Free Daggerspell by Katharine Kerr Page B

a pleasant pair of days, drinking at Blaen’s hearth, hunting out in his forest preserve, or riding aimlessly across his lands with the warband behind them. Gerraentenvied Blaen for having a warband. He was determined to get one of his own; the ten horses that he’d receive in Ysolla’s dowry would be a splendid start, and soon Brangwen’s royal marriage would bring wealth to the Falcon, a lwdd, a blood price of sorts—but too small a compensation for the losing of her.
    On the third day, late in the afternoon, Gerraent and Blaen rode out alone. Enjoying each other’s silent company, they ambled through the fields until they reached a low rise that overlooked meadowlands. Tended by a pair of boys and a dog, Blaen’s herd of white cattle with rusty-red ears grazed below.
    “Let’s hope there’s no war this summer,” Blaen said.
    “What? What are you doing, turning into an old woman?”
    “I’m not ready to start sucking eggs yet, but I’ll tell you somewhat I’d never tell any other man. There are times when I wish I’d been born a bard, singing about wars instead of fighting them.”
    Thinking it a jest, Gerraent started to laugh, then stopped at the quiet seriousness in Blaen’s eyes. All the way home, he puzzled over it, remembering Blaen’s calm courage in battle and wondering how any man would want to be a bard rather than a warrior. They returned to the dun at sunset. As he dismounted, Gerraent saw Brythu running out of the broch.
    “My lord!” the boy panted out. “I just got here. Your father’s dying.”
    “Take the best horse in my stable,” Blaen said. “Break him if you have to.”
    When he rode out, Gerraent left the page behind so that he could make good speed. He galloped through the twilight, alternately trotted and galloped even when dark fell, though the road lay treacherous in the pale moonlight. Not for one moment did it occur to him that he might be thrown. All he could think of was his father, dying without a last sight of his son, and of Brangwen, tending the dying alone. Whenever the horse stumbled, he would let it walk to rest, then spur it on again. At last he reached the small villageon the edge of his lands. He banged on the tavern door until the tavernman came hurrying down in his nightshirt with a candle lantern in his hand.
    “Can you change my horse?” Gerraent said.
    “Lady Brangwen had the gray brought here to wait for you.”
    The gray was the fastest horse in the Falcon’s stable. Gerraent switched saddle and bridle, flung the tavernman a coin, then kicked the gray to a gallop, plunging out of the candlelight and into the night-shrouded road. At last he saw the dun rising, the palisade dark against the starry sky. He spurred one last burst of speed out of the gray and galloped through the open gates. As he dismounted, the chamberlain ran out of the broch.
    “He still lives,” Draudd called out. “I’ll tend the horse.”
    Gerraent ran up the spiral staircase and down the hall to his father’s chamber. Propped up on pillows, Dwen was lying in bed, his face gray, his mouth slack as he fought for every breath. Brangwen sat beside him and clutched his hand in both of hers.
    “He’s home, Da,” she said. “Gerro’s here.”
    As Gerraent walked over, Dwen raised his head and searched for him with rheumy eyes. Dwen tried to speak, then coughed, spitting up a slime of blood-tinged phlegm, slipping and glistening as his head fell back. He was dead. Gerraent wiped the spittle off his father’s mouth with the edge of the blanket, then closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. The chamberlain came in, glanced at the bed, then flung himself down to kneel at Gerraent’s feet—at the feet of the new Falcon, head of the clan and its only hope.
    “My lord, I’d best send a page to the King straightaway. We’ve got to catch the wedding party before it leaves.”
    “So we do. Get him on the way at dawn.”
    It would take three days to get the message to