agreement, thinking that Gwennie would be his for one more summer. Then he remembered why he would have the summer. Keening, he threw the clay cup against the wall so hard that it shattered. Blaen sat down beside him and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Here, here, he’s gone,” Blaen said. “There’s naught more to do or say.”
Gerraent rested his head against Blaen’s chest and wept. I love him like a brother, he thought. I’ll thank all the gods that Gwennie’s not marrying him.
Prince Galrion’s first week back at court was one long frustration, with never a chance to speak to his father except in full, formal court. He knew that he was holding back, too, letting slip a chance here and there, because his heart worried like a terrier with a rat at the question of marrying Brangwen or letting Blaen have her. Finally, he decided to enlist the aid of the one ally he could always trust: his mother. On an afternoon so warm and balmy that it reminded him Beltane was close at hand, Galrion left the city and rode out to find the Queen’s hawking party down by Loc Gwerconydd, the vast lake where three rivers came together west of Dun Deverry.
The Queen and her attendants were having their noon meal at the southern shore. In their bright dresses, the serving women and maidservants looked like flowers scattered through the grass. Queen Ylaena sat in their midst; a young page, dressed in white, stood behind her with the Queen’s favorite little merlin on his wrist. Off to one side menservants tended the horses and other hawks. When Galrion dismounted, the Queen waved him over with an impatient flick of her hand.
“I’ve hardly seen you since you rode home,” Ylaena said. “Are you well?”
“By all means. What makes you think I’m not?”
“You’ve been brooding over somewhat. I can always tell.” The Queen turned to her women. “Go down to the lakeshore or suchlike, all of you. Leave us.”
The women sprang up like birds taking flight and ran off, laughing and calling to one another. The page followed more slowly, chirruping to the hawk to keep it calm. Ylaena watched them go with a small satisfied nod. For all that she had four grown sons, she was a beautiful woman still, with large, dark eyes, a slender face, and only a few streaks of gray in her chestnut hair. She reached into the basket beside her, brought out a piece of sweet bread, and handed it to Galrion.
“My thanks. Tell me somewhat, Mother. When you first came to court, did the other women envy your beauty?”
“Of course. Are you thinking about your betrothed?”
“Just that. I’m beginning to think you were right to doubt my choice.”
“Now’s a fine time for that, when you’ve already pledged your vow to the poor child.”
“What son ever listens to his mother until it’s too late?”
Ylaena gave him an indulgent smile. Galrion nibbled on the sweet bread and considered strategies.
“You know,” Ylaena said. “There’s not a lass alive who wouldn’t want to be known as the most beautiful woman in all Deverry, but it’s a harsh Wyrd in its own way. Your little Gwennie never had the education I had, either. She’s such a trusting little soul.”
“Just that. I spoke with Lady Rodda of the Boar about the matter, too, when I went with Gerraent for his betrothal. Lord Blaen of the Boar is much enamoured of the lass.”
“Indeed? And does that mean trouble coming?”
“It doesn’t, but only because Blaen is an honorable man. It’s odd, truly. Most lords care naught about their wives one way or another, just so long as they bear sons.”
“Great beauty can act on the roughest lord like dweomer.” Ylaena smiled briefly. “Or on a prince.”
Galrion winced at her unfortunate choice of imagery.
“What are you scheming?” Ylaena went on. “Leaving Gwennie to Blaen and finding another wife?”
“Well, somewhat like that. There’s one small difficulty to that plan. I still love her, in my way.”
“Love may be a luxury that a prince can’t afford. I don’t remember Blaen well from his few visits to court. Is he like his father?”
“As different as mead from mud.”
“Then that’s one blessing. I’m sure that if his father hadn’t been killed in that hunting accident, he’d be plotting against the king right now.”
Ylaena glanced away, sincerely troubled. The Deverry kingship was a risky thing. The lords and tieryns remembered well that in the old days of the Dawntime, kings were elected from among their fellow nobles, and families held the throne only as long as their heirs held the respect of the lords. Under the pressures of colonizing the new kingdom, that custom had died away hundreds of years before, but it was far from unknown for the nobility to organize a rebellion against an unpopular king in order to replace him with a better one.
“Lady Rodda assures me that Blaen will hold loyal,” Galrion said.
“Indeed? Well, I respect her opinion. You truly don’t want to give Brangwen up, do you?”
“I don’t know.” Galrion tossed the remains of the bread into the grass. “I truly don’t know.”
“Here’s somewhat else you might think about. Your eldest brother has always been far too fond of the lasses as it is.”
All at once Galrion found himself standing, his hand on his sword hilt.
“I’d kill him if he laid one hand on my Gwennie. My apologies, Mother, but I’d kill him.”
Her face pale, Ylaena rose and caught his arm. Galrion let go of the hilt and calmed himself.
“Think about this marriage carefully,” Ylaena said, her voice shaking. “I beg you—think carefully.”
“I will. And my apologies.”
Her talk with the prince seemed to have spoiled the Queen’s pleasure in her hawking, because she called her servants to her and announced that they were returning to the city.
At that time, Dun Deverry was confined to a low rise about a mile from the marshy shores of Loc Gwerconydd. Ringed with stone walls, it lay on both sides of a rushing river, which was spanned by two stone bridges as well as two defensible arches in the city walls. Clustered inside were round stone houses, scattered along randomly curving streets, that sheltered about twenty thousand people. At either end of the city rose two small hills. The southern one bore the great temple of Bel, the palace of the high priest of the kingdom, and an oak grove. The northern hill held the royal compound, which had stood there in one form or another for six hundred years.
Galrion’s clan, the Wyvern, had been living on the royal hill for only forty-eight years. Galrion’s grandfather, Adoryc the First, had ended a long period of anarchy by finally winning a war among the great clans over the kingship. Although the Wyvern was descended from a member of King Bran’s original warband and thus was entitled to be called a great clan, Adoryc the First had forged an alliance among the lesser clans, the merchants, and anyone else who’d support his claim to the throne. Although he’d been scorned for stooping so low, he’d also taken the victory.
