction from Ardda to the high priestess of the Cerrmor temple, but she was afraid to go to that city-wise and court-bound lady with her odd talk of the Moon in Her Dark.

She realized, though, that she needed the mirror-working above all. On the morrow Gweniver did go walking in the city, but instead of the temple, she went to the market square and bought herself a bronze mirror with a silvered face, small enough to fit into a saddlebag. After dinner that night, she shut herself up in her chamber with only a candle lantern for light and propped the mirror up against a chest while she knelt in front of it. Silvery and distorted, her face looked back at her.

“My lady,” she whispered. “My lady of the Darkness.”

In her mind she pictured her vision in the temple, a mere memory image only, and dead. Over the past weeks she’d brooded so much over this memory that the image held still and firm in her mind, a clear picture that she could examine from many different angles, as she looked first at her sword on the altar, then at the mirror or at Ardda, standing nearby. If only there was a way I could see it in this mirror, she told herself, then maybe it would move. As she tried to build the image on the silver surface, it stayed stubbornly blank. All at once she felt foolish. Doubtless what she wanted was impossible, but some stubborn instinct drove her to try to force the image of the Goddess out through her eyes and onto the gleaming silver.

It was also very late, and she was yawning, finding it hard to focus her eyes as she worked. All at once she stumbled onto the trick in her mind, just as when a child struggles to learn how to roll a hoop with a stick, and it seems that no matter how hard she tries, the hoop will always fall—then suddenly, without conscious effort, the hoop rolls, and never again will she fail in the attempt. First she saw a flickering trace of a picture on the mirror; then all at once
the image of the Goddess appeared, lasting only a moment, but there.

“Praise be to my lady’s name!”

Gweniver was no longer tired. For half the night she stayed before the mirror, with her knees and back cramped and aching, until she could see the Goddess as clearly as if the image were painted on the silver. At last the vision moved, and the dark eyes of night looked her way yet once again. The Goddess smiled, blessing her only worshiper in the entire kingdom of Deverry. Gweniver wept, but in pure, holy joy.

Since the plan was a simple one, Dannyn figured it would work. While he escorted Gweniver and her men to the Temple of the Moon, the two brothers of Lord Maer of the Stag would lead a punitive raid deep into Cantrae-held territory, striking at the Boar’s own holdings.

“Lord Maer’s brothers are foaming like mad dogs over the insult to their clan,” Glyn remarked. “I owe them a chance at vengeance.”

“It’s the best kind of feint we could have, my liege. We’ll get the Lady Macla back here safe and sound.”

“Good.” Glyn considered for a moment. “The real fighting over the Wolf demesne won’t come till autumn, when the Boar has the leisure to take up his blood feud.”

“Just so. Well, by then we’ll have the leisure to fight back.”

After the king dismissed him, Dannyn went to the women’s quarters to look in on his son. Some years before, Glyn had found him a wife from a noble clan that was willing to ignore his bastardy in return for royal favor. Although Garaena had died of childbed fever, the baby had been born healthy. Although custom demanded that the boy be put out into fosterage, Glyn had overruled custom—even a semiroyal child could be turned into a hostage far too easily to allow the lad out of the dun. At four years old, Cobryn was already chattering of weapons and warfare.

That afternoon Dannyn took him out of the royal nursery and into the ward. Since the warbands were returning
after a day’s exercises on the roads, and the ward was full of men and horses, trotting by dangerously fast, Dannyn picked up his lad and settled him against his shoulder like a sack of grain. He was a pretty child, his hair as fair as flax, his eyes dark blue like his father’s. Cobryn threw his arms around his father’s neck and hugged him.

“I love you, Da.”

For a moment Dannyn was too surprised to answer, because he’d grown up hating his own father.

“Do you, now?” he said at last. “Well, my thanks.”

As they strolled through the ward, Cobryn chattering about every horse he saw, Dannyn saw Gweniver talking to a group of lords by the main gate. Carrying the lad still, he strolled over to join them. Cobryn twisted in his arms and pointed her out.

“Da, that’s a lady!”

When everyone laughed, the lad turned shy and buried his face in Dannyn’s shoulder. Gweniver walked over to get a better look at him.

“What a beautiful child!” she said. “He’s not yours, is he?”

“He is. I was married once.”

“Now, that’s a surprise. I thought you were the kind of man who never marries.”

“You misjudge me badly, my lady.”

Gweniver went as wary as a startled doe. As he watched her, as the moment dragged on, Dannyn was cursing himself—why did everything he say come out so awkwardly? At last Cobryn piped up and rescued him.

“You know what? The king’s my uncle.”

“So he is.” Gweniver turned her attention to the child in some relief. “Do you honor him?”

“I do. He’s splendid.”

“More splendid than this cub of mine can realize at his age,” Dannyn said. “Our liege has formally taken my lad into the line of succession, right after his own sons. It’s not often a bastard’s spawn gets to be a prince.”

“A rare thing, indeed! Well, young Cobryn, you’re right enough. He’s very splendid indeed.”

During the evening meal Dannyn found himself watching Gweniver, even though his very thoughts were impiety. An old proverb neatly summed up his plight: a man who loves a lass sworn to the Moon had best put many a mile between him and his hopelessness. Her golden hair shone in the candlelight as she clasped a silver goblet between slender fingers, so lovely and delicate that he found it hard to believe that she could really swing a sword. From what Ricyn had told him, she’d made her kills out of luck alone, and luck has a way of deserting a man in battle.

After they were done eating, Dannyn got up and went to her table. He hunkered down in front of her on the floor, forcing her to lean over to speak to him privately.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you somewhat,” he said. “Do you have a coat of mail?”

“I don’t. You know, I’ve never even worn any.”

“What? Oh, ye gods, then you’ve got no idea how heavy it is, do you, now?”

“No doubt I’ll get used to it. My Goddess will protect me as long as She wants me alive, then let me be slain when She wants me dead. It won’t matter when that time comes if I’m wearing the best mail in the kingdom.”

“That’s true enough, no doubt, because when a man’s Wyrd comes upon him, it comes, but a good set of mail turns aside many a bit of bad luck.”

When she smiled, their eyes met, and at that moment he felt they understood each other in a dangerously deep way. He stood up quickly.

“But you’re not dying this summer if I can help it, Your Holiness. Doubtless it’ll ache your heart to take orders from a bastard, but once we’re back from claiming your sister, you’re going to train with me like a thirteen-year-old rider, new to his warband. A good many of them live to grow up, don’t they? Do what I say, and so will you.”

Her eyes snapping in rage, she started 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 on
occasion 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.