Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [26]
“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 alesopped 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 do. I’d rather die than have it said of me that I lead my men from the rear.”
“I expected no less.”
Dannyn bowed, then walked slowly and arrogantly through the lords to the door. Once it shut behind him, the hall burst into a rustle of whispers.
“Ye gods!” Gwetmar wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I truly thought your last hour