“What makes you think you have the right to ask for any?” Adoryc drew his own dagger and began to fiddle with it as he talked.
“No right at all, but I’m asking for my lady’s sake. Send her away out of sight before you kill me.”
“Fair enough. Granted.”
Brangwen screamed, shoved Gerraent so hard that he stumbled, and ran forward to throw herself at the King’s feet.
“Please, please,” Brangwen went on. “For the sake of his mother, I beg you. If you must have blood, take mine.”
Brangwen clutched the hem of the King’s shirt and turned her throat up to him. She was so beautiful, with her hair streaming down her shoulders, with tears running down her perfect face, that even the King’s riders sighed aloud in pity for her.
“Ah, ye gods,” Adoryc said. “Do you love this lout as much as that?”
“I do. I’d go with him anywhere, even to the Otherlands.”
Adoryc glanced at the dagger, then sheathed it with a sigh.
“Gerraent!” the King bellowed.
Gerraent came forward, took Brangwen by the shoulders, and tried to lead her away, but she shook him off. Galrion was so sick he could barely stand. He was unworthy of her, or so he saw it, and this second failure shattered him.
“Well, by the hells,” Adoryc said mildly. “If I can’t slit your throat, Galrion, how am I going to solve this little matter?”
“You could let me and my lady go into exile. It would spare us all much trouble.”
“You little bastard!” Adoryc stepped forward and slapped him across the face. “How dare you!”
Galrion staggered from the force of the blow, but he held his ground.
“Do you want me to tell everyone else what this quarrel between us is all about? Do you, Father? I will.”
Adoryc went as still as a hunted animal.
“Or shall I just accept exile?” Galrion went on. “And no man need know the cause of it.”
“You bastard.” Adoryc whispered so low that Galrion could barely hear him. “Or truly, not a bastard, because of all my sons, you’re the one most like me.” Then he raised his voice. “The cause need not be known, but we hereby do pronounce our son, Galrion, as stripped of all his rank and honor, as turned out of our presence and our demesne, forever and beyond forever. We forbid him our lands, we forbid him the shelter of those sworn to us as loyal vassals, all on pain of death.” He paused to laugh under his breath. “And we hereby strip him of the name we gave him at his miserable birth. We proclaim his new name as Nevyn. Do you hear me, lad? Nevyn—no one—nobody at all—that’s your new name.”
“Done! I’ll bear it proudly.”
Brangwen shook herself free of Gerraent’s arm. She smiled as proudly as the princess she might have been as she started over to her banished man. Galrion held out his hand to her.
“Hold!” Gerraent forced himself between them. “My liege, my King, what is this? Am I to marry my only sister to an exile?”
“She’s my betrothed already,” Galrion snapped. “Your father pledged her, not you.”
“Hold your tongue, Nevyn!” Adoryc slapped him across the face. “My lord Gerraent, you have our leave to speak.”
“My liege.” As he knelt before the King, Gerraent was shaking. “Truly, my father pledged her, and as his son, all I can do is honor the pledge. But my father betrothed her to a good life, one of comfort and honor. He loved his daughter. What will she have now?”
As Adoryc considered, Galrion felt the dweomer-warning like ice, shuddering down his back. He stepped forward.
“Father!”
“Never call me that again.” Adoryc motioned to the guards. “Keep our no one here quiet.”
Before Galrion could dodge, two men grabbed him and twisted his arms behind him. One of them clapped a firm hand over his mouth. Brangwen stood frozen, her face so pale that Galrion was afraid she would faint.
“I beg you, my liege,” Gerraent went on. “If I allow this marriage, what kind of a brother am I? How can I claim to be head of my clan if I have so little honor? My liege, if ever the Falcon has paid you any service, I beg you—don’t let this happen.”
“Done, then,” Adoryc said. “We hereby release you from your fathers pledge.”
“Gerro!” Brangwen sobbed out. “You can’t! I want to go, Gerro, let me go.”
“Hush.” Gerraent rose, turning and sweeping her into his arms. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what kind of life you’ll have, wandering the roads like beggars.”
“I don’t care.” Brangwen tried to struggle free. “Gerro, Gerro, how can you do this to me? Let me go.”
Gerraent weakened; then he tossed his head.
“I won’t! I won’t have you die in childbirth someday, just because your man doesn’t have the price of a midwife, or starve some winter on the road. I’d die myself first.”
It was touching, perfectly said, but Galrion knew that Gerraent was lying, that all those fine words were cruel, deadly poisoned lies. The dweomer was making him tremble and choke. He bit his guard in the hand, but all he got for his effort was a blow on the head that made the world dance.
“You’re wrong, Gerro!” Brangwen struggled like a wild creature. “I know you’re wrong. I want to go with him.”
“Right or wrong, I’m the Falcon now, and you’re not disobeying me.”
Brangwen made one last wrench, but he was too strong for her. As he dragged her away bodily, she wept, sobbing hysterically and helplessly as Gerraent shoved her into her tent. Adoryc motioned to the guards to let Galrion go.
“Get this Nevyn out of my sight forever.” The King handed Galrion his dagger. “Here’s the one weapon allowed to a banished man. You must have a horse, or you wouldn’t be here.” He took the pouch at his side and drew out a coin. “And here’s the silver of a banished man.” He pressed the coin into Galrion’s hand.
Galrion glanced at it, then flung it into his father’s face.
“I’d rather starve.”
As the guards fell back in front of him, Galrion strode out of the camp. At the top of the rise he turned for a last look at Brangwen’s tent. Then he broke into a run, crashing through the underbrush, running across the road, and tripping at last to fall on his knees near the bay gelding. He wept, but for Brangwen’s sake, not his own.
II
The women’s hall was sunny, and through the windows, Brangwen could see apple trees, so white with perfumed blossoms that it seemed clouds were caught in the branches. Nearby, Rodda and Ysolla were talking as they worked at their sewing, but Brangwen let her work lie in her lap. She wanted to weep, but it was so tedious to weep all the time. She prayed that Prince Galrion might be well and wondered where he was riding on his lonely road of exile.
“Gwennie?” Lady Rodda said. “Shall we walk in the meadows this afternoon?”
“If you wish, my lady.”
“Well, if you’d rather, Gwennie,” Ysolla put in, “we could go riding.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Here, child,” Rodda said. “Truly, it’s time you got over this brooding. Your brother did what was best for you.”
“If my lady says so.”
“It would have been ghastly,” Ysolla broke in. “Riding