himself in a chair. Gweniver perched on the windowsill and considered him.
“Now, here,” he said, “are you truly going to ride with us?”
“I am. I want a chance at vengeance even if I die for it.”
“I understand that. I pray to every god that they’ll let me cut down Avoic’s killer. Listen, if we live till autumn, I’ll join my men to yours and join the feud.”
“My thanks. I was hoping you’d say somewhat like that, because I’ve been thinking about the Wolf lands. They’re Maccy’s now, or they will be if the king grants my petition to let them pass in the female line. But I’m still the elder as well as a priestess, and she’s blasted well going to marry the man I pick for her.”
“And no doubt you’ll pick a good one.” Gwetmar looked away, suddenly melancholy. “Maccy deserves no less.”
“Listen, you dolt, I’m talking about you. I know Maccy’s always been a coldhearted little snip to you, but now she’d marry the Lord of Hell himself to get out of that temple. I have no intention of telling any other land-hungry lord where she is until you’ve had a chance to send her messages.”
“Gwen! I happen to honestly love your sister, not just her lands!”
“I know. Why do you think I’m offering her to you?”
He tossed his head back and laughed, as bright as the sun breaking through storm clouds.
“Never did I think I’d have a chance to marry her. Taking the Wolf’s name and the Wolf’s feud seem a cursed small price to pay.”
Gwetmar escorted her down to the great hall. In the curve of the wall stood a long dais, where the king and the noble-born ate their meals. Although Glyn was nowhere to be seen, a number of lords were already sitting at table, drinking ale while they listened to a bard play. Gweniver and Gwetmar sat down with Lord Maemyc, an older man who’d known Gweniver’s father well. He stroked his gray mustaches and looked her over sadly, but to her relief he said not a word about the road she’d chosen to ride. Now that the king had given his approval, no one would dare question her choice.
The talk turned inevitably to the summer’s fighting ahead. Things promised to be slow. After the bloody campaigns of the last few years, Cerrmor simply didn’t have enough men to besiege Dun Deverry, nor did Cantrae have enough to make a real strike at Cerrmor.
“A lot of skirmishing ahead, if you ask me,” Maemyc pronounced. “And maybe one good strike north to avenge the Stag and Wolf clans.”
“A quick couple of raids and little else,” Gwetmar agreed. “But, then, there’s Eldidd to worry about on the western border.”
“Just so.” He glanced at Gweniver. “He’s been getting bolder and bolder, raiding in deep to bleed both us and Cantrae. I’ll wager he holds back his full force until we’re both worn down.”
“I see. It sounds reasonable, truly.”
On the far side of the dais there was a bustle at the small door that led to the king’s private stairway. Two pages knelt ceremoniously while a third swung the door open wide. Expecting the king, Gweniver got ready to rise, but another man came through and paused to look over the assembled company. Blond and blue-eyed, he looked much like Glyn, but he was slender where the king was heavyset. His long swordsman’s arms were crossed tight over his chest as he watched the lords with narrowed, contemptuous eyes.
“Who’s that?” Gweniver whispered. “I thought the king’s brother was dead.”
“His true brother is,” Gwetmar said. “That’s Dannyn, one of the old gwerbret’s bastards, the only lad among the lot. The king favors him highly, though, and made him captain of his personal guard. After you see him fight, you can’t begrudge him his birth. He swings a sword like a god, not a man.”
His thumbs hooked into his sword belt, Dannyn strolled over, gave Gwetmar a pleasant if distant nod, then looked Gweniver over. The yokes of his shirt sported embroidered ship blazons, the ship of Cerrmor, but all down the sleeves ran a device of striking falcons.
“So,” he said at last, “you’re the priestess who thinks she’s a warrior, are you?”
“I am. And I suppose you’re a man who thinks he can tell me otherwise.”
Dannyn sat down beside her and turned to slouch against the table. When he spoke, he looked out over the hall instead of at her.
“What makes you think you can swing a sword?” he said.
“Ask my men. I never boast about myself.”
“I already spoke with Ricyn. He had the gall to tell me that you go berserk.”
“I do. Are you going to call me a liar?”
“It’s not my place to call you anything. The king ordered me to take you and your men into his guard, and I do what he says.”
“And so do I.”
“From now on you do what I say. Understand me, lass?”
With a flick of her wrist, Gweniver dumped the contents of her tankard full into his face. As the lords at table gasped and swore, she swung herself free and rose, staring at Dannyn, who looked up, as cold as winter ice, and let the ale run down his face unnoticed.
“Listen, you,” she said. “You’re a son of a bitch, sure enough, but I’m the daughter of a Wolf. If you want to test my skill so badly, then come outside.”
“Listen to you. Feisty little wench, aren’t you?”
She slapped him across the face so hard that he reeled back.
“No man calls me a wench.”
The great hall turned dead silent as everyone in it, from page to noble lord, turned to watch.
“You forget to whom you speak,” she went on. “Or are you blind and unable to see the tattoo on my face?”
Slowly Dannyn raised his hand to his cheek and rubbed the slap, but his eyes never left hers. They were cold, deep, and frightening in their intensity.
“Will my lady accept my apology?”
When he knelt at her feet, the entire hall gasped with a sound like sea waves.
“I’m most truly sorry I insulted you, Your Holiness. Truly, a madness must have taken my heart. If any man dares call you a wench again, then they’ll have to answer to my sword.”
“My thanks. Then I forgive you.”
With a small smile Dannyn rose and wiped his ale-sopped face on his shirtsleeve, but still he looked at her. For the briefest of moments she was sorry that she’d sworn the vow of chastity. His fluid way of moving, his easy stance, his very arrogance struck her as beautiful, as strong and clean as the cut of a sword blade in the sun. When she remembered the dark eyes of the Goddess, the regret passed.
“Tell me somewhat,” he said. “Do you ride at the head of your warband?”
“I
