Darkspell. Katharine Kerr

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ