Wizard's Heir (A Bard Without a Star, Book 1) (4 page)

“The kerns are training me,”
Gwydion said.

“And your cousin?”

“You know about Gil?”

“Everyone knows about him, and
you, and the way he drubs you every chance he gets.”

“Aye, he does seem to enjoy it.”

Bethyl shook her head. “I don’t
know why you’re having such a hard time with this.”

“I’m not a warrior,” Gwydion
complained.

“And you’re going to use that
as an excuse when you’re Lord Gwynedd?” Bethyl asked. “Your troops are going
to be ready to go to war, and you’ll send someone else to lead them, saying, ‘Sorry,
but I’m just not the warrior type’?”

Gwydion shrugged. “It’s not
like I’m not trying.”

“Well, you could have fooled
me.”

“What do you know? You’re just
a librarian.”

Bethyl drew herself up to her
full height and looked down at him. “You stupid boy.”

Gwydion stepped back from the
anger in her face.

“You think I was always a
librarian? Do you think that I know nothing of life?”

He held up his hands. “Bethyl,
I—”

“You what? You think I am lame
from falling off a ladder? Or from dropping a heavy book on my toe?”

“I never thought about it.”

“That’s your problem. You don’t
think!” She pivoted around on her cane and started down a row of shelves. “Come
with me!”

He followed her, but at a safe
distance, afraid that she might turn on him suddenly and knock him out with her
cane. She led him back into a far corner, where a spiral staircase wound up
out of sight. She climbed the stone steps quickly, despite her cane, not
stopping until she came to a landing at the top. Gwydion caught up with her
just as she went through the door.

The circular chamber at the top
of the tower was lit by four tall windows, one facing in each direction. The
rest of the wall space was taken up by shelves filled with rows of books lined
up in neat order. Two small tables, each with two chairs and a chess board
inlaid on the top, were the only furniture.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“It doesn’t surprise me that
you haven’t found it before now,” she said. “Look at the titles.”

He moved to the nearest wall,
and looked at a few spines:
Famous Charioteers
,
Tactics
for the Chariot
, and
A Man and his Driver: The Story
of CuChulainn and Lobd Derg
.

Gwydion frowned and moved on,
finding books on archery, training, and the lives of obscure heroes. A large
book proved to be beautifully illustrated pictures of swords. He saw treatises
on cavalry and camp layout, volumes on daggers and defensive ditches, and
collected essays on the Battle of Glen Rhosyn. “It’s all about war,” he said.

“Very good,” she replied. “Now
sit, and read this.”

She handed him a volume covered
in rich blue leather with gold stamped lettering. “Techniques of the Claymore,
by Bethyl na Fergus,” he read. “Is that you?”

“It is indeed.” She sat across
from him and folded her arms in front of her. “As I said, I wasn’t always a
librarian. In fact, at one time I was a member of the Fianna, and part of the
High King’s personal guard.”

“What happened?”

“I’m getting to that,” she said
irritably.

“I’m sorry.”

“Humph.” She gazed out the
window, her eyes focused on nothing, but she didn’t have a dreamy gaze;
instead, it was slightly bitter. “Because of my height and strength, I was the
only woman ever to carry a claymore as her first weapon. And I was young and
full of myself, full of the importance of my position. Like young Gil, I
always thought that battle was the highest entertainment, and dying there the
greatest honor. But by my thirtieth year, I had seen blood and death aplenty,
and I was tired of it all. So I decided to retire.

“Two days before I did, though,
a young man challenged me to a duel. He was even more cocky than you, if can
imagine that, and I thought that I would be able to teach him a lesson easily.”

She said nothing for several
minutes. Finally Gwydion said, “What happened?”

“I defeated him quickly, just
as I thought,” she said. “But he was too stupid to accept defeat. He ripped
the wicker off his blade and attacked me in earnest, seeking my life’s blood.
I defended myself, of course. There is plenty that can be done, even with a
wicker wrapped claymore, that can hurt a man. But he wouldn’t fall, and he was
younger than I. He hadn’t blooded me, but he was tiring me quicker than I was
him. So I used a little known, and not very honorable, maneuver: I stepped
inside his swing, and used my belt dagger to stab him in the heart. Even then,
he managed to bring his blade down on my foot, taking half of it off. I was
exonerated of any wrong, of course, but it’s still not a good thing to kill the
king’s son.”

“That was you?” Gwydion said. “You
killed Prince Eamonn?”

“It was myself. Surprised?”

“Well obviously. The stories
talk about how he attacked dishonorably, but I always thought—”

“You thought that a man
defeated him.” Bethyl looked at him closely. “You aren’t the first to make
that mistake about me. But that’s a part of what I’m trying to tell you.”

Gwydion held up his hands. “I’m
sorry, Bethyl, I’m still not getting it.”

She shook her head. “I’ll
spell it out for you, but only this once. You have a brain, a much finer one
than most of the people you train with. You need to use it.”

Gwydion snorted. “It’s well
known that a book won’t make a warrior.”

“But it’s a start, you idiot!”
Bethyl got control of herself. “I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve given me
no choice. From now until I say otherwise, you will study only the books in
this room. No others, until you realize that your cleverness is useful for
more than getting your way with the pretty girls.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can, and I have. Don’t try
getting your uncle to help you out of it, either.” Bethyl smiled grimly. “It
was his idea.”

For three days, Gwydion tried to get out of his new
curriculum. And for three days he felt Math’s stinging words in his ears and
Bethyl’s cane across his knees. It didn’t help that word had gotten out to the
kerns, and that he had had to contend with fresh teasing about using a scroll
for a sword and a book for a shield. Each day he went up the stairs to the
tower, and each day Bethyl locked him in like a prisoner. In a fit of boredom,
he began to read.

He started with the most
interesting thing he could find, a thick book about the second and third Bardic
Wars. It started with Cathbar becoming the Pen Bardd, some three hundred years
after Taliesin founded the bardic order, describing him as a man of great
charisma and influence. The picture on the facing page was gilded all about,
except for the black of Cathbar’s eyes. Gwydion stared at them for a long
time, wondering if they were a part of the truth or not. He felt like he
should know, that the answer was somewhere within hearing...

He shook himself and turned the
page, concentrating on the words. It took him the next three days to get
through the first half of the volume, reading about how Cathbar had seized the
throne and almost destroyed the bards that opposed him in the second Bardic
war. Then there was a hundred years of peace, during which time it seemed that
Cathbar never grew any older. The bards, reduced to a few men who passed along
the laws and teachings with great fear, did not dare to oppose him until Amergin
came of age, the most powerful bard ever to have lived. That began the Third
Bardic war, and Gwydion spent another week learning how Amergin and the other
bards defeated Cathbar and restored a king to the throne.

When he finished, he picked up
the book that Bethyl had written. The first two chapters were a history of the
great sword and some of its masters, and he found the short descriptions
intriguing enough to cross reference them in other books. Soon he was absorbed
in his research, studying not just the claymore but all blades, and he began to
see his daily training from a new perspective.

He started by watching the
practice when he had his rest periods. The books spoke of the different styles
of fighting, and Gwydion soon determined which they were being taught. Falgar
favored strict Cairnecht, but Dylan had obviously been influenced by a
Duvnechtman somewhere along the line. It helped explain why Dylan was master
over all the arms, but Falgar was only master of the sword.

And then there was Bran, the
claymore master. The more Gwydion watched him, the less he understood. The
man was obviously a master of his craft, but his style was enigmatic,
constantly changing during a melee. Even when training Gilventhy, it looked to
Gwydion like Bran was still holding something back, no matter how hard Gil
pressed him. Gwydion tucked the mystery away in the back of his mind, and
concentrated on applying the book learning to the training ring.

“Stop! Hold, Ian!”

Falgar, the sword master,
approached the two boys who had broken off at his command. Gwydion, feeling
better physically since the weather had changed, sat on his haunches while the
old kern showed Ian what he was doing wrong.

Across the yard, Dylan, the
weapons master, watched it all with a slight frown. Gwydion stared at him with
curiosity and a vague resentfulness until Dylan turned away.

Falgar finished with Ian and
turned to him. “Nice job,” the sword master said. “You’re improving quickly.”

Gwydion said nothing, although
his lips tightened into a thin line. He knew that defeating a boy who had been
studying the sword years instead of months deserved more than a pat on the
head, but he also knew his recent successes had earned him more contempt from
the warriors instead of less. Even Gilventhy said he was just lucky. Bran
watched it all with his typical slight smile, saying nothing in either
disparagement or praise.

That afternoon, he asked Math
about it as the winds whistled around them in playfulness.

“You are suffering from a case
of exclusion, nephew,” the old man said.

“But it makes no sense,” said
Gwydion. “I am the heir apparent, and I am learning all that they teach me,
and more. Why do they hate me for fulfilling my responsibilities?”

Math sighed, and shifted his
feet on Goewin’s lap. “You are discovering the consequences of your former
attitude, for one. You made it clear to everyone that you were not a warrior,
and never intended to be one, but now you are showing massive potential in the
area. The arms masters, who were offended by your original attitude, are even
more offended by your recent success.”

“Are they jealous?” Gwydion
said, his eyes widening.

“More than that,” Math said. “They
are also scared.”

“But why? I am no threat.”

“But you are, my boy, you are.
Even Gilventhy begins to wonder if you are not more powerful than he believed.
And he wonders if you could defeat him someday.”

“He has little to fear from me,”
Gwydion said. “He is still master of the claymore among the students.”

“Is Gilventhy the master
because of his skill or because you have not challenged him in earnest?”

“For the moment, Gilventhy
still defeats me every round we have, no matter my intent.” Gwydion said. “But
it is true that I am not as sore afterwards as I used to be.”

“That is an excellent start.
If your goal is to hold your own, you are well on your way.”

“And if my goal were grander?
To actually defeat Gil?”

Math smiled. “A grand goal,
indeed.” He sat listening to the winds for a few minutes, then said, “Greatness
is not something truly taught. I may give you all the means to become a greater
warrior than your cousin, who has shown more promise than any in his
generation, but I cannot make you use them.”

Gwydion said, “So it is up to
me, then.”

“It always was.”

The next day, Gwydion approached
Bran after the other students had headed off to the baths or to their lunch. “I
want to learn more about the claymore.”

Bran stopped checking the
wicker wrappings on the practice blades and looked up at Gwydion. “Why do you
want to do that?”

“Mostly because I’m tired of
Gil using me as a practice dummy.”

Bran laughed. “I think that’s
a good enough reason,” he conceded. “But why now? Training is over for the
day.”

“I don’t want prying eyes
knowing what I’m about,” Gwydion said. “Especially Gil’s.”

“Fair enough,” Bran said. “But
how will you explain meeting me for extra training every day? Because I expect
a commitment from you on this matter.”

Gwydion looked him square in
the eye. “I intend to tell him just enough of the truth that he will jump to
the wrong conclusion. But it will not work without at least your tacit
cooperation.”

Bran started checking the
blades again. “So speak your mind.”

“You know that Dylan and Falgar
both dislike me.”

“I’ve seen some evidence of
that.”

“And although I’ve improved
more than they ever expected, they still demand more of me than any other kern.”

“True as well.”

“So, to improve my skills
further, I need someone who is at least not hostile towards me.”

Bran looked up again. “You
think I am that person?”

“I hope so,” Gwydion said. “Because
I also think you are more than you seem.”

Bran laughed. “Me? I am
nothing but a simple kern.”

Gwydion shook his head. “You
came to Caer Dathyl fifteen years ago. No one knew you, yet Math made you a
lieutenant among the kerns, a position you have held ever since; you have never
been promoted. You are the undisputed master of the claymore, but with other
weapons, you appear to simply hold your own. Everyone is your friend, you
offend no one, but you are never with the same people on two different days.
You are a riddle that no one has asked.”

Bran had become very still. “Are
you asking it now?”

“Me?” Gwydion asked. “Why would
I? I’m just a clumsy heir apparent who needs extra tutoring in sword play—and
who trusts his uncle’s judgment in these matters.”

“Of course,” Bran said with a
faint smile. He stood up and brushed off his hands. “Very well, I will help
you, but not because of what you think you know.”

“Oh? Then why?”

“Because of the love I owe
Math.”

Gwydion smiled. “That’s fair.”

“Let me show you something,”
Bran said. “When I come at you, with my sword like this, raise your sword
across it, and let my blade slide down yours.”

“But I could force it up and
away, leaving you open.”

Bran shrugged. “Sure, you could.
But don’t think of it in terms of winning the melee. Think of it in terms of
mastering the blade.”

“What? That doesn’t make any
sense.”

“Alright,” Bran said, “let me
turn it into a question: who is more skilled, the warrior who wins, or the
warrior who controls the outcome of the battle?”

“But shouldn’t they be the
same?” Gwydion asked.

“It depends on what your goal
is.”

Gwydion sighed. “I thought my
goal was to be able to beat Gilventhy.”

“And what is the best way to
accomplish that?”

“I assumed it was to be the
best warrior possible, and to learn as much about the claymore as possible.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “But I read somewhere that you should never
assume anything in a battle.”

Bran grinned. “Now you’re
beginning to see. Take it one step further: everything you do in life is a
battle. Sometimes it’s obvious, but sometimes it’s not. Yet everything worth
doing has a goal, and that goal is not always to beat your opponent.”

“You certainly make it simpler
than Math does.”

“Perhaps that’s because I’m
just a simple kern,” Bran said with a laugh.

“Simple like a fox. Is this
how you train Gilventhy?”

“How to be subtle?” Bran
snorted.

“No,” Gwydion said. “By being
subtle.”

The smile faded. “You think
that Gil understands?”