Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“I do. Are you going to call me a liar?”

“It’s not my place to call you anything. The king ordered me to take you and your men into his guard, and I do what he says.”

“And so do I.”

“From now on you do what I say. Understand me, lass?”

With a flick of her wrist, Gweniver dumped the contents of her tankard full into his face. As the lords at table gasped and swore, she swung herself free and rose, staring at Dannyn, who looked up, as cold as winter ice, and let the ale run down his face unnoticed.

“Listen, you,” she said. “You’re a son of a bitch, sure enough, but I’m the daughter of a Wolf. If you want to test my skill so badly, then come outside.”

“Listen to you. Feisty little wench, aren’t you?”

She slapped him across the face so hard that he reeled back.

“No man calls me a wench.”

The great hall turned dead silent as everyone in it, from page to noble lord, turned to watch.

“You forget to whom you speak,” she went on. “Or are you blind and unable to see the tattoo on my face?”

Slowly Dannyn raised his hand to his cheek and rubbed the slap, but his eyes never left hers. They were cold, deep, and frightening in their intensity.

“Will my lady accept my apology?”

When he knelt at her feet, the entire hall gasped with a sound like sea waves.

“I’m most truly sorry I insulted you, Your Holiness. Truly, a madness must have taken my heart. If any man dares call you a wench again, then they’ll have to answer to my sword.”

“My thanks. Then I forgive you.”

With a small smile Dannyn rose and wiped his alesopped face on his shirtsleeve, but still he looked at her. For the briefest of moments she was sorry that she’d sworn the vow of chastity. His fluid way of moving, his easy stance, his very arrogance struck her as beautiful, as strong and clean as the cut of a sword blade in the sun. When she remembered the dark eyes of the Goddess, the regret passed.

“Tell me somewhat,” he said. “Do you ride at the head of your warband?”

“I do. I’d rather die than have it said of me that I lead my men from the rear.”

“I expected no less.”

Dannyn bowed, then walked slowly and arrogantly through the lords to the door. Once it shut behind him, the hall burst into a rustle of whispers.

“Ye gods!” Gwetmar wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I truly thought your last hour had come. You’re the only person in the kingdom who’s crossed Dannyn and lived five beats of a heart longer.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Gweniver said. “He’s got more sense than to injure a sworn priestess of the Moon.”

“Hah!” Maemyc snorted. “Dannyn does his killing first and his thinking afterward.”

It was some time later that a page came to Gweniver and told her that the king wished to speak with her privately. Mindful of the enormous honor being paid her, she followed him up to the second floor of the main broch, where Glyn had a suite of apartments furnished with carved chairs and tables, hung with tapestries, and carpeted with fine Bardek weaving. The king was standing at a hearth of pale sandstone, carved with ships and interlacements. When she knelt before him, he bade her rise.

“I was thinking of all your kin who’ve died serving me,” Glyn said. “This matter of the Wolves lies heavily upon me, Your Holiness. Do you wish to petition me to hand the lands and name down in the female line?”

“I do, my liege. Now that I’ve sworn my vows, I can own naught but what I can carry in one large sack, but my sister will soon be betrothed to a man who’s willing to take on our feud with our name.”

“I see. Well, let me be honest. I may not be able to move as quickly as I like in this matter of your lands, but I’m quite willing to grant that the name pass down to your sister’s sons. As much as I’d like to remove the Boars from your demesne, much depends on the progress of the summer’s fighting.”

“My liege is most honorable and generous. I understand that my clan’s woes are only one thing among many to him.”

“Unfortunately, Your Holiness, you speak true. I only wish it were otherwise.”

As she was leaving the king’s presence, Gweniver met Dannyn, opening that most private of doors with no announcement or ceremony. He gave her a thin twitch of a smile.

“Your Holiness,” he said. “My heart aches for the death of your kin. I’ll do my best to avenge them.”

“Lord Dannyn is most kind, and he has my thanks.”

Gweniver hurried down the corridor, but at the staircase she glanced back to see him still watching her, his hand on the door. All at once she shuddered with cold and felt danger like a clammy hand along her back. She could only assume that the Goddess was sending her a warning.

On the morrow Gweniver was walking around the outer ward with Ricyn when she saw a shabby old man leading two pack mules through the gate. Although he was dressed in dirty brown brigga and a much-mended shirt with Glyn’s blazons upon it, he stood as straight and walked as vigorously as a young prince. Several pages came running to help him with the mules, and she noticed that they treated the old man deferentially.

“Who’s that, Ricco?”

“Old Nevyn, my lady, and that’s truly his name. He says his da named him ‘no one’ in a fit of spite.” Ricyn looked oddly in awe of the old man as he spoke. “He’s an herbman, you see. He finds wild herbs and brings them in for the chirurgeons, and then he grows some here in the dun, too.”

The pages were taking the mules away. An underchamberlain who was passing by stopped to bow to the herbman.

“Now, here,” Gweniver said, “obviously our Nevyn is a useful sort of servitor to have, but why do people treat him like a lord?”

“Uh, well.” Ricyn looked oddly embarrassed. “There’s just somewhat about the old man that makes you respect him.”

“Indeed? Out with it! I can tell you’re hiding somewhat.”

“Well, my lady, everyone says he’s dweomer, and I half believe it myself.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“It’s not, my lady. Here, the king’s been known to go down to old Nevyn’s garden and talk with him for hours.”

“And does that mean he’s dweomer? No doubt the king needs to lay aside affairs of state from time and time, and the old man probably just amuses him or suchlike.”

“If my lady says so.” But it was plain that he didn’t believe a word of what she said.

At this point, Nevyn himself walked over with a friendly greeting for Ricyn, who promptly bowed to him. When the old man looked at Gweniver, his eyes turned as ice-cold as the north wind and seemed to pierce into her very soul. Suddenly she was sure that she knew him, that in some strange way she’d been waiting to find him, that her entire life had led her here to this shabby herbman. Then the feeling faded, and he gave her a pleasant smile.

“Good morrow, my lady,” he said. “Your fame has spread through the whole dun.”

“Has it, now?” Gweniver still felt shaken. “Well, I suppose that gladdens my heart.”

“Well, a Moon-sworn warrior’s a rare thing, but truly, the times are dark enough for Her of the Sword-Struck Heart.”

Gweniver frankly stared. How did a man know that secret name? Nevyn bowed gravely to her.

“You’ll excuse me, Your Holiness. I have to make sure those pages unpack the herbs carefully. No doubt we’ll meet again.”

When he strolled away, Gweniver stared after him for a long time. Finally she turned to Ricyn.

“Oh, well and good, then, Captain,” she snapped. “He’s dweomer, sure enough.”

At about the same time, the king was holding conclave in the narrow council chamber, which stood bare except for a long table and a parchment map of Deverry on the stone wall. At the head of the table Glyn sat in a high-backed chair draped with the ceremonial plaid of the kingship. Dannyn sat at his right, and the councillors in their black robes perched on stools like crows round spilled grain. This particular morning the king had invited Amain, high priest of Bel in Cerrmor, to attend. While the councillors rose one at a time to give solemn advice on matters of war, Dannyn stared out the window and thought of other things, because the real decisions would be hammered out later between the king and his warrior-vassals. Toward the end of the meeting, though, the discussion hit upon a matter that caught Dannyn’s attention. Saddar, an old man with white side whiskers and trembling chin, rose and bowed to the King.