Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [25]
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 he didn’t want to lose you and your men along with ours. Maccy’s safe in the temple, and Mam along with her.”
With a grin, Gwetmar draped 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