He still trained with the warriors and studied in the library, but he listened everywhere he went. He heard tales of abuse by lords and servants; rumors of pregnancy and speculation about parentage; grousing about the quality or quantity of the food; plenty of complaints about beer; and even more about whoever was in charge and therefore incompetent. It was tempting to listen for his name, but mostly he listened for things relating to the neighboring cantrefs.
And when the winds would not leave him alone, he would play his harp and retreat for a time.
Near the Mid-Winter holiday, he found himself with almost a fortnight without responsibility. When he asked Math why, the old man had simply said, “You have earned it.”
“I’m going to explore, I think.”
“If you need my help,” Math said, “call my name.”
On sudden impulse, Gwydion said, “I may not stay in our cantref.”
“The winds don’t notice borders,” Math replied without a hint of surprise or disapproval. “Go, and roam to your heart’s content. Learn what you can, and try to avoid trouble.”
Gwydion grinned. “If only trouble would avoid me, it would be a lot easier.”
He left his Uncle’s tower and went to his chambers to pack a small bag. He didn’t leave the caer, but instead climbed to the top of a different tower and shape shifted to a raven. Launching himself into the air, he circled Math’s tower twice before heading north. He suspected that Math had some idea of what he was up to, but the old man had not stopped him yet. Gwydion decided not to worry about it until he had to.
He spent several days along the northern border. Mona, an island known for fishing and priests, held no animosity towards anyone, and Gwydion doubted that anything less than an invasion would get a response from them. Clwyd was similar, although it was home to the Prince of Cairnecht. It was a sleepy cantref known for its fat swine; Gwydion couldn’t tell if the pigs took after the owners or vice versa.
Powys seemed to be a more likely candidate. It shared the longest border with Gwynedd, and when he spent some time in and around the cities in human form, he was constantly impressed with the boasting that Powys was on the brink of taking over all of Cairnecht, if not all of Glencairck. Out in the border caers, however, the story was much different: the mining that made Powys rich had little influence among the farmers, and they tended to trade freely and respectfully with their Gwynedd neighbors. They even conducted cattle raids with good humor, often meeting together to celebrate the victors, and getting the cattle back to the rightful owners in the process.
Having satisfied himself that no other reasonable option existed, he winged his way towards Dyfed.
He arrived in Dun Cofach the next day. He dove close to the ground, trying to follow the path they had been on that moonlit night. He found the ridge where the ambush had waited, and alighted on the ground while shifting to human form.
In the daytime, the hilltop looked gentle and unthreatening, but he remembered the rage and fury in Deykin’s eyes, and had no doubt that he would raid Moryus’ land again. Even so, it wasn’t enough to be attacked by a laird; Gwydion needed an army. He walked back to Dun Cofach to meet the chieftain and ask a few questions.
Cofach was horrified to discover the Tanist at his gate in the middle of winter, without even so much as a horse for company. “Lord Gwydion!” he said, hustling him into the hall and seating him beside the fire, “This is no weather for wandering!”
Gwydion smiled slyly. “It suits me quite well.” The hall was packed with all the inhabitants of the dun, and he saw sleeping pallets lined up against the wall. It reminded him of how poor these people were; he had always had his own fireplace in his own room to keep him warm during the winter.
Cofach shook his head. “Ah, to be young and foolish again,” he muttered. “Does Laird Moryus know you’re here?”
“I’m afraid not,” Gwydion. “I came to see you.”
“Me? But I have little to offer.”
“You live next to Dyfed every day,” Gwydion said. “I want to know why they’re so different from all our other neighbors.”
Cofach nodded. “You came to pick my brains.”
“If you’ll allow it,” Gwydion said. He touched the harp at his back. “I am not asking for a one-sided trade.”
“A story for a story?” Cofach asked.
“Doesn’t that sound fair?”
“For a dun in the hinterlands in the middle of winter?” Cofach said with a laugh. “You give us a good night’s entertainment, and we may slaughter our finest cow for you.”
“No need,” Gwydion said. “If you know all I think you do, I’ll give you the birth and death of Finn macCuhal. And no cows need to lose their lives for it.”
The mention of Finn had made the old chieftain sit up straight. “How can I know if I have what you want?”
“How long have you been chieftain?”
“Nearly two score years.”
“And I have been Tanist for less than a single year,” Gwydion said. “Your experience alone makes me think that you will be able to fulfill the bargain.”
Cofach looked around at the eager faces of his people. “Done, then. Ask your questions, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“First of all, what are Math’s rules?”
“Well, that’s simple enough,” Cofach said. “We have been instructed by Lord Gwynedd himself not to retaliate violently against the Dyfedians, no matter how they act. We can steal cattle, but we cannot risk their lives.”
“When did he make that rule?” Gwydion asked.
Cofach scratched his ear. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It’s been like that since before I was born.” He looked about the hall. “Oy! Oschan! Where are you, grandfather?”
“Here I am!” Oschan replied. Several people helped him to sit up, and he offered a shy, toothless grin to Gwydion. “Many pardons, Tanist. I tend to doze off when, well, whenever.”
Gwydion looked at the old man. “You are entirely forgiven,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Somewhat more than ninety,” Oschan said. “Can’t quite remember how much more.”
“Four years,” Cofach said. “And we’re hoping to get twice that from you still.”
“With these naps, I might just be able to do that!” He chuckled softly at his own joke.
Cofach said, “Do you remember when Math gave us the Rules?”
Oschan scratched at his thin hair. “Let’s see, that was the year before I was allowed to go with the raiders… so I was twelve. That was the year it very nearly came to war, too. Only the start of the rules stopped it from getting out of hand, at least from our side. I don’t know what happened over there, but I heard at the time that Math had actually visited Lord Dyfed—a man named Erdyn. His grandson is Lord now.”
“And do you follow the Rules?” asked Gwydion.
A chorus of righteous indignation broke out. “Do you mean to shame us?” Cofach said with a pained expression.
“I meant no offense,” Gwydion said quickly. “I just wondered, since Deykin so obviously is seeking Moryus’ life blood.”
Shock turned to understanding in a moment, and Cofach nodded. “He is not the only Dyfedian that is acting dishonorably. It seems these days that all the border lairds are seeking our lives along with our cattle. There’s even rumor that some young girls have been dragged away, though I doubt that part.”
“And the lairds on our side?” Gwydion said. “Do they all follow the rules, or are there some rogues among them?”
Cofach shook his head emphatically. “I’ve heard of no one crossing Math. The Dyfedians may be getting more warlike, but I know of no Gwyneddian who would dare Math’s fury.”
Gwydion nodded. “That’s very wise.” He began pulling his harp out of its case. “You have earned your reward, chieftain.” As he tuned it, he said, “What would you do if Deykin killed Moryus as he intends?”
“We’d petition Math,” Cofach said. “We’d let him deal wit
h the issue. It’s part of the Rules.”
“I see,” Gwydion said. Setting the harp in playing position, he said, “I give you The Birth of Finn macCuhal.”
He played all night for the dun. They listened raptly, and sighed in disappointment when it was over. Gwydion didn’t even stay for a few hours of sleep, but immediately took his leave. Cofach protested strongly, but Gwydion walked out of the gate before the day was an hour old. When he was certain he was out of sight of the dun, he changed into a raven, and began flying towards the northwest.
He landed outside the gates of Caer Don, the home of his ancestors. Approaching the open gate as a man, he was nodded through by guards that he had known since he was a child, who showed no surprise at the appearance of the Tanist alone in the middle of winter. Nothing was said, but by the time Gwydion had reached the main hall, a small feast had been laid out for him, and Tewared, Gilventhy’s father, sat at the head of the table with a warm but cautious smile. “You travel far and oddly, nephew,” he said by way of greeting. Arianrhod sat beside her father, but Gwydion did his best not to stare. He knew that she had dressed for him, with her platinum blonde hair falling artfully in waves over the bodice of her deep blue dress, and knew that she knew he knew. It was enough for both.
“Uncle,” Gwydion replied, bowing low. “I’m a bit surprised that you are not scolding me more soundly, and banishing me to my chambers until a suitable escort can be found to drag me back to Math.”
Tewared shrugged. “A year ago, you would have been right. But things change. Boys become men, hopefuls become Tanists.”
“I see,” Gwydion said. He sat down and started wolfing down his food, heedless of even Ari’s stares.
Tewared smiled. “You have changed. I remember a very careful boy who would have been aghast that he was appearing uncouth with the way you’re eating.”
Gwydion paused long enough to say, “Hunger overcomes manners.”
“So it does, so it does.” Tewared sat back and folded his arms, saying nothing while Gwydion devoured enough for three men. Arianrhod, realizing that she was not going to be the center of Gwydion’s attention, excused herself. When Gwydion had slowed down somewhat Tewared said, “So what brings you to our hall in the middle of winter?”
“Curiosity, and advice,” Gwydion said, leaning back in his seat.
“Are you offering or seeking advice?”
“Seeking, of course.”
Tewared grunted. “You never know with young ones.”
“I’m wondering why Dyfed hates us so much.”
“That old sore? I’m surprised you don’t know the story.”
Gwydion said, “Why should I?”
“Because you’re named for one of the men who started it all.”
“This goes back to Pryderi?”
“And the pigs that were stolen from him, by the bard Gwydion.” Tewared cocked his head. “You didn’t know that one was of the reasons why you’re hated?”
“No,” Gwydion said.
“It doesn't help that you are known for your harping, you know.”
“I can imagine,” Gwydion said dryly. “So the Dyfedians hate us generally for Gwydion’s theft some six hundred years ago, and me particularly because I bear his name.”
Tewared said, “Don’t forget that their land is much poorer than ours as well. Had they prospered all these years, this would all be unimportant.”
Gwydion sipped his drink slowly. “Is there anything to be done?”
“You’re asking me?” Tewared said. He leaned forward, and tapped the table in front of Gwydion. “You’re the Tanist. Talk to Math. Maybe he’ll listen to you. Heaven knows he isn’t listening to the rest of us.”
Gwydion looked at his uncle with new understanding. “An old sore indeed.”
He sought out Arianrhod that evening, after the caer had begun settling down. A maid servant led him to her bedchamber, and although she invited him in, he declined, even after she dismissed the maid. “Appearances to maintain?” she asked.
“We are in your father’s house, and his room is very nearby,” Gwydion said. “I would like to remain on good terms with him.”
“Very wise of you.” She looked him up and down like a cat sizing up a mouse. “Shall I meet you someplace?”
“The only prudent choice would be the hall. There should be enough people about to avoid unnecessary rumors.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
Going back to the hall, Gwydion passed the maid. He had heard her whispers to other servants, and knew that every detail of the evening would be fodder for the caer gossip for days.
They sat across the high table from each other, not even touching their fingers together. Gwydion longed for more, but the whispers about them were clear in his ears. “You seem distracted,” Ari said.
“Your beauty does that to me,” he said.
She sighed sadly. “You used to be such a good liar.”
“It is true that you are beautiful,” he said. “But you are also right that I wasn’t telling you the truth.”
Arianrhod looked at him closely. “You are different.”
“Mari said the same thing when she saw me last.”
“She’s smarter than she lets on.” Ari drummed the table in front of her with her long fingers. “You have always been more than you seem, but before it seemed like a game, a joke you were playing on the world.”
“And now…?” Gwydion prompted.
“Now I look at you, and I know that what lies behind your eyes is more than just a lusty young man.”
“Oh, that part of me is still around,” Gwydion said.
“No doubt,” Ari said. “And maybe someday… but there is more. Now you seem older, more experienced. I like it.”
“There will come a time for us, you know.”
“And will it happen when our chaperones are all dead and buried?” she asked.
“Somewhat sooner than that, if all my plans bear fruit.”
There was a brief moment of naked lust in her eyes, but all she said was, “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”
“When I visit you next, you will see.”
“I will see more servants spying and taking reports back to my father, no doubt.”
“I could court you in a more traditional way.”
“It seems to be taking just as long,” she shot back.
Gwydion laughed. “By the gods I love your spirit!”
She frowned slightly. “There’s more to me than just that, you know.”
“Oh, I know. You have a fine dowry, too.”
She laughed, low and throaty. “Yes, there is that.” She stood in a swish of skirts, making his heart race. “It is getting later than proper for a young lady such as myself to be talking to you.” She gave him another smoldering look, and then was gone.
Gwydion spent three days at Caer Don, resting and flirting with Arianrhod. At night, he dreamed of her and tried to figure out a way to help both himself and Gil. When Tewared stopped hinting that he needed to go home and started mentioning it directly, he still had several days before Math expected him back. He left the Caer, transformed into a wolf, and headed south to Dyfed.
Chapter 4: Offense
In Caer Arberth, a heavily disguised Gwydion nosed about, looking for clues about the Dyfedians and their intentions. It was a small Caer, and he was immediately noticed, and tagged as an outsider. The patrons of the few public houses refused to say a word, kind or unkind, and even the innkeepers were very grudging in their acceptance of his business. Reluctantly, Gwydion decided that his best choice would be to shape shift.
As a mouse, Gwydion found the Dyfedians to be much more open and talkative. He scurried throughout the caer, looking for good conversations, but he noticed that two topics kept coming up: Gwynedd and the lord’s son, Kyrnin. Even more intriguing to Gwydion, the major difference in the tone was that Gwynedd was hated directly, where Kyrnin was not, although most people found his actions and attitude worthy of com
plaint.
Curious, he followed a servant who had been ordered to prepare Lord Dyfed’s chamber for a meeting with his son. Gwydion perched on a rafter while the servant laid out bread and wine, and stirred the fire to life. Gwillim, Lord Dyfed came in before he had finished, said a few quiet words to the servant, who quickly completed his tasks and bowed himself out of the room.
Gwillim paced the floor a moment, looking somber and somewhat sad. Gwydion could see that his hair was almost completely gray, though he was not very old, and his face showed deep lines. He sat finally in one of the chairs by the fire, putting his head in his hand.
Kyrnin, Tanist of Dyfed, came in with a spring in his step, slapping his gloves against his leg. “You wanted to see me, Father?” he said.
“I did.” Lord Dyfed looked up. “You seem awfully pleased with yourself.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? My heifer continues to produce fine calves, and we continue to weaken the Gwynedd border caers.”
Lord Dyfed sighed deeply. “I am grateful for your prize heifer and the calves she gives us. But the other… you play a dangerous game, one that may soon be addressed more strongly by Gwynedd.”
Kyrnin snorted. “What, Math is going to rouse himself from that tower? He’s too old to do much more than hobble to his bed, I’ll wager.”
“He has named a Tanist—”
“And you think that he would send him to confront you?” Kyrnin laughed. “He’s barely of age; he wouldn’t be up to confronting me, much less you.”
“Maybe,” Gwillim said. “But some of the stories that are being told about him make him seem quite capable.”
“Do you believe that pap about him killing a bunch of bandits?”
“I believe that he foiled a cattle raid by Deykin.”
Kyrnin shrugged. “Beginner’s luck. And besides, Deykin has now taken care of his grudge in that particular caer.”
Gwydion leaned so far forward that he almost toppled off the rafter.
“Then it is true,” Gwillim said. “Deykin killed Moryus.”
The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) Page 3
