Darkspell. Katharine Kerr
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