Free Bridge of Swords by Duncan Lay Page A

them he was a Forlishman called Hugh of Browns Brook and won the right to perform for the king. That was exciting enough but then he had fallen, head over heels, for a fellow performer, the beautiful but remote Rhiannon of Hamtun. Her father tried to keep her away from the rest of the court but Huw had been able to first perform with her, then talk with her — and finally sneak her out of the castle to see the city. He had learned there was a network of servants’ passages that guards and nobles never used and he had found his way through them.
    Then all had come crashing down when he discovered Ward was looking to enslave his people. He wanted to rush home but Rhiannon persuaded him to stay, just a little longer. He had, willingly, under her spell. Until the day he had sneaked into her room, found it empty — and overheard how she was to be sold off to the king. She would not believe it if he told her now. He barely believed it all himself. So it was easy to put off the day when he was forced to explain everything. Better yet, it allowed him to hope, and put off the day when he suspected she would simply reject him. After all, he knew he was not a worthy companion for her. He was only average height, with the typical Velsh darkhair and pale skin, a dark beard that would grow thick and curly if he let it, but kept it shaved in the Forlish way, using oil and a short blade to scrape the whiskers off each morning. It was a losing battle, for he always had a dark shadow about his jaw, but at least it stopped him from looking as though he was wearing a small bush beneath his face, like every other Velshman. His father, Earwen, had always told him he was handsome but the lack of interest from the Velsh girls made him think that was a lie. Of course, that could have also been because they all thought him a fool for dreaming to be a bard, not working to be a farmer. Still, he had a strong smile, with good teeth that he took care of every day — for his mouth would be his fortune. That meant avoiding bread, which often had scraps of rock inside from the grinding stones used to make flour. He also brushed them with green twigs and even salt, when he could get it. And his brown eyes could melt a room while he was singing, even if they did not melt the clothes off the village girls the way he daydreamed they might. He was slim, beneath the wide shoulders he had inherited from his father, for years of playing the lyre, rather than slaving away on the farm, had not added muscle to his frame. No, he was not the man Rhiannon deserved. The way she looked, she needed a hero, someone from one of his legends or saga stories, not the son of a farmer. But he could say none of that.
    ‘They will love you,’ he promised.
    Rhiannon smiled and nodded. ‘Then I am ready.’
    Huw stepped out first and stroked his lyre, a pure and high note that effectively silenced the room, people nudging each other to be quiet.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Direct from the court of King Ward himself! I present to you, Rhiannon of Hamtun!’ he bellowed. His voice made them all look, for it was a true Velsh voice, as rich and rolling as the hills themselves — even stranger because it came out of such an ordinary-looking man.
     
    Sendatsu sat up at the introduction. He even forgot the way his stomach was complaining. The voice was rich, powerful andsmooth. This was what he had come here for. The young man walked among the crowd, playing a tune that was both familiar and strange to Sendatsu. It had echoes of songs he had heard before but, over the top, was something different, as if he was hearing two songs, not one — or perhaps half of each.
    The humans pushed back, creating space for the bard — and then all eyes switched from him to a young woman who sprang into the open area, spinning as she did so. Tall, lithe, dressed in a green linen dress that shone in the smoky hall — and showed off her long legs — she began to sing with the man, while her dancing