Have you been thinking about this betrothed of yours? Rhegor said.
I have. Ill do what you told me.
You should be doing it because you understand the reasons, not just following my commands like a hunting dog.
Of course. But youre sure? I can bring her with me?
If shell come. Marry her first, then bring her along. Rhegor glanced around the skew-walled hut. Its not a palace, but well build her a better home by winter.
But what if she doesnt want to come?
If she chooses freely, then release her. Rhegor paused for effect. Freely, mind you.
But if sheif wehave a child?
What of it? Rhegor caught his sulky glance and stared him down. A vow is a vow, lad, and you swore one to her. If this were the usual arranged marriage, it would be different, but you sought her and won her. A man who cant keep his word is of no use to the dweomer, none.
Very well then. Ill ride to Brangwen before I go and lay the matter before my father.
Good. She deserves the news first.
Wrapped in his cloak of scarlet-and-white plaid, Galrion mounted his black horse and rode off through the unbroken forest of ancient oaks. In a little while, he would return as a poverty-stricken exile to study the dweomerif he could fight himself free of his old life.
Galrion was the third of the four sons of Adoryc, High King of all Deverry. With two healthy heirs ahead of him, and one behind in reserve, he was a disposable young man, encouraged all his life to spoil himself with his beloved horses and hunting, so that hed present no coveting threat to his eldest brothers claim on the throne. He saw no reason why he shouldnt ride away from court, out of the way for good and no longer a drain on the royal treasury. Yet he doubted if his father would see things so simply. Adoryc the Second, the ruler of a recent and unstable dynasty, seldom saw anything simply.
And there was the matter of Brangwen, the lords daughter whom Galrion had won over many another suitor. Only a few months ago, hed loved her so much that the wait of their betrothal time seemed an unjust torment. Now he saw her as a potential nuisance. Rhegor admitted that Galrion would make slower progress with his studies if he had a wife and children than if he were alone. There were duties a man had to fulfill if he were married, Rhegor always said, but after twenty-two years of having every one of his royal whims satisfied, Galrion was in no mood to hear talk of duty. He was used to having exactly what he wanted, and he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted dweomer power. He hungered after it and thirsted for it.
Or, as he thought about it during his damp ride through the forest, wanting the dweomer was a lust, a burning inside him. Once hed thought he lusted for Brangwen, but now a new lust had driven that passion out. To delve into secret lore, to learn and master the secret ways of the universe, to stand in control of forces and powers that few people even knew existedagainst rewards such as those, mere love looked as valuable as a pebble lying in the dirt.
The princes ride was a short one. One of the many things bemusing Galrion these days was the way that Rhegor had chosen to settle so close to the Falcon clan and Brangwen, where Galrion could stumble across him and dweomer both. If hed been but ten miles farther south, Id never have found him, Galrion thought. Truly, dweomer must be my Wyrd. It occurred to him that his love for Brangwen was probably just a tool in the hands of his Wyrd, drawing him to Rhegor. Rhegor himself, of course, had already hinted that there were other, important reasons that Galrion had fallen in love with her; Galrions heart sank as he remembered those hints.
Just as the drizzle died into a cloudy noon, he rode out of the woods into cleared fields and saw the Falcon dun, rising at the crest of an artificial hill, built for defense in this flat country. Round the base of this motte ran a pair of earthworks and ditches; at the top stood a wooden palisade with iron-bound gates. Inside stood the squat stone broch and a clutter of round wooden sheds and huts for the servants. As Galrion led his horse in, the muddy ward came alive with servantsa groom running to take his horse, a page to take his saddlebags, the chamberlain to greet him and escort him ceremoniously inside. As the aged chamberlain struggled with the heavy door, the prince glanced up. Over the lintel hung a severed head, blackened, weather-shrunken, with rain dripping from the remains of a blond beard. Brangwens father, Dwen, held to the ways of the Dawntime warriors. No matter how much the priests reproached him, no matter how often his daughter begged him to have it taken down, Dwen stubbornly kept his trophy up, the head of his worst enemy from a long blood feud.
The great hall was warm, smoky and light-shot from the fires burning at either side. Up by the bigger hearth, Dwen and Gerraent were drinking in their carved chairs with a pack of staghounds sleeping in the straw by their feet. Gerraent rose to greet Galrion, but Dwen stayed seated, sodden in his chair, a florid-faced man whose rheumy eyes glanced up through folds of skin. It was hard to believe that in his youth he must have looked much like his son, this tall blond warrior, square-shouldered, with an arrogant toss to his head.
Good morrow, my liege, Gerraent said. My sisters in her chamber. Ill send a page for her.
My thanks. Galrion bowed to Dwen. My lord.
Sit down, lad, and have some ale. Dwen wheezed as he spoke, then coughed and nearly choked.
Galrion felt a cold shudder, a bristling of hairs along the back of his neck as if a draft had touched him. Although Dwen had been ill for years and never seemed to sicken further, Galrion knew with a sharp stab of dweomer that soon he would die. A page brought Galrion ale, a welcome distraction from Dwens illness. When Galrion raised the tankard to Gerraent in friendly salute, Gerraent forced out a smile that was the barest twitch of his mouth. It didnt take dweomer to know that Gerraent hated him. Galrion merely wondered why.
The door across the great hall opened, and Brangwen came in with her maidservant in attendance. A tall lass, willow slender in a dark green dress, she wore her long blond hair caught back in a simple clasp, as befitted an unmarried woman. Her eyes were as deep and blue as a winter river. The most beautiful lass in all Deverry, men called her, with a face that was dowry enough for any man in his right mind. Drawn by the love hed thought hed cast out, Galrion rose to greet her. He took both her hands in his.
I didnt think to see you soon, my prince, Brangwen said. This gladdens my heart.
And it gladdens mine, my lady.
Galrion seated her in his chair, then took a footstool from the maidservant and put it down to keep Brangwens feet off the damp, straw-strewn floor. He perched on the edge of the stool and smiled up at her while she laughed, as merry as sunlight in the dark room.
Will his highness honor me by riding with me to the hunt tomorrow? Gerraent said.
I wont, by your leave, Galrion said. I have things to discuss with my lady.
Shes not your lady yet. Gerraent turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall.
When he slammed the door shut behind him, Dwen roused from his doze, glanced round, then fell back asleep.
Oh, here, Gwennie, Galrion whispered. I hope I havent offended your brother by not riding with him on the morrow.
Oh, Gerros in such a mood these days. I cant talk a word of sense into him about anything. Here, my love, dont you think its time he married? Hes put it off awfully late. Hell be twenty at the turning of the summer.
True enough. Galrion was remembering his dweomer-warning of Dwens coming death. Hell be the Falcon someday, after all. Is there any woman he favors?
Not truly. You men can be such beasts. Brangwen giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand. But, well, Gerro rides to hunt with Lord Blaen of the Boar, and his sisters just absolutely mad for Gerro. Ive been trying to speak well of her to him, but he doesnt much listen.
Ive seen the Lady Ysolla at court. Shes a lovely lass, but naught compared to you, of course.
The compliment brought another giggle and a blush. At times Brangwen was a helpless little thing, unlike the women at the court, who were trained as partners in rulership. Once Galrion had looked forward to the chance to prune and form his wifes character; now, he found himself thinking that she was going to absorb much of his time.
Do you know what Ysolla told me? Brangwen said. She said that Blaens jealous of you.
Indeed? That would be a serious matter if its true.
Why?
Ye gods, think! The Boar Rampant was involved in many a plot against the last dynasty. A lovers rivalry is a political matter when one of the rivals is a prince.
Truly, my apologies.
She turned so woebegone over his snap that Galrion patted her hand. She bloomed instantly and bent down to allow him to kiss her cheek.
Circumstances conspired to keep the prince from having his necessary talk with his betrothed. All evening, Gerraent kept them sullen company. On the bright and sunny morrow, Brangwen settled her father outside in the ward, then sat down beside him with her needlework. Much to Galrions annoyance, the old man stayed wide awake. Finally, when Gerraent stopped by on his way to hunt, Galrion decided that since he might soon be Gerraents elder brother, he might as well put that authority to good use.
Here, Gerro, Galrion said. Ill ride a little way with you after all.
Well and good. Gerraent shot him a glance that said the exact opposite. Page, run and saddle the princes horse.
Preceded by a pack of hounds and followed by a pair of servants, Galrion and Gerraent rode to the woods. The Falcon clan lay lonely on the edge of the kingdom. To the north, the clans farmlands stretched out until they met those of the Boar, their only near neighbor. To the east and south was nothing but unclaimed land, meadow, and primeval forest. It occurred to Galrion that Brangwen was doubtless looking forward to the splendid life at court that he could no longer give her.
Well, young brother, Galrion said at last. Theres something I wanted to talk with you about. My lady Brangwen tells me that youve won the favor of Ysolla of the Boar. Shed make any man a fine wife.
Gerraent stared straight ahead at the road.