Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [49]
“I’m not. One minute the Goddess had Her hands on me, but the next, She’d gone.”
“I saw Her,” Ricyn said, his voice faint. “When you ride into a fight, Gwen, you are the Goddess.”
She twisted around to look at him. He had one hand pressed over the bloody cut on his face, and his eyes were narrow with pain. The quiet conviction in his voice was frightening.
“I mean it,” Ricyn said. “You are the Goddess to me.”
Some four weeks after she’d ridden out untried, Gweniver came back to Dun Cerrmor a warrior. Since he wanted to keep most of the army on the Eldidd border for a while, Dannyn had sent her and her warband back as an escort for their royal prize, who turned out to be Prince Mael of Aberwyn, the youngest son of the dragon throne. When she rode into the ward and looked at the towering broch complex, she realized that she belonged there. It was no longer overwhelming, because its splendor meant nothing more than a place to live between campaigns. She acknowledged the swarm of servants and pages with a small nod, then dismounted and helped Ricyn cut the captured prince’s ankles free from his saddle. Just as Mael was dismounting, Saddar the councillor hurried over and bowed. The prince stood stiffly, looking at both councillor and dun with a small, contemptuous smile.
“Our liege is in his reception chamber, Your Holiness,” Saddar said. “We received your messages, and his highness is most anxious to see the prince.”
“Good. I’ll be glad to get rid of him, I tell you. He was rotten company on the road.”
Four of Glyn’s guard led them into the echoing reception chamber inside the main broch. At one end was a small dais, spread with carpets and backed by two enormous tapestries, one depicting King Bran founding the Holy City, the other showing the same king leading a battle charge. In a high-backed chair waited King Glyn, dressed in ceremonial clothes: a pure-white tunic, richly worked, a golden sword at his side, and the royal plaid, fastened at the shoulder with the enormous ring-brooch that marked him king. Freshly bleached, his pale hair swept back from his face as if he were looking into a private wind. He acknowledged the entrance of Mael and Gweniver, both filthy and tattered from the road, with a small wave of a ringed hand. When Gweniver knelt, Mael remained standing and looked steadily at Glyn, who was, after all, no more than his equal in rank.
“Greetings,” the king said. “Although I disclaim and dispute your clan’s claim on my throne, I’m quite mindful of your right to yours. I assure you that you’ll be treated with every courtesy during your stay here.”
“Indeed?” Mael snapped. “Such courtesies as your rough court can offer, anyway.”
“I see that the prince has a strong spirit.” Glyn allowed himself a small smile. “I’ll be sending heralds soon to your father’s court to formally announce your capture. Do you wish any messages to go along with them?”
“I do, a letter to my wife.”
Gweniver was honestly surprised. Although it was common practice among the blood royal to marry their heirs off young, he looked like such a lad, standing there in his dirty clothes, that it was hard to believe him married. Mael made her a bow.
“My wife was due for her childbed when I rode away, Your Holiness. Perhaps such things would be of no interest to you, but her well-being weighs heavily upon me.”
“My own scribe will come to you later,” Glyn said. “Tell your lady what you wish.”
“Simple pen and ink will be enough. The men of my house know how to read and write.”
“Very well, then.” The king smiled again. “I’ll be informing you now and again of the progress of the negotiations. Guards.”
Like a hand clasping over a jewel, the guards surrounded the prince and marched him away.
Up at the top of the central broch, the prince’s chamber was a large round room with its own hearth, glass in the windows, a Bardek carpet on the floor, and decent furniture. Whenever Nevyn visited him, Mael would pace round and round like a donkey tied to a mill wheel. The guards told Nevyn that he paced that way half the night, too.