Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [55]
“Oh, now, here, you just haven’t found the right lass.”
“Don’t jest with me, Gwen. I’m not going to live long enough for that. You’re minded to die, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes, whenever we ride to a scrap. Well, I’m not going to live a minute longer than you. I’ve been praying to the Goddess, and I promised Her that.” Finally he looked at her. “So I was thinking, I might as well swear the same vow as you.”
“Don’t! There’s no need, and if you broke it—”
“You don’t think I can do it, do you?”
“That’s not what I meant. There’s just no reason to.”
“There is, at that. What do most men give the lass they love? A home, and plenty to eat, and a new dress every now and then. Well, I’ll never be able to give you any of that, so I’ll give you what I can.” He smiled at her as easily, as sunnily, as he always did. “Whether you care or not, Gwen, you’ll never see me with another woman, or hear about it, either.”
She felt like a woman who’s been using an old pot in her kitchen, only to polish it one day and find it solid silver.
“Ricco, I’ll never break this vow. Do you understand that?”
“And if I didn’t, would I be swearing one of my own?”
When she caught his arm, she felt the Goddess making her speak.
“But if I ever did, you’d be the one, not Dannyn. You’re twice the man he is, for all his rank.”
He wept, two thin trails of tears, hastily stifled.
“Oh, ye gods,” he whispered. “I’ll follow you to the death.”
“You will, if you follow me at all.”
“The Goddess will have us all in the end, anyway. Why by every hell should I care when?”
“Well and good, then. I love you.”
He caught her hand and twined his fingers through hers. For a long while they sat that way, unspeaking; then he sighed heavily.
“It’s a pity I can’t save up my wages and buy you a betrothal brooch,” he said. “Just to give you somewhat, like, to mark this.”
“I feel the same. Wait, I know. Swear a blood vow with me, like they did in the Dawntime.”
He smiled, nodding. When she gave him her dagger, he made a small cut on her wrist, then on his own, and laid the bloody wounds together to let them mingle. As she stared up into his eyes, she felt like weeping, just because he looked so solemn, and because this was the only wedding they’d ever have. A trickle of blood, as thin as Ricyn’s tears, ran down her arm. All at once she felt the Goddess, a cold presence around her. She knew that the Dark Lady was pleased, that their love was as clean and harsh as another sword to lay upon Her altar. He bent his head and kissed her, just once, then let her go.
It was later the same morning that an aimless walk brought them to Nevyn’s herb garden, and to Nevyn himself, who was down on his knees and fussing over his plants. When they hailed him, he rose, wiping muddy hands on his brigga.
“Good morrow,” he said. “I hear from the gossip that you two will be riding back to the Wolf lands soon.”
“We will,” Gweniver said. “And we’re going to rid them of vermin, too.”
Nevyn cocked his head to one side and looked back and forth between them, his eyes suddenly cold.
“What’s that on your wrist, Ricco?” he said. “It looks like your lady has a cut to match it.”
With a laugh she held up her hand to display the dried smear of blood.
“Ricyn and I have sworn a vow together. We’ll never share a bed, but we’ll share a grave.”
“You stupid young dolts,” Nevyn whispered.
“Now, here,” Ricyn said. “Don’t you think we can keep it?”
“Oh, of course. No doubt you’ll fulfill your vow splendidly and have exactly the reward you want, too, an early death in