Darkspell. Katharine Kerr
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him a wife from a noble clan that was willing to ignore his bastardy in return for royal favor. Although Garaena had died of childbed fever, the baby had been born healthy. Although custom demanded that the boy be put out into fosterage, Glyn had overruled custom—even a semiroyal child could be turned into a hostage far too easily to allow the lad out of the dun. At four years old, Cobryn was already chattering of weapons and warfare.
That afternoon Dannyn took him out of the royal nursery and into the ward. Since the warbands were returning after a day’s exercises on the roads, and the ward was full of men and horses, trotting by dangerously fast, Dannyn picked up his lad and settled him against his shoulder like a sack of grain. He was a pretty child, his hair as fair as flax, his eyes dark blue like his father’s. Cobryn threw his arms around his father’s neck and hugged him.
“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 politics, or so he saw it, and he’d chosen Glyn’s court only because he could not abide Slwmar of Cantrae, who was sly, treacherous, and suspicious to the point of paranoia.
Yet, since Glyn was gracious to those who served him, at some point during the second year he’d found out about the man who’d offered his dun the medicines sorely needed in a war, and called Nevyn into the great hall for a formal audience. The audience was very short, of course, and Nevyn shared it with several other servitors, but he must have said something that caught the king’s attention, because not long after, Glyn had actually visited the herb garden behind the stables and talked with him again. It became something of a habit; whenever the king had an odd moment, he would come out and ask various questions about this herb or that, about the cycle of the seasons and the growing of things. It seemed to give him some relief from the pressures upon and the intrigues around him.
In the third year Nevyn had been given a pleasant chamber of his own in one of the side brochs, with no explanation but that he deserved a bit of privacy. Soon after came a place on the floor of the great hall at a table with more courtly servitors. The king’s visits became longer, too, especially in winter when he had more leisure, and at times the liege asked the servitor for blunt advice about the doings of the court. Although Nevyn was always cautious with his answers, they seemed to please the king, who on occasion dropped little hints about considering Nevyn more than the grubby old man he seemed.
Now, apparently, the king had decided that the time had come to be blunt. On the morning that the men of the Stag led out an army to start their raid against the Boar, Nevyn was weeding a row of comfrey plants when a page came, announcing that the king wished to see him in the council chamber. Hurriedly Nevyn washed his hands in a leather bucket of water and followed the lad into the broch.
In the narrow chamber Glyn was alone, sitting casually on the edge of the table and staring at the parchment map, struck with sunlight through the window. Cut from an entire calfskin, the map was worn, the writing faded in places. Here and there lines had been drawn in red ink, then scraped away again, the old frontiers and battle lines showing through, a bleeding palimpsest. At the sight Nevyn couldn’t help thinking that it was his kingdom that other men were fighting for. Of anyone in Deverry, he had the best claim to the Wyvern throne, if, of course, he’d been able to convince anyone that Prince Galrion was still alive after all these years—not a very likely task, no.
“I called you here to ask you somewhat,” Glyn said abruptly. “You’re the only man I can trust to hold your tongue about it. Even priests talk among themselves like old women.”
“Old women hold their tongues better, my liege.”
“Yet this question of mine takes a priest’s kind of knowledge to answer.” And here Glyn paused. “I was hoping