Free The Circle of the Gods by Victor Canning

my gentle mother?”
    Delighted with his coming, Tia said, “No matter which I ask, you will give me the tale of your own choosing.”
    â€œThen hear the truth. Two forenoons gone I sat in the sun by the river and, lo, the same dog otter came from the water and laid the sword at my feet and for gift fee accepted one of my stolen eggs. And if you doubt there is enchantment about the sword see the finely sharpened, bright cutting edges. In a day and a night of rain they took no rust to mar their keenness. It is a sword of magic and shall ever be with me, awaiting the day when I shall cut the dog’s throat of Inbar with it and send him to the Shades.”
    â€œArturo! Enough! Either tell me the truth or say nothing.”
    â€œI have told you the truth, but now I would eat and then sleep.” He stood up, reached for her hand and kissed it, and went on, “I will go down to Master Ricat.” Then for a moment or two he paused, his face slowly clouding, and in an uncertain voice asked, “When the Prince Gerontius knows I am here, will he take Inbar’s part and send me back to the, settlement?”
    â€œThe Prince is a man of honour. Through Master Ricat he has given me sanctuary, and the same will be done for you—but you will get sharp punishment if you walk Isca carrying that sword. Give it to me.” As Arturo hesitated, she repeated sharply, “Give it to me. I will guard it until you are of age even though I shall never know the truth of your gaining it.”
    Arturo shrugged his shoulders and then, drawing the sword from the hanging loop on his belt, handed it to her hilt-first. Tia sat with it on her lap as Arturo clattered down the outside steps, whistling gently to himself. He needed, she knew, a man’s hand on him and a father’s authority to curb him for he grew too fast and fanciful despite his courage and mounting strength. He was built of dreams and fancies … liar she could not call him for she knew that a boy’s imagination was shaped of finer stuff than common deceit. The flushing of the clear water in the silver chalice to the soft pink of a swallow’s gorge, the pale stain of blood, had marked his destiny. Maybe, to achieve it, for it must needs be great if Asimus were to be believed, then the coming years would put him beyond any man’s control. There was no standing against the gods if they in their wisdom took one from so many to be their chosen instrument in this world.
    Though Inbar of the people of the Enduring Crow sued for the return of Arturo, Gerontius, the Prince of Dumnonia, refused to send the boy back and made Ricat—who had spoken strongly in his favour—his ward and responsible for his sober behaviour.
    But first Arturo was taken before the Prince and left with him in solitary audience. Arturo stood straight and manly before him and listened to his words with a serious face, though in truth he paid little heed to them. They held mostly only a due formality and, he guessed, had Gerontius a real friendship or need of Inbar he would have been sent back under escort. More interesting to him were the man and the room in which he stood.
    Once the audience room of the Roman commander of the Isca garrison, its floor was clean and cool with black and red tiling. A long window flanked by tall wall niches which had once held statues looked out from the castle heights over the town and river. The wooden shutters were wide open now and the fine kidskin curtains were drawn back to let in the light of the westering sun that slowly marked the dying of a mild late-autumn day. A long table held bowls of fruit and a silver tray on which rested a blue glass flagon of wine and silver drinking cups. A fresco ran round the walls in a running design of stiffly prancing and galloping horses.
    Gerontius sat in a high-backed throne chair. He was a man in his late thirties, dark-haired and with dark eyebrows that merged with one another over