Free Darkspell by Katharine Kerr

looking her over with a small bemused smile.
    “Rise, Lady Gweniver,” Glyn said. “May I not sound like a churl, but never did I think to see the day when a woman would bring me men.”
    Gweniver made him a curtsy as best she could in brigga.
    “Well, my honored liege, never has the Wolf clan broken its sworn vow, not once in all these long years of war.”
    “I’m most mindful of that.” He hesitated, picking careful words. “I’m informed that you have a sister. Later, no doubt, when you’ve rested, you’ll wish to speak to me about the fate of the Wolf.”
    “I will, my liege, and I’m honored that you would turn your attention to the matter.”
    “Of course. Will you shelter with me a while as an honored guest, or do you need to return straightaway to your temple?”
    Here was the crux, and Gweniver called upon the Goddess in her heart.
    “My liege,” she said, “the most holy Moon has chosen me to serve Her as a Moon-sworn warrior. I’ve come to beg you a boon, that you’ll let me keep the place I have as head of my warband, to ride with you in your army and live at your command.”
    “What?” He forgot all his ritual courtesy. “Here, you must be jesting! What would a woman want with battles and suchlike?”
    “What any man wants, my liege: honor, glory, and a chance to slay the enemies of the king.”
    Glyn hesitated, staring at the tattoo as if he were rememberingthe old tales of those who served the Darktime Goddess, then turned to the warband.
    “Now, here, men,” he called out. “Do you honor the lady as your captain?”
    To a man the warband called out that they did. At the back of the line, Dagwyn boldly yelled that Gweniver was dweomer.
    “Then I’ll take it as an omen that a Moon-sworn warrior has turned up at my court,” Glyn said. “Well and good, my lady. I grant your boon.”
    At a wave of Glyn’s hand, servants descended. Stable boys ran to take the horses; riders from the king’s personal warband hurried over to Ricyn to take him and the men to the barracks; councillors appeared at Gweniver’s side and bowed; two underchamberlains trotted up to escort her into the great hall. The sight of it amazed her. Big enough to hold over a hundred tables for the warbands, it had four enormous hearths. Red-and-silver banners hung among fine tapestries on the walls, and rather than straw, colored slate tiles covered the floor. Gweniver stood gawking like the country lass she was as the chamberlain, Lord Orivaen by name, hurried to greet her.
    “Greetings, my lady,” he said. “Allow me to find you accommodations in our humble broch. You see, since you’re both noble born and a priestess, I’m honestly not sure what rank that gives you. Perhaps the same as tieryn?”
    “Oh, my good sir, as long as the room has a bed and a hearth, anything will do. A priestess of the Dark Moon cares not for rank.”
    Orivaen kissed her hand in honest gratitude, then took her to a small suite in a side tower and sent pages to bring up her gear.
    “Will this suffice, my lady?”
    “Of course. It’s splendid.”
    “My thanks. So many lords are, shall we say, overly mindful of what their accommodations might mean.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Er, well, that they might be slighted, you see.” Gweniver didn’t see, but she smiled and nodded. Oncethe pages had been and gone, and Orivaen with them, she paced restlessly round. She wondered if the king would consider the Wolf lands worth holding now that the Stag clan had suffered such losses. In a few minutes a knock sounded on the door.
    “Come in!”
    A possible weapon in her battle to save the clan walked in, Lord Gwetmar, a lanky, lantern-jawed young man with an untidy mop of dark hair. Although his birth was noble enough, his family was land poor and considered somewhat disreputable among the great clans. Gweniver’s kin, however, had always treated him as an equal. He grabbed both of her hands in his and squeezed them hard.
    “Gwen, by