The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [1]
“Mother Mary, forgive my sins. Tonight I’ll be seeing your son in his glory.”
They always said that freezing was as pleasant a death as any, more like falling asleep to wake to fire and sleet and then the candlelight that would guide you to the gates of Heaven or Hell. Domnall felt no fear, only surprise, that a man like him would die not in battle or bloodfeud but in the snow, lost like a lame sheep, but then the priests always said a man could never tell the end God had in store for him.
Ahead against the grey of clouds, the western sky gleamed dull red at the horizon. When he faced the glow and looked round, he saw off to his right, at the edge of his vision, a tall tree. He turned and sighted upon it. His last hope lay in keeping a straight course toward the north, the general direction of the loch, which ran southwest to northeast. If he reached the edge of that dark gash in the land, he could follow it and head for Old Malcolm’s steading, which he just might, if Jesu favored him, live to reach. Worth a try, and if he were doomed, he might as well die on his feet. He wrapped his plaid tight around him, pulled his cloak closed around it, and walked north.
The first thing he noticed about the tree was that it grew straight and remarkably tall. As the sunset faded into darkness, he noticed the second thing, that it was burning. Here was a bit of luck! If he could nourish a fire against the snow, it would keep him through the night. As he drew close, he noticed the third thing, that although half of the tree blazed with fire, the other half grew green with new leaf. For a moment he could neither speak nor breathe while all the blood in his veins seemed to freeze like water spilled into snow. Was he already dead then?
“Jesu and the saints preserve,” he whispered. “May God guide my soul.”
“It’s a waste of your breath to call upon the man from Galilee,” the voice said. “He doesn’t do us any favors, and so we do none for him.”
Domnall spun around to find a young man standing nearby. In the light of the blazing tree he could see that the fellow was blond and pale, with lips as red as sour cherries and eyes the color of the sea in summer. He’d wrapped himself in a huge cloak of solid blue wool with a hood.
“And are you one of the Seelie Host, then?” Domnall said.
“The men of your country would call me so. There’s a great grammarie been woven at this spot, and it’s not one of my doing, which vexes me. What are you doing here?”
“I got lost. I wish you no harm, nor would I rob you and yours.”
“Well spoken, and for that you may live. Which you won’t do if you stay out in this weather much longer. I need a messenger for a plan I’m weaving, and it’s a long one with many strands. Tell me, do you want to live, or do you want to die in the snow?”
“To live, of course, if God be willing.”
“Splendid! Then tell me your name and the one thing you wish most in all the world.”
Domnall considered. The Seelie Host were a tricky bunch, and some priests said them no better than devils. Certainly you were never supposed to tell them your name. Something touched his face, something cold and wet. In the light from the blazing tree he could see snow falling in a scatter of first flakes.
“My name is Domnall Breich. I most desire an honorable death in battle, serving my liege lord.”
The spirit rolled his eyes.
“Oh come now, surely you can think of a better boon than that! Something that would please you and bring you joy.”
“Well, then, I love with all my heart the Lady Jehan, but I’m far beneath her notice.”
“That’s a better wishing.” The fellow smiled in a lazy sort of way. “Very well, Domnall Breich. You shall have the Lady Jehan for your own true wife. In return,