a coward like you judge a warrior like her?”
When the king laughed, all the councillors forced out laughs, too, even Saddar.
“Dannyn thinks highly of her spirit, good sirs,” Glyn said. “I trust his judgment in such matters.”
“Never would I question Lord Dannyn in matters of war, my liege. I was merely thinking of the propriety of the thing.”
“You can shove that up your behind,” Dannyn snapped.
“Hold your tongue!” the king intervened sharply. “Good councillor, I assure you that I respect your wisdom far more than my arrogant brother here does, but I’ve already given the lady my sworn word of honor. Besides, I’ve invited his holiness here to the council to explain this matter for us.”
Everyone turned to the priest, who rose with a nod of recognition all round. Like all of Bel’s vassals, his head was shaved clean, and he wore a gold torque around his neck and a simple linen tunic, belted at the waist with a bit of plain rope. From the belt hung a small golden sickle.
“The king wished to know of the status of Lady Gweniver’s worship,” Amain said in his soft, dark voice. “It’s a most legitimate one, going back to the Dawntime, when, as the chronicles record, women were forced to become warriors by the cruel press of circumstance. The worship of the Moon in Her Darktime is by no means to be confused with the rites of either Epona or Aranrhodda.” At the mention of the second name, he paused to cross his fingers in the sign of warding against witchcraft. Many of the councillors did the same. “Now, truly, I was surprised to find that the knowledge of the warrior rites remains alive, but I gather the holy ladies of the temple have kept the lore of such things intact.”
As Amain sat back down, the men looked uneasily among themselves.
“So you see, good Saddar,” Glyn said, “that I can’t cross the will of the Holy Goddess in this.”
“Of course not, my liege, and may She forgive me for ever questioning the lady’s purpose.”
The council broke up in conciliatory nods and bows all round. As Glyn strode out of the room, Dannyn lingered just long enough to retrieve his dagger from the table. While he sheathed it, Saddar watched with poisonous eyes. Dannyn hurried after the king and followed him up to his private apartments. Glyn had a page bring them each a tankard of ale, then sat down in a chair by the hearth. Although Dannyn took the chair his brother offered him, he would have gladly sat by his feet like a dog.
“Now, here, Danno,” the king said, “that pack of blowhards wearies me as much as they weary you, but I’ve got to have their loyalty. Who else is going to run this piss-poor excuse for a kingdom when we’re gone on campaign?”
“True spoken, my liege, and you have my apologies.”
With a sigh Glyn sipped his ale and stared into the empty hearth. Lately he’d been slipping into these dark moods; they troubled his brother deeply.
“What aches your heart, my liege?” Dannyn said.
“Lord Avoic’s death, and the deaths of all his brothers, too. Ah, by the gaping hells themselves, there are times when I wonder if I can be king, when I think of all the death that my claim’s brought to the kingdom.”
“What? Here, only a true king would have such doubts. I’ll wager Cantrae doesn’t give a pig’s fart who dies in his cause.”
“You believe in me, don’t you, Danno?”
“I’d die for you.”
Glyn looked up, his eyes cloudy with something suspiciously like tears. “You know,” he said after a long moment, “there are times when I think I’d go mad without you.”
Dannyn was too shocked to speak. With a toss of his head, Glyn rose.
“Leave me,” he snapped. “We would be alone.”
Without bothering to bow, Dannyn hurried out. His heart heavy, he wandered out to the ward. His one consolation was that Glyn’s dark mood would probably break once they rode to the war, but it was a shallow one. It was quite likely that there would be little direct fighting this summer. He himself would probably lead what raids there were while the king stayed in his dun and brooded, because he was too important to risk to a chance wound in some insignificant action.
His aimless walking eventually brought him to the barracks area. Out in front of their stable, the Wolf’s warband were grooming their horses. Lady Gweniver herself perched on the tongue of a wooden cart and watched them. For all her cropped hair and men’s clothing, Dannyn could only think of her as a woman, and an attractive one at that. Her large, luminous eyes dominated her face and sparkled like beacons that drew him toward her. The way she moved attracted him, too: every gesture definite yet fluid, as if she drew upon a hidden source of energy. When she saw him, she slid off the wagon tongue and came over to meet him.
“Lord Dannyn, my men need blankets and clothes.”
“Then they’ll have them today. You’re part of the king’s household now, so remember that what you and your men need is part of maintenance.”
“My thanks, then. Our liege is truly most generous.”
“He is. I’ve got more reason than most to praise his generosity. How many bastard sons have ever been given a title and a place at court?”
When she winced, he smiled. He liked getting the delicate subject of his birth out in the open and shoving it into the faces of the noble-born before they could use it against him. For a moment he considered, remembering Amain’s lecture on her worship, but something seemed to drive him to speak.
“That moon on your cheek, does it mark a true vow?”
“And what else would it be?”
“Well, a ruse, I thought, a way to travel safely, and never would I blame you. A woman on the road with a warband had better have the Goddess’s protection—or make men think she does.”
“That’s true enough, but this crescent embraces my whole life now. I swore to Her, and I stay faithful to Her.”
The quiet coldness in her voice left no doubts.
“I see,” he said hurriedly. “Well, far be it from me to question how a priestess has her visions. There’s somewhat else I wanted to ask you. Does your sister have a suitor that you favor for her? I’ll speak to the king on his behalf.”
“Would you? That’s an enormous favor you’re offering me.”
“What? What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come now, my lord, don’t you see what a treasure you’ve got in the eyes of the court? You’ve got more influence with the king than any man alive. If you don’t value it, it could turn into a curse.”
Dannyn merely smiled, puzzled by the urgency in her voice. He never knew what to say when women carried on about unimportant details. After a moment she shrugged.
“The suitor I favor is Lord Gwetmar of the Alder clan.”
“I’ve fought beside him, and he’s a good man. I’ll mention him
