‘That simple, is it? You think of me, and here you are?’
‘Well, I had to ride to Aberwyn like anyone else.’
‘Not what I meant. Why did the omen in the clouds make you come here?’
‘Oh, that! None of your affair.’
He started to probe, but her expression stopped him: unsmiling, a little cool, like the cover of a book abruptly slammed shut. He could remember Nevyn turning that same blank stare on questioners who pried into things they weren’t meant to know. Gwerbret or not, he would only be wasting his time if he should ask more.
‘I don’t suppose you could cast some dweomer on me to make me age.’
‘You’re still a ready man with a jest, aren’t you? I can’t, and I wouldn’t if I could. The way out’s obvious, anyway. You’ll have to turn the rhan over to your eldest lad and leave Eldidd.’
‘What? That’s a hard thing for a man of my rank to do.’
‘If you give up the rhan, your son will keep it. If you try to keep it, your son will lose it.’
‘It’s not just the blasted rhan! You’re asking me to leave blood kin behind. Jill, by the gods, I’ve got grandsons.’
‘Do you want to see them murdered to wipe out the last traces of a bastard line?’
With a groan he buried his face in his hands. Her voice went on remorselessly.
‘Once the first whispers go round that you might not be a true-born Maelwaedd, you’ll have to settle them by the sword, and honour duels have led to wars before, especially with a rich prize like Aberwyn at stake. If you lose the civil war, your enemies will hunt down every child who could even remotely be considered your heir, even Rhodda’s lad.’
‘Oh, hold your tongue! I know that as well as you do.’
‘Well, then?’
He looked up to find her watching him with a calm sort of wondering. For a moment he hated her.
‘It’s all well and good to talk of me leaving Eldidd, but I’m not an exile or a shiftless younger son any more. If I present a petition to the king to allow me to abdicate, the rumours will pile up like horsedung in a winter stable. Besides, what if our liege asks me my reasons outright? I could try to lie, but I doubt me that I’d be convincing. The king knows me cursed well.’
She frowned at the hearth while she considered.
‘You’re right, aren’t you? I’ll have to think about that.’ Abruptly she rose. ‘If anyone asks you why I came here, tell them I wanted to tell you about Nevyn, because that’s true enough in its own way. I’ll see you again, and soon.’
Then she was gone, out and shutting the door before Rhodry could rise from his chair. For a while he tried to convince himself that he’d been having a strange, drunken dream, but the elven ring gleamed on his finger to remind him of the truth, that he would have to leave his clan behind for the sake of his love for it. Besides, the dweomer had saved his life several times over in the past, and he knew, with a sudden cold certainty, that the time had come to repay his debt.
Bred and born to rule, carefully trained to impose his will on others while following every nicety of courtesy, Cullyn Maelwaedd was unused to feeling guilt, and he hated this constant nag of conscience. Every time he looked at his father it bit deep and gnawed him, so that at times he wished that Rhodry were … not dead, no, never that, but perhaps showing some signs that he might indeed die at some point. In a way, his dilemma was unique. Because Rhodry had refused to send Cullyn into fosterage as custom demanded and had taken the unheard-of step of raising his son himself, Cullyn was one of the few noble lords in Deverry who honestly loved his father. Every time he caught himself wondering if he’d ever actually inherit Aberwyn and felt the accompanying bite of guilt, he saw the wisdom of fosterage in a world where a son’s power depends on his father’s death.
Cullyn also was fairly certain that his father suspected him of wishing him gone. After the first few days of his visit, Rhodry became more and more withdrawn, spending long hours alone either riding through the demesne or shut up brooding in his private chamber. Cullyn considered simply going home, but since he’d said that he’d stay for ten days, he was afraid that leaving ahead of schedule would seem suspicious. On the fifth morning he came down for breakfast only to find that Rhodry had already left the dun. He went out to the stable to question the groom, but the gwerbret hadn’t said a word about where he was going. As he made his way through the clutter of sheds behind the broch, he noticed two serving lasses gossiping furiously about something, an activity that would have meant nothing if they hadn’t suddenly fallen silent at the very sight of him. He walked on past, tormenting himself by wondering if even the wretched common-born servants knew his secret.
Later, as he was going up to his chamber in the broch, a similar thing happened; two pages, this time, stopped talking the moment they saw him. Cullyn grabbed one of them by the shirt collar.
‘And just what are you saying that’s unfit for my ears?’
The two boys went dead-white and looked as if they wanted to run, but whether or not he would ever be gwerbret, Cullyn was a powerful lord and no man to argue with.
‘Begging your pardon, my lord, please, it was naught.’
‘Indeed? Then why have you gone as white as milk?’
The second page was older and obviously a bit wiser. He stepped forward with a passable bow.
‘My lord, we mean no offence. We were talking over this strange rumour. Maybe you should know about it, my lord. Then you can stop people from repeating it.’
‘Indeed? And just what have the townsfolk been saying?’
‘Well, you know, my lord, how the gwerbret looks so young? We heard an old woman in the marketplace saying it was all because of dweomer. She said some old wizard cast this spell on him years and years ago, that he’d never get old, but then he’d have to die all of a sudden, like, to pay back the spell. The old woman said there’s a gerthddyn in town spreading the tale. He heard it up north or somewhere.’ He paused, sincerely troubled. ‘My lord, that’s not true, is it? His grace is splendid, and I don’t want to see him die.’
‘Here, that can’t be true, indeed. Don’t you bother your heart with it.’
Yet he hesitated, troubled himself, remembering all the tales whispered among his clan that Rhodry’s life had been touched more than once by dweomer. And what if this strange story were true? Although by that time most people in Deverry knew that magic existed, few knew much about its true powers and capabilities, so Cullyn was ready enough to believe that it could keep his father unnaturally young. He summoned four men from his warband as an escort, then went into the town. By asking round in the market square he found out that the gerthddyn had been staying at the Green Goose, the best inn in Aberwyn, but when he went there, the tavernman told him that the gerthddyn had ridden out that very morning.
‘I’ll wager, my lord, that he knew he couldn’t stay here long, what with him spreading them nasty tales about your father. There’s not a vain bone in the gwerbret’s body, my lord. Why would he be making pacts with sorcerers just to keep his looks?’
‘Well spoken, truly. What was this fellow like?’
‘His name was Salamander, my lord, and he was a skinny sort of fellow with yellow hair. Oh, he was a splendid talker, my lord, when he was telling his tales, so it’s no wonder this wretched rumour’s spreading itself around. Now, wait, my lord.’ He paused to suck his brown stumps of teeth in thought.