The king’s scribe read out the decree that turned Gwetmar into the head of the Wolf clan and bestowed Macla’s dowry upon him on the terms that he would rule as the Wolf and give all his loyalty to that clan. First Gwetmar made his mark on the parchment; then Gweniver made hers as her last act as the head of the Wolf. After Dannyn also made his mark, the other witnesses, learned councillors all, signed their names.
“Done, then,” Glyn said. “Gwetmar of the Wolf, you have our leave to take your bride to your chambers.”
In a great flurry of bowing and curtsies, the wedding pair and the councillors left the chamber, but Glyn motioned to Gweniver and Nevyn to stay with him and Dannyn. A page brought ale in silver tankards, then discreetly retired.
“Well, Your Holiness,” the king said. “I’ve kept my promise to you about the Wolfs name. I sincerely hope that your father and brothers will hear of this in the Other-lands.”
“I echo that hope, my liege. You have my humble thanks, and I’m well pleased by your generosity to one far below you.”
“Well, I find it hard to think of a sworn priestess as being below me.”
“My liege is most pious, and the Goddess will honor him for it.” Gweniver made him a curtsy. “But priestess or not, I ride at his command.”
“Or at mine, once we’re on campaign,” Dannyn broke in. “I trust my lady will remember that.”
They all turned to look at him, Glyn with a cold warning in his eyes. Dannyn was frankly drunk, his face mead-flushed, his mouth slack.
“I ride at my Goddess’s orders in all things,” Gweniver made her voice as cold as she could. “I trust Lord Dannyn will remember that.”
“Oh, now, here.” Dannyn paused for a most unnecessary sip of ale. “All I want to do is serve your Goddess by keeping you alive. Can’t say the rites when you’re dead, can you? Besides, you’re too cursed valuable to lose. Everyone knows it’s a good omen you’re here.”
Glyn started to speak, but Nevyn got in before him.
“His lordship speaks the truth,” the old man said. “But he had best mind how he phrases his words when he speaks to one of the Holy Ladies.”
“Ah, what’s it to you, old man?”
“Danno!” the king snapped.
“My apologies.” Dannyn turned cloudy eyes Gweniver’s way. “And to you, too, my lady, but I just wanted to warn you. I know you fancy yourself a warrior, but—”
“Fancy myself?” Gweniver got to her feet. “The Goddess has marked me out for blood, and don’t you think that you’re going to keep me from it.”
“Indeed? Well, we’ll see about that. I’d argue with the Lord of Hell himself to advance my brother’s cause, and so I’ll argue with your Goddess if I have to.”
“Dannyn, hold your tongue,” Nevyn broke in. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Dannyn went scarlet with rage. The king grabbed for his arm, but too late: with an oath Dannyn flung the tankard of ale straight at Nevyn’s head. The old man barked out one incomprehensible word. In midair the tankard stopped as if grabbed by an invisible hand. Ale spilled all over the floor. Gweniver felt the blood drain from her face and leave it as cold as the winter snow. The unseen hand set the tankard down on the floor, top upward. Dannyn stared at it, tried to speak, then started to shake all over, scared into near sobriety. Glyn, however, laughed.
“When he recovers himself, good Nevyn,” he said, “my brother will apologize.”
“No need, my liege. A drunken man’s not quite responsible for his lapses. My apologies, my liege, for that mess on the carpet. Spirits can’t think too well, you see, so it never occurred to them to catch the cursed thing right side up.”
Spirits? Gweniver thought. Ye gods, this room must be full of them if Nevyn has dweomer! Although she looked around uneasily, she saw none. Muttering something about calling a page to clean up the ale, Dannyn got up and fled the chamber.
“There’s more than one way to make a man mind his courtesies,” the king remarked. “My lady, allow me to apologize.”
“It’s no fault of yours, my liege. As Nevyn says, a drunken man’s not quite himself.”
Although they stayed with the king for a few more moments, the awkward incident soon forced them to leave. Gweniver supposed that the king would have a few sharp words for his brother later. As she walked down the corridor with Nevyn, she was wondering why a man with his powers would be content with so humble a place at court, but she was too frightened to ask him outright.
“Well, good sorcerer,” she said at last, “I take it that our liege will be king of all Deverry soon, with a man like you to aid him.”
“I wouldn’t wager hard coin on it.”
She stopped walking and turned to stare at him. Nevyn gave her a weary smile.
“Who knows what the gods have in store?” he went on. “The Goddess you serve has a dark heart, as well you know. It’s possible that She sent you here to preside over a bloody defeat.”
“Perhaps so.” She felt sick at the thought, but it was a logical one. “I’ll pray it’s otherwise.”
“So will I. Glyn is a good man and a splendid king, but it’s not given to me to see the end of this. My lady, I’ll beg you to keep my dweomer a secret from the rest of the court.”
“As you wish, then. I doubt if anyone would believe me if I told them, anyway.”
“Perhaps not.” He paused, considering her. “I trust Lord Dannyn is going to treat you with all the respect your position deserves.”
“He’d better. I assure you, I have no intention of breaking my vow.”
When he looked startled, she laughed.
“It behooves a priestess to be blunt at times,” she said. “My sister can tell you that I’ve never spared my tongue.”
“Good. Let me be blunt, too. It aches my heart to see you ride to war. I’ll pray your Goddess protects you.”
As she went on her way, Gweniver felt immensely flattered, that a man with his power would be concerned for such as her.
Torchlight flared on the walls as the army mustered in the ward. Yawning from a short night’s sleep, Ricyn walked among his men, yelling orders to keep them hurrying. Loaded with provisions, carts rumbled by, the sleepy carters cracking long whips. Ricyn smiled at everything. He’d always dreamt of this day, when he’d be riding to war as a captain, not merely a common rider. One at a time, his men led their horses into line at the watering trough. Ricyn found Camlwn, who was holding the reins to Dagwyn’s horse as well as to his own.
“And where’s Dagwyn?” Ricyn said.
For an answer Cam jerked his thumb at the nearby stable, where Dagwyn and a kitchen lass were embracing passionately in the shadow of a wall.
“One last sweet farewell,” Cam said, grinning. “I don’t know how he does it. I’ll swear he’s ensorcelled a lass in every dun we’ve ever been in.”
“If not two. Daggo, come on! Save it for when we ride home!”
The soft, silvery notes of Lord Dannyn’s horn drifted through the dun. When