Darkspell

  “If you run him hard in the field, and if he dies from it, then I’ll kill you.”

  There was no doubt that she meant it. Refusing to reply, he retrieved his sword from the cobbles. Only then did he notice the crowd of onlookers, watching, grinning, no doubt thinking that the bastard had it coming to him.

  In blind rage Dannyn strode back to the dun and ran upstairs to his chamber. He flung himself down on his bed and lay there shaking in fury. Yet slowly the rage left him to be replaced by a cold hopelessness. Well and good, then; if the bitch preferred her stinking farmer, then let her have him! The Goddess would punish both of them soon enough, if they were bedding together. With a sigh he sat up, realizing that they were probably doing no such thing. He would have to keep his jealousy well in hand from now on, he told himself, lest he give in to a rage stronger even than his lust.

  For the rest of that day, Ricyn avoided Gweniver, but at the evening meal in the great hall, he found himself watching her as she sat on the dais with the rest of the noble-born. It was a real torment to remember how he’d shamed himself in front of her. He’d forgotten the Goddess. It was as simple as that—for one moment he’d thought of her only as a woman, not as the sacred priestess she truly was. That Dannyn made the same mistake was no real excuse. The Goddess had taken and marked her, and that was that. When he was done eating, Ricyn got a second tankard of ale and drank it slowly while he considered what he was going to do to make retribution, not to Gweniver, but to the Goddess. He had no desire to die in his next battle because She wanted him slain.

  “Coming back to the barracks?” Dagwyn said. “We could have a game of dice.”

  “Oh, I’ll follow you in a bit. I was thinking of having a word with the old herbman.”

  “What for?”

  “Naught that concerns you.”

  With a shrug Dagwyn got up and left. Ricyn wasn’t sure why he thought Nevyn would know about the Dark Goddess, but the old man seemed so wise that it was worth a try. Halfway across the hall, Nevyn was finishing his meal and engrossed in conversation with the Master of Weaponry. Ricyn decided to wait until he was done, then follow him out. A few at a time, the other Wolf riders left the table until he was alone in a small island of quiet in the noisy hall. He got a third tankard, sat back down, and cursed the Master of Weaponry for talking so much.

  “Captain?” someone said from behind him.

  It was Lord Oldac, his thumbs hooked into his sword belt. Although Ricyn had never forgiven him for calling Gweniver a wench, he rose and bowed as Oldac’s rank forced him to do.

  “I’d like a word with you. Let’s step outside.”

  Ricyn followed him out the back door into the cool ward. They stood in a spill of light from a window while Oldac waited for a pair of serving lasses to walk past, out of earshot.

  “What was that little scrap between you and Lord Dannyn today?” Oldac said.

  “Begging his lordship’s pardon and all, I don’t see where it’s any affair of his.”

  “Oh, no doubt it isn’t. Just cursed curious. One of the pages said Lord Dannyn insulted her holiness, and that you defended her.”

  It was tempting to lie and let this less-shameful story get around.

  “Well, my lord, that’s not true. I said somewhat that Lord Dannyn took wrong, and my lady intervened.”

  “Well, our bastard’s certainly a touchy sort, isn’t he?” Oddly enough, Oldac looked disappointed. “Well, just wondering.”

  When he returned to the hall, Ricyn found Nevyn already gone. Cursing Oldac in his mind, he found a page who told him that the old man had retired to his chamber. Ricyn hesitated, afraid to disturb a man everyone said had dweomer, but after all, if he didn’t placate the Goddess promptly, his life was at stake. He went up to Nevyn’s chamber, where he found the old man sorting out herbs by lantern light.

  “Here, good sir,” Ricyn said. “Could I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, lad. Come in and shut the door.”

  Since Nevyn had only one chair, Ricyn stood uneasily by the table and looked at the sweet-smelling herbs.

  “Don’t you feel well or suchlike?” Nevyn said.

  “Oh, I haven’t come for your herbs. You seem like a truly wise man. Do you know if the Dark Goddess would take prayers from a man?”

  “I don’t see why not. Bel listens to a woman’s prayers, doesn’t he?”

  “Good. I can’t ask my lady, you see. I’m afraid that I’ve offended the Goddess, but I blasted well know I’ve offended her. So I thought maybe I could make it up to the Goddess on my own, because I don’t want to die on my next ride. It’s cursed hard when She doesn’t even have a proper temple I can go to.”

  Nevyn considered him with a puzzling look that was halfway between exasperation and admiration.

  “Well, no doubt the Goddess understands that,” Nevyn said. “In a way, she needs no temple, because all night is Her home and the darkness Her altar.”

  “Here, sir, did you used to be a priest?”

  “Oh, I didn’t, but I’ve read many a book on sacred lore.”

  “Well and good, then. Shouldn’t I sacrifice somewhat to Her? The gods always seem to like that.”

  “So they do.” Nevyn thought for a moment with an impressively solemn expression. “I’ll give you a bit of mandrake root, because it’s forked like a man and has dweomer. You go down to the river in the dead of night, throw it in, and then pray that She takes it in your stead and forgives you.”

  “My thanks, good sir, truly, my humble thanks. I’ll pay you for the bit of root, too.”

  “Oh, no need, lad. I don’t want to see you slip up and get killed because you believe the Goddess has turned against you.”

  Ricyn wrapped the precious mandrake in a bit of cloth and hid it in his shirt, then went back to the barracks. He lay on his bunk and thought of what he was going to say to the Goddess, because he wanted to get the words exactly right. Knowing that he too could worship Her filled him with a solemn peace. Darkness is Her altar—he liked the way old Nevyn had put it. Someday, when his Wyrd came upon him, he would sink into Her arms and lie quiet and spent, at rest in the dark, with all the surge and pain of this endless war behind him.

  “Dagwyn?” Gweniver said. “Where’s Ricyn?”

  Dagwyn turned and hastily looked over the stable.

  “Cursed if I know, my lady,” he said. “He was here not but a minute ago.”

  Gweniver hurried out into the bright morning sunlight and walked round the stables. He was deliberately avoiding her again, she supposed, a supposition that proved correct when she finally caught up with him. He gave her one startled glance, then looked only at the ground.

  “Come walk with me, Ricco.”

  “If my lady orders it.”

  “Don’t keep slinking around like a whipped dog! Here, I was never angry with you, but if I was going to put Dannyn in his place, I had to be fair about it, didn’t I?”

  Ricyn looked up and smiled, a quick flash of his usual good cheer. She loved seeing him smile that way.

  “Well, so you did,” he said. “But I’ve been eating my heart away over it, anyway.”

  “It’s over now, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Together they strolled through the storage sheds and empty carts out behind the stables until they found a quiet, sunny spot by the dun wall. They sat down, backs to a shed, and looked at the towering rise of dark stone, shutting them in as much as it shut enemies out.

  “You know,” Gweniver said, “you should find yourself some lass in the dun. We’ll be here the rest of our lives.”

  Ricyn winced as if she’d slapped him.

  “What’s so wrong?” she said.

  “Naught.”

  “Nonsense. Out with it.”

  Ricyn sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as if it helped him think.

  “Well, suppose I did get a lass. How would you take it? I was hoping you’d—ah, curse it!”

  “Hoping I’d envy her? I wou
ld, 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.