dweomer.
“Does Gwennie think Ysolla would have me?” Gerraent said.
“She does. She’d bring a fine dowry, too.”
They rode in silence for some minutes while Gerraent considered, his mouth working this way and that as if the thought of marrying a rich, pretty wife pained him. Finally he shrugged as if throwing off a weight from his shoulders.
“Grant me a boon, elder brother,” Gerraent said. “Will you ride to Blaen with me as my second in the betrothal?”
“Gladly. Shall we ride soon?”
“Why not? The soonest done, the best.”
That evening, dinner marked a celebration. While the Falcon’s demesne stretched broad and prosperous, there had been few sons born to the clan over the past generation. If Gerraent should die without an heir, the clan would die with him, its lands reverting back to the High King for reassignment. Every now and then, Galrion noticed Gerraent looking at the blade of his table dagger, where a falcon mark was graved, the clan’s symbol, and his whole life, his duty, and power.
After Brangwen escorted her father from the table, Galrion had a chance at a private word with Gerraent.
“My lady Brangwen was teasing me the other night,” Galrion said. “Saying Blaen’s jealous of me. Is that just a maid’s chatter?”
“It’s true enough.” Gerraent made the admission unwillingly. “But she’s dwelling on the thing to please her vanity. Blaen will forget her soon enough. Men in our position marry where we have to, not to please ourselves.”
Galrion felt a cold touch like a hand down his back, the dweomer-warning of danger. Never had that warning failed to be true, not since he’d felt it first as a little lad, climbing a tree and knowing without knowing how he knew that the branch was about to break under him.
The dun of the Boar clan lay a full day’s ride to the north. A stone broch rose three floors above a cobbled ward and proper wooden round houses for the important servants. Off to one side were the stables that also doubled as a barracks for the warband of twelve men. Lord Blaen’s great hall was fully forty feet across with a dressed stone floor. Two tapestries hung on either side of the honor hearth, and fine furniture stood round in profusion. As he walked in, Galrion had the thought that Brangwen would be far happier in that dun than she would be in a wilderness.
Blaen himself greeted them and took them to the table of honor. He was a slender man, sandy haired, good-looking in a rather bland way with blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling at a jest.
“Good morrow, my prince,” Blaen said. “What brings me the honor of having you in my hall?”
“My brother and I have come to beg an enormous favor. My brother has decided that it’s time for him to marry.”
“Oh, have you, now?” Blaen shot Gerraent a smile. “A wise decision, with no heirs for your clan.”
“If it’s so wise,” Gerraent snapped, “why haven’t you made one like it?”
Blaen went as stiff as a stag who sees the hunting pack.
“I have two brothers.”
The moment hung there. Gerraent stared into the hearth; Blaen stared at the prince; Galrion hardly knew where to look.
“Ah, curse it!’” Blaen snapped. “Can’t we dispense with all this mincing around? Gerro, do you want my sister or not?”
“I do. And my apologies.”
When Galrion let his eyes meet Blaen’s he saw only a man who wanted to be his friend—against great odds, perhaps, but he did. Yet the dweomer-warning slid down his back like snow.
In his role as a courting man’s second, Galrion went to the woman’s hall, a half-round of a room above the great hall. On the floor lay Bardek carpets in the clan colors of blue, green, and gold; silver candlesticks stood on an elaborately carved table. In a cushioned chair, Rodda, dowager of the clan, sat by the windows while Ysolla perched on a footstool at her mother s side. All around them lay wisps of wool from the spinning that must have been tidied away at the prince’s approach. Rodda was a stout woman with deep-set gray eyes and a firm but pleasant little smile; Galrion had always liked her when they’d met at court. Ysolla was a pretty lass of sixteen, all slender and golden with large eager eyes.
“I come as a supplicant, my lady,” Galrion knelt before the two women. “Lord Gerraent of the Falcon would have the Lady Ysolla marry him.”
When Ysolla caught her breath with a gasp, Rodda shot her a sharp look.
“This is a grave matter,” Rodda pronounced. “My daughter and I must consider this carefully.”
“But, Mother!”
“My lady?” Galrion said to Rodda. “Do you have any objections to Lord Gerraent?”
“None, but I have my objections to my daughter acting like a starving puppy grabbing a bone. You may tell Gerraent that we are considering the matter, but my son may start discussing the dowry if he wants—just in case Ysolla agrees.”
Blaen was expansive about the dowry. Ysolla, of course, had been filling her dower chest for years with embroidered coverlets, sets of dresses, and the embroidered shirt her husband would wear at his wedding. To go with it, Blaen offered ten geldings, five white cows, and a palfrey for Ysolla.
“Gerro?” Galrion said. “That’s splendidly generous.”
“What?” Gerraent looked up with a start. “Oh, whatever you think best.”
Yet that evening Gerraent acted the perfect suitor, happy to have his lady within his reach at last. At table, he and Ysolla shared a trencher, and Gerraent cut her tidbits of meat and fed her with his fingers as if they were already married, a gesture that made Ysolla beam with happiness. Galrion and Rodda, who were seated next to each other, found themselves watching the couple and occasionally turning to each other to share a thoughtful glance. Since the bard was singing, and Blaen laughing with his brother, Camlann, Galrion and Rodda could whisper in private.
“Tell me,” Rodda said. “Do you think Gerraent will come to love my daughter someday?”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
“Who knows what you men will do?”
Galrion broke a slice of bread in half and offered her one portion.
“Is this better than no bread at all?”
“You’re a wise one for someone so young, my prince.” Rodda accepted the bread. “Does that come from living at court?”
“It does, because if you want to live to be an old prince, you’d best keep your eyes on every little wave of everyone’s hand and your ears on every word they speak.”
“So I’ve been telling your little Gwennie. Life at court is going to be difficult for her at first. She’s lucky to have a man like you to watch over her interests.”
Galrion felt a stab of guilt. I’m as bad as Gerro, he thought.
