he saw the lad wrapped in his plaid cloak by a campfire and eating a chunk of bread while his men sat nearby. Nevyn smiled, then banished the vision.
At last he’d found a clue. Always before, in all those other lives they’d shared, he’d found Brangwen linked to this man’s soul. Sooner or later, if Nevyn didn’t find her first, she and Rhodry would be drawn together, and now Nevyn knew where to find Rhodry. And what was hisname, then? Nevyn asked himself. Blaen, truly, that was it, all those years ago.
In the tavern men were laughing, jesting over ale, wagering on the dice. Nevyn felt utterly cut off from them and the normal life they represented. He was also very tired that night, and the memories came to him unbidden, as bitter as always. All he truly wanted to do was die and forget, but death was forbidden to him. A long time ago now indeed, he thought, but those days held the beginning of it all.
DEVERRY, 643
If you write in the sand with a stick, soon the waves and wind will wash away the words. Such are the mistakes of ordinary men. If you cut words into stone, they remain forever. A man who claims the dweomer becomes a chisel. All his misdeeds are graved into the very flank of time itself. …
—
The Secret Book of
Cadwallon the Druid
The storm came at sunset, hard rain and wind that made the spring forest tremble. By dawn, the roof of the hut was leaking, a thin but steady trickle in the corner that grooved the dirt floor before it escaped under the wall. Rhegor stood with his hands on his hips and watched it run.
“The way out won’t be so easy for you.”
“I know,” the prince said. “But I’ll be back here before the Beltane feast. I swear it.”
Rhegor smiled as if he doubted it. He picked a couple of big logs off the woodpile in the corner and laid them on the small stone hearth. When he waved his hand over the logs, flames sprang up and flared along the bark. The prince let out his breath with a little hiss.
“You’ll have to get over your infatuation with these tricks,” Rhegor said. “The true dweomer lies deeper than that.”
“So you’ve said, but I can’t lie and say I’ve already gotten over it.”
“True enough. You’re a good lad in your way, Galrion.”
As supple as a cat, Rhegor stretched his back, regardingthe prince with shrewd eyes. Rhegor looked like an old peasant, short, barrel-chested, dressed in a dirty pair of brown brigga and a patched plain shirt with a bit of rope round his waist for want of a proper belt. His gray hair hung cropped and untidy; his gray mustache always needed a trim. At times, when he wasn’t watching his thoughts, Prince Galrion wondered why he was so impressed with this man that he’d follow his orders blindly. It’s the dweomer, he told himself. Who needs wealth when you’ve got the dweomer?
“Have you been thinking about this betrothed of yours?” Rhegor said.
“I have. I’ll do what you told me.”
“You should be doing it because you understand the reasons, not just following my commands like a hunting dog.”
“Of course. But you’re sure? I can bring her with me?”
“If she’ll come. Marry her first, then bring her along.” Rhegor glanced around the skew-walled hut. “It’s not a palace, but we’ll build her a better home by winter.”
“But what if she doesn’t want to come?”
“If she chooses freely, then release her.” Rhegor paused for effect. “Freely, mind you.”
“But if she—if we—have a child?”
“What of it?” Rhegor caught his sulky glance and stared him down. “A vow is a vow, lad, and you swore one to her. If this were the usual arranged marriage, it would be different, but you sought her and won her. A man who can’t keep his word is of no use to the dweomer, none.”
“Very well then. I’ll ride to Brangwen before I go and lay the matter before my father.”
“Good. She deserves the news first.”
Wrapped in his cloak of scarlet-and-white plaid, Galrion mounted his
At last he’d found a clue. Always before, in all those other lives they’d shared, he’d found Brangwen linked to this man’s soul. Sooner or later, if Nevyn didn’t find her first, she and Rhodry would be drawn together, and now Nevyn knew where to find Rhodry. And what was hisname, then? Nevyn asked himself. Blaen, truly, that was it, all those years ago.
In the tavern men were laughing, jesting over ale, wagering on the dice. Nevyn felt utterly cut off from them and the normal life they represented. He was also very tired that night, and the memories came to him unbidden, as bitter as always. All he truly wanted to do was die and forget, but death was forbidden to him. A long time ago now indeed, he thought, but those days held the beginning of it all.
DEVERRY, 643
If you write in the sand with a stick, soon the waves and wind will wash away the words. Such are the mistakes of ordinary men. If you cut words into stone, they remain forever. A man who claims the dweomer becomes a chisel. All his misdeeds are graved into the very flank of time itself. …
—
The Secret Book of
Cadwallon the Druid
The storm came at sunset, hard rain and wind that made the spring forest tremble. By dawn, the roof of the hut was leaking, a thin but steady trickle in the corner that grooved the dirt floor before it escaped under the wall. Rhegor stood with his hands on his hips and watched it run.
“The way out won’t be so easy for you.”
“I know,” the prince said. “But I’ll be back here before the Beltane feast. I swear it.”
Rhegor smiled as if he doubted it. He picked a couple of big logs off the woodpile in the corner and laid them on the small stone hearth. When he waved his hand over the logs, flames sprang up and flared along the bark. The prince let out his breath with a little hiss.
“You’ll have to get over your infatuation with these tricks,” Rhegor said. “The true dweomer lies deeper than that.”
“So you’ve said, but I can’t lie and say I’ve already gotten over it.”
“True enough. You’re a good lad in your way, Galrion.”
As supple as a cat, Rhegor stretched his back, regardingthe prince with shrewd eyes. Rhegor looked like an old peasant, short, barrel-chested, dressed in a dirty pair of brown brigga and a patched plain shirt with a bit of rope round his waist for want of a proper belt. His gray hair hung cropped and untidy; his gray mustache always needed a trim. At times, when he wasn’t watching his thoughts, Prince Galrion wondered why he was so impressed with this man that he’d follow his orders blindly. It’s the dweomer, he told himself. Who needs wealth when you’ve got the dweomer?
“Have you been thinking about this betrothed of yours?” Rhegor said.
“I have. I’ll do what you told me.”
“You should be doing it because you understand the reasons, not just following my commands like a hunting dog.”
“Of course. But you’re sure? I can bring her with me?”
“If she’ll come. Marry her first, then bring her along.” Rhegor glanced around the skew-walled hut. “It’s not a palace, but we’ll build her a better home by winter.”
“But what if she doesn’t want to come?”
“If she chooses freely, then release her.” Rhegor paused for effect. “Freely, mind you.”
“But if she—if we—have a child?”
“What of it?” Rhegor caught his sulky glance and stared him down. “A vow is a vow, lad, and you swore one to her. If this were the usual arranged marriage, it would be different, but you sought her and won her. A man who can’t keep his word is of no use to the dweomer, none.”
“Very well then. I’ll ride to Brangwen before I go and lay the matter before my father.”
“Good. She deserves the news first.”
Wrapped in his cloak of scarlet-and-white plaid, Galrion mounted his
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