with a large curved mustache. He had no armor or brat but was covered in a long colorful robe. Linen slippers were tied on his feet so that he made not a sound as he strode across the hall to the table.
“Britu,” King Gourthigern said to his son.
Britu came forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“God keep you, Father,” he replied.
“You are gone too long in the North Country,” the king said, in reproach. “The entire winter to be exact. See that your future expeditions do not take nearly so long.”
“As you wish, Father,” Britu said, accepting the rebuke.
“Prince Swale,” King Gourthigern said.
“King Gourthigern,” Swale replied, with a respectful bow of his head.
“Your parents are well, I trust?”
“They are, King.”
“And who is this young one here?”
“This is King Emrys' son, Annon Prince of Pengwern, Father,” Britu said in rampant haste. “He has come with Owain to finish his combat training.”
“Ah,” the king replied. “God keep you, Prince Annon. Lucky you are to have such a teacher.”
“I know that well, King Gourthigern,” Annon said, his own hurried voice revealing his nervousness.
“Where is Euginius?” King Gourthigern asked, using Owain’s Latin name.
“He has stepped out for a moment but shall soon return,” Swale said.
“I am impatient to be done,” King Gourthigern replied, with a frown to Britu.
Britu glanced from the king’s impatient face to Swale’s perplexed expression, giving the latter a knowing eye.
“I shall find him, Father,” he said, and departed on the errand.
Owain sat on a bench on the long patio, facing the garden. He pulled out his sword and laid it broadside across his lap. His rough fingers rubbed along the smooth carvings in the steel, tracing the ancient symbols his had long ago committed to heart. It was his sword, the most honored weapon in the whole island since its creation over four hundred years before. It had been forged in secret fires of Aracon for the great and powerful King Togadum and called by him Calybs.
It was with this sword that Owain had gained victory over his enemies, for he was worthy of it.
“But not yet worthy of her sacrifice,” Owain whispered to himself.
Owain glanced up to divert himself and looked out into the yard where the servant women were washing clothes. His deep-set eyes caught sight of one young woman who bent over her work. Her form and figure interested him, and he was glad for a distraction from his gloomy thoughts.
“Prince Owain,” said a voice.
He rose to his feet to see one of his young cousins, the sister of Britu, approach.
“God keep you, Lady Scothnoe,” he said, remembering her.
She was pretty, just fifteen, and loved to get his attention, a habit that was quiet amusing to him.
“God keep you, Prince Owain,” Lady Scothnoe replied, smiling broadly. “I thought you were in a conference.”
“Not as yet, Lady,” Owain replied.
Lady Scothnoe appeared to be thrilled for gaining his notice but did not seem to know what to do with it. Thus she smiled and looked every way but his.
“You have been to Pengwern?” she asked, more as something to say than from real curiosity.
“I have,” he replied, for he had been to every kingdom on the island from Bryneich to Dumnonnia.
“Is it covered in rocks?” she asked.
“Part of it is, Lady.”
She listened attentively as he described the geography of different kingdoms, and he answered her questions with the humorous thought that she would not have been half so interested in roads and hills if the speaker had been her elder brother.
She was too young and too naive for him, but more than that, she was his clanswoman, and a man did not seduce his own clanswoman. Thus he spoke to her kindly and tried to excuse himself only to find her more persistent than any other woman he had met.
“Is it true that you beat an Angle champion?” she asked.
“It is,” Owain replied, amazed that word of his latest feat had
“Britu,” King Gourthigern said to his son.
Britu came forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“God keep you, Father,” he replied.
“You are gone too long in the North Country,” the king said, in reproach. “The entire winter to be exact. See that your future expeditions do not take nearly so long.”
“As you wish, Father,” Britu said, accepting the rebuke.
“Prince Swale,” King Gourthigern said.
“King Gourthigern,” Swale replied, with a respectful bow of his head.
“Your parents are well, I trust?”
“They are, King.”
“And who is this young one here?”
“This is King Emrys' son, Annon Prince of Pengwern, Father,” Britu said in rampant haste. “He has come with Owain to finish his combat training.”
“Ah,” the king replied. “God keep you, Prince Annon. Lucky you are to have such a teacher.”
“I know that well, King Gourthigern,” Annon said, his own hurried voice revealing his nervousness.
“Where is Euginius?” King Gourthigern asked, using Owain’s Latin name.
“He has stepped out for a moment but shall soon return,” Swale said.
“I am impatient to be done,” King Gourthigern replied, with a frown to Britu.
Britu glanced from the king’s impatient face to Swale’s perplexed expression, giving the latter a knowing eye.
“I shall find him, Father,” he said, and departed on the errand.
Owain sat on a bench on the long patio, facing the garden. He pulled out his sword and laid it broadside across his lap. His rough fingers rubbed along the smooth carvings in the steel, tracing the ancient symbols his had long ago committed to heart. It was his sword, the most honored weapon in the whole island since its creation over four hundred years before. It had been forged in secret fires of Aracon for the great and powerful King Togadum and called by him Calybs.
It was with this sword that Owain had gained victory over his enemies, for he was worthy of it.
“But not yet worthy of her sacrifice,” Owain whispered to himself.
Owain glanced up to divert himself and looked out into the yard where the servant women were washing clothes. His deep-set eyes caught sight of one young woman who bent over her work. Her form and figure interested him, and he was glad for a distraction from his gloomy thoughts.
“Prince Owain,” said a voice.
He rose to his feet to see one of his young cousins, the sister of Britu, approach.
“God keep you, Lady Scothnoe,” he said, remembering her.
She was pretty, just fifteen, and loved to get his attention, a habit that was quiet amusing to him.
“God keep you, Prince Owain,” Lady Scothnoe replied, smiling broadly. “I thought you were in a conference.”
“Not as yet, Lady,” Owain replied.
Lady Scothnoe appeared to be thrilled for gaining his notice but did not seem to know what to do with it. Thus she smiled and looked every way but his.
“You have been to Pengwern?” she asked, more as something to say than from real curiosity.
“I have,” he replied, for he had been to every kingdom on the island from Bryneich to Dumnonnia.
“Is it covered in rocks?” she asked.
“Part of it is, Lady.”
She listened attentively as he described the geography of different kingdoms, and he answered her questions with the humorous thought that she would not have been half so interested in roads and hills if the speaker had been her elder brother.
She was too young and too naive for him, but more than that, she was his clanswoman, and a man did not seduce his own clanswoman. Thus he spoke to her kindly and tried to excuse himself only to find her more persistent than any other woman he had met.
“Is it true that you beat an Angle champion?” she asked.
“It is,” Owain replied, amazed that word of his latest feat had
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