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

by Michael A. Hooten

  She avoided his eyes as much as possible, but she could not avoid them forever. When she finally looked into the clear blue depths, he frowned and said, “What's wrong, my child?”

  “Nothing,” she said, looking down.

  “It's hardly nothing,” he said, tilting her chin up with a finger.

  She kept her eyes lowered. “It's something I must deal with on my own, my lord.”

  “You will tell me if I can help?” he asked.

  The compassion in his voice made her eyes burn, but she swallowed several times and said, “Of course I will.”

  “You may ask me for anything, child.”

  Even for you to punish your heir and his cousin? she wanted to scream. But instead she simply said, “Thank you, my lord.”

  After the last piece of armor came off, Math put on a fresh robe, and sighed contentedly. “War is interesting,” he said, reclining in his throne, while Goewin took his feet. “But it is—”

  He sat up suddenly. “Who did this to you?” he demanded.

  “My lord?” Goewin said, frightened at the anger in his eyes.

  “Who abused you this way?”

  “I— I don't know what you're talking about.”

  He smiled grimly. “You do not have to protect anyone. In fact, I hope you would not, because I can tell that a man took you against your will. I am sure you loved him at one time, but if he was willing to commit this crime, then you must know that he never loved you in return.”

  “I never loved him,” Goewin spat. She struggled to regain her calm. “But I am reluctant to speak his name.”

  “Why? You have nothing to fear.”

  “But I do,” she said. She could feel her eyes burning again, and clenched her jaw. “I do not want to test your loyalty to me.”

  “Goewin.” He spoke her name softly, but it drew her eyes to his. “You know that I can find the truth whether you tell me or not. But I would rather you told me yourself, because this is not an issue of loyalty. This is an issue of justice. No matter where the guilt lies, I must uphold the laws of the Creator and men, else I mock my position as lord of this cantref.”

  “Even if the guilty party is someone you love?”

  “I said anyone. Do you doubt my word?”

  She wrestled with it for a moment longer, but the calm assurance she felt in his presence finally won. “Gilventhy ap Don did this,” she said.

  “Thank you, my love. I promised I would not fail you, and now I will prove it.” He cocked his head at her. “No matter what happens in the next few minutes, do not let go of my feet, and you will be safe.”

  She swallowed and said, “Yes, my lord.”

  He seemed to withdraw, as though he was listening to the winds, but his eyes still glinted dangerously. A howling storm came through the open windows, growing louder and shaking the tower, although Goewin could barely feel it. The sky grew dark, and flashes of lightning arced across the heavens, followed closely by booming thunder.

  Gwydion had just shape shifted from raven form at the gates of Caer Dathyl when the winds found him. He was surprised at the strength they had as they pushed him towards Math’s tower, but he didn’t fight very hard, either. When he walked in, however, he saw that Gil had; his cousin was pinned to the floor, and his the cords on his neck stood out as he tried to simply lift his head.

  Math sat on his throne, his feet in Goewin’s lap, but he didn’t look the least bit relaxed. “Gwydion ap Don,” he said. “Approach me.”

  Gwydion knew he had little choice, but he came even with Gil. “Help me,” his cousin said.

  “Quiet!” Math roared. “The two of you are here on charges of treason and rape. All I want is the truth.”

  “Treason?” Gwydion said. Of everything he had done, or felt guilty for, treason had never been a possibility.

  “What else would you call subverting my authority?”

  Gwydion said, “Uncle, I have done much that I regret, and much that can be considered wrong, but I do not think that treason is one of them.”

  “That is for me to decide,” Math said. “The two of you have conspired to wage war with Gwynedd, and to use that war as an opportunity to seduce a couple of women. You, Gilventhy ap Don, were not content with seduction. Were you?”

  “I thought she wanted it,” Gil said.

  “And at what point did you realize you were wrong?” Math said, but Gil had no answer. “Just as I thought. So rape is your charge, and Gwydion, you are guilty of abetting that crime.”

  “Even though I had no idea he would do such a thing?” Gwydion said.

  “You gave him the opportunity.”

  “And you gave me the ability to make that opportunity happen,” Gwydion shot back. “Does that make you guilty also?”

  Math narrowed his eyes. “You should be careful, nephew.”

  “Yes I should,” Gwydion said. “So I want to be judged by a bard.”

  “You would gainsay my judgment?”

  Gwydion hesitated at the tone in his uncle’s voice, but he said, “I think it would be best.”

  The winds died, and silence filled the hall like a fist. “I could destroy you now,” Math said quietly. “And I should. You have no respect, and no control. Your talents are merely a way to get what you want, and you would damn anyone who got in your way.”

  “That may be true. But I would prefer calmer, wiser heads to decide this issue.”

  “I will not give you time to escape my judgment.”

  “I’m not trying to escape!” Gwydion yelled. “I’m trying to do the right thing. Why can’t you see that?”

  Math did not say anything, but Gwydion saw him fill with power, turning as dark as a thundercloud. The winds returned, howling with desire to taste his blood, and threw the young man across the room.

  He responded instinctively, calling them by name and turning them away one by one until he could stand on his feet again. His head throbbed, but he forced a laugh and said, “You'll have to do better than that, old man.”

  Without taking his eyes off of his nephew, Math said, “Goewin, my love, I think you should leave. Tell everyone else as well.”

  “Yes, Math,” she said, and quickly scurried down the stairs, pausing to look back for just a moment.

  Gilventhy made a hesitant move to follow her, but the winds pinned him to the ground like a bug. “You will stay,” Math said, looking at him contemptuously. “I am not finished with you yet.”

  He did not stand, but his demeanor became even more stern and authoritative. “Gwydion ap Don, as the Lord of Caer Dathyl, I hereby proclaim you guilty of treason and rape, along with your cousin, Gilventhy ap Don. The punishment is death. Do you have anything to say?”

  “That is not justice,” Gwydion said.

  “It is, and I will enforce it,” Math said.

  “You should look to yourself,” Gwydion said, gathering the winds and hurling them at his uncle.

  Math did not even flinch, but turned them away before they could disturb a single hair. “Ah, nephew,” he said with a tight smile. “You always did want to learn more. It looks like today you finally get your wish.”

  The air turned thick around Gwydion. He felt like he was being crushed, and he could not find the names of the winds. There was a tangle in his mind, voices high and low that would not listen to him. He gritted his teeth and called in the high winds.

  Math grunted in surprise as the tower shook, and the pressure on Gwydion eased somewhat. “You've been experimenting,” he said.

  “You told me to find my own way,” Gwydion replied. He still couldn't find the wind that was overwhelming him, but he managed to pull his harp around.

  “Indeed I did,” Math said. A flagstone split with a loud report, and sweat was standing out on his forehead. “It's been a long time since I heard these voices.” The shaking suddenly stopped. “But not that long.”

  Gwydion cried out as the attack resumed. He dropped to his knees and bowed over his harp, weeping with frustration.
“I will not give up!” he yelled.

  Math looked at him. “You have caused a war, and the rape of my foot holder. You have not learned the most important lesson, which is that power and skill are only effective with wisdom and humility.” He sighed. “And now I'm afraid that you have too much power, and that I cannot let you live.”

  Gwydion looked up, furious. “Your power is not the only one in the land.” He strummed a chord, and felt the magic well up inside him.

  Math looked uncertain as his nephew rose to his feet. “Impossible,” he whispered.

  “Nothing is ever truly impossible,” Gwydion said, picking out a quick sword dance and feeling the magic build like a wave.

  “Who taught you this thing?” Math demanded.

  “No one. I taught myself.”

  The old man narrowed his eyes. “Interesting. But in the end, pointless. You see, my power is still greater.”

  Gwydion said, “I do not want to fight you, uncle.”

  “And yet you do.”

  “I know I was wrong!” Gwydion yelled. “I admit it, and I know that I am probably not worthy to be your Tanist! But why won’t you let the bards render the appropriate judgment?”

  “The bards know nothing of this power,” Math replied.

  Gwydion felt the winds gather around him, pressing on the shields the he had built. “No, but they do understand power.”

  “They are not Cymry.”

  Gwydion had a sudden insight. “You accuse me of treason because I have defied you, and you cannot let that happen. You’ve never acted like a cantref lord, because you think you’re better than everyone else.”

  Math said, “No, I pledge allegiance to the Prince of Cairnecht, and the Ard Righ.”

  “Prove it,” Gwydion said. “Let me be judged by the bards.”

  “You’re in no position to be asking anything,” Math said. “I have made my mind up, and you must die.”

  The winds began battering him even harder than before. Gwydion began sweating and shaking as he struggled with the magic arrayed against him. “I will not die for this!”

  He began playing. The magic responded from the first note, and he pushed back against his uncle. The tower shook with their battle, as Math continued to pound against Gwydion with the winds. Cracks appeared on the walls; the broken flagstone became a gaping chasm. Gwydion felt the floor tilt, saw Gil sliding towards the wall, but as he tried to hold his cousin, a well-trained wind pushed his cloak over his head.

  He could barely see, but dared not stop playing to move his cloak. He felt himself slipping, and concentrated all his efforts on just remaining whole. Stones began falling from the walls, and chunk of roof crashed down beside him. “You’re going to kill us both!” he screamed, but if Math heard him, he gave no sign. The old man sat completely still, eyes unfocused, face set in concentration.

  The tower tilted further, and Math’s throne began to slide as well. Math finally seemed to notice that the caer was falling apart around him, and he began yelling, but Gwydion couldn’t make out what he was saying. He concentrated on his music, plucking each note grimly, trying to protect himself from crumbling masonry. He couldn’t see Gil anywhere, and then even his uncle was gone, having slid through a window that looked more at the ground than the sky.

  Gwydion clung to his harp and to his music. The floor was almost vertical, but he had come up against a wall, one of the few remaining. He placed his feet on it, braced for any impact. There were bricks and stones flying all around, and he did not know how none had hit him.

  The tower hit the ground with a roar, and the shock knocked him off his feet. He clutched his harp tight to his chest, as he tumbled over and over, never sure which way was up. He couldn’t catch his breath; he couldn’t even focus enough to shape shift.

  He crashed against something hard and smooth, and he lay still for a long while. He didn’t want to open his eyes, but the thunder of the tower’s fall gave way to eerie silence. Dust filled the air, making it hard to catch his breath, but he pulled his cloak back, and stood up slowly, looking around in horror.

  Math’s tower lay shattered, along with half of the great hall, and many lesser buildings. Even the walls had crumbled, looking like ruins from a distant time. Nothing moved; all the inhabitants had fled, except for two. Gil lay under a slab of wall, only his legs and one arm protruding, all three bent unnaturally. And several feet away, Math lay on the ground, his head in a pool of blood, staring blankly at the sky.

  Gwydion began to shake uncontrollably. Tears streaked lines through the dust on his face, and he gasped each breath. He sank to his knees, sobbing like a child.

  In the gap of a wall, shapes appeared, resolving slowly into the outline of a group of people. Gwydion expected to see the people of the caer, but instead recognized Ollave Aodhgán. The bard looked around, his harp in his hands playing a gentle tune. His face showed nothing, but the bards with him looked shocked and uncertain.

  “Ollave,” Gwydion said, and started coughing.

  “Gwydion ap Don,” Aodhgán said, his deep voice filling the desolation. “What happened here?”

  When the coughing passed, Gwydion looked at his uncle. “We fought. I killed him. And my cousin.”

  Aodhgán glanced at the bodies, but seemed distracted. “There is so much power in the air,” he said. “It’s hard to sort through it all…”

  “What’s to sort through?” Gwydion said, suddenly angry. “I have killed the two people I loved most in the world! It does not get any clearer!”

  Aodhgán stopped playing suddenly, and softly said, “You are not telling me everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gwydion yelled. “I fought my uncle. Gil was there. I caused the tower to fall.”

  “But why?” Aodhgán said. “Why did you fight?”

  Gwydion hung his head again. “Because I have been stupid, and caused the deaths of many men in a war between Gwynedd and Dyfed.”

  “Is that truly all?” the bard asked. Around him, the other members of his company began playing. Gwydion felt the power in their music, and it caused him to flinch.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is all my fault.”

  Aodhgán stood over him. “We cannot make a fair judgment without the whole truth,” he said.

  “There is no truth,” Gwydion said.

  “We were on our way to help celebrate the end of the war, and to sing songs of praise,” Aodhgán said. “We felt the magic of the battle between you and your uncle, first with magic that was outside of our ken, and then with magic that made us spur our horses forward, because we could tell a bard was fighting for his life. And then we get here, the caer destroyed, and the only living thing is you, holding a harp. Gwydion ap Don, did you use bardic magic?”

  Gwydion swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  Aodhgán nodded. “Gwydion, you must tell me the truth. Were you trying to kill your uncle and your cousin?”

  “No,” Gwydion said, breaking into tears again. “I just didn’t want to die.”

  Aodhgán released his breath in a deep sigh. He put his hand under Gwydion’s arm and lifted him to his feet. “You must come with us.”

  “But Math—Gil—the caer—”

  “There is nothing you can do here,” Aodhgán said. “But before you do anything at all, you must talk to the Pen Bardd. May I take your harp?”

  “What?” Gwydion said, but he let the Ollave take his instrument. “The Pen Bardd? I don’t understand.”

  “And it is not for me to tell you everything,” Aodhgán said. “You must trust me.”

  “But my uncle…”

  “Come,” Aodhgán said, putting his arm around his shoulders and guiding him towards the collapsed wall the bards had entered through. The other bards ringed them, still playing.

  Gwydion looked back at his uncle, and then let them lead him wherever they wanted him to go.

  Chapter 9: Forgiveness

  Gwydion spent the next week riding generally north, always surrounded by
bards. He didn’t care, and said nothing to them.

  He could not hear the winds.

  The land around them changed from rock and drizzle to rolling fields full of sunlight. Instead of flocks of sheep overlooked by dour shepherds, they passed waves of wheat and barley, and friendly farmers who asked if they had a moment to stop and chat. Aodhgán gently refused each time, although he did allow the bards to play in every place they stopped for the night.

  The other bards did not speak to Gwydion, but Aodhgán tried several times to draw him into a conversation. Gwydion responded with monosyllables or grunts of acknowledgement. Only the music reached him, and when the Ollave played his harp occasionally, Gwydion would stir like he had heard the voice of a friend. But it still was not enough to draw him back into the land of the living.

  The company turned west, and the landscape changed again, becoming more mountainous. But before they got into any severe terrain, they came to wide valley. Rich green fields with several small duns surrounded the squat remains of some ancient fortress, a blight on the otherwise fair scene.

  Gwydion thought they might be heading for the ruins, but the company turned to one of the small duns instead. They stopped at the gate, and Aodhgán played a tune. A face appeared at the wall, bald and clean shaven, but neither old nor unkind. “What seek ye, travelers?”

  “We are a bardic company,” Aodhgán replied. “We would like to play for the dun, in return for food and shelter.”

  “These things are given, and freely,” the man replied. His face disappeared from the wall, and the gates creaked open, pulled by the same man they had talked to. “You are welcome to Dun Gareth, Ollave Aodhgán,” he said. He looked over the company, and stopped at Gwydion. “And this must be the young man that has brought you here.”

  Gwydion squirmed under the scrutiny, but manners forced him to speak. “I am—”

  “Hush now,” the man said with surprising force, even though he had not raised his voice. “We have many things to speak of, including who you are and what you have done. I am Gareth, your host here.”