Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [20]
She towered through the stars, and her face was grim, blood besotted as she shook her head and spread a vast mane of black hair over the sky. Gweniver could hardly breath as the dark eyes looked her way. This was the Goddess of the Darktime, Whose own heart is pierced with swords and Who demands no less from those who would worship Her.
“My lady,” Gweniver whispered, “take me as a sacrifice. I’ll serve you always.”
The eyes considered her for a long moment, fierce, gleaming, utterly cold. Gweniver felt the presence all around her, as if the Goddess stood beside and behind as well as in front of her.
“Take me,” she repeated. “I’ll be naught but a sword in your hand.”
On the altar her sword flared and ran with bloody colored light, casting a glow upward that turned the mirror red. The chant stopped. Ardda had seen the omen.
“Swear to Her.” The priestess’s voice shook. “That in Her service you’ll live”—her voice broke—“and die.”
“So do I swear, from deep in my heart.”
In the mirror the eyes of the Goddess radiated joy. The light on the sword danced up like fire, then fell back. As it faded, the mirror darkened to the turning stars, then only to blackness.
“Done!” Ardda clapped her hands together, a boom and echo in the temple.
The mirror reflected Gweniver’s pale, sweating face.
“She has 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