Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [56]
“Then why look so troubled?” Gweniver broke in. “We’d never ask for anything better.”
“I know.” The old man turned away. “And that’s what troubles my heart. Ah, well, it’s your Wyrd, not mine.”
And without another word, he knelt down and went back to his weeding.
That night Nevyn had no heart to linger at table in the great hall and watch Gweniver laughing among the noble-born. He retired to his chamber, lit candles, then paced back and forth while he wondered what there was about his race that made it take pleasure in suffering, that made it love death the way that other races loved comfort and riches, just as Gwen and her Ricyn thought that they loved each other while all the time they loved the dark streak in the Deverry soul.
“Ah, ye gods! It’s no affair of mine now.”
The candle guttered as if shaking its golden head in a no. It was his affair, whether he managed to help them in this life or whether he was forced to wait till their next. And not only were Gweniver’s troubles his own, but Ricyn’s as well. Whether they broke their vow or kept it, they were binding themselves with a chain of Wyrd that would take the wisdom of a King Bran to untangle and the strength of a Vercingetorix to break. Thinking of those two Dawntime heroes blackened Nevyn’s mood further. A cursed blood vow, something right out of an old saga! He wanted to explain to them, to force them to see that it’s always easier to fall than to climb, that letting go for the fall brings a wonderful feeling of ease and power. She would never listen. It was probably too late.
Nevyn threw himself into a chair and stared at the empty hearth. He felt the whole kingdom slipping back as the civil wars broke and trampled all those long years of culture, the learning, the courtly honor, the concern for the poor—all those civilized things that so many men had spent so many years trying to build into the Deverry soul. How long will it be before they start taking heads again? For the first time in his unnaturally long life, he wondered if his service to the Light was worthwhile, wondered if there truly could be any Light to serve, since things could slip back into darkness so easily. Never before had he been so aware of how fragile civilization is, that it floats like oil on the black ocean of men’s minds.
As for Gweniver, Nevyn had one last, desperate hope. If only he could make her see it, the dweomer offered greater power than anything else on earth, and she loved power. Perhaps he could get her away from court—and Ricyn, too, because she would never leave him behind— and retreat to the wild north country or even Bardek. There he could help her throw off the burden she’d taken upon herself and make her understand. That very night he went to her chamber for a talk.
Gweniver poured him mead and sat him down in her best chair. In the lantern light her eyes were glowing, her smile bright and fixed, as if it had been cut into her face with a knife.
“I can guess why you’re here,” she announced. “Why is your heart so troubled about the vow Ricyn and I swore?”
“Mostly because it seems shortsighted. It’s best to think carefully before committing yourself to a single path. Some roads travel through many different lands and offer many different views.”
“And others run straight and short. I know that, but my Goddess has chosen my road for me, and I can’t turn back now.”
“Oh, of course not, but there are more ways of serving Her than with a sword.”
“Not for me. I truly don’t care, good Nevyn, that my road’s going to be a short one. It’s—oh, it’s like having only so much firewood. Some people eke it out a stick at a time so they have a little puny fire all night. Others like to heap it up and have a good roaring blaze while it lasts.”
“And then they freeze to death?”
She frowned into her goblet.
“Well,” she said at last, “I didn’t pick the best way of saying that, did I? Or, here, it’s good enough. Not freeze to death—then they throw themselves into the fire.”
When she tossed her head back and