Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [32]
“I love you, Da.”
For a moment Dannyn was too surprised to answer, because he’d grown up hating his own father.
“Do you, now?” he said at last. “Well, my thanks.”
As they strolled through the ward, Cobryn chattering about every horse he saw, Dannyn saw Gweniver talking to a group of lords by the main gate. Carrying the lad still, he strolled over to join them. Cobryn twisted in his arms and pointed her out.
“Da, that’s a lady!”
When everyone laughed, the lad turned shy and buried his face in Dannyn’s shoulder. Gweniver walked over to get a better look at him.
“What a beautiful child!” she said. “He’s not yours, is he?”
“He is. I was married once.”
“Now, that’s a surprise. I thought you were the kind of man who never marries.”
“You misjudge me badly, my lady.”
Gweniver went as wary as a startled doe. As he watched her, as the moment dragged on, Dannyn was cursing himself—why did everything he say come out so awkwardly? At last Cobryn piped up and rescued him.
“You know what? The king’s my uncle.”
“So he is.” Gweniver turned her attention to the child in some relief. “Do you honor him?”
“I do. He’s splendid.”
“More splendid than this cub of mine can realize at his age,” Dannyn said. “Our liege has formally taken my lad into the line of succession, right after his own sons. It’s not often a bastard’s spawn gets to be a prince.”
“A rare thing, indeed! Well, young Cobryn, you’re right enough. He’s very splendid indeed.”
During the evening meal Dannyn found himself watching Gweniver, even though his very thoughts were impiety. An old proverb neatly summed up his plight: a man who loves a lass sworn to the Moon had best put many a mile between him and his hopelessness. Her golden hair shone in the candlelight as she clasped a silver goblet between slender fingers, so lovely and delicate that he found it hard to believe that she could really swing a sword. From what Ricyn had told him, she’d made her kills out of luck alone, and luck has a way of deserting a man in battle.
After they were done eating, Dannyn got up and went to her table. He hunkered down in front of her on the floor, forcing her to lean over to speak to him privately.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you somewhat,” he said. “Do you have a coat of mail?”
“I don’t. You know, I’ve never even worn any.”
“What? Oh, ye gods, then you’ve got no idea how heavy it is, do you, now?”
“No doubt I’ll get used to it. My Goddess will protect me as long as She wants me alive, then let me be slain when She wants me dead. It won’t matter when that time comes if I’m wearing the best mail in the kingdom.”
“That’s true enough, no doubt, because when a man’s Wyrd comes upon him, it comes, but a good set of mail turns aside many a bit of bad luck.”
When she smiled, their eyes met, and at that moment he felt they understood each other in a dangerously deep way. He stood up quickly.
“But you’re not dying this summer if I can help it, Your Holiness. Doubtless it’ll ache your heart to take orders from a bastard, but once we’re back from claiming your sister, you’re going to train with me like a thirteen-year-old rider, new to his warband. A good many of them live to grow up, don’t they? Do what I say, and so will you.”
Her eyes snapping in rage, she started to rise, but he ducked back out of her way.
“Good night, my lady, and may all your dreams be holy ones.”
He hurried away before she could challenge him to a fight. He could see it coming in her eyes.
Nevyn was not quite sure when the king had begun to suspect that his shabby old servitor had the dweomer. When he’d come to Dun Cerrmor, some six years ago now, he’d offered his services as an herbman who could grow and prepare medicinals. An underchamberlain had taken him on and given him shared quarters in a typical servant’s hut. As the years passed, Nevyn had seen Glyn only from a distance, usually during some ceremonial parade. The anonymity suited Nevyn well; he was there only to keep an eye on events, not meddle in