last. “What if no one thinks our lands worth having? Even if they married you, they’d still have to fight with the rotten old Boar. And you can’t afford to give me any dowry now, and so I’ll probably rot in this awful old temple for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t natter like that! If I take the holy vows, then you’ll have all the land for your dowry that any woman could want.”
“Oh.” Hope came into her eyes. “You always did talk about being a priestess.”
“Just that. Now, don’t worry. We’ll find you a husband yet.”
Macla smiled, but her flood of complaints had raised doubts in Gweniver’s mind. What indeed if no one wanted to take the Wolf lands because they brought the Wolfs feud with them? All her life Gweniver had listened to the constant talk of war, and she knew something that the more innocent Maccy didn’t: the Wolf lands lay in a bad strategic position, right on the Cantrae border and so far east of Cerrmor that they were hard to defend. What if the king in Cerrmor decided to consolidate his frontier and pulled back?
Gweniver left Maccy in the garden and went for a restless walk. If only she could get to Cerrmor and petition the king! By all accounts he was a scrupulously honorable man and might well listen. If she could get there. She climbed up the catwalk and looked out. Even though it had been three days since they’d ridden to the temple, Burcan and his men still camped in the meadow.
“How long are you going to stay there, you bastards?” she muttered under her breath.
Not much longer, as it turned out. The next morning, when she climbed to the ramparts just after dawn, she saw the warband saddling up and loading their provision carts. Yet when they pulled out, they left four men and one cart behind, a guard over her and provisioned to stay for months. Gweniver swore with every foul oath she’d ever heard until she was panting and out of breath. She should have expected no less, she supposed. Even if Burcan had taken his men away, she never could have traveled the hundred and eighty miles to Cerrmor alone.
“Unless I went as a priestess?” she remarked aloud.
Once she had the blue tattoo on her cheek, she would be inviolate, as safe on the roads as an army She could go to the king with her holy vows lending her force and beg for the life of her clan, find some man to take Maccy and keep the Wolfs name alive. If she succeeded, she could return here and take up her life in the temple. Turning, she leaned against the rampart and looked down at the compound. The neophytes and lower-ranked priestesses were working out in the garden or carrying firewood to the kitchens. A few strolled in meditation near the round temple itself. Yet for all the activity it was silent in the warm spring sun. No one spoke unless necessary, and then only in a quiet voice. For a moment she felt as if she couldn’t breathe, just from the stifling vision of her future here.
All at once she felt a blind, irrational rage. She was trapped, a wolf in a cage, chewing and raging at the bars. Her hatred of Burcan rose up as strong as a lust and then spilled over on the king in Cerrmor. She was caught between them, begging one to let her have what was rightfully hers, begging the other to take her vengeance for her. She trembled and threw her head from side to side as if to say nay to the whole universe, in a rage as bitter and hard as a splinter of glass in her throat.
With a wrench of will she calmed herself. Giving in to mad fury would do her no good.
“You’ve got to think,” she told herself. “And pray to the Goddess. She’s the only hope you’ve got.”
“The main body’s pulled out,” Dagwyn said. “But they left four men behind.”
“Bastards!” Ricyn snarled. “Treating our lady like she was a prize horse or suchlike, there for the stealing!”
Camlwn nodded grimly. The three of them were the last men left alive from the Wolfs warband, and for days they’d been camping in the wooded hills behind the Temple of the Moon, where they could watch over the woman that they considered their sworn lord. All three of them had served the Wolf clan from boyhood, and they were prepared to go on serving it now.
“How good a watch are they standing?” Ricyn said. “Armed and ready for a scrap?”
“Not on your life.” Dagwyn paused for a grim smile. “When I sneaked up on them, I saw them sitting around in the grass, as happy as you please, and dicing with their shirtsleeves rolled up.”
“Oh, were they, now? Then let’s hope that the gods make their game a nice long one.”
The free men who worked the temple’s lands were extremely loyal to the high priestess, partly because she took far less of their crops in taxes than a noble lord would have, but mostly because they considered it an honor for them and their families to serve the Goddess. Ardda was sure, or so she told Gweniver, that one of the men would make the long trip to Dun Deverry for her with a message.
“This has got to stop! I can’t order those men off land that doesn’t belong to me, but I’m not going to let them sit there all summer, either. You’re not a criminal come here for sanctuary, and so they’ve got no right to keep you in. And besides, we all know they’d murder you if they could. We’ll see if the king Burcan serves can make him call his men off.”
“Do you think the king will listen to your petition?” Gweniver said. “I’ll wager he wants our lands in the hands of one of his vassals.”
“He’d best listen! I’m asking the high priestess in the Dun Deverry temple to intercede personally.”
Gweniver held the bridle of Ardda’s palfrey as she mounted, adjusting her long dresses over the sidesaddle, then walked beside her horse as she rode down to the gates. Since the four Boarsmen had shown no inclination to try entering the temple, the gates were standing open. Gweniver and Lypilla, the gatekeeper for the day, stood together and watched as Ardda rode out, sitting straight and defiantly in the saddle. As she reached the road, the Boarsmen scrambled to their feet and made her deep, respectful bows.
“Bastards,” Gweniver muttered. “They’re keeping to every letter of the law while tearing out its heart.”
“Just that. I wonder if they’d even murder you.”
“Take me to Burcan for a forced marriage, more like. I’d die first!”
They shared a troubled glance. Gweniver had known Lypilla all her life, just as she’d always known Ardda. They were as close to her as aunts or elder sisters, yet she doubted deep in her heart if she could bear to share their life. Out on the road Ardda turned round the curve of the hill, riding north, and disappeared. The Boarsmen sat down and returned to their dice game. Gweniver found herself remembering the man she’d killed on the road and wishing that she could deal those four the same Wyrd.
Although she could have gone back and made herself useful in the kitchen, Gweniver lingered at the gates for a while, idly talking with Lypilla and staring out at the freedom of hill and meadow denied her. All at once they heard distant hoofbeats, riding fast from the south.
“I suppose Burcan’s sending messengers or suchlike to his men,” Lypilla remarked.
The Boarsmen in the meadow seemed to agree, because they rose, idly stretching, and turned toward the sound. Suddenly, out of a stand of trees, burst three riders in full mail and with swords at the ready. The Boarsmen stood frozen for a moment, then yelled and cursed as they drew swords: the riders were charging straight into them. Gweniver heard Lypilla scream as a Boarsman went down with his head cut half off his shoulders.
