Darkspell (17 page)

“Hoping I’d envy her? I would, but that’s my burden, not yours. I’m the one who chose the Goddess.”

He smiled at the ground in front of him.

“You truly would envy her?”

“I would.”

He nodded and stared at the cobbles as if he were counting them.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said at last. “There’s a lass or two around that I sort of fancy, and one of them fancies me well enough. Just yesterday it was, she was talking with me, and I knew I could bed her easy enough if I didn’t mind sharing her with a couple of the other lads, and I’ve never minded that before. But all at once I didn’t give a pig’s fart if I ever had her or not, so I walked away.” He was silent for a few minutes. “It’s never going to be any good with some other lass. I love you too much. I have for years.”

“Oh, now, here, you just haven’t found the right lass.”

“Don’t jest with me, Gwen. I’m not going to live long enough for that. You’re minded to die, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes, whenever we ride to a scrap. Well, I’m not going to live a minute longer than you. I’ve been praying to the Goddess, and I promised Her that.” Finally he
looked at her. “So I was thinking, I might as well swear the same vow as you.”

“Don’t! There’s no need, and if you broke it—”

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

“That’s not what I meant. There’s just no reason to.”

“There is, at that. What do most men give the lass they love? A home, and plenty to eat, and a new dress every now and then. Well, I’ll never be able to give you any of that, so I’ll give you what I can.” He smiled at her as easily, as sunnily, as he always did. “Whether you care or not, Gwen, you’ll never see me with another woman, or hear about it, either.”

She felt like a woman who’s been using an old pot in her kitchen, only to polish it one day and find it solid silver.

“Ricco, I’ll never break this vow. Do you understand that?”

“And if I didn’t, would I be swearing one of my own?”

When she caught his arm, she felt the Goddess making her speak.

“But if I ever did, you’d be the one, not Dannyn. You’re twice the man he is, for all his rank.”

He wept, two thin trails of tears, hastily stifled.

“Oh, ye gods,” he whispered. “I’ll follow you to the death.”

“You will, if you follow me at all.”

“The Goddess will have us all in the end, anyway. Why by every hell should I care when?”

“Well and good, then. I love you.”

He caught her hand and twined his fingers through hers. For a long while they sat that way, unspeaking; then he sighed heavily.

“It’s a pity I can’t save up my wages and buy you a betrothal brooch,” he said. “Just to give you somewhat, like, to mark this.”

“I feel the same. Wait, I know. Swear a blood vow with me, like they did in the Dawntime.”

He smiled, nodding. When she gave him her dagger, he made a small cut on her wrist, then on his own, and laid
the bloody wounds together to let them mingle. As she stared up into his eyes, she felt like weeping, just because he looked so solemn, and because this was the only wedding they’d ever have. A trickle of blood, as thin as Ricyn’s tears, ran down her arm. All at once she felt the Goddess, a cold presence around her. She knew that the Dark Lady was pleased, that their love was as clean and harsh as another sword to lay upon Her altar. He bent his head and kissed her, just once, then let her go.

It was later the same morning that an aimless walk brought them to Nevyn’s herb garden, and to Nevyn himself, who was down on his knees and fussing over his plants. When they hailed him, he rose, wiping muddy hands on his brigga.

“Good morrow,” he said. “I hear from the gossip that you two will be riding back to the Wolf lands soon.”

“We will,” Gweniver said. “And we’re going to rid them of vermin, too.”

Nevyn cocked his head to one side and looked back and forth between them, his eyes suddenly cold.

“What’s that on your wrist, Ricco?” he said. “It looks like your lady has a cut to match it.”

With a laugh she held up her hand to display the dried smear of blood.

“Ricyn and I have sworn a vow together. We’ll never share a bed, but we’ll share a grave.”

“You stupid young dolts,” Nevyn whispered.

“Now, here,” Ricyn said. “Don’t you think we can keep it?”

“Oh, of course. No doubt you’ll fulfill your vow splendidly and have exactly the reward you want, too, an early death in battle. No doubt bards will sing of you for years and years to come.”

“Then why look so troubled?” Gweniver broke in. “We’d never ask for anything better.”

“I know.” The old man turned away. “And that’s what troubles my heart. Ah, well, it’s your Wyrd, not mine.”

And without another word, he knelt down and went back to his weeding.

That night Nevyn had no heart to linger at table in the great hall and watch Gweniver laughing among the noble-born. He retired to his chamber, lit candles, then paced back and forth while he wondered what there was about his race that made it take pleasure in suffering, that made it love death the way that other races loved comfort and riches, just as Gwen and her Ricyn thought that they loved each other while all the time they loved the dark streak in the Deverry soul.

“Ah, ye gods! It’s no affair of mine now.”

The candle guttered as if shaking its golden head in a no. It
was
his affair, whether he managed to help them in this life or whether he was forced to wait till their next. And not only were Gweniver’s troubles his own, but Ricyn’s as well. Whether they broke their vow or kept it, they were binding themselves with a chain of Wyrd that would take the wisdom of a King Bran to untangle and the strength of a Vercingetorix to break. Thinking of those two Dawntime heroes blackened Nevyn’s mood further. A cursed blood vow, something right out of an old saga! He wanted to explain to them, to force them to see that it’s always easier to fall than to climb, that letting go for the fall brings a wonderful feeling of ease and power. She would never listen. It was probably too late.

Nevyn threw himself into a chair and stared at the empty hearth. He felt the whole kingdom slipping back as the civil wars broke and trampled all those long years of culture, the learning, the courtly honor, the concern for the poor—all those civilized things that so many men had spent so many years trying to build into the Deverry soul. How long will it be before they start taking heads again? For the first time in his unnaturally long life, he wondered if his service to the Light was worthwhile, wondered if there truly could be any Light to serve, since things could slip back into darkness so easily. Never before had he been so aware of how fragile civilization is, that it floats like oil on the black ocean of men’s minds.

As for Gweniver, Nevyn had one last, desperate hope.
If only he could make her see it, the dweomer offered greater power than anything else on earth, and she loved power. Perhaps he could get her away from court—and Ricyn, too, because she would never leave him behind— and retreat to the wild north country or even Bardek. There he could help her throw off the burden she’d taken upon herself and make her understand. That very night he went to her chamber for a talk.

Gweniver poured him mead and sat him down in her best chair. In the lantern light her eyes were glowing, her smile bright and fixed, as if it had been cut into her face with a knife.

“I can guess why you’re here,” she announced. “Why is your heart so troubled about the vow Ricyn and I swore?”

“Mostly because it seems shortsighted. It’s best to think carefully before committing yourself to a single path. Some roads travel through many different lands and offer many different views.”

“And others run straight and short. I know that, but my Goddess has chosen my road for me, and I can’t turn back now.”

“Oh, of course not, but there are more ways of serving Her than with a sword.”

“Not for me. I truly don’t care, good Nevyn, that my road’s going to be a short one. It’s—oh, it’s like having only so much firewood. Some people eke it out a stick at a time so they have a little puny fire all night. Others like to heap it up and have a good roaring blaze while it lasts.”

“And then they freeze to death?”

She frowned into her goblet.

“Well,” she said at last, “I didn’t pick the best way of saying that, did I? Or, here, it’s good enough. Not freeze to death—then they throw themselves into the fire.”

When she tossed her head back and chortled, Nevyn finally saw what he’d been refusing to see for a very long time: she was mad. Long ago she’d been pushed over the edge of sanity, and now madness glowed in her eyes and smirked in her smile. Yet there’s madness and madness; in this world gone mad, she would be considered splendid,
heaped with honor and glory by men only slightly less mad than she. Sitting there and continuing to chat was one of the hardest things Nevyn had ever done. Even though she talked of long-term plans for Blaeddbyr and the Wolf clan, she was a walking suicide.

Eventually he made a polite escape and returned to his chamber. He could never bring her to the dweomer now, because studying magic demands the sanest of all possible minds. Those who are the least bit unbalanced when they begin dweomer-study soon find themselves torn apart by the powers and forces they invoke. In this life, he knew, she would never have her true Wyrd. As he paced around his chamber, Nevyn suddenly began to tremble. He sank into a chair and wondered if he was ill until he realized that he was weeping.

The summer rains had turned the dun of the Wolf clan into a pool of muck. The gutted roofless broch rose in the middle of black mud, ashes, and charred timbers, all cracking on the cobbles, clogging the well, and stinking with the sickly-sweet stench of burning and rot. Here and there in the shade of the walls molds and mildews lay clammy, like diseased snow. Gweniver and Gwetmar sat on horseback in the opening that had once been the gate and looked it over.

“Well,” Gweniver said, “you’re a great lord now, sure enough.”

“Will Your Holiness partake of the hospitality of my splendid hall?” He made her a mock bow. “We might as well ride on and take a look at the village.”

“Truly. You won’t have time to rebuild Dun Blaedd before winter.”

They rode back downhill to the waiting army. Besides their own warband, about seventy men in all, they had two hundred of the King’s Men, led by Dannyn. Glyn’s generosity extended to a long baggage train of supplies and a contingent of skilled craftsmen to fortify whatever buildings they found still standing. As they rode across the Wolfs lands, Gweniver began to wonder if the demesne could be saved, because the bondsmen who worked the
fields had all fled. Twice they passed the site of one of their villages to find the rough huts burned, as if the bondfolk had decided to show their contempt for their former masters as they escaped. The village, however, which had been held by freemen, still stood, even though the inhabitants were gone, driven in their case by fear of the Boar, not the Wolf. The weeds grew thick and green around the village well and down the paths. Under the apple trees the un-gathered fruit lay rotting like gouts of blood. The houses seemed to be crouching together, the shuttered windows sad eyes reproaching those who’d deserted them.

“I’ll be a fine lord indeed with no folk to rule,” Gwetmar remarked with a false-ringing jest in his voice.

“The villagers will come back in time. Send messengers to the south and east, where they have kin. As for your own lands, my friend, I think me you’ll have to be content with rents from free men—if you can find some who want to settle here.”

Gwetmar unceremoniously broke the padlock on the blacksmith’s house and claimed it as his own, simply because it was the biggest. With no time to build a proper stone wall, the master mason and the master carpenter decided on an earthwork and ditch to ring an inner palisade of logs. While the slow work got under way, the army rode constant small patrols along the border between the Boar and the Wolf lands. Yet it was a fortnight before the trouble came. Gweniver was leading a squad through deserted meadows when she saw, far down the road, a cloud of dust announcing that men rode toward them. She sent a messenger back to Dannyn and the main body of the army, then drew up her warband in battle order across the road.

Slowly the dust resolved itself into ten riders, coming at an easy jog. When they saw the squad, they halted and formed into a rough line. They were on their side of the border; the Wolves were on theirs; the situation hung on heartbeats as the leader edged his horse out of the pack to meet Gweniver halfway.

“Wolves, are you?” he said.

“We are. What’s it to you?”

The leader’s eyes flicked to her twenty-four men and counted hopeless odds. With a shrug he wheeled his horse and led off his troop in retreat. As they turned, she saw that one rider was carrying a shield blazoned with the green Wyvern of the Holy City.

“So,” she said to Ricyn, “I see why Glyn sent his men along with us.”

“Just that, my lady. Slwmar of Cantrae isn’t going to let this much land go without a fight.”

“We’d best get back and tell the others.”