Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Our liege is in his reception chamber, Your Holiness,” Saddar said. “We received your messages, and his highness is most anxious to see the prince.”

“Good. I’ll be glad to get rid of him, I tell you. He was rotten company on the road.”

Four of Glyn’s guard led them into the echoing reception chamber inside the main broch. At one end was a small dais, spread with carpets and backed by two enormous tapestries, one depicting King Bran founding the Holy City, the other showing the same king leading a battle charge. In a high-backed chair waited King Glyn, dressed in ceremonial clothes: a pure-white tunic, richly worked, a golden sword at his side, and the royal plaid, fastened at the shoulder with the enormous ring-brooch that marked him king. Freshly bleached, his pale hair swept back from his face as if he were looking into a private wind. He acknowledged the entrance of Mael and Gweniver, both filthy and tattered from the road, with a small wave of a ringed hand. When Gweniver knelt, Mael remained standing and looked steadily at Glyn, who was, after all, no more than his equal in rank.

“Greetings,” the king said. “Although I disclaim and dispute your clan’s claim on my throne, I’m quite mindful of your right to yours. I assure you that you’ll be treated with every courtesy during your stay here.”

“Indeed?” Mael snapped. “Such courtesies as your rough court can offer, anyway.”

“I see that the prince has a strong spirit.” Glyn allowed himself a small smile. “I’ll be sending heralds soon to your father’s court to formally announce your capture. Do you wish any messages to go along with them?”

“I do, a letter to my wife.”

Gweniver was honestly surprised. Although it was common practice among the blood royal to marry their heirs off young, he looked like such a lad, standing there in his dirty clothes, that it was hard to believe him married. Mael made her a bow.

“My wife was due for her childbed when I rode away, Your Holiness. Perhaps such things would be of no interest to you, but her well-being weighs heavily upon me.”

“My own scribe will come to you later,” Glyn said. “Tell your lady what you wish.”

“Simple pen and ink will be enough. The men of my house know how to read and write.”

“Very well, then.” The king smiled again. “I’ll be informing you now and again of the progress of the negotiations. Guards.”

Like a hand clasping over a jewel, the guards surrounded the prince and marched him away.

Up at the top of the central broch, the prince’s chamber was a large round room with its own hearth, glass in the windows, a Bardek carpet on the floor, and decent furniture. Whenever Nevyn visited him, Mael would pace round and round like a donkey tied to a mill wheel. The guards told Nevyn that he paced that way half the night, too. Although the dweomerman visited him first to tend his broken wrist, as the month wore on, he kept coming out of simple pity. Since the prince could read and write, Nevyn brought him books from the scribal library and lingered to spend an hour or two discussing them. The lad was unusually bright, with the kind of wits that might develop into wisdom if he lived long enough. The prospect for that, however, was doubtful, because under all of Glyn’s courtesy lay the real threat that if Eldidd didn’t ransom his son, Mael would hang. Since he himself had once been a third and thus superfluous prince, Nevyn doubted that Eldidd would humble himself unduly when it came to saving Mael’s life. Mael had his own doubts.

“I wish I could have killed myself before they captured me,” he remarked one afternoon.

“That would have been a shameful thing. A man who flees his Wyrd has a harsh reckoning to make in the Otherlands.”

“Would it have been any harsher than hanging like a horse thief?”

“Oh, come now, lad, your father might ransom you yet. Glyn’s not inclined to be greedy over the price, and your father would feel shamed if he just let you die.”

Mael flung himself into a chair and slouched down, his long colt’s legs stretched out in front of him, his raven-black hair a rumpled mess.

“I can bring you another book,” Nevyn went on. “The scribes have a copy of Dwvoryc’s Annals of the Dawntime. It has some splendid battles in it, or would reading about the war ache your heart?”

The prince shook his head and stared out the window at the blue sky.

“You know what the worst thing was?” he said after a moment. “Being captured by a woman. I thought I’d die of shame when I looked at her and saw she was a woman.”

“Well, not just any female, Your Highness. There’s no shame in being captured by a Moon-sworn warrior.”

“So I’ll hope, then. But truly, I’ve never seen anyone fight like her. She was laughing.” Mael paused, his mouth slack with the memory. “It truly was like seeing a goddess come over the field, the way she was laughing and cutting. One of her men called her the Goddess, and you know, I believed him.”

Nevyn felt sick at the thought of her being so bound up in battle lust.

“Good sir, you seem wise,” the prince went on. “I thought it was impious for a woman to take up arms.”

“Now, that depends on which priest you choose to listen to. But it’s an act of piety to Lady Gweniver’s Goddess. Every man she kills is a sacrifice to the Dark of the Moon.”

“Indeed? Then her Goddess must have been glutted after that fight, and her holy battle ravens, too.”

“No doubt. Now, back in the Dawntime there were other battle maidens, all sworn to the Dark Moon, though I don’t suppose the cult was ever what you’d call widespread. The Rhwmanes thought it impious, but then, all their women did was sit and spin.”

“You mean back in the Homeland, then, before the great exile.”

“Just that, long before King Bran led his people to the Western Isles. But once they were here, cut off from the Homeland, well, I suppose a childbearing woman was simply too valuable to risk in battle. I don’t truly understand it, but the cult of the Dark Moon died away. There’s somewhat about it in that book I mentioned.”

“Then I’d truly like to read it. It makes it better, knowing I wasn’t captured by the only one.”

That very same day heralds came in from Eldidd. The court was abuzz with gossip, wondering how much the foreign king was offering for his son, and if Glyn would take it. The eager ears did hear one bit of news straightaway, that Mael’s wife had been delivered of a fine, healthy son. Nevyn wondered how much the king would care about Mael now that he had still another heir, but that answer, as it turned out, was quite a bit. Nevyn heard the tale from the king, when Glyn summoned him to his private chambers that night, as he’d grown accustomed to doing, just to hear the long view that the dweomer could offer him.

“Eldidd’s promised me a cursed large amount of gold,” Glyn said. “But I don’t need coin as much as I need a quiet border. I’m planning on dragging the negotiations out as long as possible, and I’ve warned him that his son will hang if he raids while I have him.”

“Doubtless he’ll respect that, my liege, at least for a time.”

“So I hope. I’d hate to actually hang a helpless prisoner. After all, Eldidd can press his claim to the throne by attacking Cantrae lands. They share a long border to the north.” The king smiled gently. “Let Slwmar see how it feels to be a morsel of meat between a pair of jaws.”

One of those jaws was, of course, Dannyn and King’s Guard, who were raiding up in the north. Every time a messenger returned, Nevyn questioned him for news of Gweniver, and every time the man said in awe that not only was she well, but an inspiration to the entire army. God-touched, they called her. Nevyn supposed that most people would see her that way, one of those fortunate few whom the gods directly favor with power and luck. He, of course, saw it differently, because he knew what the gods are: vast centers of force in the Inner Lands, which correspond to part of either the natural world or the human mind. For thousands of years worshipers have built up the images of the gods and poured power into them, until they seemed to be persons in their own right. Anyone who knows how to build the appropriate mental images and chant the correct sort of prayers—the exact wording doesn’t matter—can contact the centers of force and draw off power for their own use. The priest contacts those centers in blind faith; the dweomerperson, cold-bloodedly, knowing that he creates the god more than the god creates him; Gweniver had stumbled into a dark corner of the female mind that women had been forced to bury for the past seven hundred years. Without a temple of the Dark Rite to teach her, she was like a child who tries to pick up a burning fire because it’s pretty, and he worried.