Darkspell. Katharine KerrЧитать онлайн книгу.
the faces of the noble-born before they could use it against him. For a moment he considered, remembering Amain’s lecture on her worship, but something seemed to drive him to speak.
“That moon on your cheek, does it mark a true vow?”
“And what else would it be?”
“Well, a ruse, I thought, a way to travel safely, and never would I blame you. A woman on the road with a warband had better have the Goddess’s protection—or make men think she does.”
“That’s true enough, but this crescent embraces my whole life now. I swore to Her, and I stay faithful to Her.”
The quiet coldness in her voice left no doubts.
“I see,” he said hurriedly. “Well, far be it from me to question how a priestess has her visions. There’s somewhat else I wanted to ask you. Does your sister have a suitor that you favor for her? I’ll speak to the king on his behalf.”
“Would you? That’s an enormous favor you’re offering me.”
“What? What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come now, my lord, don’t you see what a treasure you’ve got in the eyes of the court? You’ve got more influence with the king than any man alive. If you don’t value it, it could turn into a curse.”
Dannyn merely smiled, puzzled by the urgency in her voice. He never knew what to say when women carried on about unimportant details. After a moment she shrugged.
“The suitor I favor is Lord Gwetmar of the Alder clan.”
“I’ve fought beside him, and he’s a good man. I’ll mention him to the king.”
“My thanks.”
With a little curtsy Gweniver walked away, leaving him filled with dark hiraedd for a woman he could never have.
Lord Dannyn kept his promise about speaking to the king much sooner than Gweniver had expected. That very afternoon Saddar the councillor came to her chamber with important news. As a deference to his age, she sat him down in a chair by the hearth and poured him a small serving of mead, then took the chair opposite.
“My thanks, Your Holiness,” he said in his thin, dry voice. “I wanted to tell you personally that it gladdens my heart that the Wolf clan will live.”
“And my thanks to you, good sir.”
He smiled and had a dainty sip of mead.
“Now, the king himself asked me to come speak to you,” he went on, stressing the words “the king himself.” “He has made an important decision, that Lord Gwetmar shall lay aside his allegiance to the Alder clan and marry your sister.”
“Splendid!” Gweniver pledge him with her goblet. “Now all we’ve got to do is get Macla out of the temple safely.”
“Ah, I have further news on that. The king wishes you to fetch her soon. He’ll be lending you and Gwetmar two hundred men from his personal guard to add to your war-bands.”
“By the gods! Our liege is most generous.”
“So he is. Lord Dannyn will accompany you at their head.”
Saddar paused, as if expecting some momentous reaction. Gweniver cocked her head to one side and considered him.
“Ah, well,” the councillor said at last. “And what does her holiness think of Lord Dannyn, if I may ask?”
“My men tell me that he’s splendid in battle, and truly, good sir, that’s all that matters to me.”
“Indeed?”
Something about the old man’s smile made her remember the odd warning she’d received from the Goddess, but still she said nothing.
“Well,” Saddar said, “it’s not my place to question those who have sworn holy vows, my lady, but let me give you a word of advice from one whose long years at times make him frank. Lord Dannyn is a very impetuous man. I would keep my eye on him, if I were you.” He paused to finish the mead in his goblet. “Ah, it gladdens my heart to see you here, Your Holiness. No doubt your Goddess has sent you as a mark of Her favor to our king.”
“Let’s hope not. Her favor is as dark and harsh as a blooded blade.”
Saddar’s smile froze on his lips. He rose, made her a polite bow, and hurriedly took his leave.
For some time Gweniver thought over the councillor’s troubling remark about Dannyn. She wanted to turn to the Goddess and ask Her advice, but in truth, she was unsure of how to go about it. Only a few fragments of the rites of the Darkened Moon had been preserved. The temple priestesses knew some chants and rituals to be worked at the waning of the moon; odd scraps of lore about certain battlefield prayers bad survived from the Dawntime; nothing more. Without a temple with mirror and altar, Gweniver simply didn’t know how to approach her Goddess. In her saddlebags she had a letter of introduction from Ardda to the high priestess of the Cerrmor temple, but she was afraid to go to that city-wise and court-bound lady with her odd talk of the Moon in Her Dark.
She realized, though, that she needed the mirror-working above all. On the morrow Gweniver did go walking in the city, but instead of the temple, she went to the market square and bought herself a bronze mirror with a silvered face, small enough to fit into a saddlebag. After dinner that night, she shut herself up in her chamber with only a candle lantern for light and propped the mirror up against a chest while she knelt in front of it. Silvery and distorted, her face looked back at her.
“My lady,” she whispered. “My lady of the Darkness.”
In her mind she pictured her vision in the temple, a mere memory image only, and dead. Over the past weeks she’d brooded so much over this memory that the image held still and firm in her mind, a clear picture that she could examine from many different angles, as she looked first at her sword on the altar, then at the mirror or at Ardda, standing nearby. If only there was a way I could see it in this mirror, she told herself, then maybe it would move. As she tried to build the image on the silver surface, it stayed stubbornly blank. All at once she felt foolish. Doubtless what she wanted was impossible, but some stubborn instinct drove her to try to force the image of the Goddess out through her eyes and onto the gleaming silver.
It was also very late, and she was yawning, finding it hard to focus her eyes as she worked. All at once she stumbled onto the trick in her mind, just as when a child struggles to learn how to roll a hoop with a stick, and it seems that no matter how hard she tries, the hoop will always fall—then suddenly, without conscious effort, the hoop rolls, and never again will she fail in the attempt. First she saw a flickering trace of a picture on the mirror; then all at once the image of the Goddess appeared, lasting only a moment, but there.
“Praise be to my lady’s name!”
Gweniver was no longer tired. For half the night she stayed before the mirror, with her knees and back cramped and aching, until she could see the Goddess as clearly as if the image were painted on the silver. At last the vision moved, and the dark eyes of night looked her way yet once again. The Goddess smiled, blessing her only worshiper in the entire kingdom of Deverry. Gweniver wept, but in pure, holy joy.
Since the plan was a simple one, Dannyn figured it would work. While he escorted Gweniver and her men to the Temple of the Moon, the two brothers of Lord Maer of the Stag would lead a punitive raid deep into Cantrae-held territory, striking at the Boar’s own holdings.
“Lord Maer’s brothers are foaming like mad dogs over the insult to their clan,” Glyn remarked. “I owe them a chance at vengeance.”
“It’s the best kind of feint we could have, my liege. We’ll get the Lady Macla back here safe and sound.”
“Good.” Glyn considered for a moment. “The real fighting over the Wolf demesne won’t come till autumn, when the Boar has the leisure to take up his blood feud.”
“Just so. Well, by then we’ll