that Galrion and Gerraent take the Boar’s hospitality for several days. The more Galrion saw of Blaen, the more he liked him, a cultured man as well as a generous one, with a fine ear for the songs of his bard and a proper knowledge of the traditional tales and lore. Even more, Galrion came to admire Rodda, who carried out her dowager role with perfect tact. She would make Brangwen a splendid mother-in-law. At times, Galrion remembered Rhegor’s insistence that she choose freely, but he doubted if Gwennie, poor little innocent Gwennie, was capable of making such an important decision on her own.
Late on the second day, the prince escorted the dowager to the garden for a stroll. The spring sun lay warm on the glossy leaves and the first shy buds of the roses.
“I’m much impressed with your son,” Galrion said. “He should feel more at home at my court.”
“My thanks, my prince.” Rodda hesitated, wondering, no doubt, how to turn this unexpected honor to her son’s advantage. “I’m most grateful that you favor him.”
“There’s only one slight thing. You’ll forgive my bluntness, and I’ll swear an honest answer will do Blaen no harm. Just how much does he hold Gwennie against me?”
“My son knows his duty to the throne, no matter where his heart lies.”
“Never did I think otherwise. I was merely wondering how fine his honor might be in matters of the heart. Let me be blunt again. Suppose Brangwen was no longer betrothed to me. Would he spurn her as a cast-off woman?”
Briefly Rodda stared, as openmouthed as a farm lass, before she recovered her polished reserve.
“I think my prince is troubled at heart to speak this way.”
“He is, but he’ll beg you never to ask why. He’ll tell you this much: he’s troubled by the life ahead of Brangwen. Flatterers at court will come around her like flies to spilled mead.”
“Not just flies, my prince. Wasps come to spilled mead, and Gwennie is very beautiful.”
“She is.” Suddenly torn, Galrion wondered if he could truly let her go. “And I loved her once.”
“Once and not now?” Rodda raise a doubting eyebrow.
Galrion walked a little ways ahead, letting her catch up with him in the shade of the linden tree. He caught a low branch and stripped the leaves off a twig, to rub them between his fingers before he let them fall.
“My prince is deeply troubled,” Rodda said.
“The prince’s troubles are his own, my lady. But you never answered me. Would Blaen marry Gwennie if he could?”
“Oh, in a moment! My poor lad, I swear he’s been ensorcled by Gwennie’s blue eyes. He put off marrying until she came of age, and then, well—”
“The prince stepped in, giving the Boar another reason to chafe under the High King’s rule. How would the Boar take it if his mother hinted that the prince was yielding to a prior claim?”
“I’ve no doubt he’d honor the prince always.”
Smiling, Galrion made her a deep bow. It could work out well, he told himself. Yet at the thought of Brangwen lying in another man’s arms, his heart flared rage.
When the day came for Prince Galrion to ride back to court, Gerraent accompanied him for a few miles simply because he was expected to. The prince smiled and chattered until Gerraent wanted to murder him and leave his body in a ditch by the road. At last they reached the turning, and Gerraent sat on his horse and watched the prince’s scarlet-and-white plaid cloak disappear into the distance. Three more weeks, only three more weeks, and the prince would return from Dun Deverry to take Brangwen away. With her, Gerraent’s heart would go, breaking.
When he rode back to the dun, Gerraent found Brangwen sitting outside in the sun and sewing. He gave his horse to Brythu, his page, and sat down at her feet like a dog. Her golden hair shone in the sun like finespun thread, wisping around the soft skin of her cheeks. When she smiled at him, Gerraent felt stabbed to the heart.
“What are you sewing?” Gerraent said. “Somewhat for your dower chest?”
“It’s not, but a shirt for you. The last one I’ll ever make, but don’t worry, Ysolla does splendid needlework. I’ll wager that your wedding shirt is ever so much nicer than my poor Galrion’s.”
Gerraent rose to his feet, hesitated, then sat again, trapped in his old torment, that his beautiful sister, the one beautiful thing in his world, would turn him into something ugly and unclean, despised by the gods and men alike, if ever they knew of his secret fault. All at once she cried out. He jumped to his feet before he knew what he was doing.
“I just pricked my finger on the beastly needle,” Brangwen said, grinning at him. “Don’t look so alarmed, Gerro. But, oh, here, I’ve gotten a drop of blood on your shirt. Blast it!”
The little red smear lay in the midst of red interlaced bands of spirals.
“No one’s ever going to notice it,” Gerraent said.
“As long as it’s not a bad omen, you’re right enough. Doubtless you’ll get more gore on it than this. You do get so filthy when you hunt, Gerro.”
“I won’t wear it hunting until it starts to wear out. It’ll be my best shirt, the last one you ever sewed for me.” Gerraent caught her hand and kissed the drop of blood away.
Late that night, Gerraent went out to the dark, silent ward and paced restlessly back and forth. In the moonlight, he could see the severed head of old Samoryc glaring down at him with empty eye sockets. Once every dun and warrior’s home would have been graced with such trophies, but some years past, the priests had seen visions stating that taking heads had come to displease great Bel. Of all the lords round about, Dwen was the last to defy the change. Gerraent remembered the day when the priests came to implore him to take the trophy down. A tiny lad, then, Gerraent hid behind his mother’s skirts as Dwen refused, roaring with laughter, saying that if the gods truly wanted it down, they’d make it rot soon enough. Chanting a ritual curse, the priests left defeated.
“I’m the curse,” Gerraent said to Samoryc. “I’m the curse the gods sent to our clan.”
He sat down on the ground and wept.
The days passed slowly, long days of torment, until Gerraent fled his sister’s presence and rode to Blaen on the pretense of seeing his new betrothed. He and Blaen were more than friends; the year before, when they’d ridden to war together, they’d sworn an oath that they would fight at each other’s side until both were dead or both victorious, and they had sealed that oath with drops of their own blood.
In his blood-sworn friend’s soothing company Gerraent spent a pleasant pair of days, drinking at Blaen’s hearth, hunting out in his forest preserve, or riding aimlessly across his lands with the warband behind them. Gerraent envied Blaen for having a warband. He was determined to get one of his own; the ten horses that he’d receive in Ysolla’s dowry would be a splendid start, and soon Brangwen’s royal marriage would bring wealth to the Falcon, a lwdd, a blood price of sorts—but too small a compensation for the losing of her.
On the third day, late in the afternoon, Gerraent and Blaen rode out alone. Enjoying each others silent company, they ambled through the fields until they reached a
