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.”<
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“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?”
“No,” Gwydion replied. “It doesn’t surprise me that he chose the most inelegant weapon.”
The smile returned, slyly. “It’s inelegant, is it?” Bran raised his sword with one hand and twirled it like a staff, stopping with the point aimed directly at Gwydion’s heart. “Only in inexperienced hands.”
Gwydion had been taking extra lessons with Bran for a month before Math mentioned it at all. As usual, he approached the matter bluntly one afternoon as they were training in the tower.
“Bran is tutoring you well, I hear.” Math said as he stroked his beard. “Why don’t you ask me what you want to know about the claymore master?”
“What do you mean, uncle?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, boy,” Math said sternly. “Bran has talked to me enough to know that you think he is more than he seems. Yet you ask nothing of me concerning the matter.”
Gwydion bowed his head. “You are right as always, uncle. I believe that there is something unusual about Bran. I cannot gather my information from the wind yet, so I have been listening in the ways of normal men: a coin or a cup in a tavern or around a good meal produces many whispers.”
“The source of many winds,” Math said. “An interesting task you set yourself. But the question remains: why?”
“Would you have answered me directly, uncle?”
“Probably not,” Math said.
Gwydion smiled. “I didn’t think so either. So I have been putting my skills to the test on my own terms.”
Math chuckled into his beard. “An excellent test of your training so far, even if I didn’t devise it.”
“Thank you, uncle,” Gwydion said with a bow.
“Have you learned much?”
“Only enough to make me more confident in my original insight: he is not what he seems. But he is an excellent teacher.”
Math said nothing for a moment, his eyes unfocused. Gwydion started to listen to the winds himself, but his uncle suddenly said, “Do you think you’ve learned enough to defeat Gilventhy?”
Gwydion looked down at the floor, thinking not only of his uncle’s words, but also the meaning behind them. “I might have,” he said finally. “But I might choose not to.”
“Explain.”
“By defeating Gilventhy, I would set myself up as a target. Everyone would want to challenge me, and I would lose both strength and focus for my other studies.”
Math’s beard twitched in a smile. “Very good. What will be your next plan of action?”
Again, Gwydion took the time to think before he answered, looking at the mountains patched with the deep green of late summer, but seeing the grey stone and brown dirt of the training yard instead. “I will practice all I can,” he said finally, “and learn to be so good that nobody notices it, not just in the claymore, but in all weapons.”
“To what end?”
“To fool both my enemies and my friends, keeping the one unsure of my true abilities, and the other unthreatened by them.”
“Excellent,” Math said, leaning back and crossing his hands over his beard. “You have learned well. And because of that, your restriction to the tower is ended.”
“Thank you uncle.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Tomorrow your magical training begins in earnest.”
Chapter 5: Deer
As always, the next morning started with a run, and as usual, Math floated alongside, peppering Gwydion with questions. Gwydion noticed that Math quizzed him more closely on what he had learned of magic so far, but even in his exertion, Gwydion remembered not to mention anything about bardic magic.
Breakfast was followed by weapons training, lunch, and then to the tower. This time, though, instead of standing at the foot of the dais looking up at his uncle, he stood beside him, looking down on Goewin.
“For magic, you need a new perspective,” Math said. “Does my foot holder look different from this angle?”
“Of course,” Gwydion said. “She doesn’t look so disapproving when she looks at you.”
Math’s beard twitched with a fleeting smile. “Do you see anything else?”
“I can tell that her hair has more red in it than I thought. I see more of her profile and less of her face. I can see a large mole on her right hand that I normally don’t see.”
Goewin looked at him sharply, but Math chuckled gently. “Very good. What benefit is the change?”
“She’s more attractive from here.”
“Any other reasons?” Math asked with a slightly exasperated tone.
“I have a more complete idea of what she looks like, and how she holds your feet.”
“Excellent,” Math said. “That’s why a wizard needs new perspective often, to gain a better understanding. Are you ready for this next step?”
“Yes,” Gwydion said, still looking at Goewin. He saw a flash of red from the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to see Math bringing a rowan wand down onto his head.
It struck him, and he bent over double in pain. His insides churned like a pot of boiling water. His skin began to itch, and then sprout hair. He watched in horrified fascination as his hand melded together into a cloven hoof, and his forearm thinned and lengthened. He thought he was falling to his knees, but realized that he was still standing, just on all four legs. Frightened, he backed away, but his nose lengthened in front of him, brown with a black tip. He tried to speak, but the sound that came out was a mournful low.
“Peace, Gwydion,” Math said. “I have given you the form of a deer to gain another perspective.”
Gwydion pranced off the dais, shaking his head, saying no, but only hearing it in his head.
Math understood. “A deer you will remain until your lesson is complete,” his uncle said, lifting the wand again. “You will not come to harm, but that is all I will promise. Run the woods, and learn.”
The wand came down, and the tower disintegrated into a stand of white birch, tall and straight. Gwydion was immediately assaulted by his new senses. He could smell the bark, which made his stomach rumble, but he could also smell the earth, and the mice and insects scampering across it. He smelled water somewhere nearby, a cool scent laced with moss and stone. And he could smell other deer.
He started to trot through the forest, amazed and bewildered by the assault on his senses. He had never known how much life there was, and how it all called to each other. Squirrels tucked nuts away in piles of pine needles, and bees buzzed around the late summer flowers in the meadows. He felt the season and how it was changing. Trees sighed as they readied themselves for their winter naps, except for the evergreens, which reminded Gwydion of stubborn old men refusing to do what they were told. Fish spawned in the streams, the last baby birds struck out on their own, and the badger dug his den a little deeper.
Gwydion viewed it all through two layers: on the surface, he let the instincts of his new form guide him, but he also thought human thoughts, analyzing and wondering what his lesson was supposed to be.
A cracking branch made him turn, and he saw, not twenty yards off, a young boy with a bow. The noise had made him wince, but the sight of the deer startled into immobility a smug smile returned.
The human part of Gwydion thought, “I wonder what he’s hunting?” The deer part recognized the danger immediately, however, and took off through the trees.
Gwydion heard the whoosh of the arrow as it sailed through the brush somewhere behind him, but he had already forgotten the boy in the exhilaration of running. It was nothing like his morning jog along the dusty roads. It was more like flying, as he leapt over logs and streams withou
t apparent effort. His four legs moved in perfect rhythm, although he had to be careful not to let the human side of his mind disturb it. His lungs did not burn as they did in his human form, but instead they filled him with energy and power.
After a while, the same instincts which had prompted him to run told him to slow down. He found himself approaching a meadow where several other deer were grazing. They looked up at him in momentary curiosity, then continued their meal.
Gwydion knew that one of the does was in heat. He could smell it, like a perfume that made his nerves quiver. He glanced around again, looking for any other bucks that might interfere, and approached the deer. The doe looked at him, then turned her back to him. Gwydion wanted to be offended, but he realized that she was giving her approval. He missed the thrill of seduction, but her scent was driving him insane with desire, and his only thought was to mount her.
A new scent interrupted him, the scent of a buck. Gwydion looked into the wind, but he didn’t see anything. The doe had the scent as well, and had turned her flank to him, waiting to see if the newcomer would be better suited as a mate.
The antlers appeared first, a four foot spread with more points than Gwydion cared to count. He didn’t know if his spread was bigger than the buck’s, but the doe’s reaction was less equivocal; she began prancing towards the other deer.
The instinct that pushed Gwydion forward was one that he recognized and understood: he would fight for his woman. He galloped past the doe and skidded to a halt in front of the buck, every muscle taut in the anticipation of battle.
The buck stood a hand taller, and looked down his muzzle at Gwydion in disdain. Gwydion lowered his head in an unmistakable challenge. The buck hesitated for only a moment before doing likewise. Both charged at the same moment.
Wizard's Heir (A Bard Without a Star, Book 1) Page 4
