look at her tiny warband and realize that their lives depended on how well she led them. On the excuse of looking for deadwood for a fire, she went into the forest and wandered through the trees until she found a small stream, running silently over rock and between fern-lined banks. Around her the old oaks cast shadows that seemed to have lain there since the beginning of time.
“Goddess,” she whispered, “have I chosen the right path?”
In the flickering surface of the stream, she saw no vision. When she drew her sword and looked at the blade, remembered how it had run with fire on the Goddess’s altar, it seemed she felt the ghosts of the dead gather around her, Avoic, Maroic, Benoic, and last of all, her father, Caddryc—those tall grim men whose lives had dominated hers, whose pride had summed up her own.
“I’ll never let you lie unavenged.”
She heard them sigh at the bitterness of their Wyrd, or maybe it was just the wind in the trees, because they left as silently and quickly as they’d gathered. Yet she knew that the Goddess had given her an omen, just as She had when She blessed the sword.
“Vengeance! We’ll deal it for the Goddess’s sake, but vengeance we’ll all have.”
Sword still in hand, Gweniver started back to her men, but she heard a twig snap and a footfall behind her. She spun round and raised the sword.
“Come out!” she snapped. “Who disturbs a sworn priestess of the Darktime?”
Dressed in torn, filthy clothes, their faces stubbled, their hair matted, two men with swords at the ready stepped out of the underbrush. When they looked her over with narrowed eyes, Gweniver felt the Goddess gathering behind her, a tangible presence that raised the hair on the nape of her neck. She stared back with a cold smile that seemed to appear on her face of its own will.
“You never answered me,” Gweniver said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
The dark-haired, slender fellow glanced at the other with a trace of a smile; the redhead, however, shook his head no and stepped forward.
“And is there a temple near here, my lady?” he said. “Or are you a hermit in this forest?”
“I carry my temple in my saddlebags. You’ve never met a priestess of my rite before, and doubtless you won’t again.”
“She’s got the mark on her face, sure enough,” the dark-haired man broke in. “But I’ll wager she—”
“Hold your tongue, Draudd,” the redhead snarled. “There’s somewhat cursed strange about all this. Now, here, my lady, are you truly out in this blasted forest all alone?”
“What’s it to you if I am? The Goddess sees sacrilege no matter how far from the eyes of men it happens.”
When Draudd started to speak, Gweniver stepped forward, swinging the sword point up, as in challenge to a duel. She caught his glance and held it, staring him down while she felt the Goddess as a dark shadow behind her and the smile locked on her mouth. Draudd stepped back fast, and his eyes went wide with fear.
“She’s daft,” he whispered.
“I said: hold your tongue!” the redhead snapped. “There’s daft, and then there’s god-touched, you ugly bastard! My lady, my apologies for disturbing you. Will you give us your Goddess’s blessing?”
“Oh, gladly, but you don’t know what you’re askingfor.” All at once she laughed, a cold upwelling of mirth that she couldn’t suppress. “Come with me.”
Gweniver turned on her heel and strode through the trees. Although she heard them following, Draudd protesting in whispers, she never looked back until she reached the camp. When Ricyn saw the men following her, he called out and ran forward, his sword in hand.
“There’s naught amiss,” Gweniver said. “I may have found us a pair of recruits.”
The men all looked at each other for a stunned moment.
“Draudd! Abryn!” Ricyn burst out. “What by the name of all the gods has happened to you? Where’s the rest of the warband?”
Only then did
“Goddess,” she whispered, “have I chosen the right path?”
In the flickering surface of the stream, she saw no vision. When she drew her sword and looked at the blade, remembered how it had run with fire on the Goddess’s altar, it seemed she felt the ghosts of the dead gather around her, Avoic, Maroic, Benoic, and last of all, her father, Caddryc—those tall grim men whose lives had dominated hers, whose pride had summed up her own.
“I’ll never let you lie unavenged.”
She heard them sigh at the bitterness of their Wyrd, or maybe it was just the wind in the trees, because they left as silently and quickly as they’d gathered. Yet she knew that the Goddess had given her an omen, just as She had when She blessed the sword.
“Vengeance! We’ll deal it for the Goddess’s sake, but vengeance we’ll all have.”
Sword still in hand, Gweniver started back to her men, but she heard a twig snap and a footfall behind her. She spun round and raised the sword.
“Come out!” she snapped. “Who disturbs a sworn priestess of the Darktime?”
Dressed in torn, filthy clothes, their faces stubbled, their hair matted, two men with swords at the ready stepped out of the underbrush. When they looked her over with narrowed eyes, Gweniver felt the Goddess gathering behind her, a tangible presence that raised the hair on the nape of her neck. She stared back with a cold smile that seemed to appear on her face of its own will.
“You never answered me,” Gweniver said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
The dark-haired, slender fellow glanced at the other with a trace of a smile; the redhead, however, shook his head no and stepped forward.
“And is there a temple near here, my lady?” he said. “Or are you a hermit in this forest?”
“I carry my temple in my saddlebags. You’ve never met a priestess of my rite before, and doubtless you won’t again.”
“She’s got the mark on her face, sure enough,” the dark-haired man broke in. “But I’ll wager she—”
“Hold your tongue, Draudd,” the redhead snarled. “There’s somewhat cursed strange about all this. Now, here, my lady, are you truly out in this blasted forest all alone?”
“What’s it to you if I am? The Goddess sees sacrilege no matter how far from the eyes of men it happens.”
When Draudd started to speak, Gweniver stepped forward, swinging the sword point up, as in challenge to a duel. She caught his glance and held it, staring him down while she felt the Goddess as a dark shadow behind her and the smile locked on her mouth. Draudd stepped back fast, and his eyes went wide with fear.
“She’s daft,” he whispered.
“I said: hold your tongue!” the redhead snapped. “There’s daft, and then there’s god-touched, you ugly bastard! My lady, my apologies for disturbing you. Will you give us your Goddess’s blessing?”
“Oh, gladly, but you don’t know what you’re askingfor.” All at once she laughed, a cold upwelling of mirth that she couldn’t suppress. “Come with me.”
Gweniver turned on her heel and strode through the trees. Although she heard them following, Draudd protesting in whispers, she never looked back until she reached the camp. When Ricyn saw the men following her, he called out and ran forward, his sword in hand.
“There’s naught amiss,” Gweniver said. “I may have found us a pair of recruits.”
The men all looked at each other for a stunned moment.
“Draudd! Abryn!” Ricyn burst out. “What by the name of all the gods has happened to you? Where’s the rest of the warband?”
Only then did
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