Wizard's Heir (A Bard Without a Star, Book 1) (3 page)

Math sat on his tower throne, a
look of intense concentration on his face when Gwydion came in. The boy waited
patiently, looking at neither his uncle nor his foot holder. Arianrhod
remained in his thoughts and he tried to remember everything that she had said
again, but the exertions of the morning began to creep up on him, making his
mind fuzzy.

“Can you hear it?” Math said
softly.

Gwydion snapped out of his
stupor and said, “Hear what?”

“The voices on the winds.”

Cocking his head, Gwydion
strained to find the voices, but all he heard was his own breathing. “I’m
sorry, but I can’t.”

Math shook himself and focused
his eyes on his nephew. “You will.”

“But when?”

“Patience, lad,” the old man
said. “Great sorceries are not accomplished in a day, or even in a year. Like
any talent, it must be nurtured and developed over a lifetime.”

“Aye, uncle,” Gwydion said with
a sigh.

“Did you have a nice lunch with
your cousins?”

“I did, thank you.” He
narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Could you hear everything we said?”

“I could if I had wanted to.
For today, it was enough to know where you were and who you were with.”

“So how do I learn how to do
this? I mean besides exhausting myself all morning long?”

Math fixed him with a steely
glance. “The exhaustion of your body will be nothing compared to what we will
put your mind through. Every afternoon, you will go down to the library and
meet with Bethyl. She will begin your tutoring, and you will do everything she
says or you will answer to me. Is that clear, nephew?”

Gwydion wanted to get angry,
but he thought better of it and bowed his head. “Yes, uncle.”

“Then you may go and begin.”

Math and Goewin watched him
leave, back stiff. “He’s so strong willed,” the foot holder said.

“I know,” the old man said. “But
he will come around, and grow into the type of man I can be proud of. You
know, I was not too unlike him at that age.”

Goewin looked skeptical. “He’s
too clever. Devious, even. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully trust him, and I don’t
think even you will live long enough to see him change.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Math
sighed. “It’s my cantref, and my concern.” His eyes focused on something that
only he could see, and he fell silent for a while. Goewin thought he had gone
back to listening to the winds, but he began to speak. “Actually,” he said, so
softly that she had to strain to hear it, “he seems destined for things beyond
my ability to ken.”

Goewin waited for him to
elaborate, but he said nothing else. She stifled her own sigh, and went back
to her own thoughts.

Bethyl had long pale hair pulled back in a tight braid, and
pale skin from working indoors. The combination made her look almost bald, and
did nothing to endear her to Gwydion.

When he walked in the door, she
looked up from the scroll she was reading and looked him over. “You must be
the heir apparent,” she said in a voice that crackled like dry parchment.

“And you must be the librarian,”
he replied shortly.

She grinned. “Chafing under
your tutelage already? We haven’t even begun.”

Gwydion said nothing, but met
her gaze evenly.

Bethyl nodded approvingly. “Don’t
need to talk just to hear yourself. I like that.” She put the scroll down and
stood up, cracking her back. He was surprised to see that she towered over him
by a good six inches, and walked with a cane. “Now,” she said, “There are not
many rules, but the ones that exist are important. First of all, the books and
scrolls in here are to be treated like they’re made of butterfly wings.
Understood?”

“Yes, Bethyl.”

“Good. Next, this is a quiet
place. If you feel the need to talk to yourself while reading, then read somewhere
else. Third, you are to use your time in here to study. If I find you
sleeping, I will rap you across the back of the head with my walking stick.
And finally, if you have a question about anything that you read, ask me. I
may not have the answer, but I will probably know where to look for it. Any
questions?”

Gwydion looked around at the
shelves, which seemed to go on forever. “What are we going to study first?”

“Not we,” Bethyl cackled. “You.
And you may start with whatever you like. All I require is that you study for
four solid hours. What and how are up to you.” Her gaze turned inward. “Spend
the first week learning the layout of the library. There are surprises
everywhere.” She focused on him again. “But don’t forget that I’ll be watching.
Now go.”

Gwydion wandered down the first
row of shelves that caught his eye. He ran his fingers lightly over the
spines, breathing in the fragrance of parchment, leather, and mildew.
Selecting one at random, he pulled it out and read the title:
Diverse
Observations of Creatures Marvelous
. He opened it to an
illustration showing a shining red dragon that seemed to leap off the page. A
few pages further, a golden griffin crouched. The accompanying text had been
written in small, tight lettering, and he read a few paragraphs before putting
the book back carefully. He was intrigued, but he had plenty of time.

At the end of the row, a ladder
led to a small loft filled with nautical charts. He went back down to the main
level, but soon came across a door that led into a small study with two
comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace, and more books. Another door led
to stairs that went down to a gloomy chamber where silver and gold scroll cases
caught the light from a single lamp. He found a room full of stone tablets,
and another of painted animal skins.

In a nondescript room he found
a book about Taliesin, the first Bard and the founder of the Bardic Academy.
He settled down at a small table and started reading.

A touch on his shoulder made
him jump. “Relax,” Bethyl said, sitting beside him. “It’s only me.”

“Sorry. I was a little
preoccupied.”

“A little? It’s obvious you’re
not a warrior, boy, because I’ve been standing behind you for ten minutes.
What are you reading?”

He showed her the title and she
grunted. “Do you have a problem with bards?” he asked.

“Not really, no,” she said. “It’s
just that reading about music is not nearly as interesting as hearing it.
Where did you find this?”

“The book? It was on the shelf
right there.” He pointed behind them.

She clucked her tongue. “I
wondered. It belongs in the music room, you know.”

“Do you have instruments, too?”

“No, just books and copies of
the music, written down. If we had instruments, some people might want to play
them, and that would very quickly drive me insane.”

Gwydion ignored the hard look
she gave him. “Where are the books?”

“I’ll show you tomorrow,” she
said, standing up. “But for now, I think it’s time to call it a day. It’s
almost time for dinner, so go.”

He stood up, and looked her in
the eye. “Thank you, Bethyl. I didn’t mean to appear surly before.”

She let out a crackled laugh. “You
are the charmer. Get out of here before I swoon at your feet.”

“As you command, my lady,” he
replied with a bow.

“Just don’t forget that I
expect you tomorrow at the same time.”

Gwydion found Gil waiting for
him in the courtyard outside. “It’s about time,” the tall boy said, jumping
up.

“How long have you been
waiting?”

“About an hour. I was
beginning to think you were lost in there somewhere.”

“Almost.” Gwydion began
strolling towards the great hall. “Are your sisters going to join us again for
supper?”

“I don’t think so,” Gil
answered. “They’ve had many dinner invitations since they arrived, and I think
they might be trying to fill them all in the first few nights.”

“It figures,” Gwydion said. “Bring
two beautiful, and eligible, young girls into a place, and people will fall all
over themselves to get to know them.” He glanced at his cousin sideways. “They
are eligible, aren’t they?”

“Well, they haven’t been
betrothed yet,” Gil said. “Our mother has plans though.”

“She would. She’s of the old
school.”

“Well, she better not start
scheming with my life. I’m happy making my own choices.”

“Like coming to Caer Dathyl?”

Gil scowled. “Okay, so she
gets things right every now and then.”

Gwydion laughed and changed the
subject.

The next morning, Math’s image
appeared over his sleeping nephew again. “Gwydion, wake up!”

The boy startled out of a
dream, then groaned as the previous day’s activities caught up with him. “I
can’t move,” he complained.

“Of course you can. Now get up
and get dressed.”

Slowly, feeling his muscles
protest every motion, Gwydion sat up. “I’m not going to be very fast,” he
said.

“You weren’t that fast yesterday,”
Math said gently. He watched the boy struggle to get his clothes on. “Speed
is not the reason that you run, just as knowledge is not the reason you study.”

“Then why do I do these things?”
Gwydion asked irritably.

“You do them to expand your
world, and to give you flexibility.”

Stifling a groan, Gwydion
slipped on a shoe. “I don’t feel very flexible right now.”

“You will.” Math smiled. “What
would you do if an assassin came at you with a knife?”

Gwydion looked up. “An
assassin?”

“It’s not impossible. Are you
ready to go?”

“I suppose.”

Math said nothing else until
Gwydion was out of the Caer, jogging slowly while his muscles screamed at him.
“You didn’t answer my question, nephew.”

“About being attacked with a
knife? I don’t know what I would do.”

“Think about it.”

Gwydion tried to think, but he
shook his head. “I suppose I would shout for help.”

“That’s one possible solution.
But what about fighting him?”

“I’m not a warrior,” Gwydion
said. “Everyone keeps pointing that out.”

“You will be. And a sorcerer,
too. And everything you learn will give you more ways of dealing with every
situation that arises.”

Watching his feet to make sure
they kept moving, Gwydion pondered his uncle’s words. “Couldn’t you get to the
point where you had so many options that it would be hard to choose? Couldn’t
you become paralyzed with indecision?”

“Very good,” Math said, his
voice warm with pride. “But that is where wisdom and experience come in, and
that is why we train. So that if you are ever attacked, you not only know how
to fight back, but also which weapons to choose. And a shout is one of those
weapons, by the way.”

“It all seems so complicated,”
Gwydion said, “And yet... Sometimes I feel like I’m about to make sense of it
all, but I’m missing the right word. Like a song I can almost remember, but
keeps slipping away.”

Math was silent for a while. “You
love the harp, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Gwydion answered,
surprised by the question. His breathing was becoming more labored, so he did
not elaborate.

“Bethyl told me what you were
studying yesterday, and I am not sure that I am happy with your choice.”

“Why?” Gwydion gasped, feeling
the stitch forming in his side.

“You are of the blood and magic
of the Cymry. Bards are something else entirely. I do not want you to become
confused by the two.”

Gwydion stopped. “Can’t go on,”
he panted. He bent over, his arms on his knees, feeling worse than he had the
time he drank too much mead.

“Of course you can,” Math
said. “Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

“It’ll take me all day.”

“We have the time. Now come
on. Just keep moving. That’s it.”

Gwydion shambled forward, going
no faster than a walking pace. “Does it…ever get…easier?”

“With time, yes. Your body
will become used to both the running and the weapons training, and you will be
able to go farther, faster, with each passing day.”

“Not faster…today,” Gwydion
complained.

The weeks progressed quickly,
with summer deepening into long days of sunshine and heat. The physical
training still drained Gwydion, but he realized that it was due as much to the
weather and the increased demands of Math and the kerns as to his own
limitations. And he did notice some positive changes: by the end of the first
fortnight, he was able to run without getting a stitch in his side, and he was
at least able to hold his own with a short sword.

His studies in the library also
expanded. Knowing his uncle’s disapproval of his interest in bards, he began
studying philosophy and history. That allowed him to find out more about the
bards and what they believed without appearing obvious about it. Although
Bethyl rarely appeared to notice him, he knew that she sent reports to his
uncle every day.

And he spent long hours with
his uncle in the tower, learning the names and feel of each of the winds.
Goewin was always there, watching him with a slightly disapproving look in her
eyes. Of all the pretty girls in the Caer, she did not interest him in the
least, so he ignored her and whatever she may have felt about him.

Arianrhod was another matter
entirely. He spent the summer on a subtle campaign to win her heart, but the
little tricks that worked so well on the other girls had only made her smile
faintly. And yet she looked at him with a combination of desire and aloofness
that made him keep trying.

One afternoon, Gwydion stumbled
into the library feeling like a mass of welts and bruises. “You look terrible,”
Bethyl said. “Who’s been beating on you?”