LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      “My most humble apologies, my liege, for questioning you,” he said. “But I was wondering why you took the Lady Gweniver into your war band.”

      “After all her clan’s done for me, I didn’t feel I could deny her the boon she begged for. I’m sure Dannyn here can keep her from coming to any real harm, and soon enough she’ll tire of riding to war.”

      “Ah.” The old man paused, glancing at the other councillors for support. “We were thinking that perhaps she could be spared the rigors more simply, you see, by simply coercing her back to her temple, then telling her men later.”

      Dannyn pulled his jeweled dagger and threw, hitting the table directly in front of Saddar. With a shriek the councillor leaped back as the dagger stuck, quivering in the wood.

      “Tell me somewhat,” Dannyn remarked. “How can a coward like you judge a warrior like her?”

      When the king laughed, all the councillors forced out laughs, too, even Saddar.

      “Dannyn thinks highly of her spirit, good sirs,” Glyn said. “I trust his judgment in such matters.”

      “Never would I question Lord Dannyn in matters of war, my liege. I was merely thinking of the propriety of the thing.”

      “You can shove that up your behind,” Dannyn snapped.

      “Hold your tongue!” the king intervened sharply. “Good councillor, I assure you that I respect your wisdom far more than my arrogant brother here does, but I’ve already given the lady my sworn word of honor. Besides, I’ve invited his holiness here to the council to explain this matter for us.”

      Everyone turned to the priest, who rose with a nod of recognition all round. Like all of Bel’s vassals, his head was shaved clean, and he wore a gold torque around his neck and a simple linen tunic, belted at the waist with a bit of plain rope. From the belt hung a small golden sickle.

      “The king wished to know of the status of Lady Gweniver’s worship,” Amain said in his soft, dark voice. “It’s a most legitimate one, going back to the Dawntime, when, as the chronicles record, women were forced to become warriors by the cruel press of circumstance. The worship of the Moon in Her Darktime is by no means to be confused with the rites of either Epona or Aranrhodda.” At the mention of the second name, he paused to cross his fingers in the sign of warding against witchcraft. Many of the councillors did the same. “Now, truly, I was surprised to find that the knowledge of the warrior rites remains alive, but I gather the holy ladies of the temple have kept the lore of such things intact.”

      As Amain sat back down, the men looked uneasily among themselves.

      “So you see, good Saddar,” Glyn said, “that I can’t cross the will of the Holy Goddess in this.”

      “Of course not, my liege, and may She forgive me for ever questioning the lady’s purpose.”

      The council broke up in conciliatory nods and bows all round. As Glyn strode out of the room, Dannyn lingered just long enough to retrieve his dagger from the table. While he sheathed it, Saddar watched with poisonous eyes. Dannyn hurried after the king and followed him up to his private apartments. Glyn had a page bring them each a tankard of ale, then sat down in a chair by the hearth. Although Dannyn took the chair his brother offered him, he would have gladly sat by his feet like a dog.

      “Now, here, Danno,” the king said, “that pack of blowhards wearies me as much as they weary you, but I’ve got to have their loyalty. Who else is going to run this piss-poor excuse for a kingdom when we’re gone on campaign?”

      “True spoken, my liege, and you have my apologies.”

      With a sigh Glyn sipped his ale and stared into the empty hearth. Lately he’d been slipping into these dark moods; they troubled his brother deeply.

      “What aches your heart, my liege?” Dannyn said.

      “Lord Avoic’s death, and the deaths of all his brothers, too. Ah, by the gaping hells themselves, there are times when I wonder if I can be king, when I think of all the death that my claim’s brought to the kingdom.”

      “What? Here, only a true king would have such doubts. I’ll wager Cantrae doesn’t give a pig’s fart who dies in his cause.”

      “You believe in me, don’t you, Danno?”

      “I’d die for you.”

      Glyn looked up, his eyes cloudy with something suspiciously like tears. “You know,” he said after a long moment, “there are times when I think I’d go mad without you.”

      Dannyn was too shocked to speak. With a toss of his head, Glyn rose.

      “Leave me,” he snapped. “We would be alone.”

      Without bothering to bow, Dannyn hurried out. His heart heavy, he wandered out to the ward. His one consolation was that Glyn’s dark mood would probably break once they rode to the war, but it was a shallow one.

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