The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) (6 page)

“Tell us what you have in
mind, and we’ll decide,” Llygad said.

So Gwydion laid out his plan,
which made Dirgan whistle in amazement. “You want to do to Kyrnin what Gwydion
did to Pryderi.

“Sort of,” Gwydion said.
“But I don’t want to kill Kyrnin. I want him to live a long time with the
sting of what we’ve accomplished.”

“It’s almost like the cattle
raid of Coomly,” Llygad said.

“Not even close,” Bran said
with a snort. “It is gutsy, though.”

“I like it,” Dirgan said.

“Me too,” Llygad said.

“Then I can count you in?”

“Oh, I don’t think you could
stop us now,” Llygad said.

“I have one other I want with
us, a chieftain named Cofach,” Gwydion said. “He has plenty of experience
driving cattle, and has his own reasons for seeking vengeance on Kyrnin.”

“A half a dozen men,” Bran
said. “It’s a good group.”

“Ah, but how do we know you
can pull this off?” Dirgan said.

Gwydion shape shifted into an
old man right in front of them. His knees creaked, and his voiced did too as
he said, “Take a look at your swords.”

Each man pulled a gold blade
with a jewel encrusted hilt from his scabbard. Dirgan whistled again, and
Llygad said, “It even has the weight of gold!”

“Does that convince you?”
Gwydion asked.

“It does me,” Bran said.
“And I had less reason to doubt than most.”

Gwydion transformed back to
himself, and all the swords became plain steel again. “Anything else,
gentlemen?”

Dirgan said, “When do we
leave?”

“Two days,” Gwydion said.
“Make sure you’re ready, because I will not wait.”

The six men travelled through
Dyfed in a fine retinue. Gwydion had shape shifted into an older man, and the
cold mornings bothered his joints, but he figured it to be a small price to
pay. The others were more conventionally disguised with haircuts and shaves
and the robes of foreign traders. They led a convoy containing six fines
stallions with jewel encrusted saddles and bridles, and whose saddle bags
bulged with smaller trade items. A falcon rode on each pommel, their hoods and
jesses as jeweled as the horses’. The caravan shone like a star in the foggy
hills of Dyfed. A harp bounced against Gwydion’s back, but he carried no weapons.

Word spread as they made
their way to Caer Arberth, and people made their way from their farms and
fields to point and gawk as they passed, and Gwydion heard the whispers on the
wind passing speculation and rumor ever ahead of them.

As they rode through the city
around Caer Arberth, they tossed candy and small trinkets to the people who
lined the streets as though it was a parade. The children squealed in delight,
and the adults nodded approvingly. At the gates of the Caer, Adaf challenged
them just as he had when he had been looking down at the Tanist of Gwynedd, but
Gwydion could swear the his tone was less threatening and more hopeful.

In a strong accent, Gwydion
said, “I am Per Grojian, a trader from across the sea. I have come to trade
with the king of this country, yes?”

“Do you come in peace?”

“In peace? Of course we come
in peace,” Gwydion replied. “Why would you—ah! My men carry weapons, and you
fear them. Well, that is as it should be, for we wish to be not attacked as we
travel.”

“Would you be willing to
enter unarmed?” Adaf asked.

“I suppose, if this is
necessary,” Gwydion said. He turned and spoke a few words in gibberish, using
a subtle command to make his meaning clear. The men pulled off their swords
and bows, all rich with sparkling stones and gold inlay. “Ah, what insurance
do you offer that we shall not be robbed of these things?”

“Dyfedians do not steal,”
Adaf said coldly.

“I am sure,” Gwydion said.
“Still, I know not your people or your customs. I must ask for something more,
yes?”

“I am the chief warrior in
all of Dyfed,” Adaf said. “I will take custody of your weapons myself. No
other shall touch them while you are at Caer Arberth.”

“This is sufficient, I
think,” said Gwydion. Adaf came and gathered their gear, trying hard to look
unimpressed, and not succeeding. He led them into the courtyard, where the
grooms took charge of the stallions a bit fearfully, and the trader’s horses
with more surety. Gwydion watched it all closely, nodding when he was
satisfied that the animals were well cared for—and that his illusion was
holding. Something was interfering with his magic, and he had a sudden image
of being trapped in the Caer with everything in its true form. He shivered and
pulled his robe about him.

“Are you alright, Per Grojian?”
Adaf asked.

“A bit chilled,” Gwydion
replied. “This country is colder than my home, that is all.”

“Of course,” Adaf said.
“Just follow me to the hall, where I’m sure you will be able to warm yourself
sufficiently by the fire.”

“Many thanks,” Gwydion said.

When they entered the great
hall, many people began jostling to look at the foreigners and their strange
clothes and hair. Lord Gwillim, sitting at the high table, stood and pounded a
tankard on the table until everyone settled down. “We will not treat our
guests rudely,” he said. Adaf whispered in his ear, and Gwillim looked
impressed at the weapons in his arms. “You are welcome to our Caer and our
Cantref, Per Grojian. Would you dine with us?”

“We shall share meat, yes,”
Gwydion answered. Bran and the others looked a little uncomfortable, but they
all came up and took seats. Gwydion signaled them to follow his lead and to
say nothing if possible.

Gwillim poured him a cup of
beer. Gwydion sniffed it, then took a small sip. “Is something wrong?”
Gwillim asked.

“We have not this, ah, beer,
in my country,” Gwydion said. “I am not truly sure I care for it as much as
your people.”

“We have mead as well,”
Gwillim said. He gestured to a servant, and several pitchers appeared on the
table. Gwydion tasted it cautiously. “Ah, yes, much better. Many thanks, my
lord.”

“It’s the least I can do for
a guest.” He swirled the heavy liquid in his own cup without tasting it. “If
you’ll forgive my directness, Per Grojian, why are you here?”

“Yes, of course,” Gwydion
replied. “Forgive my rudeness. I have come because I have heard that you have
here the finest cow in your country, and would be interested in a trade.”

Gwillim nodded. “That would
be my son’s heifer. His name is Kyrnin, and you will have to speak to him
directly.”

“You cannot speak for your
son in this matter?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Gwydion shrugged. “We all
have different ways of doing things. May I ask when your son may be present?”

“He should be along
presently.” Gwillim gestured to Gwydion’s harp hanging from the back of his
chair. “You carry a harp. I thought that was a Glencarish instrument.”

“Ah, no,” Gwydion said.
“There is an excellent song about how it was given by the gods to my people.
Perhaps you would like to hear it later?”

“I would like that,” Gwillim
said. A servant came and whispered in his ear. “My son Kyrnin should be here
soon, Per Grojian.”

“Excellent!” Gwydion said.
“I hope his company is as pleasant as yours.”

Gwillim nodded at the
compliment, and the meal continued. A few minutes later, Kyrnin came in,
looking curiously at the strange faces around the table. “Father,” he said,
taking his seat, “who are our guests?”

“This is Per Grojian, a
trader,” Gwillim said. “He’s interested in your heifer.”

Kyrnin frowned. “My heifer
is not for sale.”

Gwydion held up his hands.
“I meant no offense, lords! But perhaps we could discuss the issue?”

“I don’t know why,” Kyrnin
said. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Turian,” Gwydion said. “It
is across the sea, to the south of here.”

“I’ve heard of it. But my
heifer would do poorly there,” Kyrnin said. “Too hot and dry.”

“Yes,” Gwydion said. “But
that is only the north. The south is still hot, but quite lush.”

Kyrnin shook his head. “I
think not.”

Gwydion said, “I do not come
empty handed, my lord. I have six fine hunting falcons to offer you.”

“I saw them. They are very
nice, but the answer is no.”

“And the stallions?” Gwydion
said. “Perhaps you would prefer the horses to their riders.”

Kyrnin shook his head. “My
heifer always has two calves in the spring. There is no telling that your
stallions will produce similar offspring.”

Gwydion was watching Gwillim
out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to be holding his breath as Gwydion
and Kyrnin haggled. When Gwydion offered the stallions with their bridles and
saddles, he interrupted. “Per Grojian? Do you mind if I had a private word
with my son for a moment?”

“Not at all,” Gwydion said.
“Take your time, please.”

Gwillim pulled his son into a
far corner of the hall, and several other men joined them. The wind brought
their conversation clearly to Gwydion’s ears; Lord Dyfed and the others, who
seemed to be leading lairds from the cantref, attempted to convince Kyrnin to take
the bargain. Kyrnin kept refusing, and Gwillim asked in exasperation, “What is
the matter? What do have against trading your heifer?”

“I just don’t like it,”
Kyrnin said. “It feels wrong to me.”

“Feels wrong!” Gwillim said.
“Fine! But if he offers much more, you may be facing a revolt if you refuse.”

Kyrnin laughed. “Who would
lead such a thing?”

“I would,” Gwillim said.

They returned to the table,
Gwillim looking furious, and Kyrnin looking bemused. Gwydion said, “My pardons
if I have upset your house, my Lord.”

“It is nothing,” Gwillim said
with a glare at his son.

Gwydion pulled his harp
around. “Perhaps a song would help? It has been known that music can calm a
raging heart; perhaps it could improve our moods.”

“Yes, that is fine,” Gwillim
said.

“Then I shall play the song
that I told you of before, yes?” At Gwillim’s terse nod, Gwydion touched his
fingers to the strings, and before he even had a chance to apply any magic, he
felt something resisting him. He continued to play, telling a convoluted story
about a god who made the first harp of fish bones, and used it to control the
world, but part of his mind was probing the strange magic working against him.

It seemed to be drawn to his
music, but every time he tried to start using it to make magic, the force
resisted him. He kept his song soothing, both for his audience and for the
almost sentient magic. He probed at it cautiously, subtly, but it seemed
malevolent, although mostly directed at the cantref, not Gwydion personally.
It dawned on him suddenly that he was dealing with a cursed land, and that the
curse evidently had a real, magical presence. He played a bit longer, trying
to find a way to get the curse to help him, but it seemed oblivious to him
except when he started feeding magic into his music. Then it turned its power
on him, forcing him to defend himself.

He drew his song to a close,
grateful that music by itself was indeed soothing. Gwillim and Kyrnin both
looked more relaxed and open. Gwillim said, “Your music was unusual, Per
Grojian, but the story was well told. Thank you.” He took a gold ring from
his finger. “In this country, we reward storytellers. Would you take this ring
in consideration for your harping?”

Gwydion lifted his hands. “I
know not this tradition. Please, give me nothing; I offered this for your
benefit, and have better things to barter with than a song.”

The mention of barter made
Kyrnin’s face cloudy again. “My heifer is not for sale at any price.”

Gwydion nodded sagely. “I
see it has value to you more than my mere trinkets. You are a wise man.”

Gwillim looked disappointed
that the trade would happen, and several of his lairds looked shocked to
anger. Even Gwydion’s company seemed surprised that he had given in so
easily. The rest of the evening was spent with Gwydion fending off Gwillim’s
attempts to trade something else for the company’s finery.

After the meal ended, Gwydion
said, “Would it be permissible to check on my animals?”

“Of course,” Gwillim said.
“Adaf will lead you to the stables.”

Bran and the others made as
if to accompany him, but Gwydion waved them all away except for Cofach. “We
are safe here, my men. I only need the groom here to assist me.”

Bran looked thunderous, but
he allowed himself to be led away with the others. Gwydion and Cofach followed
Adaf back to the courtyard. Adaf seemed to be intent on boasting about every
stone they saw along the way, and Gwydion gently steered him back on track. “My
animals, chief.”

“Of course, of course,” Adaf
said. “They are in here, along with the heifer that you tried to get from us.”

“Your lord’s son is too
shrewd for me.”

“Stubborn, I’d say,” Adaf
said with a trace of irritation. The stables seemed to have an inordinate
number of people, most of them gawking along one side. Adaf yelled, “Get out
of here, the lot of you! Our guest would like to look at his animals himself,
without all your stares down his neck!”

The spectators milled about a
bit, heading in several different directions, trying to appear nonchalant and
innocent. Adaf shook his head and called out, “Oy! Eynon! Where are you man?”

“Right here, where I belong,”
said a hulking man with work worn face and hands, coming out of one of the
stalls with a pitchfork and a bucket. “Whatcha need, Adaf?”

“This man here is the owner
of the stallions,” Adaf said. “He wants to make sure they are being taken care
of.”

“Of course they are,” Eynon
said, spitting on the ground. “Horses are horses, no matter how fine they may
seem. They need water and clean straw, and these here have both.”

As Gwydion and Cofach went
through each of the stalls holding the stallions, Eynon watched them closely.
“Where’d you say you’re from?” he asked.

“They are great traders from
across the sea,” Adaf said. “Mind how you speak to them!”

“Eh, fine,” Eynon grumbled.
“Just never seen stallions with such docile temperaments before. Remind more
of well-bred mules then horses.”

Gwydion could see Cofach
getting nervous out of the corner of his eye. “We train them well,” he said to
Eynon. “These are not war horses, after all, but animals for the riding by
wealthy people.”