Darkspell. Katharine Kerr
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.”