The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2)

by Michael A. Hooten

Gwydion gestured to his sling. “I was going to play my harp for you, but I can't. And I cannot throw you through the air, or even carry you across the room. But I can still be tender, and I can still love you.”

  “And why would I want that from you?”

  Gwydion sighed. “Ari, we've known each other for a while now, as cousins and friends, and as something more. I could play games with you, trying to elicit sympathy or pity, or even love, but I am tired of the games. You know the way I look at you, and I am well aware of the way you look at me. Here and now, we have both time and privacy.”

  “What are you suggesting?” she said. Her tone was severe, but her eyes shone.

  “We should make love,” Gwydion replied. When she didn't respond, he added, “If I have misjudged the situation, or insulted you, then I will leave this Caer, and spend the rest of my days paying your honor price.”

  “You've done neither,” she said softly.

  “Then what is it? Why do you sit there, rooted like a tree?”

  She leaned forward. “I—I am in shock, I think.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “We have played the game with each other for so long, that I forgot that it could end, with each of us a winner.”

  Gwydion stretched his good arm towards her, and she touched his fingertips with hers. “We can, and we should.”

  Their fingertips twined together, and began pulling her forward. “And your injury?”

  “I will be careful, and I will let you know if it bothers me.”

  “You really are a horrible liar,” she said, stretching out beside him. She pressed in close to him, and he could feel the heat of her body. “You would probably say nothing unless it was falling off.”

  “You may be right,” Gwydion said. He untied the knot that held her robe closed. “But I have done everything but move mountains for this time with you. It will take more than a small wound to keep me away from you.”

  She stared into his eyes. “That,” she said, “I believe.” She sighed as he unbound her hair and ran his fingers through it.

  “We should have several days together,” Gwydion said. “No family, no chaperones—”

  “What about your so-called bodyguards?” she asked.

  He pulled her into a passionate kiss. When he could breathe again, he said, “Nothing will interrupt us, I swear.”

  He was wrong. The winds started trying to get his attention on the second day. He didn't want to hear any news from outside, so he played his harp to block their voices. But the next time he fell asleep, he dreamed that he was on the road between Caer Don and Caer Dathyl, floating along without a body. He came upon two riders, and he soon recognized Bran and Gil. They were moving along at a fast trot, and Bran said, “I would have thought that you would be begging me to let you go back to the battle.”

  “What?” Gil said.

  Bran looked at him closely. “What’s going on? It’s not like you to want to get back home so quickly.”

  “Oh, you know,” Gil said.

  “No I don’t,” Bran said.

  Time seemed to speed up for Gwydion, and he was looking at Bran and Gil eating their supper in front of a small fire. Gil said he was not hungry, and Bran said, “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  Gill looked sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Not until I figured it out,” Bran said. “You know how Math feels about these kinds of things.”

  “He’s not going to find out,” Gil said.

  Bran laughed. “He finds out everything, you know.”

  “Well, eventually,” Gil said. “But I have this time, while he’s at war, and I intend to use it.”

  “She must be something special.”

  “She is,” Gil said. “Gwydion and I have been working on this for months.”

  Gwydion wanted to tell him to shut up, but he had no voice.

  “Gwydion started this war for you?”

  Gil seemed to realize that he had said too much. “No, not just for me. It was for him, too.”

  Bran’s eyes widened. “Arianrhod?”

  Gil hesitated just a moment before saying, “No. To teach the Dyfedians a lesson.”

  Bran nodded. “Proving himself a worthy Tanist.”

  “Yes, that’s what it was mostly about. Getting our women alone was just a bonus.”

  “Of course it was,” said Bran.

  Gwydion woke with a start. The bedclothes were soaked with sweat, and his shoulder ached, shooting pain from his head to his fingertips. He knew that Bran suspected anything that Gil was telling him, and that he was beginning to doubt everything he had been told by the cousins so far. He grabbed his harp instinctively, though he did not know how it might help. Gwydion’s room had a balcony overlooking a small garden, and he stumbled out to it and opened himself to the voices on the wind.

  It took him a few minutes to sort through everything they brought to him, but Gwydion soon found Math’s voice, calling out commands to his generals. His voice was confident, unconcerned. Gwydion tried to call to him, but he did not answer.

  Gwydion searched for Gwillim next. The lord of Dyfed was hard pressed, sounding panicked and scared. Gwydion listened to his commands, and knew that the war would soon be over. Dyfed would return home, beaten and discouraged from any more forays north.

  He then sought out the winds from the north, listening for Bran and Gilventhy. He did not hear Arianrhod come onto the balcony, and when she wrapped her arms around him, he only grunted an acknowledgement. She kissed the back of his neck, and he wanted to respond, but then he heard the voice he had been seeking.

  “I am dead,” Bran said. “Gilventhy ap Don has stabbed me, and I am alone, with no help. I am hoping that wherever you are, Math, Lord Gwynedd, that you will hear this, my final message.”

  “No,” Gwydion said.

  “What is it?” Arianrhod asked, but he shushed her.

  “Gilventhy is now on his way to Caer Dathyl, convinced that Goewin lusts for him as much as he does for her. All was planned by Gwydion ap Don; he is currently slaking his own lust with Arianrhod at Caer Don.”

  Gwydion groaned to hear his own part so damned, but he knew it to be more true than not. Arianrhod began stroking his hair, which made him shiver. She misinterpreted why, and began to nuzzle his ear.

  He pulled away. “I have to go,” he said.

  “What’s going on” she asked. “Are you crying?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, but he wiped tears from his face. “Yes—I don’t know. But I have to leave. Now.”

  “But your shoulder—”

  “It will be fine,” he said.

  “—and us—”

  He took her by the shoulders. “I love you Arianrhod, and I will return to you.”

  Her eyes bored into his. “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  She nodded. “Then go, and do what you must.”

  He kissed her, then turned and leapt into raven form. His shoulder twinged, and he fell a few feet. He heard Ari gasp behind him, but he quickly righted himself, and began following the whisper on the wind.

  Gwydion found Bran as the evening lengthened the shadows all around him. He lay next to a dead fire, his pack and horse just a few yards away. Gwydion could see the blood beneath him, a large, dark stain on the earth. Landing beside him, Gwydion became a man again, kneeling beside his friend.

  He thought he was too late, but as he lifted Bran’s head, his eyes fluttered open. “You?” he said in confusion.

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Gwydion said. “This was not supposed to happen.”

  Bran smiled bitterly. “I don’t think a lot of things happened like they were supposed to.”

  “What can I do?” Gwydion said. “How can I make this right?”

  “You can’t,” Bran said. He turned away. “Leave me to my peace.”

  “No,” Gwydion said. “Not when I might save you.”

  Bran laughed, but it turned into a cough. When he could speak again, he said, “Do you hav
e your harp?”

  “I do.”

  “Then sing me a requiem. I cannot be saved.”

  Gwydion bowed his head, and pulled his harp around. He didn’t know what he could play, but he put his fingers to the strings and began plucking them almost randomly. All he could think about was easing Bran’s pain; the song became almost a lullaby, though tinged with sadness.

  “Thank you,” Bran whispered. “You always were a fine harpist, no matter what your other faults.”

  Gwydion could barely see because of his tears. He didn’t know how to stop them. He fed power into the music, but instead of hiding from the winds, he opened himself to them, demanding to know of Gil and Goewin. And Math.

  Math’s voice came first, surrounded by bards singing victory marches. He was directing the plans for the next day, when they expected to begin their return journey to Caer Dathyl.

  But any joy that Gwydion felt was tempered by Gil’s voice, greeting Goewin confidently, and her puzzled response. Gil’s assurance turned to confusion, and her voice sounded dismissive.

  “Walk away, Gil, walk away,” Gwydion whispered.

  But Gil didn’t walk away. His voice turned angry, demanding. Goewin tried to soothe him, which he mistook as belated interest. When he renewed his advances, Goewin got frustrated, and tried to leave.

  “Let her go,” Gwydion whispered.

  But Gil was angry again, and his wounded ego demanded action. Goewin very clearly said “Let go of me!” Her screams after that confirmed to Gwydion that he hadn’t.

  Gwydion listened in horror as Gil ripped her clothes, and slapped her when she fought back. His grunts sounded bestial, and her sobs ripped at his heart. But he could not stop listening.

  It seemed to last forever, but eventually Gil finished. He said a few words to her, trying to be somewhat kind, but not at all apologetic, but Goewin said nothing in return. Gwydion was grateful for her soft crying, because it meant she was still alive.

  Gwydion still played, but the song had truly become the requiem that Bran had requested. He played it for Gil as well, who had shown himself to be both murderer and rapist.

  He looked down at Bran, but the warrior looked peaceful, despite his pallor and the labor of his breathing. Gwydion said, “It’s not fair.”

  He changed the song again, reaching for all the power he had always felt at the edge of his consciousness when he played. It came in a rush, making his hair stand on end. He felt like he was glowing. And he didn’t know what to do next. He cried out in fear and frustration, and heard an answer from beyond the pale.

  Ruchalia, the boar who had taught him so much about shape shifting, stepped from the air, taking in the scene with one quick glance. She became human and said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Trying to save this man from dying,” Gwydion said.

  “You look like you’re trying to destroy yourself,” she said. “You’ve got to let some of that magic go!”

  “I don’t know how!” he said. “Can you help me?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know,” she said. “Are you using Cymric or bardic magic?”

  “Bardic, I think.”

  “Okay, then try this: form the image of what you want in your mind, then start pouring the power into that image.”

  “Like shape shifting?”

  “Kind of, but bards affect the world more than themselves. You have to have an iron will. If you get distracted, you could kill us all.”

  Gwydion shook with the effort to hold all the power. “Image, iron will, caution. Okay.”

  He looked at Bran, and instead of pale and wounded, he saw him as whole and energetic, like he saw him on the training grounds. He tried to channel all the magic he felt into his vision, but almost lost hold of it entirely. Ruchalia gasped, so he knew she had seen it, too.

  “You forgot to say slowly,” he told her.

  “I didn’t think I had to,” she shot back.

  Gwydion looked back at Bran, but his sight had changed, and he saw him not as a man, but as a faint glow, barely visible. He glanced at Ruchalia, and saw a boar shaped glow, but bright and vibrant. He began to release the magic again, slowly, trying to brighten Bran’s glow. It felt like almost like blowing an ember into flame, and like an ember, Bran’s glow remained stubbornly dim, with only hints of flaring to life.

  Still playing, Gwydion tried harder, increasing the magic gradually, finally seeing the radiance respond, becoming brighter and steadier. He continued playing and focusing his will until with a snap, his vision returned to normal, and Bran, looking healthy and whole, sat up and said, “What did you just do?”

  “He saved your life, idiot,” Ruchalia said, but the wonder in her voice softened the rebuke.

  Gwydion smiled at her. “Thank you,” he said, and then slid into oblivion.

  Chapter 8: Consequences

  Gwydion awoke back in his room at Caer Don, surrounded by women. “Am I dead, or dreaming?” he said.

  Mari touched his forehead. “Alive, I’m thinking.”

  Arianrhod stood very stiff, but he could see some relief in her eyes. Ruchalia, still in human form, was grinning from ear to ear. “He’s fine,” she said. “He’s just worried that we’ll start talking about our experiences with him.”

  Gwydion groaned. “That hadn’t occurred to me. The dream just became a nightmare.”

  Even Arianrhod managed a faint smile. “Yes, he’s fine.”

  Gwydion tried to sit up, but Mari pushed him back down easily. “Is Bran here? Is he okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s in a room nearby, and even testier than you about being confined to bed. I’ve been examining him, but even though he says he was stabbed, I can’t find any evidence of it, except for the blood stains on his clothes.”

  “He’s telling you the truth,” Gwydion said. “It was Gilventhy.”

  Arianrhod frowned. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Gwydion hesitated. “I have to get back to Caer Dathyl,” he said.

  “You’re not in any condition to go anywhere,” Mari said.

  Ruchalia snorted. “He’s a lot stronger than you know. I wouldn’t try to hold him against his will, if I were you.”

  Mari and Arianrhod looked offended, which only intensified when Gwydion said, “Ruchalia? Can I talk to you alone?”

  “I have to check on Bran,” Mari said. “Come on, Ari.”

  Arianrhod looked furious, but Gwydion couldn’t help it. He needed someone with Ruchalia’s wisdom to help him figure out what to do.

  When the door closed, Ruchalia said, “Are you up to shape shifting? I think this conversation would be easier as boars.”

  Gwydion nodded, and made the change. He thought it might be a strain after everything that he had done, but it happened easily, and Ruchalia snorted, “Don’t look so surprised. I meant it when I said you were strong.”

  “That may be,” Gwydion said, “But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face my uncle.”

  “Why would you be afraid of Math?” Ruchalia said, so Gwydion told her the whole story, sparing nothing. It went surprisingly fast in boar form, but he still felt ashamed and guilty over everything that had happened.

  “What do you think I should do?” he said.

  “First of all, Gil’s guilt is not your own,” Ruchalia said. “Yes, you plotted with him to get him alone with Goewin, but you had no idea that he would try to murder Bran on the way, or that when Goewin said no he would resort to rape.”

  “But I feel like I should have,” Gwydion said.

  “You are not responsible for any actions but your own,” Ruchalia said. “Feel guilty for those all you like, but Gil must face his own consequences for what he did.”

  “All I want to do is run away,” Gwydion said. “I want to hide from all of this, and let it pass by.”

  “And that would be great folly,” Ruchalia said. “In the end, despite your crimes, which are not as serious as you want them to be, you are a good man
who knows that you must face the consequences.”

  “I won’t be Tanist anymore,” Gwydion said. “Math will never trust me that much again.”

  “And is that so horrid?” Ruchalia said. “You have many talents and abilities. I have no doubt that you can make your way just fine in the world without needing to be Lord of Dathyl. And the truth is, you were worried about having that title anyway.”

  Gwydion grunted and gave her a little nuzzle. “This is why I wanted to talk to you. You have a way of seeing to the heart of things.”

  “It’s a boar thing,” she said, nuzzling him back.

  He pulled back and became a man again. “I have to go,” he said. “Would you tell Arianrhod and Mari where I have gone?”

  Ruchalia shape shifted to human form. “You should tell them yourself, you know.”

  Gwydion sighed deeply. “I think I have courage for either one or the other. Not both.”

  “Go,” she said. “But don’t forget that these women deserve to hear from your own mouth what is going on and why. They love you, and they love Gil and Math as well. This will affect you all.”

  “And don’t I know it,” Gwydion said. He hugged Ruchalia tightly, then went to the window and leapt into raven form, winging his way determinedly towards Caer Dathyl.

  Goewin swore she wouldn't cry. Whatever else happened, whatever further shame she might have to bear, she would not humiliate herself by crying. She had burnt the clothes that he had ripped from her, but her shame still felt like a clamp around her heart. She paced about the tower, scared to leave, and scared of what would happen when Math returned.

  She heard the war pipes coming through the windows, and she rushed to the window. Far below, Lord Dathyl rode at the head of his army, waving in easy triumph to the people who flocked to watch. The long white beard, still so incongruous against his armor, looked tangled, and she wondered how long it would take her the brush it out. The thought of doing something so simple and so familiar made her smile despite herself. Then he looked up and caught her eye, and she turned away, unsure once again what she would do. All she knew is that she refused to cry.

  After a while, Math came into the tower and gave her the same smile he always did, and the pain came back sharper than before. Goewin managed to smile back, though, and helped him remove his armor.