The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) (3 page)

“I want her, Gwydion, and I
think she wants me too.”

The two young men rode
through the forest east of Caer Dathyl, taking their leisure while the dogs
sniffed out a deer.

“Gil, you're dreaming. She's
completely devoted to Math, and you're not going to change that.”

“But if I could just get her
alone for a while...”

Gwydion laughed. “What, you
think you can sweet talk her into to loving you? How long do you think she's
alone in a day, anyway? She spends all of her time holding the old man's
feet.”

“No she doesn’t,” Gil said.
“I talk to her at night, in the great hall, after Math goes to bed.”

“So seduce her then.”

Gil snorted. “Right, with a
hall full of people watching. Not even you are that bold.”

“But it’s night, and she’s
ready for bed…” Gwydion said.

“She would never do anything
if she thought Math might call. And he does you know, at all hours of the day
and night.” Gilventhy slapped his riding gloves on his pommel. “We've got to
lure him away for a while.”

Gwydion pulled up sharply.
“Now you're talking idiocy,” he said, all traces of mirth gone. “You know that
the only time he would be without a footholder is if he went to war, and when
do you think that will happen?”

“It could happen anytime,”
Gilventhy said defensively. “Gwynedd has plenty of enemies.”

“And none of them are crazy
enough to attack us right now.”

The larger boy looked at his
cousin sideways. “But they might be able to be tricked by a talented man...”

Gwydion laughed again. “You
are the flatterer, aren't you? You might have a chance with Goewin after
all.” He sobered abruptly as the hounds began to bell. “We'll talk of this
later.”

They hunted through the
morning, bringing home three fat deer for the table. Gwydion could see the
impatience in his cousin's eyes, and it amused him, especially since he was
learning more and more self-control himself. He made sure that untrustworthy
people were around him for the rest of the day, and watched Gil's countenance
grow darker.

That night, as Gwydion
prepared for bed, Gil burst in. “Well?” the taller boy demanded. “Are you
going to help me or not?”

“Keep your voice down!”
Gwydion said sharply as he closed the door. “We will discuss this if you like,
but you need to learn a little discretion.”

“What's to fear?” Gilventhy
asked, throwing himself onto the bed. “I'm with the second greatest wizard in
Gwynedd.”

“And the first greatest might
take offense to what we're discussing. So again I say, keep your voice down!”

Gil subsided while Gwydion
poured them drinks. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I guess I'm just a little
impatient sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Gwydion
said dryly. “I think you need to learn some more self-control.”

“Oh, and you're one to talk.”

“I've learned quite a bit in
the last year,” Gwydion said.

“Sure. Everything except how
to keep your trousers on.”

Gwydion shrugged. “That’s
more of a reputation than a reality these days.”

“You? Chaste?” Gil scoffed.
“That’ll be the day.”

“As I recall, you wanted to
talk about Goewin.”

Gilventhy's face changed
immediately. “Have you seen how beautiful she is? That hair, so long and
silky, and those lips, so succulent...”

“Yes, I know her,” Gwydion
said. “What I want to know is why I should help you.”

“Because you're the only one
who can,” Gil said.

“That's not what I meant. I
want to know what's in it for me.”

“The satisfaction of
achieving the impossible?”

Gwydion smiled tightly.
“Nice try.”

“Whatever you want, I'll get
it for you.”

“Anything?”

“Well, anything I can.”

Gwydion tapped the rim of his
cup absently. “I want your sister.”

“Mari is an adorable girl.”

“Not Mari. Arianrhod.”

“Arianrhod? But she's
so—so—”

“Exactly. I feel the same
way when you talk about Goewin.”

Gilventhy grunted. “Okay, so
we like different types.
Completely
different. But I don't know how I'm going to get my sister to
even give you a second glance.”

“Well, you figure that out,
and I'll figure out how to start a little war. Deal?”

Gilventhy struggled with it
for a moment. “Are you sure we're talking about the right sister here? I can't
imagine what you see in Arianrhod.”

Gwydion shrugged. “She's a
challenge. And I do like to overcome obstacles.”

“Alright, deal.”

After they shook hands on it,
Gwydion said, “Now then, I'm tired and I'd like to get some rest.”

“But I thought you might
start planning tonight,” Gilventhy complained.

“I am,” he said with a grin.
“I'm going to go to sleep and think about it all night long.”

“You can think while you
sleep?”

“Can't you?”

Gilventhy looked at him
suspiciously. “I think you're teasing me.”

“Possibly,” Gwydion replied,
steering him towards the door. “But you may never know, either. Goodnight,
cousin.”

During the next couple of
weeks, Gwydion used his growing skill with the winds to pick up fragments of
conversation from throughout the cantref. People always had a complaint, and a
new difficulty soon became apparent: separating the valid complaints from the
baseless or petty.

He still trained with the
warriors and studied in the library, but he listened everywhere he went. He
heard tales of abuse by lords and servants; rumors of pregnancy and speculation
about parentage; grousing about the quality or quantity of the food; plenty of
complaints about beer; and even more about whoever was in charge and therefore
incompetent. It was tempting to listen for his name, but mostly he listened
for things relating to the neighboring cantrefs.

And when the winds would not
leave him alone, he would play his harp and retreat for a time.

Near the Mid-Winter holiday,
he found himself with almost a fortnight without responsibility. When he asked
Math why, the old man had simply said, “You have earned it.”

“I’m going to explore, I
think.”

“If you need my help,” Math
said, “call my name.”

On sudden impulse, Gwydion
said, “I may not stay in our cantref.”

“The winds don’t notice
borders,” Math replied without a hint of surprise or disapproval. “Go, and
roam to your heart’s content. Learn what you can, and try to avoid trouble.”

Gwydion grinned. “If only
trouble would avoid me, it would be a lot easier.”

He left his Uncle’s tower and
went to his chambers to pack a small bag. He didn’t leave the caer, but
instead climbed to the top of a different tower and shape shifted to a raven.
Launching himself into the air, he circled Math’s tower twice before heading
north. He suspected that Math had some idea of what he was up to, but the old
man had not stopped him yet. Gwydion decided not to worry about it until he
had to.

He spent several days along
the northern border. Mona, an island known for fishing and priests, held no
animosity towards anyone, and Gwydion doubted that anything less than an
invasion would get a response from them. Clwyd was similar, although it was
home to the Prince of Cairnecht. It was a sleepy cantref known for its fat
swine; Gwydion couldn’t tell if the pigs took after the owners or vice versa.

Powys seemed to be a more
likely candidate. It shared the longest border with Gwynedd, and when he spent
some time in and around the cities in human form, he was constantly impressed
with the boasting that Powys was on the brink of taking over all of Cairnecht,
if not all of Glencairck. Out in the border caers, however, the story was much
different: the mining that made Powys rich had little influence among the
farmers, and they tended to trade freely and respectfully with their Gwynedd
neighbors. They even conducted cattle raids with good humor, often meeting
together to celebrate the victors, and getting the cattle back to the rightful
owners in the process.

Having satisfied himself that
no other reasonable option existed, he winged his way towards Dyfed.

He arrived in Dun Cofach the
next day. He dove close to the ground, trying to follow the path they had been
on that moonlit night. He found the ridge where the ambush had waited, and
alighted on the ground while shifting to human form.

In the daytime, the hilltop
looked gentle and unthreatening, but he remembered the rage and fury in
Deykin’s eyes, and had no doubt that he would raid Moryus’ land again. Even
so, it wasn’t enough to be attacked by a laird; Gwydion needed an army. He
walked back to Dun Cofach to meet the chieftain and ask a few questions.

Cofach was horrified to
discover the Tanist at his gate in the middle of winter, without even so much
as a horse for company. “Lord Gwydion!” he said, hustling him into the hall
and seating him beside the fire, “This is no weather for wandering!”

Gwydion smiled slyly. “It
suits me quite well.” The hall was packed with all the inhabitants of the dun,
and he saw sleeping pallets lined up against the wall. It reminded him of how
poor these people were; he had always had his own fireplace in his own room to
keep him warm during the winter.

Cofach shook his head. “Ah,
to be young and foolish again,” he muttered. “Does Laird Moryus know you’re
here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Gwydion.
“I came to see you.”

“Me? But I have little to
offer.”

“You live next to Dyfed every
day,” Gwydion said. “I want to know why they’re so different from all our
other neighbors.”

Cofach nodded. “You came to
pick my brains.”

“If you’ll allow it,” Gwydion
said. He touched the harp at his back. “I am not asking for a one-sided
trade.”

“A story for a story?” Cofach
asked.

“Doesn’t that sound fair?”

“For a dun in the hinterlands
in the middle of winter?” Cofach said with a laugh. “You give us a good
night’s entertainment, and we may slaughter our finest cow for you.”

“No need,” Gwydion said. “If
you know all I think you do, I’ll give you the birth and death of Finn
macCuhal. And no cows need to lose their lives for it.”

The mention of Finn had made
the old chieftain sit up straight. “How can I know if I have what you want?”

“How long have you been
chieftain?”

“Nearly two score years.”

“And I have been Tanist for
less than a single year,” Gwydion said. “Your experience alone makes me think
that you will be able to fulfill the bargain.”

Cofach looked around at the
eager faces of his people. “Done, then. Ask your questions, and I’ll tell you
what I know.”

“First of all, what are
Math’s rules?”

“Well, that’s simple enough,”
Cofach said. “We have been instructed by Lord Gwynedd himself not to retaliate
violently against the Dyfedians, no matter how they act. We can steal cattle,
but we cannot risk their lives.”

“When did he make that rule?”
Gwydion asked.

Cofach scratched his ear.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It’s been like that since before I was
born.” He looked about the hall. “Oy! Oschan! Where are you, grandfather?”

“Here I am!” Oschan replied.
Several people helped him to sit up, and he offered a shy, toothless grin to
Gwydion. “Many pardons, Tanist. I tend to doze off when, well, whenever.”

Gwydion looked at the old
man. “You are entirely forgiven,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Somewhat more than ninety,”
Oschan said. “Can’t quite remember how much more.”

“Four years,” Cofach said.
“And we’re hoping to get twice that from you still.”

“With these naps, I might
just be able to do that!” He chuckled softly at his own joke.

Cofach said, “Do you remember
when Math gave us the Rules?”

Oschan scratched at his thin
hair. “Let’s see, that was the year before I was allowed to go with the
raiders… so I was twelve. That was the year it very nearly came to war, too.
Only the start of the rules stopped it from getting out of hand, at least from
our side. I don’t know what happened over there, but I heard at the time that
Math had actually visited Lord Dyfed—a man named Erdyn. His grandson is Lord
now.”

“And do you follow the
Rules?” asked Gwydion.

A chorus of righteous
indignation broke out. “Do you mean to shame us?” Cofach said with a pained
expression.

“I meant no offense,” Gwydion
said quickly. “I just wondered, since Deykin so obviously is seeking Moryus’
life blood.”