Wizard's Heir (A Bard Without a Star, Book 1) (2 page)

“Of course not, stupid. People
don’t just lie there like that.”

“I don’t think he’s breathing.”

“You killed him, Gil.”

“Nonsense,” Gilventhy
answered. “He’s just trying to get some sympathy is all.”

Gwydion wanted to tell them all
to shut up, but he didn’t want to ruin the song. If only he could place it...

Unfortunately, his lungs began
to burn, and when he took a breath, the music faded completely. Gwydion began
to cough, and the other boys helped him sit up and pounded his back while he
tried to regain his composure. As soon as his breathing felt normal again, he
cocked an eye at his cousin and said, “I suppose that you enjoyed that?”

Gilventhy laughed. “You should
have seen the look on your face! Your eyes looked like grapes that were about
to pop!”

“I’ll remember this, cousin.”

“What are you going to do? I’ve
always been the stronger, and I always will.”

“Always is a long time. Now
help me up.”

Gilventhy stepped forward and
extended his hand, which Gwydion took and used to get his feet under him. He
wanted to punch the taller boy, but he just dusted himself off instead, and
told the rest of the boys, “The show is over. You can go away now.”

They dispersed, still grinning,
with murmurs of, “Yes, Gwydion,” and “Of course, my lord.” He hated them all.

Fingering a rip in his tunic,
Gwydion turned back to his cousin and said, “All I wanted to do was talk, and
you beat me up and destroy my clothes.”

“So talk.”

“I don’t think I will, now. I
think that the news I brought was not worth a drubbing, and I want the
curiosity to eat you alive.”

Gilventhy walked over to the
water barrel in the corner. “You know I’m not like that.” He dipped out a
ladle full of water and drank it, and poured another over his head.

Gwydion took his own drink. “No,
it wouldn’t bother you at all if I knew something you didn’t, would it?”

“Even if it did, I think I
would hide it from you just to aggravate you.”

“You’re lucky you’re my best
friend, you know that?”

“I suppose.” Gilventhy wiped
himself off with a towel and slid his tunic back over his head. “But it
is
fun watching you lose your temper.”

“Oh, right, now I’m your
personal clown.”

“Everybody should have one.”

“Even if that clown is the heir
apparent to the throne of Cantref Gwynedd?”

“But Math hasn’t officially
designated you...”

“He’s going to tomorrow.”

Gilventhy’s eyes grew wide. “You’re
kidding.”

“I’m not. I just came from the
tower.”

“But you have to be seventeen
to be an official heir, and the last time I checked, you were over a year shy.”

“I’m almost sixteen.” Gwydion
smiled and said, “Besides, I can hear the winds.”

Gilventhy froze. “You’re
lying.”

“I am not.”

“You have to be. Only Math can
hear the winds.”

“He called me with them today,
and I heard.”

“But that means...”

“...that soon I’ll know
everything Math knows.”

“I
am
lucky
I’m your best friend.”

“That’s right. So you’d better
stop beating me up.”

Gilventhy snorted. “You just
need to practice more.” A bell sounded, and the tall boy rose gracefully to
his feet. Extending a hand, he said, “Come on. I don’t want to miss chow.”

“Always thinking with your
stomach,” Gwydion said. He groaned as he stood up. “I’m going to be so stiff
tomorrow.”

“Oh, stop whining.”

The next afternoon, the people
of the Caer gathered in the great hall to hear the announcement. Math sat on a
gilded throne, dressed in a jewel encrusted robe, while Goewin still held his
feet in her lap. Gwydion stood beside his uncle, stiff with both pride and the
lingering pain from his bout with Gilventhy. Two bards also stood on the dais,
old Talys, the bard teulu of the caer, and Kyle, a visiting ollave.

A herald called the audience to
order, and Talys stepped forward, harp in hand. “As is my right as bard teulu,
I hereby welcome all who hear my voice to this gathering.” He strummed a
chord, and used a touch of bardic magic to make sure that everyone in the hall
could hear. “I now defer to Kyle, ollave of Glencairck.”

An imposing man with thick red
hair and a moustache to match, the ollave needed no assistance magical or
otherwise to make himself heard. “Lords and ladies, gentlemen and gentlewomen,”
he boomed. “We are gathered here this evening to hear the pronouncement of
Math ap Mathonwy regarding his legal heir. Such an important decision is not
made lightly, and the Lord of Caer Dathyl has spent long hours pondering his
choices.”

Gwydion stifled a yawn as Kyle
continued to talk, using many words to say nothing at all. He could see the
audience growing restless as well, shifting about and muttering to each other
in low voices. The ollave seemed oblivious, and although he had a beautiful
voice, Gwydion wondered how the man had succeeded as a bard before he reached
his current elevated position. Even Math seemed to be disappointed, although
the boy thought it might be his imagination; the old man’s expression never
changed.

Finally, the ollave drew his
oration to a close. “We will now hear from Lord Dathyl,” he said, and stepped
back.

The old man did not stand, but
a cool breeze whispered through the hall, and all eyes riveted on his face. “My
people,” he said. “I have judged among all of you, and have found my nephew to
be worthy of ruling after me. Do any deny my right?”

“Nay!” shouted the people.

“Very well then,” Math said. “Although
he will not be eligible to actually rule until his seventeenth birthday, I
hereby proclaim Gwydion ap Don to be my heir apparent. Approach and kneel,
nephew.”

Gwydion took two steps and sank
to his knees. Math placed his hands on the young man’s head, closed his eyes
and said, “I bless you, Gwydion ap Don, in the name of the Creator, to succeed
me in ruling this people in righteousness and truth. You have the power...” He
stopped for a moment, and when he continued, his voice held a note of wonder: “You
have the power to save all of Glencairck. But you must learn how to use it.
Be strong, and be faithful. Follow the law, and look to the druids and priests
for guidance. And I pronounce these blessings upon you, sealed by the power of
the Creator.”

The audience sighed, and
Gwydion stood up. His uncle’s words confused him, and made him feel guilty
somehow. Math took him by the hand. “You have a great destiny,” the old man
said. “Be careful.”

“I will,” the boy answered.

Kyle stepped forward, and in
his booming voice said, “As an ollave of Glencairck, I will take witness of
this to King Fergus in Taris.” He drew breath to start another speech, but a
mischievous breeze tickled the back of his throat, and he fell into a fit of
coughing. Math did not even smile, but motioned for Gwydion to help the
ollave, and for Talys to finish the ceremony.

The bard teulu strummed another
chord on his harp and said, “Lord Dathyl now invites the people of his cantref
to a night of feasting and dancing in celebration. Let all retire to the
feast!”

The people streamed out the
wide doors to the courtyard, where long trestle tables held roast deer and lamb
fresh off the spits, whole cows ready for carving, chickens by the cackle and
geese by the gaggle, huge pots of corn, potatoes, and stewed apples, pies and pastries,
loaves of steaming bread and crocks of fresh butter. Barrels of wine and cider
were broached, and pails of milk poured. Back inside the hall, a group of
colorful musicians set up their flutes, pipes, harps, fiddles and drums.

Gwydion pounded Kyle on the
back while the ollave coughed and sputtered. A servant brought a cup of water,
and after he drank it, the bard recovered some of his poise. “Thank you,” he
said to Gwydion. “It’s very embarrassing, having that happen in front of
everyone.”

“Nobody will think worse of
you, I’m sure,” Gwydion said.

“Yes, well, still.” Kyle
straightened his cloak, and cocked an experienced ear towards the players as
they tuned their instruments. “It should be a wonderful night; the talent of
Gwynedd musicians is well known.”

“We try, ollave.”

The big man clapped his hand on
Gwydion’s shoulder. “I’ve even heard tell that you would make a fine candidate
for the Bardic Academy.”

“You are too kind, ollave.”

“Well, possibly. But I would
be interested in hearing you play later.”

“I might be persuaded.”

“Good lad—” He stopped and made
a sweeping bow. “I mean, with my lord’s permission?”

“Of course.”

Gwydion watched the big man
disappear into the human maelstrom with relief. Then he sat down on the steps
of the dais and tried to figure out what he had felt during the ceremony.

It had come while he knelt,
like a flame blown into life, right in the middle of his chest. He didn’t
understand what his uncle meant by a destiny, but one thing seemed certain: his
responsibilities would extend past his own cantref. He worried about it for a
moment, and then a soft touch on his shoulder made him look up.

“You seem upset, my lord,”
Lanali said. She had her hair in a single braid down her back, and he had a
sudden desire to see it falling unbound around him.

“It’s nothing my love,” he
said, jumping up and catching her about the waist. “Would you like to dance?”

“Here? By ourselves?”

“We’re hardly alone.” He
pulled her close and whispered, “But we can be later, if you’d like.”

“My lord!” she giggled, but she
allowed him to swing her around. The musicians noticed and set up a lively jig
for them, and Gwydion tucked Math’s words away for contemplation at some later
date. Then he lost himself in the revelry of the day.

Gwydion dreamt that night of a certain lady he had seen at
the ceremony that night. Lanali had surrendered early in the evening, and
Gwydion had returned to the celebration full of confidence and eager to find
his next conquest. The lady he found had held herself aloof, with an icy calm
that matched her platinum blond hair. He didn’t know her name yet, but he knew
he would find out soon, and then he could find the fire that he was sure raged
inside her. His dream self had just started the seduction when a voice
interrupted.

If you want to be my heir, you
need to start now.

Gwydion woke instantly and sat
up in bed. Math, shrouded in a glowing nimbus, floated at the foot of his bed
and watched his nephew fight free of the last fogs of sleep. “Uncle? What
time is it? Are you really here?”

“Does it matter?” Math asked. “I
assume that you still want to learn.”

“Of course.”

“Then get up. You have plenty
to do.”

Gwydion dragged himself out of
bed and began stumbling around the room, trying to get dressed in the dark. “I
don’t understand,” the boy complained. “Why couldn’t we start this at a
reasonable hour?”

“The hour is eminently
reasonable for training,” Math replied. He cocked his head to one side and
said, “Your tunic is inside out.”

“Thank you.”

The old man smiled briefly. “You
might also want to wear more comfortable shoes. The first thing you’re going
to do this morning is run from Caer Dathyl to the Sayont bridge, and back, and
you must be finished before sunrise.”

“A run?” he groaned, feeling
twinges of protest from muscles still sore from Gilventhy’s beating two days
before. “But I thought I was going to learn magic.”

“If you are going to have
control over your mind, you must have control over your body. This is your
first lesson. Every morning, you will work both by yourself and with others,
learning all the skills of a warrior.”

“But I want to be a sorcerer
like you.”

Math smiled grimly. “Do not
let this old body fool you. My power is not limited to my mind, although that
is now the strongest. But I also know the ways of war, and can hold my own
with a sword or a spear.”

Gwydion finished dressing and
stood before his uncle. “I’m ready,” he announced.

“Then start!” Math barked.

The boy jumped at the
unexpected command, and jetted out the door and down the stairs. He figured
that he could go about halfway to the bridge and back, and save himself some
time and trouble. Crossing the courtyard, though, he realized that his uncle
still hovered nearby. He tried to ignore both the old man and the stitch that
had already started in his side, but Math began to talk.

“Magic is powerful, but very
dangerous,” he said. “Without proper control, it will rule you instead of the
other way around. As I said before, my body was not always as frail as it
appears now, but during that time, my mind was not as strong as it is now. You
must strengthen both while you are able, and keep both hard and ready for
whatever may be demanded of you. Your body will eventually begin to fail, but
your mind will remain as sharp as you care to keep it.”

Shut up, you old goat, Gwydion
wanted to say, but he had no breath to spare.

“Keep your head up,” Math
said. “Pull your arms in, too; you look like a scared chicken.”

Sweat ran down the boy’s face
and into his eyes. He stopped trying to think, and concentrated on putting one
foot in front of the other. Math continued to give him advice and comments,
but he did not try to listen.

“Stop!” Math commanded, and
Gwydion skidded to a halt.

“What did I do this time?” he
asked.

“You almost went over the
bridge,” Math said. “Get a drink, and splash some water on your face before
you start back. Hurry! We still have a lot to do.”

Gwydion waded into the shallows
of the Sayont River and scooped handfuls of water over his head and neck, and
let it dribble into his mouth. The shock of the cold water made him more
alert, and he noticed a man fishing from the bridge. He felt embarrassed, but
the man just nodded at him. Red faced, Gwydion returned to the shore and
looked at the specter of his uncle. “I’m ready.”

“Go ahead, then.”

The sun stood a hand above the
horizon when Gwydion stumbled back into the caer’s courtyard. He collapsed on
a stone bench, breathing hard and wondering if he would ever cool off. Math
said, “You have an hour to eat, and then Dylan expects you to be at weapons
training. And he will tell me if you’re not.”

Gwydion made a rude gesture
after his uncle had winked out of sight. With a grunt, he levered himself to
his feet and made his way to the hall. Halfway there, the smell of warm bread
made his stomach rumble, and he thought that he might break into a run if his
legs could handle it.

By lunch, he wondered if would
ever be able to move again. It didn’t help that Gilventhy had spent the whole
morning working even harder than he had, and yet seemed energetic and ready for
more.

“So what do you want to do
after we eat?” the tall boy said after Dylan had dismissed them.

“I’m going to die,” Gwydion
answered. He sat down on a bench, and quickly laid down flat on his back. “How
do you do it?” he said.

Gil shrugged. “Practice, I
guess. I’ve been training for years, so it seems like no big deal.”

“I hate you.”

“Come on,” Gil said, pulling
him upright. “We’ll bathe, and eat, and then you’ll feel ten times better.”

“Leave me alone,” Gwydion said,
although he let himself be led to the bath house. He peeled off his sweat
soaked clothes and stood under an icy sluice of water for as long as he could
stand it. Gil laughed at him as he raced out to dry off, but he was past
caring what his cousin thought.

“My sisters are joining us for
lunch,” Gilventhy announced as he dressed.

“Today?” Gwydion said. “Can’t
they wait for a year or so until I feel better?”

“What are you worried about?
They’re my sisters; you don’t have to impress them.”

“Sure I do. I haven’t seen
them in years, and the last time, I think I pulled Mari’s hair.”

“I’m sure she’s forgiven you.”

“And I think I hit Arianrhod
with a mud ball.”

Gil shook his head. “That was
a mistake. She remembers everything. But come on, I haven’t seen them in a
long time either. And you have to be hungry.”

“True. Help me up.”

They went to a small dining
room separated from the main hall by a wicker screen, where a table had been
set for them. The girls were nowhere to be seen, so they slid the screen back
and watched the people file in for the noon meal, talking about who was doing
what with whom, how, and whether or not they might get caught.

A brown haired girl appeared in
the doorway and said with a smile, “And they call women gossips.”

Both boys stood. “Mari,”
Gilventhy said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Where’s Arianrhod?”

“Oh, you know her,” Mari said.

“Actually, no, I don’t,” Gil
said. “It’s been five years since I’ve been home.”

“She’s giving some poor dolt a
good dressing down.”

“What for?”

“Well, Ari has only gotten
prettier, and all the men are making fools of themselves trying to get her
attention.”

“I’m sure they do the same for
you,” Gwydion said.

“You’re sweet, cousin,” she
answered. “But when Ari’s around...”

“What about when I’m around?”
said an arch voice.

Gwydion turned and saw the same
blond he had been dreaming about that morning. “You,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

“You could have said hello last
night.”

Arianrhod shrugged. “I knew we
had plenty of time to get reacquainted.”

“You’re still mad at me for the
last time I saw you.”

“I don’t like having my hair
pulled.”

“I thought I pulled Mari’s.”

“You pulled both of ours,” Mari
said.

Gwydion bowed deeply. “Then I
apologize to both of you for the offenses of my youth.”

“You’re still young,” Arianrhod
said as she sat down. “Perhaps you will offend us again?”

Smiling faintly, Gwydion said, “Perhaps.”

“Would you two stop fencing?”
Mari asked. “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Gil said.

“Some things never change,”
Arianrhod said dryly, and her sister laughed.

Gwydion spent most of the meal
trying to draw Arianrhod out, and she spent most of it rebuffing his advances.
Though frustrated, he found himself intrigued; he sensed that she was as well,
and every comment had layers of meaning. Gil and Mari seemed oblivious to the
game they were playing, throwing in comments and jokes that barely scratched
the surface of what the other two were discussing.

When the dishes had been
cleared away, Mari said, “Gwydion? Would you show me the gardens?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Would
you like to join us, Arianrhod?”

“Perhaps next time,” she said
with a secretive smile.

Without showing his
disappointment, Gwydion stood and offered his arm to his brown-haired cousin. “What
about you, Gil?” he said before they left.

“Gardens bore me,” the tall boy
said. “I think I’ll go practice my archery for a while.”

“The brave warrior,” Arianrhod
said. “Always cultivating the art of violence.”

Gil shrugged. “It’s what I
love.”

Gwydion led his younger cousin
out of the hall to the terraced gardens, walking along the gravel paths that
wove a complex pattern through shade trees and manicured flower patches. They
spoke little; Mari was looking around at the plants and the few other
strollers, while Gwydion repeatedly analyzed everything that Arianrhod had said
during the meal.

“You really made Ari’s day,”
Mari said, interrupting his thoughts

“Excuse me?” Gwydion said.

Mari laughed. “You were
thinking of her, weren’t you?”

Gwydion thought about denying
it, but finally just smiled and nodded.

“Well, you two are well suited
for each other,” she said.

“How can you say that? You
barely know me.”

“I saw enough today,” she said.

“You didn’t say anything during
lunch.”

“I didn’t want to confuse Gil,”
she replied. “I don’t think he could have comprehended someone treating his
sister—either of his sisters—as a woman. And then there’s a way that you and
Ari have about you that Gil will never understand. There is something devious
about both of you, like a river that looks peaceful but has a swift current
running under the surface.”

He looked at her sideways. “There
seems to be more to you than meets the eye as well.”

“Me? Oh, no,” she said. “I am
open and honest in everything I do.”

Gwydion thought about that. “You
must have a lot of freedom,” he said.

She said something else, but he
didn’t hear it because his head was buzzing with a summons from his uncle. “I’m
sorry,” he said, bowing to her, “But I have to go. Thank you for a delightful
stroll and a revealing conversation.”

Mari smiled, and for a moment,
she looked just like her sister. “Anytime, cousin.”