Darkspell (16 page)

Yet even though he knew that her true Wyrd lay with the dweomer, he was forbidden by his vows to interfere
boldly in her life. All he could do was win her confidence, make casual hints, and hope that someday she would ask him the right questions. If, of course, she lived long enough. He could only pray that the winter would come early that year. Once they were all in the dun together, with the campaigning over for the season, he would have a chance to become her friend.

For a month more the Cerrmor raiders struck with impunity along Cantrae’s southern border, because Slwmar was forced to siphon off troops to march west and deal with the new threat from Eldidd. Every now and then they faced a sizable army, but Dannyn generally withdrew before battle, preferring to bleed Cantrae’s sources of supply rather than lose men of his own. Finally, though, Slwmar was desperate enough to force battle, backing Dannyn’s men up against the Belaver by some shrewd maneuvering. Although the outcome was technically a Cerrmor victory that sent Slwmar’s men rushing back north toward the Holy City, the losses were high.

As he walked through the battlefield that evening, where his men were still working at finding and bringing in the wounded, Dannyn knew that another pitched fight would destroy them. With him walked Gweniver, as filthy and sweaty as any man there, with blood spattered on her face and shoulders. As they walked, she looked on the slaughter with an indifference that frightened him. For all that he loved battle glory and combat, he hated to see his men killed. His ideal of battle would have been something out of an old saga, where the noble-born challenged each other to single combat while their troops cheered them on.

“We’re going to have to withdraw,” he said abruptly.

“Whatever you think best, as long as we come back.”

“We might, we might not. With Eldidd in this truce, I could maybe strip Dun Cerrmor of the fort guard, but I’m not sure I want to. The king will have to make the final decision, of course.”

She turned her head to look at him in exasperation.

“Her holiness had best remember that we need men to
send against the Boar this fall. There’ll be more slaughter then, maybe even enough to glut her.”

With a toss of her head at the insult, she left him, striding away to her warband. For a moment he watched her go and wished that he could find her repellent, could stop thinking of her as a woman at all, as her holy vow should have made him do. Although he was far from a pious man, Dannyn believed in the gods, and he knew that he was risking their wrath by wanting a sworn priestess in his bed. Yet at times she would smile at him, or simply walk by, and his lust would be so strong that he would find it hard to breathe for a moment. He promised himself that if ever the time came to field two armies, he would make sure that she was in one, and he, the other.

He would have found his longing easier to forget if it weren’t for Ricyn. At times, during their slow march south to Cerrmor, he would notice the way that she and her captain talked together, so intimately, so closely, that he wondered if perhaps she’d already broken her vow, and with a common-born rider at that. The jealousy ate at him until he started hating Ricyn, a man he’d always liked before, admired even, for his steadiness, his calm courage, his easy way with the men beneath him. Now he at times had long daydreams of sending Gweniver’s captain out to certain death on a hopeless charge.

Once they were back in Dun Cerrmor, without even the distraction of battle, Dannyn found his feelings for her even harder to ignore. He did his best to avoid her, but there remained their lessons in sword craft. Although he mocked his feelings for her, telling himself that he was nothing more than a stallion in rut, he honestly loved her enough that the thought of her eventual death terrified him. He was determined to teach her every trick he knew to compensate for her lack of weight and reach.

Every morning they sparred for several hours. Although they were using only blunt blades and wicker shields, at times the contest turned into a real fight. Something would set her off, and rather than scoring light touches, she would go berserk and start landing hits, hard
slaps of the blade that set off his fury to match hers. For a few minutes they would battle, then break off by some semiconscious mutual consent and resume a more civilized lesson. Although he always won those fights, Dannyn never felt that he was mastering her. He could give her bruises all morning, but the next day she would start it again, pushing him over the edge with a hard blow. He was beginning to think that she was determined to master him.

Being back in the dun also made it hard for him to ignore Ricyn. Often he saw them together, laughing at some joke, Ricyn leaning close to her as they strolled in the ward, even dicing for coppers like a pair of riders. At times Ricyn would come watch them spar. He’d stand at the edge of the practice ground like a chaperon, saying nothing, then escort her away when they were done. Since he had no justifiable reason to order away the captain sworn to another noble, Dannyn had to put up with it.

Dannyn was furious enough one afternoon to go over and join them when they were out by the stables. He simply didn’t like the way Ricyn was smiling at her and strode over in time to overhear an odd jest about rabbits.

“Good morrow,” Dannyn said. “What’s all this about rabbits, my lady?”

“Oh, Ricco’s good at snaring them with these wires he always carries, so I was just saying that maybe he can snare me a few Boars.”

Dannyn liked hearing her use Ricyn’s nickname even less.

“Somewhat that you learned on the farm?” he naapped.

“It was, my lord,” Ricyn said. “You learn a lot, being a farmer’s son. Like how to tell a purebred horse from a nag.”

“And just what do you mean by that?” Dannyn laid his hand on his sword hilt.

“Just what I said.” Ricyn did the same. “My lord.”

With an oath Dannyn drew. He saw a flash of metal; then his wrist burned, and his sword was flying from his hand. Cursing, he stepped back just as Gweniver slapped Ricyn’s arm down with the flat of her blade. She’d out-drawn them both.

“By all the gods, not just mine,” she said, “I’ll kill the first one of you that starts this up again, even if I hang for it. Do you both understand me?”

Ricyn turned and ran, heading back for the barracks. Dannyn rubbed his aching wrist and scowled at his retreating back until Gweniver tapped his chest with the point of her sword.

“If you run him hard in the field, and if he dies from it, then I’ll kill you.”

There was no doubt that she meant it. Refusing to reply, he retrieved his sword from the cobbles. Only then did he notice the crowd of onlookers, watching, grinning, no doubt thinking that the bastard had it coming to him.

In blind rage Dannyn strode back to the dun and ran upstairs to his chamber. He flung himself down on his bed and lay there shaking in fury. Yet slowly the rage left him to be replaced by a cold hopelessness. Well and good, then; if the bitch preferred her stinking farmer, then let her have him! The Goddess would punish both of them soon enough, if they were bedding together. With a sigh he sat up, realizing that they were probably doing no such thing. He would have to keep his jealousy well in hand from now on, he told himself, lest he give in to a rage stronger even than his lust.

For the rest of that day, Ricyn avoided Gweniver, but at the evening meal in the great hall, he found himself watching her as she sat on the dais with the rest of the noble-born. It was a real torment to remember how he’d shamed himself in front of her. He’d forgotten the Goddess. It was as simple as that—for one moment he’d thought of her only as a woman, not as the sacred priestess she truly was. That Dannyn made the same mistake was no real excuse. The Goddess had taken and marked her, and that was that. When he was done eating, Ricyn got a second tankard of ale and drank it slowly while he considered what he was going to do to make retribution, not to Gweniver, but to the Goddess. He had no desire to die in his next battle because She wanted him slain.

“Coming back to the barracks?” Dagwyn said. “We could have a game of dice.”

“Oh, I’ll follow you in a bit. I was thinking of having a word with the old herbman.”

“What for?”

“Naught that concerns you.”

With a shrug Dagwyn got up and left. Ricyn wasn’t sure why he thought Nevyn would know about the Dark Goddess, but the old man seemed so wise that it was worth a try. Halfway across the hall, Nevyn was finishing his meal and engrossed in conversation with the Master of Weaponry. Ricyn decided to wait until he was done, then follow him out. A few at a time, the other Wolf riders left the table until he was alone in a small island of quiet in the noisy hall. He got a third tankard, sat back down, and cursed the Master of Weaponry for talking so much.

“Captain?” someone said from behind him.

It was Lord Oldac, his thumbs hooked into his sword belt. Although Ricyn had never forgiven him for calling Gweniver a wench, he rose and bowed as Oldac’s rank forced him to do.

“I’d like a word with you. Let’s step outside.”

Ricyn followed him out the back door into the cool ward. They stood in a spill of light from a window while Oldac waited for a pair of serving lasses to walk past, out of earshot.

“What was that little scrap between you and Lord Dannyn today?” Oldac said.

“Begging his lordship’s pardon and all, I don’t see where it’s any affair of his.”

“Oh, no doubt it isn’t. Just cursed curious. One of the pages said Lord Dannyn insulted her holiness, and that you defended her.”

It was tempting to lie and let this less-shameful story get around.

“Well, my lord, that’s not true. I said somewhat that Lord Dannyn took wrong, and my lady intervened.”

“Well, our bastard’s certainly a touchy sort, isn’t he?”
Oddly enough, Oldac looked disappointed. “Well, just wondering.”

When he returned to the hall, Ricyn found Nevyn already gone. Cursing Oldac in his mind, he found a page who told him that the old man had retired to his chamber. Ricyn hesitated, afraid to disturb a man everyone said had dweomer, but after all, if he didn’t placate the Goddess promptly, his life was at stake. He went up to Nevyn’s chamber, where he found the old man sorting out herbs by lantern light.

“Here, good sir,” Ricyn said. “Could I have a word with you?”

“Of course, lad. Come in and shut the door.”

Since Nevyn had only one chair, Ricyn stood uneasily by the table and looked at the sweet-smelling herbs.

“Don’t you feel well or suchlike?” Nevyn said.

“Oh, I haven’t come for your herbs. You seem like a truly wise man. Do you know if the Dark Goddess would take prayers from a man?”

“I don’t see why not. Bel listens to a woman’s prayers, doesn’t he?”

“Good. I can’t ask my lady, you see. I’m afraid that I’ve offended the Goddess, but I blasted well know I’ve offended her. So I thought maybe I could make it up to the Goddess on my own, because I don’t want to die on my next ride. It’s cursed hard when She doesn’t even have a proper temple I can go to.”

Nevyn considered him with a puzzling look that was halfway between exasperation and admiration.

“Well, no doubt the Goddess understands that,” Nevyn said. “In a way, she needs no temple, because all night is Her home and the darkness Her altar.”

“Here, sir, did you used to be a priest?”

“Oh, I didn’t, but I’ve read many a book on sacred lore.”

“Well and good, then. Shouldn’t I sacrifice somewhat to Her? The gods always seem to like that.”

“So they do.” Nevyn thought for a moment with an impressively solemn expression. “I’ll give you a bit of mandrake
root, because it’s forked like a man and has dweomer. You go down to the river in the dead of night, throw it in, and then pray that She takes it in your stead and forgives you.”

“My thanks, good sir, truly, my humble thanks. I’ll pay you for the bit of root, too.”

“Oh, no need, lad. I don’t want to see you slip up and get killed because you believe the Goddess has turned against you.”

Ricyn wrapped the precious mandrake in a bit of cloth and hid it in his shirt, then went back to the barracks. He lay on his bunk and thought of what he was going to say to the Goddess, because he wanted to get the words exactly right. Knowing that he too could worship Her filled him with a solemn peace. Darkness is Her altar—he liked the way old Nevyn had put it. Someday, when his Wyrd came upon him, he would sink into Her arms and lie quiet and spent, at rest in the dark, with all the surge and pain of this endless war behind him.

“Dagwyn?” Gweniver said. “Where’s Ricyn?”

Dagwyn turned and hastily looked over the stable.

“Cursed if I know, my lady,” he said. “He was here not but a minute ago.”

Gweniver hurried out into the bright morning sunlight and walked round the stables. He was deliberately avoiding her again, she supposed, a supposition that proved correct when she finally caught up with him. He gave her one startled glance, then looked only at the ground.

“Come walk with me, Ricco.”

“If my lady orders it.”

“Don’t keep slinking around like a whipped dog! Here, I was never angry with you, but if I was going to put Dannyn in his place, I had to be fair about it, didn’t I?”

Ricyn looked up and smiled, a quick flash of his usual good cheer. She loved seeing him smile that way.

“Well, so you did,” he said. “But I’ve been eating my heart away over it, anyway.”

“It’s over now, as far as I’m concerned.”

Together they strolled through the storage sheds and empty carts out behind the stables until they found a quiet, sunny spot by the dun wall. They sat down, backs to a shed, and looked at the towering rise of dark stone, shutting them in as much as it shut enemies out.

“You know,” Gweniver said, “you should find yourself some lass in the dun. We’ll be here the rest of our lives.”

Ricyn winced as if she’d slapped him.

“What’s so wrong?” she said.

“Naught.”

“Nonsense. Out with it.”

Ricyn sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as if it helped him think.

“Well, suppose I did get a lass. How would you take it? I was hoping you’d—ah, curse it!”