Darkspell Page 5

  “Well, we’ve got their horses now, and all their provisions, too.” Ricyn glanced at Gweniver. “We’ve been up in the woods, my lady, waiting to make our strike. We figured that the Boar couldn’t sit here all blasted summer. The dun’s razed, by the by. We rode back and found it.”

  “I figured it would be. What of Blaeddbyr?”

  “It still stands. The folk there gave us food.” Ricyn looked away, his mouth slack. “The Boar caught the warband on the road, you see. It was just dawn, and we were only half-dressed when the bastards came over the hill without so much as a challenge or the sound of a horn. They had twice as many men as we did, so Lord Avoic yells that we’re to run for our lives, but we couldn’t do it fast enough. Forgive me, my lady. I should have died there with him, but then I thought about you—well, you and all the womenfolk, I mean—so I thought it’d be better to die in the ward defending you.”

  “So did we,” Dagwyn chimed in. “But we were too late. We had to be cursed careful with Boars all over the roads, and by the time we reached the dun, it was burning. And we were all half-mad, thinking you slain, but Ricco here says you could have gotten to the temple.”

  “So we headed here,” Ricyn picked up. “And when we found the stinking Boar camped at the gates, we knew you had to be inside.”

  “And so we were,” Gweniver said. “Well and good, then. You lads get those horses and that cart of supplies up here. There’re some huts round back for the husbands of women who come just for a day or two. You can stay there while I decide what we’ll do next.”

  Although Dagwyn hurried off to follow orders, Ricyn lingered, rubbing his dirty face with the back of a dirtier hand.

  “We’d better bury those Boars, my lady. We can’t leave that for the holy ladies.”

  “True enough. Huh. I wonder what the high priestess is going to say about this. Well, that’s for me to worry about, not you. My thanks for rescuing me.”

  At that he smiled, just a little twist of his mouth, then hurried off after the others.

  Although Ardda was not pleased to have four men slain at her gates, she was resigned, even remarking that perhaps the Goddess was punishing the Boars’ impiety in the matter.

  “No doubt,” Gweniver said. “Because it was She who killed that one lad. I was naught but a sword in Her hands.”

  Ardda looked at her sharply. They were sitting in her study, a spare stone room with a shelf of six holy books on one wall and a table littered with temple accounts on the other. Even now, with her decision coming clear in her mind, Gweniver debated. Once her highest ambition had been to be high priestess here herself and to have this study for her own.

  “All afternoon I’ve been praying to Her,” Gweniver went on. “I’m going to leave you, my lady. I’m going to swear to the Moon and turn the clan over to Macla. Then I’m going to take my men and go to Cerrmor and lay the Wolf’s petition before the king. Once I have the tattoo, the Boar will have no reason to harm me.”

  “Just so, but it’s still dangerous. I hate to think of you out on the roads these days with just three riders for an escort. Who knows what men will do these days, even to a priestess?”

  “Not just three, my lady. I’m the fourth.”

  Ardda went still, crouched in her chair as she began to pick up Gweniver’s meaning.

  “Don’t you remember telling me about the fourth face of the Goddess?” Gweniver went on. “Her dark side, when the moon turns bloody and black, the mother who eats her own children.”

  “Gwen. Not that.”

  “That.” With a toss of her head, she rose to pace about the chamber. “I’m going to take my men and join the war. It’s been too long since a Moon-sworn warrior fought in Deverry.”

  “You’ll be killed.” Ardda got to her feet. “I shan’t allow it.”

  “Is it for either of us to allow or disallow if the Goddess calls me? I felt Her hands on me today.”

  Their eyes met, they locked stares in a battle of will. When Ardda looked away first, Gweniver realized that she was no longer a child, but a woman.

  “There are ways to test such inspirations,” Ardda said at last. “Come into the temple tonight. If the Goddess grants you a vision, it’s not for me to say you nay. But if She doesn’t—”

  “I’ll be guided by your wisdom in the matter.”

  “Very well, then. And what if She grants you a vision, but not the one you think you want?”

  “Then I’ll swear to Her anyway. The time has come, my lady. I want to hear the secret name of the Goddess and make my vow.”

  In preparation for the ceremony, Gweniver fasted that evening. While the temple was at its dinner, she fetched water from the well and heated herself a bath by the kitchen hearth. As she was dressing afterward, she paused to look at her brother’s shirt, which she’d embroidered for him the year before. On each yoke, worked in red, was the striding wolf of the clan, surrounded by a band of interlacement. The pattern twined so cleverly around itself that it looked like a chain of knots made up of many strands, but in fact there was only one line to it, and each knot flowed inevitably into the next. My Wyrd’s just such a tangle, she told herself, all chained round.

  And with the thought came a cold feeling, as if she had spoken better than she could know. As she finished dressing, she was frightened. It was not that perhaps she might die in battle; she knew that she would be slain, maybe soon, maybe many years hence. It was the way of the Dark Goddess, to call upon her priestesses to make the last sacrifice when She decided the time had come. When Gweniver picked up the sword belt, she hesitated, half tempted to throw it to the floor; then she buckled it on and strode out of the room.

  The round wooden temple stood in the center of the compound. At either side of the door grew twisted, flamelike cypress trees, brought all the way from Bardek and nursed through many a cold winter. When Gweniver walked between them, she felt a surge of power as if she passed through a gate into another world. She knocked nine times on the oak door and waited until nine muffled knocks answered from inside. Then she opened it and went into the antechamber, dimly lit by a single candle. A priestess robed in black waited for her.

  “Wear those clothes in the temple. Take in your sword as well. The high priestess has so commanded.”

  In the inner shrine the polished wood walls gleamed in the light of nine oil lamps, and the floor lay spread with fresh rushes. By the far wall stood the altar, a boulder left rough except for the top, which had been smoothed into a table. Behind it hung a huge circular mirror, the only image of Her that the Goddess will have in Her temples. Dressed in black, Ardda stood to the left.

  “Unsheathe the sword and lay it on the altar.”

  Gweniver curtsied to the mirror, then did as the high priestess ordered. Through a side door three senior priestesses entered without a word and stood at the right, waiting to witness her vow.

  “We are assembled to instruct and receive one who would serve the Goddess of the Moon,” Ardda said. “Gweniver of the Wolf is known to us all. Are there any objections to her candidacy?”

  “None,” the three said in unison. “She is known to us as one blessed by Our Lady.”

  “Well and good, then.” The high priestess turned to Gweniver. “Will you swear to serve the Goddess all your days and nights?”

  “I will, my lady.”

  “Will you swear never to know a man?”

  “I will, my lady.”

  “Will you swear never to betray the secret of the holy name?”

  “I will, my lady.”

  Ardda raised her hands and clapped them together three times, then three more, and finally a third three, measuring out the holy number in its just proportion. Gweniver felt a solemn yet blissful peace, a sweetness like mead flowing through her body. At last the decision was made, and her vow given over.

  “Of all the goddesses,” Ardda went on, “only Our Lady has no name known to the common folk. We hear of Epona, we hear of Sirona, we hear of Aranrhodda, but always Our La
dy is simply the Goddess of the Moon.” She turned to the three witnesses. “And why should such a thing be?”

  “The name is a secret.”

  “It is a mystery.”

  “It is a riddle.”

  “And yet,” Ardda said after the answers, “it is a riddle easy to solve. What is the name of the Goddess?”

  “Epona.”

  “Sirona.”

  “Aranrhodda.”

  “And,” this said in unison, “all the rest.”

  “You have spoken true.” Ardda turned to Gweniver. “Here, then, is the answer to the riddle. All goddesses are one goddess. She goes by all names and no name, for she is One.”

  Gweniver began to tremble in a fierce joy.

  “No matter what men or women call her, She is One,” Ardda went on. “There is but one priestesshood that serves Her. She is like the pure light of the sun when it strikes the rain-filled sky and turns into a rainbow, many colors, but all One at the source.”

  “Long have I thought so,” Gweniver whispered. “Now I know.”

  Again the high priestess clapped out the nine knocks, then turned to the witnesses.

  “There is a question of how Gweniver, no longer lady but new priestess, shall serve the Goddess. Let her kneel in petition at the altar.”

  Gweniver knelt in front of the sword. In the mirror she could see herself, a shadowy figure in the flickering light, but she barely recognized her face, the cropped hair, the mouth set grim, the eyes glowing with lust for vengeance. Help me, O Lady of the Heavens, she prayed, I want blood and vengeance, not tears and mourning.

  “Look into the mirror,” Ardda whispered. “Beg Her to come to you.”

  Gweniver spread her hands on the altar and took up her watch. At first she saw nothing but her face and the temple behind her. When Ardda began to chant a high wailing song in the old tongue, it seemed that the oil lamps flickered in time to the long-sprung rhythms. The chant rose and fell, winding through the temple like a cold north wind. In the mirror the light changed, dimmed, became a darkness, a trembling dark as cold as a starless sky. The chant sobbed on, wailing through ancient words. Gweniver felt the hair prickling on the back of her neck as in that mirror-darkness appeared the stars, the wheel and dance of the endless sky. Among them formed the image of Another.

  She towered through the stars, and her face was grim, blood besotted as she shook her head and spread a vast mane of black hair over the sky. Gweniver could hardly breath as the dark eyes looked her way. This was the Goddess of the Darktime, Whose own heart is pierced with swords and Who demands no less from those who would worship Her.

  “My lady,” Gweniver whispered, “take me as a sacrifice. I’ll serve you always.”

  The eyes considered her for a long moment, fierce, gleaming, utterly cold. Gweniver felt the presence all around her, as if the Goddess stood beside and behind as well as in front of her.

  “Take me,” she repeated. “I’ll be naught but a sword in your hand.”

  On the altar her sword flared and ran with bloody colored light, casting a glow upward that turned the mirror red. The chant stopped. Ardda had seen the omen.

  “Swear to Her.” The priestess’s voice shook. “That in Her service you’ll live”—her voice broke—“and die.”

  “So do I swear, from deep in my heart.”

  In the mirror the eyes of the Goddess radiated joy. The light on the sword danced up like fire, then fell back. As it faded, the mirror darkened to the turning stars, then only to blackness.

  “Done!” Ardda clapped her hands together, a boom and echo in the temple.

  The mirror reflected Gweniver’s pale, sweating face.

  “She has come to you,” the high priestess said. “She has given you the blessing that many would call a curse. You have chosen, and you have sworn. Serve Her well, or death will be the least of your troubles.”

  “Never will I betray Her. How can I, when I’ve looked into the eyes of Night?”

  Ardda clapped her hands together nine times, measured out three by three. Still trembling, Gweniver rode and took up her sword.

  “Never did I think She would accept you.” Ardda was close to tears. “But now all I can do is pray for you.”

  “I’ll treasure those prayers no matter how far I ride.”

  Two more priestesses entered the temple. One carried a silver bowl of blue powder, the other a pair of fine silver needles. When they saw the sword in Gweniver’s hands, they exchanged startled glances.

  “Give her the mark on her left cheek,” Ardda said. “She serves Our Lady of the Darkness.”

  Thanks to the provisions they’d captured from the Boarsmen, Ricyn and the others had a good hot breakfast, for the first time in days, of barley porridge and salt bacon. They ate slowly, savoring every bite, savoring even more the temporary safety. They were just finishing when Ricyn heard someone leading a horse up to the hut. He jumped to his feet and darted outside, with his sword drawn in case the Boar had sent a spy, but it was Gweniver, dressed in her brother’s clothes and leading a big gray warhorse. In the morning sun her left cheek looked burned, it was so puffy red, and in the center of the discoloration lay the blue crescent of the moon. When Dagwyn and Camlwn followed him out, all three men stared unspeaking while she smiled at them impartially.

  “My lady?” Dagwyn said at last. “Are you staying in the temple, then?”

  “I’m not. We’re packing up and riding for Cerrmor today. Load up as many provisions as the captured horses can carry.”

  All three nodded in unquestioning obedience. Ricyn couldn’t look away from her face. Although no one would ever have called Gweniver beautiful (her face was too broad and her jaw too strong for that), she was attractive, tall and slim, with the grace of a wild animal when she moved. For years he had loved her hopelessly, when every winter he would sit on one side of her brother’s hall and watch her, unobtainable, on the other. Seeing that she’d sworn the vow was grimly satisfying. Now no other man would ever have her.

  “Is something wrong?” she said to him.

  “Naught, my lady. If it’s my place to ask, I was only wondering about the tattoo. Why is it on the left side of your face?”

  “You’ve got every right to know. It marks me as a Moon-sworn warrior.” When she smiled, she seemed to change into a different woman, cold, hard-eyed, and fierce. “And here you all thought that such existed only in bard songs, didn’t you?”

  Ricyn gulped, as startled as if she’d slapped him. Dagwyn caught his breath in a gasp of surprise.

  “Lady Macla’s the head of the Wolf clan now,” she went on. “She’s made me captain of her warband until such time as she marries and her husband brings her riders of his own. If we’re still alive by then, you’ll all have a choice: to pledge to her new man, or to follow me. But for now we’re going to Cerrmor for the summer’s fighting. The Wolf swore to bring men, and the Wolf never breaks its word.”

  “Well and good, then, my lady,” Ricyn said. “We may not be much of a warband, but if anyone says one wrong word about our captain, I’ll slit the bastard’s throat.”

  When they rode out, they went cautiously, in case some of the Boarsmen were lurking on the roads. Dagwyn and Camlwn took turns riding point as they made their way along the bypaths through the hills. Although Cerrmor was a good ten days’ ride away, safety lay much closer in the duns of the Wolf’s old allies to the south and east. For two days they skirted the Wolf demesne, not daring to ride on their own lands in case the Boars were patrolling them. On the morning of the third, they crossed the River Nerr at a little-used ford and headed more east than south, aiming for the lands of the Stag clan. That night they camped on the edge of a stretch of forest that the Stags and the Wolves used jointly as a hunting preserve. Seeing the familiar trees brought tears to Gweniver’s eyes as she remembered how her brothers had loved to hunt among them.

  While the men tethered the horses and set up camp, Gweniver paced restlessly around. She was beginning to feel
grave doubts. It was one thing to talk of riding to war herself, another to look at her tiny warband and realize that their lives depended on how well she led them. On the excuse of looking for deadwood for a fire, she went into the forest and wandered through the trees until she found a small stream, running silently over rock and between fern-lined banks. Around her the old oaks cast shadows that seemed to have lain there since the beginning of time.

  “Goddess,” she whispered, “have I chosen the right path?”

  In the flickering surface of the stream, she saw no vision. When she drew her sword and looked at the blade, remembered how it had run with fire on the Goddess’s altar, it seemed she felt the ghosts of the dead gather around her, Avoic, Maroic, Benoic, and last of all, her father, Caddryc—those tall grim men whose lives had dominated hers, whose pride had summed up her own.

  “I’ll never let you lie unavenged.”

  She heard them sigh at the bitterness of their Wyrd, or maybe it was just the wind in the trees, because they left as silently and quickly as they’d gathered. Yet she knew that the Goddess had given her an omen, just as She had when She blessed the sword.

  “Vengeance! We’ll deal it for the Goddess’s sake, but vengeance we’ll all have.”

  Sword still in hand, Gweniver started back to her men, but she heard a twig snap and a footfall behind her. She spun round and raised the sword.

  “Come out!” she snapped. “Who disturbs a sworn priestess of the Darktime?”

  Dressed in torn, filthy clothes, their faces stubbled, their hair matted, two men with swords at the ready stepped out of the underbrush. When they looked her over with narrowed eyes, Gweniver felt the Goddess gathering behind her, a tangible presence that raised the hair on the nape of her neck. She stared back with a cold smile that seemed to appear on her face of its own will.

  “You never answered me,” Gweniver said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  The dark-haired, slender fellow glanced at the other with a trace of a smile; the redhead, however, shook his head no and stepped forward.

  “And is there a temple near here, my lady?” he said. “Or are you a hermit in this forest?”