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 Wolfs 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?”
“I carry my temple in my saddlebags. You’ve never met a priestess of my rite before, and doubtless you won’t again.”
“She’s got the mark on her face, sure enough,” the dark-haired man broke in. “But I’ll wager she—”
“Hold your tongue, Draudd,” the redhead snarled. “There’s somewhat cursed strange about all this. Now, here, my lady, are you truly out in this blasted forest all alone?”
“What’s it to you if I am? The Goddess sees sacrilege no matter how far from the eyes of men it happens.”
When Draudd started to speak, Gweniver stepped forward, swinging the sword point up, as in challenge to
