trade with Bardek kept it rich. A fortress within a fortress, Dun Cerrmor stood on a low, artificial hill in the middle of town not far from the river. Inside a double ring of walls were the stone broch complex, stone outbuildings, and stone barracks, all with slate roofs; nowhere was there a scrap of wood that might be fired with a flaming arrow. Outside the main gate were barbicans, and the gates themselves were covered with iron, opened and shut with a winch.
When Gweniver led her warband through to the cobbled ward, cheers rang out: it’s the Wolf! By all the gods, it’s the Wolf! Men poured out of broch and barrack to watch, and pages in the king’s colors of red and silver ran to greet them.
“My lord,” a lad burst out. “We heard you were slain!”
“My brother was,” Gweniver said. “Go tell the king that the Lady Gweniver is here to honor Lord Avoic’s vow.”
The page stared goggle-eyed at her tattooed face, then dashed back into the broch. Ricyn rode up beside her and gave her a grin.
“They thought you were a ghost from the Otherlands, my lady. Shall I have the men dismount?”
“Just that. Here, you’ve been acting like the captain for days. It’s about time I told you that you officially are.”
“My lady honors me too highly.”
“She doesn’t, and you know it. You were never humble, Ricco, so don’t pretend to be so now.”
With a laugh he made her a half bow from the saddle and turned his horse back to the men.
While she waited for the page to return, Gweniver stood beside her horse and looked over the broch complex. Although her brothers had told her about the splendor of Cerrmor, she’d never been there before. A full seven stories high, the massive tower joined itself to three lower half brochs, and the dark gray complex rose like the fist of a giant turned to stone by dweomer. Nearby stood enough barracks and stables to house hundreds of men. Over it all flew a red-and-silver flag, announcing proudly that the king himself was in residence. When she glanced round at the swelling crowd, she saw all the noble lords watching her, afraid to speak until the king gave his judgment on this strange matter. Just as she was cursing the page for being so slow, the ironbound doors opened, and the king himself came out with a retinue of pages and councillors in attendance.
Glyn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, or king of all Deverry as he preferred to be known, was about twenty-six, tall and heavy set, with blond hair bleached pale and coarsened with lime in the regal fashion so that it swept back from his square face like a lion’s mane. His deep-set blue eyes bore such a haunted expression that she wondered if he’d just lost some close kinsman. When Gweniver knelt before him, she felt an honest awe. All her life she’d heard about this man, and now here he was, setting his hands on his hips and looking her over with a small bemused smile.
“Rise, Lady Gweniver,” Glyn said. “May I not sound like a churl, but never did I think to see the day when a woman would bring me men.”
Gweniver made him a curtsy as best she could in brigga.
“Well, my honored liege, never has the Wolf clan broken its sworn vow, not once in all these long years of war.”
“I’m most mindful of that.” He hesitated, picking careful words. “I’m informed that you have a sister. Later, no doubt, when you’ve rested, you’ll wish to speak to me about the fate of the Wolf.”
“I will, my liege, and I’m honored that you would turn your attention to the matter.”
“Of course. Will you shelter with me a while as an honored guest, or do you need to return straightaway to your temple?”
Here was the crux, and Gweniver called upon the Goddess in her heart.
“My liege,” she said, “the most holy Moon has chosen me to serve Her as a Moon-sworn warrior. I’ve come to beg you a boon, that you’ll let me keep the place I have as head of my warband, to ride with you in your army and live at your command.”
“What?” He forgot all his ritual courtesy. “Here, you must be jesting! What would a woman want with battles and suchlike?”
“What any man wants, my liege: honor, glory, and a chance to slay the enemies of the king.”
Glyn hesitated, staring at the tattoo as if he were remembering the old tales of those who served the Darktime Goddess, then turned to the warband.
“Now, here, men,” he called out. “Do you honor the lady as your captain?”
To a man the warband called out that they did. At the back of the line, Dagwyn boldly yelled that Gweniver was dweomer.
“Then I’ll take it as an omen that a Moon-sworn warrior has turned up at my court,” Glyn said. “Well and good, my lady. I grant your boon.”
At a wave of Glyn’s hand, servants descended. Stable boys ran to take the horses; riders from the king’s personal warband hurried over to Ricyn to take him and the men to the barracks; councillors appeared at Gweniver’s side and bowed; two underchamberlains trotted up to escort her into the great hall. The sight of it amazed her. Big enough to hold over a hundred tables for the warbands, it had four enormous hearths. Red-and-silver banners hung among fine tapestries on the walls, and rather than straw, colored slate tiles covered the floor. Gweniver stood gawking like the country lass she was as the chamberlain, Lord Orivaen by name, hurried to greet her.
“Greetings, my lady,” he said. “Allow me to find you accommodations in our humble broch. You see, since you’re both noble born and a priestess, I’m honestly not sure what rank that gives you. Perhaps the same as tieryn?”
“Oh, my good sir, as long as the room has a bed and a hearth, anything will do. A priestess of the Dark Moon cares not for rank.”
Orivaen kissed her hand in honest gratitude, then took her to a small suite in a side tower and sent pages to bring up her gear.
“Will this suffice, my lady?”
“Of course. It’s splendid.”
“My thanks. So many lords are, shall we say, overly mindful of what their accommodations might mean.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Er, well, that they might be slighted, you see.”
Gweniver didn’t see, but she smiled and nodded. Once the pages had been and gone, and Orivaen with them, she paced restlessly round. She wondered if the king would consider the Wolf lands worth holding now that the Stag clan had suffered such losses. In a few minutes a knock sounded on the door.
“Come in!”
A possible weapon in her battle to save the clan walked in, Lord Gwetmar, a lanky, lantern-jawed young man with an untidy mop of dark hair. Although his birth was noble enough, his family was land poor and considered somewhat disreputable among the great clans. Gweniver’s kin, however, had always treated him as an equal. He grabbed both of her hands in his and squeezed them hard.
“Gwen, by all the gods, it gladdens my heart to see you alive. When the news came in of Avoic’s death, I was sick, wondering if you and your sister had come to harm. I would have ridden north straightaway, but our liege wouldn’t allow it.”
“Doubtless
