KATHARINE KERR
Darkspell

New Revised edition

COPYRIGHT

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by GraftonBooks 1988

Copyright © Katharine Kerr 1987

Revised edition © Katharine Kerr 1994

Cover design and illustration by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Katharine Kerr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007333813

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2015 ISBN: 9780007391936

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DEDICATION

For my father, Sergeant John Carl Brahtin, 1918–44, who died fighting to free Europe from a worse evil than anything a novelist can invent.

MAP

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Map

Pronunciation Notes

Prologue: Autumn, 1062

Deverry 733

Interlude: Spring, 1063

Cerrmor and Eldidd 790–797

Summer, 1063

Epilogue: 1062

Keep Reading

Appendix A: The Characters and their Incarnations

Appendix B: Glossary

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

PRONUNCIATION NOTES

The language spoken in Deverry, which we might well call Neo-Gaulish, is a member of the P-Celtic family. Although closely related to Welsh, Cornish, and Breton, it is by no means identical to any of these actual languages and should never be taken as such, just as the Deverrians themselves are quite different from any historical Celts.

VOWELS are divided by Deverry scribes into two classes: noble and common. Nobles have two pronunciations; commons, one.

A as in father when long; a shorter version of the same sound, as in far, when short.

O as in bone when long; as in pot when short.

W as the oo in spook when long; as in roof when short.

Y as the i in machine when long; as the e in butter when short.

E as in pen.

I as in pin.

U as in pun.

Vowels are generally long in stressed syllables; short in unstressed. Y is the primary exception to this rule. When it appears as the last letter of a word, it is always long whether that syllable is stressed or not.

DIPHTHONGS generally have one consistent pronunciation.

AE as the a in mane.

AI as in aisle.

AU as the ow in how.

EO as a combination of eh and oh.

EW as in Welsh, a combination of eh and oe.

IE as in pier.

OE as the oy in boy.

UI as the North Welsh wy, a combination of oo and ee.

Note that OI is never a diphthong, but is two distinct sounds, as in carnoic (KAR-noh-ik).

CONSONANTS are mostly the same as in English, with these exceptions:

C is always hard as in cat.

G is always hard as in get.

DD is the voiced th as in breathe, but the voicing is more pronounced than in English. It is opposed to TH, the unvoiced sound as in thin or breath. (This is the sound that the Greeks called the Celtic tau.)

R is heavily rolled.

RH is a voiceless R, approximately pronounced as if it were spelled hr in Deverry proper. In Eldidd the sound is fast becoming indistinguishable from R.

DW, GW, and TW are single sounds, as in Gwendolen or twit.

Y is never a consonant.

I before a vowel at the beginning of a word is consonantal, as it is in the plural ending -ion, pronounced yawn.

DOUBLED CONSONANTS are both sounded clearly, unlike in English. Note, however, that DD is a single letter, not a doubled consonant.

ACCENT is generally on the penultimate syllable, but compound words and place names are often an exception to this rule.

On the whole, I have transcribed both Elvish and Bardekian names and words according to the preceding system of orthography, which is quite adequate to the Bardekian, at least. As for Elvish, in a work of this sort it would be both confusing and overly pedantic to use the full apparatus by which scholars try to represent this most subtle and nuanced of tongues. To the average human ear, for instance, distinctions such as those between A, *A, and Å are lost in the hearing. Why, then, should we try to distinguish them in print?

If the reader feels that I belabor this point, the reader should be apprised that a certain Elvish scholar of Elvish has already sniped at this simplified usage, both in private circles and the more public medium of the Aberwyn papers. One hopes that having relieved himself of his bile, he will now find more suitable activities for his leisure hours.

PROLOGUE

AUTUMN, 1062

Every light casts a shadow. So does the dweomer. Some men choose to stand in the light; others, in the darkness. Be ye always aware that where you stand is a matter of choice, and let not the shadow creep over you unawares…

The Secret Book ofCadwallon the Druid

Back in the eleventh century, when the far-flung kingdom of Deverry lay sparse and tentative across the lands men claimed in the king’s name, Eldidd province was one of the most sparsely settled areas of all. Particularly in its western reaches, towns were rare, and in the west Dun Gwerbyn was something of a governmental seat, even though its high stone walls circled barely five hundred thatched houses and three temples, two of those little better than wayside shrines. On a hill in the center of town, however, stood the dun, or fort, of the tieryn, large and solid enough to be impressive in any province at that time. Inside a double set of earthworks and ditches, stone walls sheltered stables and barracks for the tieryn’s war band of a hundred men, a collection of huts and storage sheds, and the broch complex itself, a four-story round stone tower with two shorter towers built on to the sides.

On one particular morning, the open ward round the broch was abustle with servants, carrying supplies to the kitchen hut or stacks of firewood to the hearths in the great hall, or rolling big barrels of ale from the sheds to the broch. Near the iron-bound gates other servants bowed low as they greeted the arriving wedding guests. Cullyn of Cerrmor, captain of the tieryn’s warband, assembled his men out in the ward and looked them over. For a change they were all bathed, shaved, and presentable. He himself, a burly man well over six feet tall, had put on the newer of his two shirts for the occasion ahead.

“Well and good, lads,” Cullyn said. “You don’t look bad for a pack of hounds. Now, remember: every lord and lady in the tierynrhyn is going to be here today. I don’t want any of you getting stinking drunk, and I don’t want any fighting, either. This is a wedding, remember, and the lady deserves to have it be a happy one after everything she’s been through.”

They all nodded solemnly. If any of them forgot his orders, he’d make them regret it—and they knew it.

Cullyn led them into the great hall, an enormous round room that took up the full ground floor of the broch. Today freshly braided rushes lay on the floor; the tapestries on the walls had been shaken out and rehung. The hall was crammed with extra tables. Not only were there plenty of noble guests, but each lord had brought five men from his warband as an honor escort. Servants sidled and edged their way through the crowd with tankards of ale and baskets of bread; a bard played almost unheard; over by their hearth the riders diced for coppers and joked; up by the honor hearth the noble-born ladies chattered like birds while their husbands drank. Cullyn got his men settled, repeated his order about no fighting, then worked his way to the table of honor and knelt at the tieryn’s side.

Tieryn Lovyan was something of an anomaly in Deverry, a woman who ruled a large demesne in her own name. Originally her only brother had held this dun, but when he died without an heir, she’d inherited under a twist in the laws designed to keep big holdings in a clan even if a woman had to rule them. Although she’d come to her middle age, she was still a good-looking woman, with gray-streaked raven black hair, large cornflower-blue eyes, and the straight-backed posture of one quite at home with rulership. That particular day she wore a dress of red Bardek silk, kirtle in with the red, white, and brown plaid of the Clw Coc clan.

“The warband is in attendance, my lady,” Cullyn said.

“Splendid, Captain. Have you seen Nevyn yet?”

“I haven’t, my lady.”

“It would be like him to just stay away. He does so hate crowds and such like, but if you do see him, tell him to come sit with me.”

Cullyn rose, bowed, and returned to his men. From his seat he could see the honor table, and while he sipped his ale, he studied the bride at this wedding, Lady Donilla, a beautiful woman with a mane of chestnut hair, clasped back like a maiden’s now for the formality of the thing. Cullyn felt profoundly sorry for her, because her first husband, Gwerbret Rhys of Aberwyn, had recently cast her off for being barren. If Lovyan hadn’t found her a husband, she would have had to return to her brother’s dun in shame. As it was, her new man, Lord Garedd, was a decent-looking fellow some years older than she, with gray in his blond hair and a thick mustache. From what the men in the warband said, he was an honorable man, soft-spoken in peace and utterly ruthless in war. He was also a widower with a pack of children and thus more than glad to take a beautiful young wife, barren or not.

“Garedd looks honestly besotted with her, doesn’t he?” Nevyn remarked.

With a yelp Cullyn turned to find the old man grinning at him. For all of Nevyn’s white hair, and a face as lined as an old leather sack, he had all the vigor and stamina of a young lad, and he stood there straight-backed, his hands on his hips.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said with a sly grin.

“Here, I never saw you come in!”

“You weren’t looking my way, that’s all. I didn’t turn myself invisible, although I’ll admit to having a bit of a jest on you.”

“And I took the bait, sure enough. The tieryn wants you to come sit with her.”

“At the honor table? What a blasted nuisance. It’s a good thing I put on a clean shirt.”

Cullyn laughed. Usually Nevyn dressed like a farmer in shabby brown clothes, but today he’d actually put on a white shirt with Lovyan’s red lion blazon at the yokes and a pair of patched but respectable gray brigga. Still, he looked like a shabby townsman or maybe a minor servitor, anything but what he was, the most powerful master of the dweomer in the entire kingdom.

“Before you go,” Cullyn said, “have you had any, well, news of my Jill?”

“News? Why don’t you say the word ‘scrying’ right out? You’ll have to get used to sorcery sooner or later, Captain. Here, come along.”

They made their way over to the servants’ hearth, where an entire hog crackled, roasting on a spit so large that it took two kitchen boys to turn it. For a moment Nevyn stared intently into the flames.

“I see Jill and her Rhodry looking in good spirits,” he said at last. “They’re walking through a town on a nice sunny day, going up to a shop of some sort. Wait! I know the place. It’s Otho the Silversmith’s in Dun Mannannan, but he doesn’t seem to be in at the moment.”

“I don’t suppose you can tell if she’s with child.”

“She’s not showing the baby if she is. I can understand your concern.”

“Well, it’s bound to happen, sooner or later. I just hope she has the wit to ride home when it does.”

“She’s never lacked for wit.”

Although Cullyn agreed, worry ate at him. Jill was, after all, his only child.

“I just hope they have enough coin for the winter,” the captain remarked.

“Well, we gave them plenty between us, if Rhodry doesn’t drink it all away, anyway.”

“Oh, Jill won’t let him do that. My lass is as tight as an old farmwife with every cursed copper.” He allowed himself a brief smile. “She knows the long road well.”

Because the mattress was full of bedbugs, Rhodry Maelwaedd, formerly heir to Dun Gwerbyn, sat on the floor of the tiny innchamber. Nearby Jill sat in the light from the one tiny window. She was dressed in a pair of dirty blue brigga and a lad’s plain linen overshirt, and her golden hair was cropped short like a lad’s, too, but she was so beautiful, with her wide blue eyes, delicate features, and soft mouth, that he loved simply looking at her. Frowning in concentration, she was mending a rip in his only shirt.

“Ah, by the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell!” she snarled. “This’ll just have to do. I hate sewing.”

“You have my humble thanks for lowering yourself enough to mend my clothes.”

With another snarl she threw the shirt into his face. Laughing, he shook it out, once-white linen stained with sweat and rust, as well, from his mail. On the yokes were embroidered the blazons of the red lion, all that he had left of his old life. But a month earlier his brother, Gwerbret Rhys of Aberwyn, had sent him into exile, far away from kin and clan both. He pulled the shirt on, then buckled his sword belt over it. At the left hung his sword, a beautiful blade of the best steel with the hand guard worked in the form of a dragon, and at the right, the silver dagger that branded him as a dishonored man. It was the badge of a band of mercenaries who wandered the roads either singly or in pairs and fought only for coin, not loyalty or honor. In his case it branded him as something even stranger, which was why they’d come to Dun Mannannan.

“Do you think that silversmith will be in by now?” he said.

“No doubt. Otho wouldn’t leave his shop for long.”

Together they went out into the unwalled town, a straggling collection of round thatched houses and shops along a river. On the grassy bank fishing boats lay bleaching, from the look of their cracked keels and gaping planks barely seaworthy.

“I don’t see how these people make a living from the sea,” Rhodry remarked. “Look at that mast. It’s all held together with wound rope and tar.”

When he started to walk over for a better look, Jill grabbed his arm and hauled him back. Two local men, hard-eyed and dressed in filthy rags, were watching.

“It doesn’t pay to go poking your nose into other people’s business, lad,” one of them called out.

“Especially not scum like you, silver dagger,” said the other.

They both spat on the ground and laughed. Rhodry tried to shake his arm free of Jill’s grasp, but she hung on grimly.

“You can’t, Rhoddo,” she whispered. “They’re not but peasants. They’re too far below you to fight with.”

With a toss of his head he turned away. Arm in arm they walked on down the winding street.

“About those boats?” Jill said. “They’re not as shabby as they look. They keep them that way on purpose, to hide, like. There’s more than one kind of cargo that comes in under the mackerel.”

“Ye gods! You mean we’re staying in a den of smugglers?”

“Keep your voice down! Just that.”

Otho’s shop stood on the very edge of town, just on the other side of a dirt path from a field of cabbages. Under a droop of smoke-black thatch the plank door stood shut but no longer padlocked. When Jill opened it, silver bells tinkled overhead.

“Who’s there?” bellowed a deep voice.

“Jill, Cullyn of Cerrmor’s daughter, and another silver dagger.”

Rhodry followed her into an empty chamber, a small wedge of the round house set off by dirty wickerwork panels. In one panel hung a frayed green blanket, doing duty for a door, apparently, because Otho shoved it aside and came out. Although he stood only four and a half feet tall, he was perfectly proportioned and muscular at that, with arms like a miniature blacksmith. He had a heavy gray beard, neatly cropped, and shrewd dark eyes.

“Well, Jill it is,” he said. “And it gladdens my heart to see you again. Where’s your father, and who’s this lad?”

“Da’s in Eldidd. He won himself a place as captain of a tieryn’s warband.”

“Did he, now?” Otho smiled in sincere pleasure. “I always thought he was too good a man to carry the silver dagger. But what have you done? Run off with this pretty face here?”

“Now, here!” Rhodry snarled. “Cullyn gave her leave to go.”

Otho snorted in profound disbelief.

“It’s true,” Jill broke in. “Da even pledged him to the silver dagger.”

“Indeed?” The smith still looked suspicious, but he let the matter drop. “What brings you to me, lad? Have some battle loot to sell?”

“I don’t. I’ve come about my silver dagger.”

“What have you done, nicked it or suchlike? I don’t see how any man could bruise that metal.”

“He wants the dweomer taken off it,” Jill said. “Can you do that, Otho? Remove the spell on the blade?”

The smith turned, openmouthed in surprise.

“I know cursed well it’s got one on it,” she went on. “Rhoddo, take it out and show him.

Reluctantly Rhodry drew the dagger from its worn sheath. It was a lovely thing, that blade, as silky as silver, but harder than steel, some alloy that only a few smiths knew how to blend. On it was graved the device of a striking falcon (Cullyn’s old mark, because the dagger had once belonged to him), but in Rhodry’s hand the device was almost invisible in a blaze and flare of dweomer-light, running like water from the blade.

“Elven blood in your veins, is there?” Otho snapped. “And a good bit of it, too.”

“Well, there’s some.” Rhodry made the admission unwillingly. “I hail from the west, you see, and that old proverb about there being elven blood in Eldidd veins is true enough.”

When Otho grabbed the dagger, the light dimmed to a faint glow.

“I’m not letting you in my workshop,” he announced. “You people all steal. Can’t even help it, I suppose; it’s probably the way you were raised.”

“By every god in the Otherlands, I’m not a thief! I was born and raised a Maelwaedd, and it’s not my wretched fault that there’s wild blood somewhere in my clan’s quarterings.”

“Hah! I’m still not letting you into my workshop.” He turned and pointedly spoke only to Jill. “It’s a hard thing you’re asking, lass. I don’t have true dweomer. The dagger spell is the only one I can weave, and I don’t even understand what I’m doing. It’s just somewhat that we pass down from father to son, those of us who know it at all, that is.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said with a sigh. “But we’ve got to do somewhat about it. He can’t use it at table when it turns dweomer every time he draws it.”

Otho considered, chewing on his lower lip.

“Well, if this were an ordinary dagger, I’d just trade you a new one without the spell, but since it was Cullyn’s and all, I’ll try to unweave the dweomer. Maybe working it all backward will do it. But it’s going to cost you dear. There’s a risk in meddling with things like this.”

After a couple of minutes of brisk haggling, Jill handed him five silver pieces, about half of the smith’s asking price.

“Come back at sunset,” Otho said. “We’ll see if I’ve been successful or not.”

Rhodry spent the afternoon looking for a hire. Although it was too close to winter weather for warfare, he did find a merchant who was taking a load of goods back to Cerrmor. For all their dishonor, silver daggers were in much demand as caravan guards, because they belonged to a band with a reputation that kept them more honest than most. Not just any man could become a silver dagger. A fighting man who was desperate enough to take the blade had to first find another silver dagger, ride with him awhile, and prove himself before he was allowed to meet one of the rare smiths who served the band. Only then could he truly “ride the long road,” as the daggers referred to their lives.

And if Otho could blunt the spell, Rhodry would no longer have to keep his blade sheathed for fear of revealing his peculiar bloodlines. He hurried Jill through her dinner and hustled her along to the silversmith’s shop a little before sunset. Otho’s beard was a good bit shorter, and he no longer had any eyebrows at all.

“I should have known better than to do a favor for a miserable elf,” he announced.

“Otho, you have our humble apologies.” Jill caught his hand and squeezed. “And I’m ever so glad you didn’t get badly burned.”

“You’re glad? Hah! Well, come along, lad. Try it out.”

When Rhodry took the dagger, the blade stayed ordinary metal without the trace of a glow. He was smiling as he sheathed it.

“My thanks, good smith, a thousand times over. Truly, I wish I could reward you more for the risk you ran.”

“So do I. That’s the way of your folk, though; all fine words and no hard coin.”

“Otho, please,” Jill said. “He doesn’t even have much elven blood.”

“Hah! That’s what I say to that, young Jill. Hah!”

All day the People rode into the meeting place for the alardan. To a grassy meadow so far west of Eldidd that only one human being had ever seen it, they came in small groups, driving their herds of horses and flocks of sheep before them. After they pastured the animals, they set up leather tents, painted in bright colors with pictures of animals and flowers. Children and dogs raced through the camp, cooking fires blossomed; the smell of a feast grew in the air. By sunset well over a hundred tents stood round the meeting place. As the last fire took light and blazed, a woman began to sing the long wailing tale of Donabel and his lost love, Adario. A harper joined in, then a drummer, and finally someone brought out a conaber, three joined reedy pipes for a drone.

Devaberiel Silverhand, generally considered the best bard in this part of the elven lands, considered unpacking his harp and joining the musicians, but he was quite simply too hungry. He got a wooden bowl and spoon from his tent, then wandered through the feast. Each riding group, or alar, to give them their Elvish name, had made a huge quantity of one particular dish. Everyone strolled around, eating a bit here and there of whatever appealed to them while the music, talk, and laughter drifted through the camp. Devaberiel was searching for Manaverr, whose alar traditionally roasted a whole lamb in a pit.

Finally he found his friend near the edge of the camp. A couple of young men were just digging up the lamb, while others piled green leaves into a clean bed to receive it. Manaverr left off directing the operation and hurried over to greet the bard. His hair was so pale that it was almost white, and his cat-slit eyes gleamed a deep purple. They each put their left hand on the other’s right shoulder in greeting.

“It’s a big gathering,” Manaverr said.

“They all knew you’d be here to do the lamb.”

Manaverr laughed with a toss of his head. A small green sprite popped into manifestation and perched on his shoulder. When he reached up to pat her, she grinned, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth.

“Have you seen Calonderiel yet?” Manaverr said.

“The warleader? No. Why?”

“He’s been asking every bard here about some obscure point of somebody’s genealogy. He’ll probably work his way round to you sooner or later.”

The sprite suddenly pulled his hair, then vanished before he could swat her. The alardan was filled with Wildfolk, rushing around as excitedly as the children. Sprite, gnome, sylph, and salamander, they were the spirits of the elements, who at times took on a solid appearance, even though their home lay elsewhere in the many-layered universe. Devaberiel was not quite sure where; only dweomer-folk knew such things.

With one last heave the men got up the lamb, wrapped in charred coarse cloth, and flopped it onto the leaves. The smell of the roast meat, heavily spiced and baked with fruit, was so inviting that Devaberiel moved closer without even being aware that he was doing so, but he had to wait for his portion. Calonderiel, who was Manaverr’s cousin and looked it, strode over and hailed him.

“What’s this mysterious question?” Devaberiel said. “Manaverr told me you were wondering about someone’s lineage.”

“Just a point of curiosity. Did you know that I rode with Aderyn when he rode east into the lands of men?”

“This summer past, you mean? I heard something about that, yes.”

“All right, then. I met a human warleader called Rhodry Maelwaedd, a lad of twenty. Strangely enough, he’s got a good bit of our blood in his veins. I was wondering if you knew how it had gotten into his clan.”

“A woman of the People married Pertyc Maelwaedd in … oh, when was that … well, say two hundred years ago now. Pertyc was an important man, if I remember correctly. I know he had a son to inherit his position and pass the elven blood along.”

“But two hundred years? That long ago? I saw Rhodry handle a piece of dwarven silver, and it blazed in his hands.”

“Really? Huh. You’re right—that distant ancestor’s blood would be a bit too thin by now for that to happen. What was his father’s name?”

“Tingyr Maelwaedd, and his mother is Lovyan of the Clw Coc.”

Devaberiel went very still. When had that been? He could still see her face in his mind, a beautiful lass for all her blunt ears and round eyes, and she’d been so melancholy about something. But when? That unusually dry summer, wasn’t it? Yes, and it was about twenty-one years ago, all right.

“Oh, by the Dark Sun herself!” Devaberiel burst out. “Here I never even knew I’d gotten Lovva with child!”

Calonderiel whooped with laughter. All round them men and women alike turned to stare. Devaberiel could hear murmuring, things like “What did he say?” “Did he say what I thought he said?”

“And isn’t that a fine jest?” Calonderiel paused for a grin. “I certainly picked the perfect bard to answer my question. You have a peculiar fondness for those Round-ear women, my friend.”

“Imph. Haven’t been that many.”

When Calonderiel started to laugh, Devaberiel threw a punch his way.

“Stop howling like a goblin! I want to know about this son of mine. Every detail you can remember.”

Not many days later Rhodry was the subject of another discussion, this one in Bardek, far across the Southern Sea. In an upstairs room of an isolated villa, deep in the hill country of the main island, two men lounged on a purple divan and watched a third, sitting at a table littered with parchment scrolls and books. He was grossly fat, as saggy and wrinkled as a torn leather ball, and only a few wisps of white hair clung to his dark-skinned skull. Whenever he glanced up, his eyelids drooped uncontrollably, half covering his brown eyes. He had immersed himself so thoroughly and so long in the craft of the dark dweomer that he no longer had a name. He was simply the Old One.

The other two men were both from Deverry. Alastyr, who looked fifty but was actually closer to seventy, was a solid sort with a squarish face and gray hair. At first sight he looked like a typical Cerrmor merchant, with his checked brigga and nicely embroidered shirt, and indeed, he took great pains to act the part. The other, Sarcyn, had just turned thirty. His thick blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and regular features should have made him handsome, but there was something about the way he smiled, something about the burning expression in his eyes, that made most people find him repellent. They both spoke not a word until the Old One looked up, tipping his head back so that he could see them.

“I have gone over all the major calculations.” His voice was like the rasp of two dead twigs rubbed together. “There’s some hidden thing at work here that I don’t understand, some secret, some force of Destiny, perhaps, that has interfered with our plans.”

“Could it simply be the Master of the Aethyr?” Alastyr said. “Loddlaen’s war was going splendidly until Nevyn intervened.”

The Old One shook his head and picked up a parchment sheet.

“This is the horoscope of Tingyr, Rhodry’s father. My art is very complex, little Alastyr. A single horoscope reveals few secrets.”

“I see. I didn’t realize that.”

“No doubt, because few know the stars as I do. Now, most fools think that when a man dies, his horoscope is of no more use, but astrology is the art of studying beginnings. Whatever a man begins in his life—like a son, for instance—is influenced by his stars, even after his death. Now, when I correlated this horoscope with certain transits, it seemed clear that this summer Tingyr would lose a son through deceit on someone’s part. The older brother’s chart showed that he was in danger, so obviously Rhodry had to be the son lost.”

‘Well, the year’s not over yet. It would be easy to send assassins after him.”

“Easy and quite useless. The omens clearly show that he will die in battle. Have you forgotten everything I ever told you?”

“My humble apologies.”

“Besides, the Deverry year ends on Samaen. We have less than a month now. No, it’s as I say. Some hidden thing is at work here.” He let his glance linger on the heaped table. “And yet, it seems that I had all the information I could possibly need. This bodes ill—for all of us. No, Alastyr, we’ll send no assassins, nothing so hasty until I unravel this puzzle.”

“As you wish, of course.”

“Of course.” The Old One picked up a bone stylus and idly tapped another parchment. “This woman puzzles me, too. Very greatly does Jill puzzle me. There was nothing in the omens about a woman who could fight like a man. I wish more information about her, her birth date if possible, so that I can scribe out her stars.”

“I’ll make every effort to find it for you when I return.”

With a nod of approval that set his chins trembling, the Old One shifted his bulk in his chair.

“Send your apprentice to fetch me my meal.”

Alastyr gestured at Sarcyn, who rose and obediently left the room. The Old One contemplated the closed door for a moment.

“That one hates you,” he said at last.

“He does? I wasn’t aware of it.”

“No doubt he’s taken great pains to hide it. Now, it’s fit and right that an apprentice struggle with his master. No one learns on the Dark Path unless he fights for knowledge. But hatred? It’s very dangerous.”

Alastyr wondered if the Old One had seen an omen that indicated Sarcyn was a real threat. The master would never tell except for a stiff price. The Old One was the greatest expert alive in one particular part of the dark dweomer, that of wresting hints of future events from a universe unwilling to reveal them. His personal perversion of astrology was only part of the art, which involved meditation and a dangerous kind of astral scrying as well. Since he was scrupulously honest in his own way as well as valuable, he commanded a respect and loyalty rare among the dweomermen of the left-hand path and was, in a limited sense, as much of a leader as their “brotherhood” could ever have. Since his age and bulk confined him to his villa, Alastyr had struck a bargain with him. In return for the master’s aid with his own plans, he was doing such portions of the Old One’s work that required traveling.

In a few minutes Sarcyn returned with a bowl on a tray, set it down in front of the Old One, then took his place at Alastyr’s side. The bowl held raw meat, freshly killed and mixed with the still-warm blood, a necessary food for aged masters of the dark arts. The Old One scooped up a delicate fingerful and licked it off.

“Now, as for your own work,” he said, “the time is growing ripe to obtain what you seek, but you must be very careful. I know you’ve taken many precautions, but consider how carefully we worked to eliminate Rhodry. You know full well how that ended.”

“I assure you that I’ll be constantly on guard.”

“Good. Next summer a certain configuration of planets will lie adversely in the horoscope of the High King of Deverry. This grouping in turn is influenced by subtle factors beyond your understanding. All these omens taken together indicate that the king might lose a powerful guardian if someone worked to that end.”

“Splendid! The jewel I seek is just such a guardian.”

The Old One paused for another scoop and lick.

“This is all very interesting, little Alastyr. So far you’ve kept your side of our bargain, perhaps even better than you can know. So many strange things.” He sounded almost dreamy. “Very, very interesting. We’ll see when you return to Deverry, if more strange things come your way. Do you see what I mean? You must be on guard every single moment.”

Alastyr felt an icy-cold hand clench his stomach. He was being warned, no matter how circumspectly, that the Old One could no longer trust his own predictions.

Devaberiel Silverhand knelt in his red leather tent and methodically rummaged through a wall bag embroidered with vines and roses. Since it was quite large, it took him a while to find what he was looking for. Irritably he scrabbled through old trophies from singing contests, the clumsy first piece of embroidery his daughter had ever done, two mismatched silver buckles, a bottle of Bardek scent, and a wooden horse given to him by a lover whose name he’d forgotten. At the very bottom he found the small leather pouch, so old that it was cracking.

He opened it and shook a ring out into his hand. Although it was made of dwarven silver, and thus still as shiny as the day he’d put it away, it had no dweomer upon it, or at least none that any sage or dweomerperson had ever been able to unravel. A silver band, about a third of an inch wide, it was engraved with roses on the outside and a few words in Elvish characters, but some unknown language, on the inside. In the two hundred years he’d had this ring, he’d never found a sage who could read it.

The way he’d come by it was equally mysterious. He was a young man then, just finished with his bardic training and riding with the alar of a woman he particularly fancied. One afternoon a traveler rode up on a fine golden stallion. When Devaberiel and a couple of the other men strolled out to greet him, they received quite a surprise. Although from a distance he looked like an ordinary man of the People, with the dark hair and jet-black eyes of someone from the far west, up close it was hard to tell just what he did look like. It seemed that his features changed constantly though subtly, that at times his mouth was wider, then thinner, that he became shorter, then taller. He dismounted and looked over the welcoming party.

“I wish to speak with Devaberiel the bard.”

“Here I am.” Devaberiel stepped forward. “How did you know my name?”

The stranger merely smiled.

“May I ask your name, then?” Devaberiel said.

“No.” The stranger smiled again. “But I have something for you, a present for one of your sons, young bard, for sons you’ll have. When each is born, consult with someone who knows the dweomer. They’ll be able to tell you which one receives the gift.”

When he handed over the pouch and the ring, his eyes seemed more blue than black.

“My thanks, good sir, but who are you?”

The stranger laughed, then mounted his horse and rode off without another word.

Over the intervening years Devaberiel had learned nothing more about the ring. All the sages and dweomer-masters he consulted told him, though, that the man who gave him the gift must have been one of the Guardians, the semidivine beings whose mysterious ways sometimes crossed those of the elves. No mortal man, or so they told him, could understand the Guardians, who came and went as they pleased and changed their appearance, too, as easily as a man changes his shirt.

Devaberiel did indeed have sons, two of them to be exact, and when each was born, he’d dutifully taken the ring and the baby both and consulted with a dweomer-master. The omens had fallen wrong both times. Now, however, he had a third son. Holding the ring, he walked to the door of the tent and looked out. A cold, gray drizzle fell over the camp, and the wind was brisk. He was going to have an uncomfortable journey, but he was determined to find the dweomerwoman who seemed to have the most affinity for the ring. His curiosity was not going to let him rest until he found out if it belonged to young Rhodry ap Devaberiel, who still thought himself a Maelwaedd.

Driven by a bitter-cold wind, the rains slashed down hard in the gray streets of Cerrmor. There was little for Jill and Rhodry to do but hole up like foxes in their inn by the north gate. Since they had enough coin to stay warm and fed all winter, Jill felt as rich and happy as a lord, but Rhodry fell into a black mood that can only be given the untranslatable name of hiraedd, a painful longing for some unobtainable thing. He would sit in the tavern room for hours, slumped down and staring into a tankard of ale while he brooded over his dishonor. Nothing Jill could do or say would rouse him out of it. Eventually, though it ached her heart to do it, she let him have his silence.

At least at night, when they went up to their chamber, she could use kisses and caresses to change his mood. After their lovemaking he would be happy for a while, talking with her as they lay tight in each other’s arms. When he drifted off to sleep, often she would stay awake and look at him as if he were a puzzle to be studied out.

Rhodry was a tall man, heavily muscled but built straight from shoulder to hip, with long, sensitive hands that hinted at his elven blood. He had the raven-dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes so typical of Eldidd men, but there was nothing typical about his good looks. His features were so perfect that he would have looked girlish if it weren’t for the various small scars and battle-nicks on his face. Since she’d met some of the Westfolk, the name that Deverry men had given the elves, Jill knew that they too were as handsome. She would wonder over that trace of elven blood in his clan, which had, or so Nevyn assured her, merely all come out in him, a throwback. Logically, it seemed improbable.

One night her long pondering brought her the answer to the problem. Every now and then Jill had true dreams, which were actually dweomer-visions beyond the control of her conscious mind. Generally they came, as this one did, when she’d put a lot of time and effort into thinking over a problem. On a night when the rain beat upon the shutters and the wind howled around the inn, she fell asleep in Rhodry’s arms and dreamed of the Elcyion Lacar. It seemed that she flew above the western grasslands on a day when the sun broke through clouds only to vanish again. Far below her in a green sea of grass stood a cluster of elven tents, glowing like many-colored jewels.

Suddenly she stood on the ground among them. Bundled in a red cloak, a tall man strode past her and into a purple-and-blue tent. On a whim she followed. The tent was elaborately decorated with woven hangings, embroidered wall bags, and Bardek carpets used as floor cloths. Sitting on a pile of leather cushions was an elven woman, her pale-blond hair bound into two braids that hung behind her ears, which were as long and delicately pointed as seashells. Her visitor pressed his palms together and bowed to her, then doffed the cloak and sat down on the carpet nearby. His hair was as pale as moonlight, and his dark-blue eyes were, like all elven eyes, slit vertically with a pupil like a cat’s. Yet Jill thought that he was as handsome as her Rhodry in his alien way and also oddly familiar.

“Very well, Devaberiel,” the woman said, and though she spoke in Elvish, Jill could understand her. “I’ve been studying my stones, and I have an answer for you.”

“My thanks, Valandario.” He leaned closer.

At that point Jill realized that a cloth, embroidered in geometric patterns, lay between them. At various points on the web of triangles and squares lay spherical gems: rubies, yellow beryls, sapphires, emeralds, and amethysts. In the middle of the cloth lay a simple silver ring. Valandario began moving the gems along the various lines, finally bringing one of each color into the center to form a pentagon around the ring.

“Your son’s Destiny is encircled by this ring,” she said. “But I know not what that Destiny may be, except to say that it lies somewhat in the north and in the air.”

“In the air? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doubtless all will be revealed in time.” Valandario waved a vague hand. “But I know the ring is his.”

“As god and Guardian wish it, then so be it. You have my solemn thanks. I’ll see to it that Rhodry gets the ring, then. I might ride to Dun Gwerbyn myself to have a look at this lad of mine.”

“It would be unwise to tell him the truth. Very, very unwise.”

“Of course. From what Calonderiel tells me, he stands to inherit a lot of property from his supposed father, and I don’t want to meddle. I just want to see him. After all, it’s quite a surprise to learn you’ve got a full-grown son you never even knew existed. Though Lovyan could hardly have sent me word, of course, with her still married to that other fellow. He was a very powerful man, one of high rank, too.”

“I see your point.” Valandario suddenly looked up, right at Jill. “Here! Who are you, to come spying upon me in the spirit?”

When Jill tried to answer, she found that she couldn’t speak. In exasperation Valandario threw up one hand and sketched a sigil in the air. All at once Jill found herself awake, sitting up in bed with Rhodry snoring beside her. Since the room was cold, she lay down and hurriedly snuggled under the blankets. That was a true dream, she thought, oh, by the Goddess of the Moon, my lover’s half an elf!

For a long while she lay awake, thinking over the dream. Of course Devaberiel would look familiar since he was Rhodry’s father. She was honestly shocked to find out that Lady Lovyan, whom she much admired, had put horns on her husband’s head, but then, Devaberiel was an exceptionally handsome man. She had the brief thought of telling Rhodry about the dream, but Valandario’s warning stopped her. Besides, finding out that he was no true Maelwaedd, but a bastard, would only drive Rhodry deeper into his hiraedd. She could barely tolerate his dark fits as it was.

And then there was the silver ring. Here was another proof of something that Nevyn had told her the summer past, that Rhodry’s Wyrd was deep and hidden. She decided that if ever she saw the old man again, she would tell him of the omens. As she was drifting back to sleep, she wondered if her path would ever cross his again. For all that his dweomer frightened her, she was very fond of Nevyn, but the kingdom was very large, and who knew which way the old man would choose to wander?

On the morrow the full significance of the dream came to her as she and Rhodry sat in the tavern room. Yet once again, the dweomer had irrupted into her mind, taken her over with no warning. For a moment she shrank into herself, just as when the hare hears the dogs baying and crouches frozen in the bracken.

“Is something wrong, my love?” Rhodry said.

“Naught, naught. I was just … oh, thinking about last summer.”

“It was a strange thing, sure enough.” He shuddered as if a cold draft had run down his neck. “That fellow Loddlaen and his stinking magicks! It’s a hard thing, knowing someone wants to kill you, and here you don’t even know why.”

“Well, Nevyn said he was a madman. Right out of his head, the old man told me, stark raving.”

“He said somewhat of the same to me.” Rhodry dropped his voice to a whisper. “All that cursed dweomer! It’s enough to drive anyone mad! I pray to every god we’re never touched by sorcery again.”

Although she nodded her agreement, Jill knew that he was praying for the impossible. Even as he spoke, her little gray gnome manifested onto the table and sat down by Rhodry’s tankard. All her life Jill had been able to see the Wildfolk, and this particular skinny, big-nosed creature was a close friend. Oh my poor Rhoddo, she thought, you ride with dweomer all around you! She felt both angry and frightened, wishing that her peculiar talents would go away, fearing that they never would.

Yet once, last summer, Nevyn had told her that if she refused to use her talents, they would eventually wither and be gone. Although she hoped that the old man was right—and certainly he knew far more about the matter than she did—she had her doubts, especially when she considered how dweomer had swept her into Rhodry’s war and Rhodry’s life last summer. She’d been an utterly obscure person, the bastard daughter of a silver dagger, until her father had taken what seemed to be a perfectly ordinary hire, guarding a merchant caravan that was traveling to the western border of Eldidd. Yet from the moment that the merchant had offered Cullyn the job, she’d known that something unusual was going to happen, felt with an inexplicable certainty that her life had reached a crossroads. How right she’d been! First the caravan went west to the land of the Elcyion Lacar, the elves, a people who were supposed to exist only in fairy tale and myth. Then, with some of the elves in tow, they’d returned to Eldidd and ridden right into the middle of a dweomer war.

Just in time for her to save Rhodry’s life by killing a man who, or so the dweomer seemed to declare, was invincible—Lord Corbyn will never die by any man’s hand, or so a prophecy declared. Like all dweomer-riddles, this one had two sharp sides, and a lass’s hand had slain him sure enough. As she thought about it, it all seemed entirely too neat, too clever, as if the gods shaped a person’s Wyrd the way a Bardek craftsman shapes a puzzle box with its precise little workings that mean absolutely nothing in the long run. And then she remembered the elves, who were not men in any true sense, and Rhodry himself, who was only half of one. She saw then that Rhodry might have slain his enemy himself, if only he’d believed he could, and that her coming, while convenient, need not be foreordained any more than a snowstorm that appears in winter could be said to be a mighty act of dweomer.

Yet dweomer had brought her to him; that she was sure of, if not to save his life, then for some obscure purpose. Although she shuddered at the thought, she also found herself wondering why dweomer should frighten her so badly, why she was sure that following the dweomer road would lead to her death. Suddenly she saw it: she was afraid that if ever she tampered with dweomer, it would bring not only her death, but Rhodry’s. Even though she told herself that the idea was stupid, the irrational fear seemed to hang round her like smoke, acrid and choking. For a moment, in fact, she thought she could see gray tendrils, curling through the room. When she leaped up, ready to shout fire, the smoke disappeared—a dweomer-vision.

She had no way of knowing that the smoke of her vision came from a fire that burned some three hundred years in the past, when she and Rhodry both had lived another life, as all souls have many lives, as many as the moon, cycling from light into darkness and back to the light yet once again.

DEVERRY 733

All men have seen the two smiling faces of the Goddess, She who brings love to men’s hearts. Some have seen Her stern face, the Mother who at times must chastise her erring children. But how many have ever seen the fourth face of the Goddess, which is hidden even to most women who walk the earth?

The Discourses ofthe Priestess, Camylla

The rider was dying. He slid off his horse to the cobbles, staggered once, and fell to his knees. Gweniver flung herself down and grabbed him by the shoulders before he fell on his face. Warm blood oozed through his shirt onto her hands.

“Lost, my lady,” he gasped. “Your brother’s dead.”

Blood welled into his mouth and broke in a bubble of death. When she laid him down, his foundered horse tossed its head once, then merely trembled, dripping gray sweat. She got to her feet just as a stable lad came running.

“Do what you can for that horse,” she said. “Then tell all the servants to pack up and flee. You’ve got to get out of here or you won’t live the night.”

Wiping her hands on her dress, Gweniver ran across the ward to the tall broch of the Wolf clan, which would burn that night beyond her power to save it. Inside the great hall, huddled by the honor hearth, were her mother, Dolyan, her younger sister, Macla, and Mab, their aged serving woman.

“The Boar’s men have caught our warband on the road,” Gweniver said. “Avoic’s dead, and there’s an end to the feud.”

Dolyan threw back her head and keened out a wail for her husband and three sons. Macla burst into moist sobs and clung to Mab.

“Oh, hold your tongues!” Gweniver snapped. “The Boar’s warband is doubtless riding here right now to claim us. Do you want to end up as trophies?”

“Gwen!” Macla wailed. “How can you be so cold-hearted?”

“Better coldhearted than raped. Now, hurry, all of you. Get the things you can carry on one horse. We’re riding to the Temple of the Moon. If we live to reach it, the priestesses will give us refuge. Do you hear me, Mam, or do you want to see me and Maccy handed over to the warband?”

The deliberate brutality forced Dolyan silent.

“Good,” Gweniver said. “Now, hurry, all of you!”

She followed the others as they puffed up the spiral staircase, but she went to her brother’s chamber, not her own. From the carved chest beside his bed she took a pair of his old brigga and one of his shirts. Changing into his clothes brought her a scatter of tears—she’d been fond of Avoic, who was only fourteen—but there was no time for mourning. She belted on his second-best sword and an old dagger. Although she was far from being a trained warrior, her brothers had taught her how to handle a sword. Finally she unclasped her long blond hair and cut it off short with the dagger. At night she would look enough like a man to give any lone marauder pause about attacking her party on the road.

Since they had over thirty miles to go to reach safety, Gweniver bullied the other women into riding fast, trotting, walking, then occasionally galloping in short bursts. Every now and then she would turn in her saddle and scan the road for the dust cloud that would mean death chasing them. Shortly after sunset the full moon rose to shed her holy light to guide them. By then her mother was swaying in the saddle with exhaustion. Gweniver saw a copse of alders off to one side of the road and led the others there for a brief rest. Dolyan and Mab had to be helped down from their saddles.

Gweniver walked back to the road to stand guard. Far away on the horizon, in the direction from which they’d come, a golden glow flared like the rising of a tiny moon. It was most likely the dun burning. She drew her sword and clutched the hilt while she stared unthinking at the glare. Suddenly she heard hoofbeats and saw a rider galloping down the road. Behind her in the copse the horses nickered a greeting, unknowing traitors.

“Mount!” she screamed. “Get ready to ride!”

The rider pulled up, then dismounted and drew his sword. As he strode toward her, she saw his bronze cloak pin glittering in the moonlight: a Boarsman.

“And who are you, lad?” he said.

Gweniver dropped into a fighting crouch.

“A page of the Wolf, from your silence. And what are you guarding so faithfully? I hate to kill a slip of a lad like you, but orders-are orders, so come now, turn the ladies over to me.”

In utter desperation Gweniver lunged and struck. Taken off guard, the Boarsman slipped, his sword swinging up wildly. She cut again and sliced him hard on one side of his neck, then struck back on the other, just as her older brother Benoic had taught her. With a moan of disbelief the Boarsman buckled to his knees and died at her feet. Gweniver nearly vomited. In the moonlight the sword blade was dark wet with blood, not shiny clean as in the practice sessions. Her mother’s shriek of terror brought her back to her senses. She ran for the Boarsman’s horse, grabbed the reins just as it was about to bolt, then led it back to the copse.

“That it would ever come to this!” Mab sobbed. “That a lass I tended would be forced to turn warrior on the roads! Oh, holy gods all, when will you have mercy on the kingdom?”

“When it suits them and not a minute before,” Gweniver said. “Now, get on those horses! We’ve got to get out of here.”

Deep in the middle of the night they reached the Temple of the Moon, which sat at the top of a hill with a stone wall around its compound. Along with his friends and vassals, Gweniver’s father had given the coin to build the wall, a farsighted generosity on his part, since it would now save his wife and daughters. If any battle-drunk warrior were insane enough to break geis and risk the Goddess’s wrath by demanding entry, the wall would keep him out until he’d come to his senses. At the gates Gweniver screamed and yelled and kept it up until at last she heard a frightened voice call back that its owner was on the way. A priestess draped in a shawl yanked the gates open a bare crack, then shoved them wider when she saw Dolyan.

“Oh, my lady, has the worst come upon your clan?”

“It has. Will you shelter us?”

“Gladly, but I don’t know what to do about this lad with you.”

“It’s only Gwen in her brother’s clothes,” Gweniver broke in. “I thought we’d best pretend to have a man with us.”

“Well and good, then. Now ride in quickly, all of you.”

Dark and shadowed in the moonlight, the vast temple compound was crowded with buildings, some of stone, others hastily thrown together out of wood. Priestesses with cloaks over their nightdresses clustered round the refugees. Some took the horses to the stables; others led Gweniver and her party to the long wood guest house. Once an elegant place for visiting noblewomen, it spread out crowded with cots and chests, and women of all ranks sheltered there. The blood feud that had just reduced the Wolf clan to three women was only a single thread in a hideous tapestry of civil war.

By the light of a candle lantern the priestesses found the newest arrivals empty cots in a corner. In the midst of the whispers and confusion, Gweniver lay down on the nearest one and fell asleep, boots, sword belt, and all.

She woke to find a silent, empty dormitory flooded with light from the narrow windows near the roof. She’d come to this temple so often that for a moment she was confused: was she here to pray about her vocation or to represent her clan at the harvest rite? Then the memory came back, sharp as a sword thrust.

“Avoic,” she whispered. “Oh, Avoid”

Yet no tears came, and she realized that she was hungry. Sore and stretching, she got up and wandered through a doorway at the end of the dormitory into the refectory, a narrow room crammed with tables for desperate guests. A neophyte in a white dress kittled with green screamed aloud, then laughed.

“My apologies, Gwen. I thought you were a lad for a moment. Sit down and I’ll fetch you porridge.”

Gweniver unbuckled the sword belt and slung it on the table. She ran one finger down Avoic’s second-best scabbard, chaped in tarnished silver and inlaid with spirals and interlaced wolves. By all rights under the law, she was the head of the Wolf clan now, but she doubted if she could ever claim her position. To inherit in the female line, she would need to overcome more obstacles than Tieryn Bureau of the Boar.

In a few minutes Ardda, high priestess of the temple, came to sit beside her. Although she grew old, with her hair turning gray and lines webbing her eyes, Ardda’s step and carriage were as lithe as a young lass’s.

“Well, Gwen. You’ve been telling me for years that you want to be a priestess. Has the time come upon you now or not?”

“I don’t know, my lady. You know that I’ve always had doubts about my calling, but do I have any choice in the matter now?”

“Don’t forget that you’ve got the Wolf lands for a dowry. When the news spreads, I’ll wager that many a man among your father’s allies will want to come fetch you out.”

“But oh, ye gods, I’ve never wanted to marry!”

With a little sigh Ardda unconsciously reached up and touched her right cheek, covered with the blue tattoo of the crescent moon. Any man who touched in lust a woman with that mark would die. Not merely noble lords but any freeborn man would have slain the defiler; everyone knew that the Goddess’s wrath meant the crops would fail and no man ever sire a son again.

“Knowing you, you want to keep the Wolfs lands,” Ardda said. “That means marrying.”

“It’s not only the land. I want to keep my clan alive. May the Goddess blast me if I let the stinking Boars win!”

“I wish you wouldn’t curse in the temple.”

“I’m not cursing. I mean it. But there’s my sister. If I swore to the Goddess, then the right of inheritance would pass to Maccy. She always had lots of suitors, even when she only had a small dowry.”

“But could she rule the clan?”

“Of course not, but if I pick her the right husband—oh, listen to me! How am I going to get to the king to lay my petition? I’ll wager that the Boar’s riding this way right now to pen us up like hogs.”

Her prediction came true not an hour later. Gweniver was restlessly pacing around the guest house when she heard the sound of men and horses riding their way. As she ran toward the gates, priestesses joined her, yelling at the gatekeeper to close them up. Gweniver was just helping slam the iron bar into the staples when the horsemen arrived in a clatter of hooves and a jingle of mail. Ardda already stood on the catwalk over the gates. Trembling with rage, Gweniver climbed up and joined her.

On the flat ground below the temple hill, the Boar’s warband milled around as the men tried to draw their horses up into some kind of order. Burcan himself edged his horse out of the mob and rode right up to the gates. A man of solid years, he had a thick streak of gray in his raven-dark hair and heavy mustache. Gweniver had been raised to hate him, and now he had killed her clan. If she had been closer, she would have spat in his face.

“What do you want?” Ardda called out. “To approach the Holy Moon ready for war is an insult to the Goddess.”

“No insult meant, Your Holiness,” he called back in his dark, gravelly voice. “It’s only that I rode in haste. I see that Lady Gweniver is safe here with you.”

“And safe she’ll remain, unless you want the Goddess to curse your lands into barrenness.”

“What kind of a man do you think I am, to violate the holy sanctuary? I came to make the lady an offer of peace.” He turned in the saddle to address Gweniver. “Many a blood feud’s ended with a wedding, my lady. Take my second son for your man and rule the Wolf lands in the name of the Boar.”

“I’d never let kin to you lay one filthy finger on me, you bastard! And what do you expect me to do, swear fealty to that false king you serve?”

Burcan’s broad face flushed in rage.

“I make you a vow. If my son doesn’t have you, then no man will, and that goes for your sister, too. I’ll cursed well claim your land by right of blood feud if I have to.”

“You forget yourself, my lord!” Ardda snapped. “I forbid you to remain on temple land for another minute. Take your men away and make no more threats to one who worships the Goddess!”

Burcan hesitated, then shrugged and turned his horse away. Yelling orders, he collected his men and withdrew to the public road some distance from the foot of the hill. Gweniver clenched her fists so hard that they ached as the warband spread out in the meadow on the far side of the road, technically off the demesne that supported the temple but in a perfect position to guard it.

“They can’t stay there forever,” Ardda said. “They’ll have to go to Dun Deverry soon to fulfill their obligation to their king.”

“True spoken, but I’ll wager they stay there as long as they can.”

Leaning back against the rampart, Ardda sighed. Suddenly she looked very old, and very weary.

The civil wars had come about in this wise. Twenty-four years past, the High King died without a male heir, and his daughter, a sickly young lass, died soon after. Each of his three sisters, however, had sons by their high-ranking husbands, Gwerbret Cerrmor, Gwerbret Cantrae, and the Marked Prince of the kingdom of Eldidd. By law the throne should have passed to the son of the eldest sister, married to Cantrae, but the gwerbret was widely suspected of having poisoned the king and princess both to get at the throne. Gwerbret Cerrmor worked that suspicion to claim the throne for his son, and then the prince of Eldidd laid a further claim on the basis of his son’s doubly royal blood. Since Gweniver’s father never would have declared for a foreigner from Eldidd, the Wolf clan’s choice was made when the long-hated Boars supported the Cantrae claim.

Year after year the fighting raged around the true prize, the city of Dun Deverry, taken by one side one summer only to fall to another a few years later. After so many sieges Gweniver doubted if there were much left of the Holy City, but taking it meant everything for holding the kingship. All winter it had been in Cantrae hands, but now it was spring. Everywhere across the torn kingdom the claimants to the throne were mustering their vassals and reaffirming their alliances. Gweniver was certain that by now her clan’s allies would be in Cerrmor.

“So listen, Maccy,” she said. “We may have to stay here all summer, but eventually someone will bring his war-band and get us out.”

Macla nodded miserably. They were sitting in the temple gardens, on a little bench among the rows of carrots and cabbages. Macla, who was sixteen, was normally a pretty lass, but today her blond hair was pulled back in an untidy knot, and her eyes were red and puffy from weeping.

“I just hope you’re right,” Macla said at last. “What if no one thinks our lands worth having? Even if they married you, they’d still have to fight with the rotten old Boar. And you can’t afford to give me any dowry now, and so I’ll probably rot in this awful old temple for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t natter like that! If I take the holy vows, then you’ll have all the land for your dowry that any woman could want.”

“Oh.” Hope came into her eyes. “You always did talk about being a priestess.”

“Just that. Now, don’t worry. We’ll find you a husband yet.”

Macla smiled, but her flood of complaints had raised doubts in Gweniver’s mind. What indeed if no one wanted to take the Wolf lands because they brought the Wolfs feud with them? All her life Gweniver had listened to the constant talk of war, and she knew something that the more innocent Maccy didn’t: the Wolf lands lay in a bad strategic position, right on the Cantrae border and so far east of Cerrmor that they were hard to defend. What if the king in Cerrmor decided to consolidate his frontier and pulled back?

Gweniver left Maccy in the garden and went for a restless walk. If only she could get to Cerrmor and petition the king! By all accounts he was a scrupulously honorable man and might well listen. If she could get there. She climbed up the catwalk and looked out. Even though it had been three days since they’d ridden to the temple, Burcan and his men still camped in the meadow.

“How long are you going to stay there, you bastards?” she muttered under her breath.

Not much longer, as it turned out. The next morning, when she climbed to the ramparts just after dawn, she saw the warband saddling up and loading their provision carts. Yet when they pulled out, they left four men and one cart behind, a guard over her and provisioned to stay for months. Gweniver swore with every foul oath she’d ever heard until she was panting and out of breath. She should have expected no less, she supposed. Even if Burcan had taken his men away, she never could have traveled the hundred and eighty miles to Cerrmor alone.

“Unless I went as a priestess?” she remarked aloud.

Once she had the blue tattoo on her cheek, she would be inviolate, as safe on the roads as an army She could go to the king with her holy vows lending her force and beg for the life of her clan, find some man to take Maccy and keep the Wolfs name alive. If she succeeded, she could return here and take up her life in the temple. Turning, she leaned against the rampart and looked down at the compound. The neophytes and lower-ranked priestesses were working out in the garden or carrying firewood to the kitchens. A few strolled in meditation near the round temple itself. Yet for all the activity it was silent in the warm spring sun. No one spoke unless necessary, and then only in a quiet voice. For a moment she felt as if she couldn’t breathe, just from the stifling vision of her future here.

All at once she felt a blind, irrational rage. She was trapped, a wolf in a cage, chewing and raging at the bars. Her hatred of Burcan rose up as strong as a lust and then spilled over on the king in Cerrmor. She was caught between them, begging one to let her have what was rightfully hers, begging the other to take her vengeance for her. She trembled and threw her head from side to side as if to say nay to the whole universe, in a rage as bitter and hard as a splinter of glass in her throat.

With a wrench of will she calmed herself. Giving in to mad fury would do her no good.

“You’ve got to think,” she told herself. “And pray to the Goddess. She’s the only hope you’ve got.”

“The main body’s pulled out,” Dagwyn said. “But they left four men behind.”

“Bastards!” Ricyn snarled. “Treating our lady like she was a prize horse or suchlike, there for the stealing!”

Camlwn nodded grimly. The three of them were the last men left alive from the Wolfs warband, and for days they’d been camping in the wooded hills behind the Temple of the Moon, where they could watch over the woman that they considered their sworn lord. All three of them had served the Wolf clan from boyhood, and they were prepared to go on serving it now.

“How good a watch are they standing?” Ricyn said. “Armed and ready for a scrap?”

“Not on your life.” Dagwyn paused for a grim smile. “When I sneaked up on them, I saw them sitting around in the grass, as happy as you please, and dicing with their shirtsleeves rolled up.”

“Oh, were they, now? Then let’s hope that the gods make their game a nice long one.”

The free men who worked the temple’s lands were extremely loyal to the high priestess, partly because she took far less of their crops in taxes than a noble lord would have, but mostly because they considered it an honor for them and their families to serve the Goddess. Ardda was sure, or so she told Gweniver, that one of the men would make the long trip to Dun Deverry for her with a message.

“This has got to stop! I can’t order those men off land that doesn’t belong to me, but I’m not going to let them sit there all summer, either. You’re not a criminal come here for sanctuary, and so they’ve got no right to keep you in. And besides, we all know they’d murder you if they could. We’ll see if the king Burcan serves can make him call his men off.”

“Do you think the king will listen to your petition?” Gweniver said. “I’ll wager he wants our lands in the hands of one of his vassals.”

“He’d best listen! I’m asking the high priestess in the Dun Deverry temple to intercede personally.”

Gweniver held the bridle of Ardda’s palfrey as she mounted, adjusting her long dresses over the sidesaddle, then walked beside her horse as she rode down to the gates. Since the four Boarsmen had shown no inclination to try entering the temple, the gates were standing open. Gweniver and Lypilla, the gatekeeper for the day, stood together and watched as Ardda rode out, sitting straight and defiantly in the saddle. As she reached the road, the Boarsmen scrambled to their feet and made her deep, respectful bows.

“Bastards,” Gweniver muttered. “They’re keeping to every letter of the law while tearing out its heart.”

“Just that. I wonder if they’d even murder you.”

“Take me to Burcan for a forced marriage, more like. I’d die first!”

They shared a troubled glance. Gweniver had known Lypilla all her life, just as she’d always known Ardda. They were as close to her as aunts or elder sisters, yet she doubted deep in her heart if she could bear to share their life. Out on the road Ardda turned round the curve of the hill, riding north, and disappeared. The Boarsmen sat down and returned to their dice game. Gweniver found herself remembering the man she’d killed on the road and wishing that she could deal those four the same Wyrd.

Although she could have gone back and made herself useful in the kitchen, Gweniver lingered at the gates for a while, idly talking with Lypilla and staring out at the freedom of hill and meadow denied her. All at once they heard distant hoofbeats, riding fast from the south.

“I suppose Burcan’s sending messengers or suchlike to his men,” Lypilla remarked.

The Boarsmen in the meadow seemed to agree, because they rose, idly stretching, and turned toward the sound. Suddenly, out of a stand of trees, burst three riders in full mail and with swords at the ready. The Boarsmen stood frozen for a moment, then yelled and cursed as they drew swords: the riders were charging straight into them. Gweniver heard Lypilla scream as a Boarsman went down with his head cut half off his shoulders. A horse reared and staggered, and Gweniver saw the rider’s shield full on.

“Wolves!”

Without thinking she was running, sword in hand, down the hill while Lypilla screamed and begged her to come back. The second Boarsman fell as she ran; the third was being mobbed by two riders; the fourth broke and ran straight up the hill, as if in his panic he was trying to reach the sanctuary of the temple that his very presence was desecrating. When he saw Gweniver racing straight for him, he hesitated, then dodged to one side as if to go around her. With a howl of unearthly laughter that sprang out of her mouth of its own will, she charged and swung, catching him across the right shoulder before he could parry. When the sword slipped from his useless fingers, she laughed again and stabbed him in the throat. Her laughter rose to a banshee’s shriek as the bright blood ran, and he fell.

“My lady!” It was Ricyn’s voice, cutting through her laugh. “Oh, by the Lord of Hell!”

The laughter vanished, leaving her sick and cold, staring at the corpse at her feet. Dimly she was aware of Ricyn dismounting and jogging toward her.

“My lady! My lady Gweniver! Do you recognize me?”

“What?” She looked up, puzzled. “Of course I do, Ricco. Haven’t I known you half my life?”

“Well, my lady, that’s not worth a pig’s fart when a man goes beserk like you just did.”

She felt as if he’d thrown icy water into her face. For a moment she stared half-witted at him while he looked her over in bemused concern. Just nineteen, her own age, Ricyn was a broad-faced, sunny-looking blond who was, according to her brothers, one of the most reliable men in the warband, if not the kingdom. It was odd to have him watching her as if she were dangerous.

“Well, that’s what it was, my lady. Ye gods, it made my blood run cold, hearing you laugh.”

“Not half as cold as it made mine. Berserk. By the Goddess Herself, that’s what I was.”

Dark-haired, slender, and perpetually grinning, Dagwyn led his horse up and made her a bow.

“Too bad they left four men behind, my lady. You could have handled two all by yourself.”

“Maybe even three,” Ricyn said. “Where’s Gam?”

“Putting his horse out of its misery. One of those scum could actually swing a sword in the right direction.”

“Well, we’ve got their horses now, and all their provisions, too.” Ricyn glanced at Gweniver. “We’ve been up in the woods, my lady, waiting to make our strike. We figured that the Boar couldn’t sit here all blasted summer. The dun’s razed, by the by. We rode back and found it.”

“I figured it would be. What of Blaeddbyr?”

“It still stands. The folk there gave us food.” Ricyn looked away, his mouth slack. “The Boar caught the war-band on the road, you see. It was just dawn, and we were only half-dressed when the bastards came over the hill without so much as a challenge or the sound of a horn. They had twice as many men as we did, so Lord Avoic yells that we’re to run for our lives, but we couldn’t do it fast enough. Forgive me, my lady. I should have died there with him, but then I thought about you—well, you and all the womenfolk, I mean—so I thought it’d be better to die in the ward defending you.”

“So did we,” Dagwyn chimed in. “But we were too late. We had to be cursed careful with Boars all over the roads, and by the time we reached the dun, it was burning. And we were all half-mad, thinking you slain, but Ricco here says you could have gotten to the temple.”

“So we headed here,” Ricyn picked up. “And when we found the stinking Boar camped at the gates, we knew you had to be inside.”

“And so we were,” Gweniver said. “Well and good, then. You lads get those horses and that cart of supplies up here. There’re some huts round back for the husbands of women who come just for a day or two. You can stay there while I decide what we’ll do next.”

Although Dagwyn hurried off to follow orders, Ricyn lingered, rubbing his dirty face with the back of a dirtier hand.

“We’d better bury those Boars, my lady. We can’t leave that for the holy ladies.”

‘True enough. Huh. I wonder what the high priestess is going to say about this. Well, that’s for me to worry about, not you. My thanks for rescuing me.”

At that he smiled, just a little twist of his mouth, then hurried off after the others.

Although Ardda was not pleased to have four men slain at her gates, she was resigned, even remarking that perhaps the Goddess was punishing the Boars’ impiety in the matter.

“No doubt,” Gweniver said. “Because it was She who killed that one lad. I was naught but a sword in Her hands.”

Ardda looked at her sharply. They were sitting in her study, a spare stone room with a shelf of six holy books on one wall and a table littered with temple accounts on the other. Even now, with her decision coming clear in her mind, Gweniver debated. Once her highest ambition had been to be high priestess here herself and to have this study for her own.

“All afternoon I’ve been praying to Her,” Gweniver went on. “I’m going to leave you, my lady. I’m going to swear to the Moon and turn the clan over to Macla. Then I’m going to take my men and go to Cerrmor and lay the Wolfs petition before the king. Once I have the tattoo, the Boar will have no reason to harm me.”

“Just so, but it’s still dangerous. I hate to think of you out on the roads these days with just three riders for an escort. Who knows what men will do these days, even to a priestess?”

“Not just three, my lady. I’m the fourth.”

Ardda went still, crouched in her chair as she began to pick up Gweniver’s meaning.

“Don’t you remember telling me about the fourth face of the Goddess?” Gweniver went on. “Her dark side, when the moon turns bloody and black, the mother who eats her own children.”

“Gwen. Not that.”

“That.” With a toss of her head, she rose to pace about the chamber. “I’m going to take my men and join the war. It’s been too long since a Moon-sworn warrior fought in Deverry.”

“You’ll be killed.” Ardda got to her feet. “I shan’t allow it.”

“Is it for either of us to allow or disallow if the Goddess calls me? I felt Her hands on me today.”

Their eyes met, they locked stares in a battle of will. When Ardda looked away first, Gweniver realized that she was no longer a child, but a woman.

“There are ways to test such inspirations,” Ardda said at last. “Come into the temple tonight. If the Goddess grants you a vision, it’s not for me to say you nay. But if She doesn’t—”

‘I’ll be guided by your wisdom in the matter.”

“Very well, then. And what if She grants you a vision, but not the one you think you want?”

“Then I’ll swear to Her anyway. The time has come, my lady. I want to hear the secret name of the Goddess and make my vow.”

In preparation for the ceremony, Gweniver fasted that evening. While the temple was at its dinner, she fetched water from the well and heated herself a bath by the kitchen hearth. As she was dressing afterward, she paused to look at her brother’s shirt, which she’d embroidered for him the year before. On each yoke, worked in red, was the striding wolf of the clan, surrounded by a band of interlacement. The pattern twined so cleverly around itself that it looked like a chain of knots made up of many strands, but in fact there was only one line to it, and each knot flowed inevitably into the next. My Wyrd’s just such a tangle, she told herself, all chained round.

And with the thought came a cold feeling, as if she had spoken better than she could know. As she finished dressing, she was frightened. It was not that perhaps she might die in battle; she knew that she would be slain, maybe soon, maybe many years hence. It was the way of the Dark Goddess, to call upon her priestesses to make the last sacrifice when She decided the time had come. When Gweniver picked up the sword belt, she hesitated, half tempted to throw it to the floor; then she buckled it on and strode out of the room.

The round wooden temple stood in the center of the compound. At either side of the door grew twisted, flame-like cypress trees, brought all the way from Bardek and nursed through many a cold winter. When Gweniver walked between them, she felt a surge of power as if she passed through a gate into another world. She knocked nine times on the oak door and waited until nine muffled knocks answered from inside. Then she opened it and went into the antechamber, dimly lit by a single candle. A priestess robed in black waited for her.

“Wear those clothes in the temple. Take in your sword as well. The high priestess has so commanded.”

In the inner shrine the polished wood walls gleamed in the light of nine oil lamps, and the floor lay spread with fresh rushes. By the far wall stood the altar, a boulder left rough except for the top, which had been smoothed into a table. Behind it hung a huge circular mirror, the only image of Her that the Goddess will have in Her temples. Dressed in black, Ardda stood to the left.

“Unsheathe the sword and lay it on the altar.”

Gweniver curtsied to the mirror, then did as the high priestess ordered. Through a side door three senior priestesses entered without a word and stood at the right, waiting to witness her vow.

“We are assembled to instruct and receive one who would serve the Goddess of the Moon,” Ardda said. “Gweniver of the Wolf is known to us all. Are there any objections to her candidacy?”

“None,” the three said in unison. “She is known to us as one blessed by Our Lady.”

“Well and good, then.” The high priestess turned to Gweniver. “Will you swear to serve the Goddess all your days and nights?”

“I will, my lady.”

“Will you swear never to know a man?”

“I will, my lady.”

“Will you swear never to betray the secret of the holy name?”

“I will, my lady.”

Ardda raised her hands and clapped them together three times, then three more, and finally a third three, measuring out the holy number in its just proportion. Gweniver felt a solemn yet blissful peace, a sweetness like mead flowing through her body. At last the decision was made, and her vow given over.

“Of all the goddesses,” Ardda went on, “only Our Lady has no name known to the common folk. We hear of Epona, we hear of Sirona, we hear of Aranrhodda, but always Our Lady is simply the Goddess of the Moon.” She turned to the three witnesses. “And why should such a thing be?”

“The name is a secret.”

“It is a mystery.”

“It is a riddle.”

“And yet,” Ardda said after the answers, “it is a riddle easy to solve. What is the name of the Goddess?”

“Epona.”

“Sirona.”

“Aranrhodda.”

“And,” this said in unison, “all the rest.”

“You have spoken true.” Ardda turned to Gweniver. “Here, then, is the answer to the riddle. All goddesses are one goddess. She goes by all names and no name, for she is One.”

Gweniver began to tremble in a fierce joy.

“No matter what men or women call her, She is One,” Ardda went on. “There is but one priestesshood that serves Her. She is like the pure light of the sun when it strikes the rain-filled sky and turns into a rainbow, many colors, but all One at the source.”

“Long have I thought so,” Gweniver whispered. “Now I know.”

Again the high priestess clapped out the nine knocks, then turned to the witnesses.

“There is a question of how Gweniver, no longer lady but new priestess, shall serve the Goddess. Let her kneel in petition at the altar.”

Gweniver knelt in front of the sword. In the mirror she could see herself, a shadowy figure in the flickering light, but she barely recognized her face, the cropped hair, the mouth set grim, the eyes glowing with lust for vengeance. Help me, O Lady of the Heavens, she prayed, I want blood and vengeance, not tears and mourning.

“Look into the mirror,” Ardda whispered. “Beg Her to come to you.”

Gweniver spread her hands on the altar and took up her watch. At first she saw nothing but her face and the temple behind her. When Ardda began to chant a high wailing song in the old tongue, it seemed that the oil lamps flickered in time to the long-sprung rhythms. The chant rose and fell, winding through the temple like a cold north wind. In the mirror the light changed, dimmed, became a darkness, a trembling dark as cold as a starless sky. The chant sobbed on, wailing through ancient words. Gweniver felt the hair prickling on the back of her neck as in that mirror-darkness appeared the stars, the wheel and dance of the endless sky. Among them formed the image of Another.

She towered through the stars, and her face was grim, blood besotted as she shook her head and spread a vast mane of black hair over the sky. Gweniver could hardly breath as the dark eyes looked her way. This was the Goddess of the Darktime, Whose own heart is pierced with swords and Who demands no less from those who would worship Her.

“My lady,” Gweniver whispered, “take me as a sacrifice. I’ll serve you always.”

The eyes considered her for a long moment, fierce, gleaming, utterly cold. Gweniver felt the presence all around her, as if the Goddess stood beside and behind as well as in front of her.

“Take me,” she repeated. “I’ll be naught but a sword in your hand.”

On the altar her sword flared and ran with bloody colored light, casting a glow upward that turned the mirror red. The chant stopped. Ardda had seen the omen.

“Swear to Her.” The priestess’s voice shook. “That in Her service you’ll live”—her voice broke—“and die.”

“So do I swear, from deep in my heart.”

In the mirror the eyes of the Goddess radiated joy. The light on the sword danced up like fire, then fell back. As it faded, the mirror darkened to the turning stars, then only to blackness.

“Done!” Ardda clapped her hands together, a boom and echo in the temple.

The mirror reflected Gweniver’s pale, sweating face.

“She has come to you,” the high priestess said. “She has given you the blessing that many would call a curse. You have chosen, and you have sworn. Serve Her well, or death will be the least of your troubles.”

“Never will I betray Her. How can I, when I’ve looked into the eyes of Night?”

Ardda clapped her hands together nine times, measured out three by three. Still trembling, Gweniver rode and took up her sword.

“Never did I think She would accept you.” Ardda was close to tears. “But now all I can do is pray for you.”

“I’ll treasure those prayers no matter how far I ride.”

Two more priestesses entered the temple. One carried a silver bowl of blue powder, the other a pair of fine silver needles. When they saw the sword in Gweniver’s hands, they exchanged startled glances.

“Give her the mark on her left cheek,” Ardda said. “She serves Our Lady of the Darkness.”

Thanks to the provisions they’d captured from the Boarsmen, Ricyn and the others had a good hot breakfast, for the first time in days, of barley porridge and salt bacon. They ate slowly, savoring every bite, savoring even more the temporary safety. They were just finishing when Ricyn heard someone leading a horse up to the hut. He jumped to his feet and darted outside, with his sword drawn in case the Boar had sent a spy, but it was Gweniver, dressed in her brother’s clothes and leading a big gray warhorse. In the morning sun her left cheek looked burned, it was so puffy red, and in the center of the discoloration lay the blue crescent of the moon. When Dagwyn and Camlwn followed him out, all three men stared unspeaking while she smiled at them impartially.

“My lady?” Dagwyn said at last. “Are you staying in the temple, then?”

“I’m not. We’re packing up and riding for Cerrmor today. Load up as many provisions as the captured horses can carry.”

All three nodded in unquestioning obedience. Ricyn couldn’t look away from her face. Although no one would ever have called Gweniver beautiful (her face was too broad and her jaw too strong for that), she was attractive, tall and slim, with the grace of a wild animal when she moved. For years he had loved her hopelessly, when every winter he would sit on one side of her brother’s hall and watch her, unobtainable, on the other. Seeing that she’d sworn the vow was grimly satisfying. Now no other man would ever have her.

“Is something wrong?” she said to him.

“Naught, my lady. If it’s my place to ask, I was only wondering about the tattoo. Why is it on the left side of your face?”

“You’ve got every right to know. It marks me as a Moon-sworn warrior.” When she smiled, she seemed to change into a different woman, cold, hard-eyed, and fierce. “And here you all thought that such existed only in bard songs, didn’t you?”

Ricyn gulped, as startled as if she’d slapped him. Dagwyn caught his breath in a gasp of surprise.

“Lady Macla’s the head of the Wolf clan now,” she went on. “She’s made me captain of her warband until such time as she marries and her husband brings her riders of his own. If we’re still alive by then, you’ll all have a choice: to pledge to her new man, or to follow me. But for now we’re going to Cerrmor for the summer’s fighting. The Wolf swore to bring men, and the Wolf never breaks its word.”

“Well and good, then, my lady,” Ricyn said. “We may not be much of a warband, but if anyone says one wrong word about our captain, I’ll slit the bastard’s throat.”

When they rode out, they went cautiously, in case some of the Boarsmen were lurking on the roads. Dagwyn and Camlwn took turns riding point as they made their way along the bypaths through the hills. Although Cerrmor was a good ten days’ ride away, safety lay much closer in the duns of the Wolfs old allies to the south and east. For two days they skirted the Wolf demesne, not daring to ride on their own lands in case the Boars were patrolling them. On the morning of the third, they crossed the River Nerr at a little-used ford and headed more east than south, aiming for the lands of the Stag clan. That night they camped on the edge of a stretch of forest that the Stags and the Wolves used jointly as a hunting preserve. Seeing the familiar trees brought tears to Gweniver’s eyes as she remembered how her brothers had loved to hunt among them.

While the men tethered the horses and set up camp, Gweniver paced restlessly around. She was beginning to feel grave doubts. It was one thing to talk of riding to war herself, another to look at her tiny warband and realize that their lives depended on how well she led them. On the excuse of looking for deadwood for a fire, she went into the forest and wandered through the trees until she found a small stream, running silently over rock and between fern-lined banks. Around her the old oaks cast shadows that seemed to have lain there since the beginning of time.

“Goddess,” she whispered, “have I chosen the right path?”

In the flickering surface of the stream, she saw no vision. When she drew her sword and looked at the blade, remembered how it had run with fire on the Goddess’s altar, it seemed she felt the ghosts of the dead gather around her, Avoic, Maroic, Benoic, and last of all, her father, Caddryc—those tall grim men whose lives had dominated hers, whose pride had summed up her own.

“I’ll never let you lie unavenged.”

She heard them sigh at the bitterness of their Wyrd, or maybe it was just the wind in the trees, because they left as silently and quickly as they’d gathered. Yet she knew that the Goddess had given her an omen, just as She had when She blessed the sword.

“Vengeance! We’ll deal it for the Goddess’s sake, but vengeance we’ll all have.”

Sword still in hand, Gweniver started back to her men, but she heard a twig snap and a footfall behind her. She spun round and raised the sword.

“Come out!” she snapped. “Who disturbs a sworn priestess of the Darktime?”

Dressed in torn, filthy clothes, their faces stubbled, their hair matted, two men with swords at the ready stepped out of the underbrush. When they looked her over with narrowed eyes, Gweniver felt the Goddess gathering behind her, a tangible presence that raised the hair on the nape of her neck. She stared back with a cold smile that seemed to appear on her face of its own will.

“You never answered me,” Gweniver said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The dark-haired, slender fellow glanced at the other with a trace of a smile; the redhead, however, shook his head no and stepped forward.

“And is there a temple near here, my lady?” he said. “Or are you a hermit in this forest?”

“I carry my temple in my saddlebags. You’ve never met a priestess of my rite before, and doubtless you won’t again.”

“She’s got the mark on her face, sure enough,” the dark-haired man broke in. “But I’ll wager she—”

“Hold your tongue, Draudd,” the redhead snarled. “There’s somewhat cursed strange about all this. Now, here, my lady, are you truly out in this blasted forest all alone?”

“What’s it to you if I am? The Goddess sees sacrilege no matter how far from the eyes of men it happens.”

When Draudd started to speak, Gweniver stepped forward, swinging the sword point up, as in challenge to a duel. She caught his glance and held it, staring him down while she felt the Goddess as a dark shadow behind her and the smile locked on her mouth. Draudd stepped back fast, and his eyes went wide with fear.

“She’s daft,” he whispered.

“I said: hold your tongue!” the redhead snapped. “There’s daft, and then there’s god-touched, you ugly bastard! My lady, my apologies for disturbing you. Will you give us your Goddess’s blessing?”

“Oh, gladly, but you don’t know what you’re asking for.” All at once she laughed, a cold upwelling of mirth that she couldn’t suppress. “Come with me.”

Gweniver turned on her heel and strode through the trees. Although she heard them following, Draudd protesting in whispers, she never looked back until she reached the camp. When Ricyn saw the men following her, he called out and ran forward, his sword in hand.

“There’s naught amiss,” Gweniver said. “I may have found us a pair of recruits.”

The men all looked at each other for a stunned moment.

“Draudd! Abryn!” Ricyn burst out. “What by the name of all the gods has happened to you? Where’s the rest of the warband?”

Only then did Gweniver notice the barely visible blazons on their muddy shirts: stags.

“Dead,” Abryn said, his voice cold and flat. “And Lord Maer with them. A cursed big band of Cantrae riders struck us hard some five days ago. The dun’s razed, and may the gods blast me if I know what’s happened to our lord’s lady, and the children, too.”

“We were trying to get to the Wolf, you see,” Draudd broke in. He paused for a bitter, twisted smile. “I take it that it wouldn’t have done us one cursed jot of good.”

“None,” Gweniver said. “Our dun’s razed, too. Here, are you hungry? We’ve got food.”

While Abryn and Draudd wolfed down hardtack and cheese as if they were a feast, they told their story. Some hundred fifty of the false king’s own men fell upon the Stag just as they were leaving their dun to start for Cerrmor. Just as Avoic had done, Lord Maer ordered his men to scatter, but Abryn and Draudd had both had their horses killed as they tried to fight free. The Cantrae men hadn’t pursued them; they’d headed straight for the dun and swept in without warning before the gates could be shut.

“Or so they must have,” Abryn finished up. “It was taken, anyway, when we made our way back there.”

Gweniver nodded, considering.

“Well,” she said at last. “It sounds to me like they’d planned this raid in conjunction with the one on us. I can see what the piss-proud little weasels have in mind: isolating the Wolf lands so it’ll be easier for the wretched Boars to keep them.”

“It’s going to be hard for the swine to take the Stag lands,” Abryn said. “Lord Maer’s got two brothers in the true king’s service.”

“No doubt they won’t risk trying to hold your clan’s lands,” Gweniver said. “They’re too far south. But by razing the dun and killing your lord, they’ve taken our closest ally away. Now they’ll try to establish a strong point on the Wolf demesne and nibble at the Stag later.”

“True spoken.” Abryn looked at her in sincere admiration. “My lady understands matters of war, sure enough.”

“And when have I ever known anything else but this war? Now, here, we’ve got extra horses. Join up with us if you like, but I warn you, the Goddess I serve is a goddess of darkness and blood. That’s what I meant about Her blessing. Think well before you take it.”

They did think on the matter, staring at her all the while until at last Abryn spoke for them both.

“What else have we got, my lady? We’re naught but a pair of dishonored men without a lord to ride for or a clan to take us in.”

“Done, then. You ride at my orders, and I promise you, you’ll have your chance for vengeance.”

In sincere gratitude they grinned. In those days a warrior who lived through a battle in which his lord died was a shamed man, turned away from everyone’s shelter and mocked wherever he went.

As the warband made its way south to Cerrmor, they picked up other men like Abryn and Draudd—some, other survivors from the Stag’s warband; some, stubbornly close-mouthed about their past, but all of them desperate enough to lay aside their amazement at finding a priestess at the head of a warband. Eventually Gweniver had thirty-seven men, just three short of the number that Avoic had pledged to bring. In fact, they pledged to her so gladly and accepted her so easily that she was surprised. Their last night on the road, she shared a campfire with Ricyn, who waited upon her like an orderly.

‘Tell me somewhat,” she said to him. “Do you think these lads will still follow my orders once we’re down in Cerrmor?”

“Of course, my lady.” He seemed surprised that she would ask. “You’re the one who took them off the roads and gave them the right to feel like men again. Besides, you’re a priestess.”

“Does that matter to them?”

“Oh, twice over. Come, now, we’ve all heard those tales about Moon-sworn warriors, haven’t we? But it’s twice a marvel to actually see one. Most of the lads think it’s an omen, you see. It’s like dweomer, and you’re dweomer-touched. We all know it’s bound to bring us good luck.”

“Luck? Oh, it won’t bring that, but only the favor of the Moon in Her Darktime. Do you truly want that kind of favor, Ricyn? It’s a harsh thing, a cold wind from the Otherlands.”

Ricyn shuddered as if he felt that wind blowing. For a long time he stared into the campfire.

“Harsh or not, it’s all I have left to me,” he said at last. “I’ll follow you, and you follow the Goddess, and we’ll see what she brings us both.”

Cerrmor lay at the mouth of the Belaver, the watercourse that formed the natural spine of the kingdom, where the estuary had cut a broad harbor out of the chalky cliff. With over sixty thousand people sheltering behind its high stone walls, it was the biggest city in the kingdom now that Dun Deverry had been laid waste. From a long line of piers and jetties, the city spread out upriver in a sprawl of curved streets like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. As long as its gwerbrets kept it safe, its trade with Bardek kept it rich. A fortress within a fortress, Dun Cerrmor stood on a low, artificial hill in the middle of town not far from the river. Inside a double ring of walls were the stone broch complex, stone outbuildings, and stone barracks, all with slate roofs; nowhere was there a scrap of wood that might be fired with a flaming arrow. Outside the main gate were barbicans, and the gates themselves were covered with iron, opened and shut with a winch.

When Gweniver led her warband through to the cobbled ward, cheers rang out: it’s the Wolf! By all the gods, it’s the Wolf! Men poured out of broch and barrack to watch, and pages in the king’s colors of red and silver ran to greet them.

“My lord,” a lad burst out. “We heard you were slain!”

“My brother was,” Gweniver said. “Go tell the king that the Lady Gweniver is here to honor Lord Avoic’s vow.”

The page stared goggle-eyed at her tattooed face, then dashed back into the broch. Ricyn rode up beside her and gave her a grin.

“They thought you were a ghost from the Otherlands, my lady. Shall I have the men dismount?”

“Just that. Here, you’ve been acting like the captain for days. It’s about time I told you that you officially are.”

“My lady honors me too highly.”

“She doesn’t, and you know it. You were never humble, Ricco, so don’t pretend to be so now.”

With a laugh he made her a half bow from the saddle and turned his horse back to the men.

While she waited for the page to return, Gweniver stood beside her horse and looked over the broch complex. Although her brothers had told her about the splendor of Cerrmor, she’d never been there before. A full seven stories high, the massive tower joined itself to three lower half brochs, and the dark gray complex rose like the fist of a giant turned to stone by dweomer. Nearby stood enough barracks and stables to house hundreds of men. Over it all flew a red-and-silver flag, announcing proudly that the king himself was in residence. When she glanced round at the swelling crowd, she saw all the noble lords watching her, afraid to speak until the king gave his judgment on this strange matter. Just as she was cursing the page for being so slow, the ironbound doors opened, and the king himself came out with a retinue of pages and councillors in attendance.

Glyn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, or king of all Deverry as he preferred to be known, was about twenty-six, tall and heavy set, with blond hair bleached pale and coarsened with lime in the regal fashion so that it swept back from his square face like a lion’s mane. His deep-set blue eyes bore such a haunted expression that she wondered if he’d just lost some close kinsman. When Gweniver knelt before him, she felt an honest awe. All her life she’d heard about this man, and now here he was, setting his hands on his hips and looking her over with a small bemused smile.

“Rise, Lady Gweniver,” Glyn said. “May I not sound like a churl, but never did I think to see the day when a woman would bring me men.”

Gweniver made him a curtsy as best she could in brigga.

“Well, my honored liege, never has the Wolf clan broken its sworn vow, not once in all these long years of war.”

“I’m most mindful of that.” He hesitated, picking careful words. “I’m informed that you have a sister. Later, no doubt, when you’ve rested, you’ll wish to speak to me about the fate of the Wolf.”

“I will, my liege, and I’m honored that you would turn your attention to the matter.”

“Of course. Will you shelter with me a while as an honored guest, or do you need to return straightaway to your temple?”

Here was the crux, and Gweniver called upon the Goddess in her heart.

“My liege,” she said, “the most holy Moon has chosen me to serve Her as a Moon-sworn warrior. I’ve come to beg you a boon, that you’ll let me keep the place I have as head of my warband, to ride with you in your army and live at your command.”

“What?” He forgot all his ritual courtesy. “Here, you must be jesting! What would a woman want with battles and suchlike?”

“What any man wants, my liege: honor, glory, and a chance to slay the enemies of the king.”

Glyn hesitated, staring at the tattoo as if he were remembering the old tales of those who served the Darktime Goddess, then turned to the warband.

“Now, here, men,” he called out. “Do you honor the lady as your captain?”

To a man the warband called out that they did. At the back of the line, Dagwyn boldly yelled that Gweniver was dweomer.

“Then I’ll take it as an omen that a Moon-sworn warrior has turned up at my court,” Glyn said. “Well and good, my lady. I grant your boon.”

At a wave of Glyn’s hand, servants descended. Stable boys ran to take the horses; riders from the king’s personal warband hurried over to Ricyn to take him and the men to the barracks; councillors appeared at Gweniver’s side and bowed; two underchamberlains trotted up to escort her into the great hall. The sight of it amazed her. Big enough to hold over a hundred tables for the warbands, it had four enormous hearths. Red-and-silver banners hung among fine tapestries on the walls, and rather than straw, colored slate tiles covered the floor. Gweniver stood gawking like the country lass she was as the chamberlain, Lord Orivaen by name, hurried to greet her.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said. “Allow me to find you accommodations in our humble broch. You see, since you’re both noble born and a priestess, I’m honestly not sure what rank that gives you. Perhaps the same as tieryn?”

“Oh, my good sir, as long as the room has a bed and a hearth, anything will do. A priestess of the Dark Moon cares not for rank.”

Orivaen kissed her hand in honest gratitude, then took her to a small suite in a side tower and sent pages to bring up her gear.

“Will this suffice, my lady?”

“Of course. It’s splendid.”

“My thanks. So many lords are, shall we say, overly mindful of what their accommodations might mean.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Er, well, that they might be slighted, you see.”

Gweniver didn’t see, but she smiled and nodded. Once the pages had been and gone, and Orivaen with them, she paced restlessly round. She wondered if the king would consider the Wolf lands worth holding now that the Stag clan had suffered such losses. In a few minutes a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in!”

A possible weapon in her battle to save the clan walked in, Lord Gwetmar, a lanky, lantern-jawed young man with an untidy mop of dark hair. Although his birth was noble enough, his family was land poor and considered somewhat disreputable among the great clans. Gweniver’s kin, however, had always treated him as an equal. He grabbed both of her hands in his and squeezed them hard.

“Gwen, by all the gods, it gladdens my heart to see you alive. When the news came in of Avoic’s death, I was sick, wondering if you and your sister had come to harm. I would have ridden north straightaway, but our liege wouldn’t allow it.”

“Doubtless he didn’t want to lose you and your men along with ours. Maccy’s safe in the temple, and Mam along with her.”

With a grin, Gwetmar draped himself in a chair. Gweniver perched on the windowsill and considered him.

“Now, here,” he said, “are you truly going to ride with us?”

“I am. I want a chance at vengeance even if I die for it.”

“I understand that. I pray to every god that they’ll let me cut down Avoic’s killer. Listen, if we live till autumn, I’ll join my men to yours and join the feud.”

“My thanks. I was hoping you’d say somewhat like that, because I’ve been thinking about the Wolf lands. They’re Maccy’s now, or they will be if the king grants my petition to let them pass in the female line. But I’m still the elder as well as a priestess, and she’s blasted well going to marry the man I pick for her.”

“And no doubt you’ll pick a good one.” Gwetmar looked away, suddenly melancholy. “Maccy deserves no less.”

“Listen, you dolt, I’m talking about you. I know Maccy’s always been a coldhearted little snip to you, but now she’d marry the Lord of Hell himself to get out of that temple. I have no intention of telling any other land-hungry lord where she is until you’ve had a chance to send her messages.”

“Gwen! I happen to honestly love your sister, not just her lands!”

“I know. Why do you think I’m offering her to you?”

He tossed his head back and laughed, as bright as the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“Never did I think I’d have a chance to marry her. Taking the Wolf’s name and the Wolf’s feud seem a cursed small price to pay.”

Gwetmar escorted her down to the great hall. In the curve of the wall stood a long dais, where the king and the noble-born ate their meals. Although Glyn was nowhere to be seen, a number of lords were already sitting at table, drinking ale while they listened to a bard play. Gweniver and Gwetmar sat down with Lord Maemyc, an older man who’d known Gweniver’s father well. He stroked his gray mustaches and looked her over sadly, but to her relief he said not a word about the road she’d chosen to ride. Now that the king had given his approval, no one would dare question her choice.

The talk turned inevitably to the summer’s fighting ahead. Things promised to be slow. After the bloody campaigns of the last few years, Cerrmor simply didn’t have enough men to besiege Dun Deverry, nor did Cantrae have enough to make a real strike at Cerrmor.

“A lot of skirmishing ahead, if you ask me,” Maemyc pronounced. “And maybe one good strike north to avenge the Stag and Wolf clans.”

“A quick couple of raids and little else,” Gwetmar agreed. “But, then, there’s Eldidd to worry about on the western border.”

“Just so.” He glanced at Gweniver. “He’s been getting bolder and bolder, raiding in deep to bleed both us and Cantrae. I’ll wager he holds back his full force until we’re both worn down.”

“I see. It sounds reasonable, truly.”

On the far side of the dais there was a bustle at the small door that led to the king’s private stairway. Two pages knelt ceremoniously while a third swung the door open wide. Expecting the king, Gweniver got ready to rise, but another man came through and paused to look over the assembled company. Blond and blue-eyed, he looked much like Glyn, but he was slender where the king was heavyset. His long swordsman’s arms were crossed tight over his chest as he watched the lords with narrowed, contemptuous eyes.

“Who’s that?” Gweniver whispered. “I thought the king’s brother was dead.”

“His true brother is,” Gwetmar said. “That’s Dannyn, one of the old gwerbret’s bastards, the only lad among the lot. The king favors him highly, though, and made him captain of his personal guard. After you see him fight, you can’t begrudge him his birth. He swings a sword like a god, not a man.”

His thumbs hooked into his sword belt, Dannyn strolled over, gave Gwetmar a pleasant if distant nod, then looked Gweniver over. The yokes of his shirt sported embroidered ship blazons, the ship of Cerrmor, but all down the sleeves ran a device of striking falcons.

“So,” he said at last, “you’re the priestess who thinks she’s a warrior, are you?”

“I am. And I suppose you’re a man who thinks he can tell me otherwise.”

Dannyn sat down beside her and turned to slouch against the table. When he spoke, he looked out over the hall instead of at her.

“What makes you think you can swing a sword?” he said.

“Ask my men. I never boast about myself.”

“I already spoke with Ricyn. He had the gall to tell me that you go berserk.”

“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 ale-sopped 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.

“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. It was quite likely that there would be little direct fighting this summer. He himself would probably lead what raids there were while the king stayed in his dun and brooded, because he was too important to risk to a chance wound in some insignificant action.

His aimless walking eventually brought him to the barracks area. Out in front of their stable, the Wolf’s warband were grooming their horses. Lady Gweniver herself perched on the tongue of a wooden cart and watched them. For all her cropped hair and men’s clothing, Dannyn could only think of her as a woman, and an attractive one at that. Her large, luminous eyes dominated her face and sparkled like beacons that drew him toward her. The way she moved attracted him, too: every gesture definite yet fluid, as if she drew upon a hidden source of energy. When she saw him, she slid off the wagon tongue and came over to meet him.

“Lord Dannyn, my men need blankets and clothes.”

“Then they’ll have them today. You’re part of the king’s household now, so remember that what you and your men need is part of maintenance.”

“My thanks, then. Our liege is truly most generous.”

“He is. I’ve got more reason than most to praise his generosity. How many bastard sons have ever been given a title and a place at court?”

When she winced, he smiled. He liked getting the delicate subject of his birth out in the open and shoving it into the faces of the noble-born before they could use it against him. For a moment he considered, remembering Amain’s lecture on her worship, but something seemed to drive him to speak.

“That moon on your cheek, does it mark a true vow?”

“And what else would it be?”

“Well, a ruse, I thought, a way to travel safely, and never would I blame you. A woman on the road with a warband had better have the Goddess’s protection—or make men think she does.”

“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 war-bands.”

“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 bad 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.

“I called you here to ask you somewhat,” Glyn said abruptly. “You’re the only man I can trust to hold your tongue about it. Even priests talk among themselves like old women.”

“Old women hold their tongues better, my liege.”

“Yet this question of mine takes a priest’s kind of knowledge to answer.” And here Glyn paused. “I was hoping the dweomer might be able to advise me.”

“And does my liege think I have such knowledge?”

“He does. Is your liege wrong?”

“He’s not.”

Glyn smiled in triumph, very briefly.

“Then answer me this,” he went on. “If a man or a woman has sworn a vow in a temple, is there any way that the oath can be forsworn without offending the gods?”

“Well, only in rare circumstances. Suppose someone swore a wrong thing with the connivance of a corrupt priest, then that priest’s superior could pronounce the vow invalid. It might also be possible for the person who swore the vow to renounce it by devoting the rest of their life to the god’s service, but that would be a tricky matter indeed.”

“That’s hardly the case here.”

“Oho! I take it my liege has noticed his brother pining after a forbidden thing.”

“He has, at that. It doesn’t take dweomer to see a horse in a chamber, good sorcerer.”

“True enough. I only hope that no one besides us has seen it, my liege. There are plenty of men who envy Dannyn.”

With a sigh Glyn nodded his agreement.

“If an old man may offer his liege advice,” Nevyn went on, “the king had best speak to his brother about this. It would be a terrible and impious thing for Dannyn to seduce Gweniver into breaking that vow.”

Glyn sighed and looked at the map.

“I should arrange for Dannyn to marry again,” he said. “I had thoughts of settling Lady Macla and the Wolf lands upon him, but I didn’t want him so far from my court all winter. Perhaps my selfishness was all for the best. No doubt Gweniver will visit her sister often.”

“No doubt, my liege. May I be so presumptuous as to ask you why you favor Lord Dannyn so highly? I find him worthy of your favor, mind, but most men don’t see their father’s bastards so clearly. Most prefer not to see them at all.”

“True enough. Well, you see, since my father claimed the throne for me when I was just a babe in arms, I was raised to be king. It sounded splendid to a lad: I’d claim the Holy City after glorious battles, I’d be the ruler of all I could survey, I’d save the kingdom from this war, and everyone would praise my name. But one day I was out in the ward, and I saw the stable hands tormenting this little lad. He was just about six, then, and I was eight. They were mocking him for a bastard, and when he tried to hit one of them, they mobbed him and started beating him. So I ran over and ordered them to stop. I felt most generous, kingly indeed, defending this poor little creature.” He smiled in overscrupulous self-mockery. “So I picked the lad up and wiped his bloody nose for him, and by every god in the sky, I might as well have been looking into a mirror. I suppose it goes without saying that no one had ever told the young king that his father took fancies to kitchen maids. Well, I found out that morning. So I went storming into Father’s chamber like the king I felt myself to be and demanded to know what he thought he was doing. It’s a pity you couldn’t have seen the look on his face.”

Nevyn allowed himself a laugh.

“But at any rate,” Glyn went on, “I insisted on having Dannyn come live with me in the broch, because he was my brother, no matter what our father thought about it. And a bit at a time, he told me what he’d gone through, living mocked and scorned as a scullery lad, made to feel grateful for having scraps to eat. And so I began to think about what rulership means, good sorcerer, in my childish way. I made a solemn vow to Great Bel that never would I put my will above all else and worship it the way my father did. For that alone I’d honor Dannyn. He gave me a gift worth more than a hundred horses. But beyond that he’s the only man in this court who loves me for what I am, not for the influence and land he can get out of me. Do I sound a fool for caring about such things? I must, I suppose.”

“My liege is not a fool. My liege is one of the sanest men I’ve ever met, and lest you think that idle flattery, let me add that sanity is a curse in mad times like these.”

“Is it, now?” The king looked away, slack-mouthed for a moment. “True enough, I suppose. Well, my thanks, good sir, for your counsel. If things allow, I’ll come down to the garden one of these days and see how it’s getting on.”

Rather than returning to his weeding, Nevyn went back to his chamber after he left the king. His heart was troubled, wondering if Glyn was meant to rule as the only king in Deverry, hoping that such was his Wyrd, yet knowing that the future was closed to him. After he barred the door to ensure that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he stood in the center of his small chamber and imagined that his right hand held a sword of blue fire. Slowly he built up the image until it lived apart from his will, no matter where he turned his attention. Only then did he use it to trace a circle of blue fire around him, imaging the flames until they, too, lived of their own will.

Laying aside the sword, he sat down in the center of the leaping, glowing circle and built up before him the mental image of a six-pointed star, glowing also with gold fire, a symbol of the center and balance of all things, and the source of the true kingship. Invoking the Kings of the Element of Aethyr, he stared into the hexagon formed in the center of the interlaced triangles and used it to scry, the way clumsier dweomerfolk use a stone or a mirror.

The visions came cloudy, barely forming before they dissolved, thrown together and torn apart like clouds in a high wind, and he saw naught there of Glyn’s Wyrd. Even in the Inner Lands (that is, the astral plane), the currents were troubled, the forces out of balance, the light shadowed. For every kingdom or people, there’s a corresponding part of the upper astral—some magicians call it a place, which will do—that’s the true source of the events that come to the kingdom on the Outer Lands, that is, the physical world, just as every person has a secret and undying soul, which determines what that person calls his will or his luck. The Deverry folk saw wars raging between ambitious men; those men saw themselves as the authors of their actions; Nevyn saw the truth. The petty squabbles of would-be kings were only symptoms of the crisis, like the fever is only the symptom of the disease, a painful thing in itself, but not the true killer. Deep in the Inner Lands, the dark forces of Unbalanced Death were out of control, sweeping all into chaos, with only a handful of warriors who served the Light to pit themselves against them. Although Nevyn was only the humble servant of those Great Ones, he had his own part of the war to fight in the kingdom. After all, a fever may kill a patient if it’s allowed to burn unchecked.

Now, mind that you never think of these forces of Unbalanced Death as persons, some sort of evil army led by beings with a recognizable soul. On the contrary, they are forces as natural in their own way as falling rain, but they were, in this case, out of control like a river in flood tide, swelling over its banks and sweeping farms and towns before it. Every people or kingdom has a streak of chaos in its soul, weakness, greed, small prides, and arrogance, which can be either denied or given in to. When indulged, this convocation of chaos releases energy—to use a metaphor—which flows to the appropriate dark place in the Inner Lands. So it was with Deverry in that troubled time. The forces were swollen and sweeping down, exactly like that river.

How far could he intervene on the physical plane? Nevyn quite simply didn’t know. The work of the dweomer is subtle, a thing of influences, images, and slow inner working. Direct action in the world is normally so foreign to a dweomer-master that Nevyn was afraid to intervene until the time was exactly right. A wrong action, even to the right end, would only score another victory for Chaos and the Dark. Yet it ached his heart to wait, to watch the death, the sickness, the suffering, and the poverty that the wars were spreading across the kingdom. The worst thing of all was knowing that here and there were the evil masters of the dark dweomer, gloating over the suffering and sucking up the power released by the Chaos tide for their own dark ends. Their time will come, he reminded himself. For them is the dark at the end of the world, the curse at the end of the ages of ages.

But he as servant couldn’t send them to the dark before their time, any more than he could see if Glyn would someday rule a peaceful kingdom in Dun Deverry. With a sigh he broke off his fruitless meditations and banished the star and the circle. He went to his window and leaned out, watching the warriors hurry across the ward far below on their way to the great hall for dinner. Seeing them laughing and jesting stabbed guilt into his heart. His old fault had ripened the war, or so he saw it. Long ago, when he’d been a prince of the realm, he’d been given the choice between marrying Brangwen of the Falcon clan, and thus making slower progress in learning dweomer (since he would have a wife and children to care for), or casting her off and devoting himself to the craft. In his clumsy attempt to have the best of both choices, he’d brought three people to their deaths: Brangwen herself, her brother Gerraent, who’d loved her with an incestuous and unholy passion, and Lord Blaen of the Boar, an honorable suitor who’d had the bad luck to be entangled with Gerraent’s madness.

If he’d only married Brangwen, he reproached himself, they would have had heirs, who would have had heirs in their turn to inherit the throne cleanly and prevent civil war. Perhaps. He warned himself that no man could know the truth of that. On the other hand, this matter of the Boars was more closely related to his mistake. Ever since they’d been given the Falcon lands as retribution for Blaen’s death, the Boars had swelled with pride and arrogance. It was their urging that had made Gwerbret Cantrae claim a throne that he was never meant to have. Nevyn himself had lived through all of these events, watching from a safe distance. His dweomer kept him alive, but not as a reward—as retribution, rather, until he could set right his ancient wrongs.

And now all the actors in that ancient tragedy were gathered here in Cerrmor. That night at dinner Nevyn looked round the hall and marked them all: Blaen, eating with the rest of the Wolf riders as Ricyn, their captain; Gerraent, sitting at Glyn’s left as his brother; Brangwen, with the blue tattoo of a Moon-sworn rider on her cheek. They were all twined together still, but it was Gweniver’s lot in this life that ached his heart the most.

Nevyn was seated at a table on the floor of the hall with the scribe and his wife, the head groom and his, the two underchamberlains, and the widowed Master of Weaponry, Ysgerryn. That particular evening Ysgerryn noticed Nevyn watching the lady Gweniver as she ate, and mentioned that earlier Dannyn had brought her in to be fitted with a coat of mail.

“Fortunately, I’d saved some mail that fit Dannyn himself before he’d reached his full growth,” Ysgerryn went on. “It could have been broken apart and made larger, of course, but it was such a nice bit of work, I kept it for one of the young princes someday. It came in handy now.”

“So it did. And what did the lord think of having the lady wear his old armor?”

“Oddly enough, he was pleased. He said somewhat about it being an omen.”

I’ll just wager he did, Nevyn thought, curse him!

Once the meal was over, Nevyn started to leave the hall, but he noticed Dannyn coming over to sit with Gweniver at her table. He lingered below the dais to eavesdrop, but Dannyn was only asking her an innocent question about the mail.

“Oh, ye gods,” she said with a laugh. “My shoulders ache like fire from wearing the thing! It must weigh a good two stone.”

“It does, at that,” Dannyn said. “But keep wearing it every cursed minute you can stand to have it on. I’d hate to lose a man of your spirit just because of a lack of training.”

With a drunken grin young Lord Oldac leaned across the table, a beefy blond lad with entirely too high an opinion of himself.

“A man?” he said. “Here, Dannyn, what’s happened to your eyes?”

“They can see the blue tattoo on her face. As far as anyone under my command is concerned, she’s a man, or as much like one as matters.”

“True spoken, of course.” Oldac wiped his mead-soaked mustache on the back of his hand. “But here, Gwen, there’s no denying that you’re a good-looking enough wench to make a man forget.”

As fast and straight as a grouse breaking cover, Dannyn rose and leaned over to grab Oldac by the shirt. While goblets rolled and spilled and men shouted, he hauled the kicking, yelling lord across the table. With a last hoist he dumped Oldac at Gweniver’s feet.

“Apologize!” Dannyn snarled. “No one calls a lady and a priestess a wench.”

Dead silent, every man in the hall was watching. Oldac gasped for breath and hauled himself up in a kneel.

“Most humbly I apologize,” Oldac gasped. “Never will I call you that again, Your Holiness. I beg your Goddess to forgive me.”

“You’re a fool,” Gweniver said. “But your apology is accepted.”

Oldac got up, smoothed down his mead-soaked shirt, and turned on Dannyn.

“May the Goddess forgive my slight,” he said. “But as for you, bastard …”

When Dannyn laid his hand on his sword hilt, men rose from their seats.

“Does his lordship wish to offer me a formal challenge?” Dannyn’s voice was as mild as a lady’s maid.

Trapped, Oldac looked this way and that, his mouth working as he debated the choice between honor and certain death. Dannyn waited, smiling. At the table of honor, the king rose.

“Enough!” Glyn yelled. “A pox on both of you for fighting in my hall! Danno, get back here and sit down! Oldac, I wish to speak with you later in my apartments.”

Blushing scarlet, Oldac spun on his heel and ran out of the hall. His head down like a whipped hound, Dannyn slunk back to his brother’s side. As Nevyn left, he was wondering about Gerraent, as he tended to think of him in weak moments. It seemed that he was determined to treat Gweniver honorably and to ignore that long-buried passion which had to be working its way to the surface. More power to the lad, Nevyn thought. Maybe he’ll get free of it in this life. And yet with the thought came a clammy touch of dweomer-cold down his back. There was danger working here, danger of which he was unaware.

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 herb-craft, 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 Wolfs name. I sincerely hope that your father and brothers will hear of this in the Other-lands.”

“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.”

“I wouldn’t wager hard coin on it.”

She stopped walking and turned to stare at him. Nevyn gave her a weary smile.

“Who knows what the gods have in store?” he went on. “The Goddess you serve has a dark heart, as well you know. It’s possible that She sent you here to preside over a bloody defeat.”

“Perhaps so.” She felt sick at the thought, but it was a logical one. “I’ll pray it’s otherwise.”

“So will I. Glyn is a good man and a splendid king, but it’s not given to me to see the end of this. My lady, I’ll beg you to keep my dweomer a secret from the rest of the court.”

“As you wish, then. I doubt if anyone would believe me if I told them, anyway.”

“Perhaps not.” He paused, considering her. “I trust Lord Dannyn is going to treat you with all the respect your position deserves.”

“He’d better. I assure you, I have no intention of breaking my vow.”

When he looked startled, she laughed.

“It behooves a priestess to be blunt at times,” she said. “My sister can tell you that I’ve never spared my tongue.”

“Good. Let me be blunt, too. It aches my heart to see you ride to war. I’ll pray your Goddess protects you.”

As she went on her way, Gweniver felt immensely flattered, that a man with his power would be concerned for such as her.

Torchlight flared on the walls as the army mustered in the ward. Yawning from a short night’s sleep, Ricyn walked among his men, yelling orders to keep them hurrying. Loaded with provisions, carts rumbled by, the sleepy carters cracking long whips. Ricyn smiled at everything. He’d always dreamt of this day, when he’d be riding to war as a captain, not merely a common rider. One at a time, his men led their horses into line at the watering trough. Ricyn found Camlwn, who was holding the reins to Dagwyn’s horse as well as to his own.

“And where’s Dagwyn?” Ricyn said.

For an answer Cam jerked his thumb at the nearby stable, where Dagwyn and a kitchen lass were embracing passionately in the shadow of a wall.

“One last sweet farewell,” Cam said, grinning. “I don’t know how he does it. I’ll swear he’s ensorcelled a lass in every dun we’ve ever been in.”

“If not two. Daggo, come on! Save it for when we ride home!”

The soft, silvery notes of Lord Dannyn’s horn drifted through the dun. When Dagwyn tore himself away from the lass, the warband hooted and jeered. Calling orders, Ricyn mounted his horse. The familiar scuffling jingle as the warband followed his example was sweeter than any bard-song. He led them around to the front of the dun, where the rest of the army, over three hundred men in all, waited by the gates with the carts, packhorses, and servants off to one side. Gweniver turned her horse out of the confusion and rode over to fall into place at Ricyn’s side.

“Good morrow, my lady.” He made a half bow from the saddle.

“Morrow. This is splendid, Ricco. I’ve never been so excited in my life.”

Ricyn grinned, thinking that she was like a young lad on his first ride out. It seemed impossible that she would be there, wearing mail like the rest of them, with the hood pushed back to reveal the soft cropped curls of her golden hair and the blue tattoo on her cheek. The sky turned gray with dawn and paled the torchlight below. Up at the gates, servants began to attach the chains to the winch. Lord Dannyn rode his stocky black gelding down the line, paused here and there to speak to someone, then finally jogged up to Gweniver.

“You’re riding at the head of the line with me, Your Holiness.”

“Oh, am I, now? And to what do I owe this honor?”

“Your noble birth.” Dannyn gave her a thin-lipped smile. “It’s a cursed sight better than mine, isn’t it?”

As they rode away, Ricyn stared at Dannyn’s back and hated him.

All that morning the army ambled west along the coast road, which hugged the sea cliffs. Ricyn could see the ocean, sparkling turquoise flecked with white, running slow waves onto the pale sand far below. Off to the right lay the well-tended fields of the king’s personal demesne, stubbled golden, where an occasional peasant walked along, bent double as he gleaned the last few grains of the first harvest. Ordinarily, Ricyn would have been whistling as they rode, just because it was a lovely day and they were headed for glory, but today he rode instead wrapped in his thoughts, alone at the head of the warband instead of next to a familiar riding partner. Every now and then, when the road curved, he would see Gweniver far ahead and wish that she were riding next to him.

Yet that night, when the army camped in the broad meadows along the cliffs, Gweniver came to his campfire with her arms full of her gear. He jumped up and took the burden from her.

“You should have let me tend your horse, my lady.”

“Oh, I can stake out a horse if I have to. I’ll be sharing your fire.”

“That gladdens my heart. I was wondering just how long Lord Dannyn would keep you at his side.”

“And just what do you mean by that?”

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