Darkspell (12 page)

At the head of a small army, Gweniver returned to the Temple of the Moon late on a spring day when the setting sun washed the high walls with golden light. Leaving the men at the foot of the hill, she and Gwetmar walked up to the gates, which opened a crack to reveal Lypilla’s face.

“It is you, Gwen!” she sang out. “When we saw the army, we thought it might be those wretched Boars coming back or suchlike.”

“It’s not, at that. We’ve come to fetch Maccy. I promised her a wedding, and that’s what she’s going to have.”

“Splendid! The poor little thing’s been so heartsick. Come in, come in. It gladdens my heart to see you.”

When Gweniver came inside, Macla ran to meet her and threw herself into her sister’s arms. The temple ward was full of women, watching as Maccy wept in joy.

“I’ve been so worried, thinking you might be dead,” she sobbed.

“Well, here I am. Now pull yourself together, Maccy. I’ve brought you a husband, and everything’s going to be all right. You’re going to have a big wedding down in the court itself.”

Macla shrieked with joy and clasped her hands over her mouth.

“So go get your things together while I talk with Ardda,” Gweniver went on. “Lord Gwetmar’s waiting for you.”

“Gwetmar? But he’s homely!”

“Then you won’t have to worry about him siring bastards on your serving women. Listen, you little dolt, he’s the only man in court who would have married you because he loves you, not for the dowry, so start counting up his qualities. You won’t see his face when he blows out the candle, anyway.”

Macla groaned aloud, but she trotted off for the dormitory. Only then did Gweniver notice their mother, standing on the edge of the crowd. Dolyan stood with her arms crossed over her chest as if she were hugging grief, her eyes half-filled with tears. When Gweniver walked over and held out her arms, her mother turned half-away.

“You’ve made your sister a good marriage,” Dolyan said in a trembling voice. “I’m proud of you.”

“My thanks, Mam. Are you well?”

“As well as I can be, seeing you like this. Gwen, Gwen, I beg you. Stay here in the temple.”

“I can’t, Mam. I’m the only honor the clan has left.”

“Honor? Oh, is it honor now? You’re as bad as your father, bad as all your brothers, talking of honor until I thought I’d go mad, I truly did. It’s not the honor that pleases you, it’s the slaughter.” All at once she tossed her head, and the words poured out in a rage-tide. “They never cared that I loved them; oh, it didn’t matter half as much as did their cursed honor, riding out, bleeding the clan white, and all to work grief on the kingdom! Gwen, how can you do this to me? How can you ride to war as they did?”

“I have to, Mam. You have Maccy, and soon you’ll be dowager, back on our lands.”

“Back on what?” She spit the words out. “A burnt home and ravaged lands, and all for the honor of the thing. Gwen, please, don’t ride!” And then she was weeping, sobbing aloud.

Gweniver could neither speak nor move. The other women rushed to Dolyan’s side, swept her up, and hurried her away, but all the while they looked daggers back at this ungrateful wretch of a daughter. As Gweniver fled through the gates, she heard Dolyan keen, a long, high wail of grief. I’m dead to her already, she thought. The keen wailed on and on, high and bright in the morning sun, then stopped abruptly, as if the other women had taken her inside.

“What’s so wrong?” Gwetmar snapped. “Who’s died?”

“Nah nah nah. Naught’s wrong. Maccy’ll be out shortly.” She turned away and looked downhill, searching to see Ricyn among her men. “By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, it’ll gladden my heart to get back to Cerrmor.”

Wherever Ricyn was, she couldn’t pick him out, but she saw Dannyn, sitting easily on horseback at the head of the king’s riders. Soon she would be riding to war under his command, and she thought to herself that the Goddess had sent her a splendid master in the arts of death.

Although Nevyn had several apprentices in the art of herbcraft, the most capable was a young woman named Gavra, a
tall, slender lass with raven-dark hair and hazel eyes. Since she’d been born the daughter of an innkeeper down in Cerrmor, she was used to hard work and also determined to better herself in life. In the two years she’d studied with him, she’d made excellent progress in learning the multifarious herbs and their uses. Accordingly, he allowed her to help him every afternoon when he tended the minor illnesses or accidents of the palace servants, who were below the notice of the official chirurgeons. Gavra also used her mind to good advantage when it came to court intrigue. Dannyn and Gweniver had been back in the dun only two days when the apprentice brought Nevyn an interesting bit of news.

“Lord Oldac stopped me to speak with me today,” Gavra remarked.

“Indeed. Has he been pressing his attentions on you again?”

“Well, he was ever so polite, but I think me he had somewhat dishonorable on his mind. Master, would you speak to him? It’s cursed hard to insult one of the noble-born, but the last thing I want in life is one of his bastards—or any man’s, for that matter.”

“Then speak I will. You’re as much under my protection as if you were my daughter, and I’ll cursed well go to the king if I have to.”

“My thanks and twice over. But it wasn’t only his drunken smiles that troubled my heart. He had the gall to insult Lady Gweniver. I think she’s splendid, and I won’t hear that sort of talk from anyone.”

“And just what did he say?”

“Oh, he was insinuating things, more like, about the way she and Lord Dannyn spend so much time on the practice ground.”

Nevyn snarled under his breath.

“He said it more against his lordship than her holiness,” Gavra went on. “Asking me didn’t I think it strange that his lordship was so eager to teach Lady Gweniver his sport, but it vexed me nonetheless. I told him that a common-born servant like me was below having thoughts
about his lordship one way or another, and then I marched off.”

“Good lass. I’ll have to speak to Oldac about more things than one, I see. If it gets back to Gweniver’s ears that he’s been insulting her, he may die quite suddenly.”

“Well, it wouldn’t ache my heart if he did.”

The very next afternoon Gweniver and Dannyn came to the afternoon surgery. Gavra had just finished putting salve on the underfalconer’s scratched hand when the two strode in with the rattle and clang of full mail. Dannyn held a bloody rag pressed to his cheek.

“Would you tend the captain here, good herbman?” Gweniver said. “He’s too embarrassed to go to the chirurgeon.”

“If I could call a priestess a bitch,” Dannyn mumbled through the rag, “I would.”

Gweniver merely laughed. When the captain took the rag away, his cheek was scraped raw, swelling badly, and dripping blood from two small nicks.

“We were using blunt blades,” Gweniver explained. “But they can still raise a good bruise, and he refused to wear a helm for our lesson.”

“Stupidity,” Dannyn said. “Mine, I mean. I never thought she’d get near me.”

“Indeed?” Nevyn remarked. “It seems that the lady has more talent for this sort of thing than either of us would have thought.”

Dannyn gave him so insolent a smile that Nevyn was tempted to wash the wounds with the strongest witch hazel he had. As an act of humility, he used warm water instead, forcibly reminding himself that Dannyn was not Gerraent, that while the soul was the same root, the personality had grown to a different flower, and that Dannyn had excuses for his arrogance that Gerraent had never had. Yet every time the captain’s cold eyes flicked Gweniver’s way, Nevyn was furious. When he left, Nevyn allowed himself a sigh for the foolish pride of men, which could hold a grudge for a hundred and thirty years.

Gweniver herself lingered, looking curiously over the
herbs and potions and chatting idly with Gavra, who mercifully said nothing about Lord Oldac’s slight. Although the lady seemed oblivious of them, Wildfolk followed her round the room, at times plucking timidly at her sleeve, as if asking her to see them. For some reason that Nevyn didn’t truly understand, the Wildfolk could always recognize someone with dweomer-power, and the little creatures found such fascinating. Finally they vanished with disappointed shakes of their heads. Nevyn suddenly wondered if Gweniver had stumbled across her latent dweomer-talents and was using them in the service of her Goddess. The thought made him turn cold with fear, and something of it must have shown on his face.

“Is somewhat wrong, good herbman?” Gweniver said.

“Oh, naught, naught. I was just wondering when you’d be riding on campaign.”

“Soon, after Maccy’s wedding. We’re going to sweep the Eldidd border on patrol. We might not even see any fighting, or so Lord Dannyn tells me, so don’t trouble your heart, good sir.”

When she smiled, he felt the fear again, clutching his heart, but he merely nodded and said nothing more.

The wedding festivities lasted all day, with mock combats and horse races, dancing and bard-song. By evening those few souls who were still sober were stuffed with food to the point of drowsiness. Before Gwetmar and Macla retired to their chamber for their wedding night, one last formality remained. Glyn summoned the couple, Gweniver, and a handful of witnesses to his chamber to oversee the signing of the wedding contract. Although normally the king himself would have had nothing to do with such a matter, the passing down of a great clan through the female line was an important affair. When Gweniver arrived, she was quite surprised to see Nevyn among the witnesses, the others being Dannyn, Yvyr, and Saddar.

The king’s scribe read out the decree that turned Gwetmar into the head of the Wolf clan and bestowed Macla’s dowry upon him on the terms that he would rule as
the Wolf and give all his loyalty to that clan. First Gwetmar made his mark on the parchment; then Gweniver made hers as her last act as the head of the Wolf. After Dannyn also made his mark, the other witnesses, learned councillors all, signed their names.

“Done, then,” Glyn said. “Gwetmar of the Wolf, you have our leave to take your bride to your chambers.”

In a great flurry of bowing and curtsies, the wedding pair and the councillors left the chamber, but Glyn motioned to Gweniver and Nevyn to stay with him and Dannyn. A page brought ale in silver tankards, then discreetly retired.

“Well, Your Holiness,” the king said. “I’ve kept my promise to you about the Wolf’s name. I sincerely hope that your father and brothers will hear of this in the Otherlands.”

“I echo that hope, my liege. You have my humble thanks, and I’m well pleased by your generosity to one far below you.”

“Well, I find it hard to think of a sworn priestess as being below me.”

“My liege is most pious, and the Goddess will honor him for it.” Gweniver made him a curtsy. “But priestess or not, I ride at his command.”

“Or at mine, once we’re on campaign,” Dannyn broke in. “I trust my lady will remember that.”

They all turned to look at him, Glyn with a cold warning in his eyes. Dannyn was frankly drunk, his face mead-flushed, his mouth slack.

“I ride at my Goddess’s orders in all things,” Gweniver made her voice as cold as she could. “I trust Lord Dannyn will remember
that.
”

“Oh, now, here.” Dannyn paused for a most unnecessary sip of ale. “All I want to do is serve your Goddess by keeping you alive. Can’t say the rites when you’re dead, can you? Besides, you’re too cursed valuable to lose. Everyone knows it’s a good omen you’re here.”

Glyn started to speak, but Nevyn got in before him.

“His lordship speaks the truth,” the old man said. “But
he had best mind how he phrases his words when he speaks to one of the Holy Ladies.”

“Ah, what’s it to you, old man?”

“Danno!” the king snapped.

“My apologies.” Dannyn turned cloudy eyes Gweniver’s way. “And to you, too, my lady, but I just wanted to warn you. I know you fancy yourself a warrior, but—”

“Fancy myself?” Gweniver got to her feet. “The Goddess has marked me out for blood, and don’t you think that you’re going to keep me from it.”

“Indeed? Well, we’ll see about that. I’d argue with the Lord of Hell himself to advance my brother’s cause, and so I’ll argue with your Goddess if I have to.”

“Dannyn, hold your tongue,” Nevyn broke in. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Dannyn went scarlet with rage. The king grabbed for his arm, but too late: with an oath Dannyn flung the tankard of ale straight at Nevyn’s head. The old man barked out one incomprehensible word. In midair the tankard stopped as if grabbed by an invisible hand. Ale spilled all over the floor. Gweniver felt the blood drain from her face and leave it as cold as the winter snow. The unseen hand set the tankard down on the floor, top upward. Dannyn stared at it, tried to speak, then started to shake all over, scared into near sobriety. Glyn, however, laughed.

“When he recovers himself, good Nevyn,” he said, “my brother will apologize.”

“No need, my liege. A drunken man’s not quite responsible for his lapses. My apologies, my liege, for that mess on the carpet. Spirits can’t think too well, you see, so it never occurred to them to catch the cursed thing right side up.”

Spirits? Gweniver thought. Ye gods, this room must be full of them if Nevyn has dweomer! Although she looked around uneasily, she saw none. Muttering something about calling a page to clean up the ale, Dannyn got up and fled the chamber.

“There’s more than one way to make a man mind his
courtesies,” the king remarked. “My lady, allow me to apologize.”

“It’s no fault of yours, my liege. As Nevyn says, a drunken man’s not quite himself.”

Although they stayed with the king for a few more moments, the awkward incident soon forced them to leave. Gweniver supposed that the king would have a few sharp words for his brother later. As she walked down the corridor with Nevyn, she was wondering why a man with his powers would be content with so humble a place at court, but she was too frightened to ask him outright.

“Well, good sorcerer,” she said at last, “I take it that our liege will be king of all Deverry soon, with a man like you to aid him.”