“Mount!” she screamed. “Get ready to ride!”
The rider pulled up, then dismounted and drew his sword. As he strode toward her, she saw his bronze cloak pin glittering in the moonlight: a Boarsman.
“And who are you, lad?” he said.
Gweniver dropped into a fighting crouch.
“A page of the Wolf, from your silence. And what are you guarding so faithfully? I hate to kill a slip of a lad like you, but orders-are orders, so come now, turn the ladies over to me.”
In utter desperation Gweniver lunged and struck. Taken off guard, the Boarsman slipped, his sword swinging up wildly. She cut again and sliced him hard on one side of his neck, then struck back on the other, just as her older brother Benoic had taught her. With a moan of disbelief the Boarsman buckled to his knees and died at her feet. Gweniver nearly vomited. In the moonlight the sword blade was dark wet with blood, not shiny clean as in the practice sessions. Her mother’s shriek of terror brought her back to her senses. She ran for the Boarsman’s horse, grabbed the reins just as it was about to bolt, then led it back to the copse.
“That it would ever come to this!” Mab sobbed. “That a lass I tended would be forced to turn warrior on the roads! Oh, holy gods all, when will you have mercy on the kingdom?”
“When it suits them and not a minute before,” Gweniver said. “Now, get on those horses! We’ve got to get out of here.”
Deep in the middle of the night they reached the Temple of the Moon, which sat at the top of a hill with a stone wall around its compound. Along with his friends and vassals, Gweniver’s father had given the coin to build the wall, a farsighted generosity on his part, since it would now save his wife and daughters. If any battle-drunk warrior were insane enough to break geis and risk the Goddess’s wrath by demanding entry, the wall would keep him out until he’d come to his senses. At the gates Gweniver screamed and yelled and kept it up until at last she heard a frightened voice call back that its owner was on the way. A priestess draped in a shawl yanked the gates open a bare crack, then shoved them wider when she saw Dolyan.
“Oh, my lady, has the worst come upon your clan?”
“It has. Will you shelter us?”
“Gladly, but I don’t know what to do about this lad with you.”
“It’s only Gwen in her brother’s clothes,” Gweniver broke in. “I thought we’d best pretend to have a man with us.”
“Well and good, then. Now ride in quickly, all of you.”
Dark and shadowed in the moonlight, the vast temple compound was crowded with buildings, some of stone, others hastily thrown together out of wood. Priestesses with cloaks over their nightdresses clustered round the refugees. Some took the horses to the stables; others led Gweniver and her party to the long wood guest house. Once an elegant place for visiting noblewomen, it spread out crowded with cots and chests, and women of all ranks sheltered there. The blood feud that had just reduced the Wolf clan to three women was only a single thread in a hideous tapestry of civil war.
By the light of a candle lantern the priestesses found the newest arrivals empty cots in a corner. In the midst of the whispers and confusion, Gweniver lay down on the nearest one and fell asleep, boots, sword belt, and all.
She woke to find a silent, empty dormitory flooded with light from the narrow windows near the roof. She’d come to this temple so often that for a moment she was confused: was she here to pray about her vocation or to represent her clan at the harvest rite? Then the memory came back, sharp as a sword thrust.
“Avoic,” she whispered. “Oh, Avoid”
Yet no tears came, and she realized that she was hungry. Sore and stretching, she got up and wandered through a doorway at the end of the dormitory into the refectory, a narrow room crammed with tables for desperate guests. A neophyte in a white dress kittled with green screamed aloud, then laughed.
“My apologies, Gwen. I thought you were a lad for a moment. Sit down and I’ll fetch you porridge.”
Gweniver unbuckled the sword belt and slung it on the table. She ran one finger down Avoic’s second-best scabbard, chaped in tarnished silver and inlaid with spirals and interlaced wolves. By all rights under the law, she was the head of the Wolf clan now, but she doubted if she could ever claim her position. To inherit in the female line, she would need to overcome more obstacles than Tieryn Bureau of the Boar.
In a few minutes Ardda, high priestess of the temple, came to sit beside her. Although she grew old, with her hair turning gray and lines webbing her eyes, Ardda’s step and carriage were as lithe as a young lass’s.
“Well, Gwen. You’ve been telling me for years that you want to be a priestess. Has the time come upon you now or not?”
“I don’t know, my lady. You know that I’ve always had doubts about my calling, but do I have any choice in the matter now?”
“Don’t forget that you’ve got the Wolf lands for a dowry. When the news spreads, I’ll wager that many a man among your father’s allies will want to come fetch you out.”
“But oh, ye gods, I’ve never wanted to marry!”
With a little sigh Ardda unconsciously reached up and touched her right cheek, covered with the blue tattoo of the crescent moon. Any man who touched in lust a woman with that mark would die. Not merely noble lords but any freeborn man would have slain the defiler; everyone knew that the Goddess’s wrath meant the crops would fail and no man ever sire a son again.
“Knowing you, you want to keep the Wolfs lands,” Ardda said. “That means marrying.”
“It’s not only the land. I want to keep my clan alive. May the Goddess blast me if I let the stinking Boars win!”
“I wish you wouldn’t curse in the temple.”
“I’m not cursing. I mean it. But there’s my sister. If I swore to the Goddess, then the right of inheritance would pass to Maccy. She always had lots of suitors, even when she only had a small dowry.”
“But could she rule the clan?”
“Of course not, but if I pick her the right husband—oh, listen to me! How am I going to get to the king to lay my petition? I’ll wager that the Boar’s riding this way right now to pen us up like hogs.”
Her prediction came true not an hour later. Gweniver was restlessly pacing around the guest house when she heard the sound of men and horses riding their way. As she ran toward the gates, priestesses joined her, yelling at the gatekeeper to close them up. Gweniver was just helping slam the iron bar into the staples when the horsemen arrived in a clatter of hooves and a jingle of mail. Ardda already stood on the catwalk over the gates. Trembling with rage, Gweniver climbed up and joined her.
On the flat ground below the temple hill, the Boar’s warband milled around as the men tried to draw their horses up into some kind of order. Burcan himself edged his horse out of the mob and rode right up to the gates. A man of solid years, he had a thick streak of gray in his raven-dark hair and heavy mustache. Gweniver had been raised to hate him, and now he had killed her clan. If she had been closer, she would have spat in his face.
“What do you want?” Ardda called out. “To approach the Holy Moon ready for war is an insult to the Goddess.”
“No insult meant, Your Holiness,” he called back in his dark, gravelly voice. “It’s only that I rode in haste. I see that Lady Gweniver is safe here with you.”
“And safe she’ll remain, unless you want the Goddess to curse your lands into barrenness.”
“What kind of a man do you think I am, to violate the holy sanctuary? I came to