The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2)

  The Two Tanists

  A Bard Without a Star Book 2

  by Michael A. Hooten

  Text Copyright © 2013 Michael A. Hooten

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Photo: Fantasy scenery 15

  © Unholyvault | Dreamstime.com

  For my friend James, who weaves powerful magic with his music

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Tanist

  Chapter 2: Company

  Chapter 3: Plans

  Chapter 4: Offense

  Chapter 5: Preparation

  Chapter 6: Trickery

  Chapter 7: Consummation

  Chapter 8: Consequences

  Chapter 9: Forgiveness

  Other books by Michael A. Hooten, available from Amazon.com:

  Cricket’s Song

  Book 1: The Cricket Learns to Sing

  Book2: A Cricket at Court

  Book 3: The Cricket That Roared

  A Bard Without a Star

  Book 1: Wizard’s Heir

  Chapter 1: Tanist

  Gwydion ap Don dressed in his finest red trousers with the yellow silk tunic embroidered with a great red dragon. His four colored cloak, clasped with a dragon shaped pin, had more muted colors. The room was closed except for a single window, and every now and then he could hear a stray comment brought to him by the cool spring wind. He brushed his long chestnut hair, wiped a scuff off his boot, and proceeded to the great hall.

  Caer Dathyl, the center of authority in Gwynedd, was in the midst of the annual Beltain festival. Gwydion stepped into a courtyard full of people dancing, eating, and singing. Musicians offered widely scattered songs, but somehow it all came into a delightful harmony. Several pretty girls tried to draw him into the festivities, but he shook them off gently and continued to the hall.

  The massive doors, tall as three men and thick enough to withstand a siege, stood wide open to the courtyard, and people passed freely in and out of the hall. He could see soldiers scattered throughout the crowd, charged with keeping the peace, but none guarded the hall doors proper. Gwynedd was a strong cantref, and Caer Dathyl feared no hostile interruption.

  Conversation ceased as Gwydion passed. He barely noticed; his attention was focused on Math ap Mathonwy, Lord Gwynedd, who sat on a dais at the far end of the hall, stroking his long white beard, with his feet in the lap of the beautiful young woman Goewin. Like Gwydion, he was dressed in reds and yellows, but his clothes were more ornate and peppered with jewels, and his cloak had five colors in it.

  Talyn the Bard stood slightly behind the gilded couch Math lay on, playing a song that could not be heard above the din. But as Gwydion strode towards the dais, the hall began to quiet down, and he could hear what the bard had chosen, and it made him smile; it was a song he himself had composed more than a year ago, when he thought his only skill was with the harp. Now he could hear the winds like Math did, and had learned to be fearsome warrior as well, much to everyone’s surprise.

  Gwydion climbed the steps and knelt at Math’s side. The old man regarded him for a moment before placing a hand on the young man’s head. He looked out at his people and said, “My nephew Gwydion ap Don is now seventeen, and has shown himself worthy. I hereby proclaim him to be Tanist of Gwynedd, the full heir of my power and my cantref, speaking in my name and acting on my behalf. Does anyone gainsay this choice?”

  The crowd signaled their approval, and Math released the pin on Gwydion’s cloak, letting it fall to the floor. Talyn stepped forward, and placed a new cloak on his shoulders, with five bright colors. Math closed the pin, and Gwydion got to his feet. Math looked into his eyes for a moment, nodded, and turned back to the crowd. “We will now retire to the feast.

  The crowd responded with a great cheer, which was welcomed by an answering cheer brought on the wind. Gwydion looked to Math, who simply nodded. Gwydion left the dais and entered the festival, but even away from his uncle, the wind insisted on bringing him every scrap of sound that it could.

  He didn’t know what had changed, but he spent the rest of the Beltain festival barely able to hear anyone through all the noise in his head. Even at night, by himself, the wind came under the door with voices from all over the caer. He didn’t know if Math had made the change, or becoming Tanist had caused it, but every door that opened brought new scraps of conversation, and venturing into the open was like descending into a boisterous crowd, even if there was no one about.

  The festival ended after a week, and Gwydion’s normal training resumed. His morning run and weapons training did not go too badly, despite the ruckus in his head, but it became much worse as he stood in Math’s tower after lunch, with its wide windows open to every direction. He saw Math’s mouth moving, but couldn’t make out the words.

  “I’m sorry,” Gwydion said. “Could you repeat that?”

  “I said, are you ready to tour the caer and take my greetings to my lairds and chieftains?” Math said with a touch of sternness.

  “I think so,” Gwydion answered. “But I don’t know. The winds are starting driving me to distraction. Is there any way to limit what I hear?”

  “Practice,” Math said. “The winds see you as a new toy, and it is up to you to convince them otherwise.”

  “Are the winds sentient then?”

  “Not quite,” Math said slowly. “You are like a flag. Until recently, you were furled, and the wind had nothing to do with you. Now, you are unfurled, and the wind is flapping your colors for all to see. And it is new and unusual, and neither you nor the wind is used to it. But after a while, it will become natural and normal.”

  Less than a week later, Gwydion left the caer and headed towards the outlying areas of the cantref. He half expected Math to send him with an escort or a bodyguard, but Math said he had proven himself perfectly capable of taking care of himself by himself. Gwydion knew that the winds would be telling Math about anything he did as well. He was told to be back by Samhain, which gave him almost six months to wander through the country.

  He had hoped that being away from all the people in Caer Dathyl would decrease the noise in his head, but he found that the winds still went out of their way to bring them to him. On the windswept moors he heard every grunt from every shepherd, and as he passed through the mountains, he heard voices in languages that he didn’t understand; he could only guess how far they had been carried.

  In every dun he came to, he announced himself as the Tanist, and was treated with polite but guarded respect. He used his harp to break the tension. Trying to concentrate on the playing while ignoring the winds made his head hurt, but he made the best of it. He heard whispers about his remoteness or aloofness, but he couldn’t do much else but muddle through. He continued on this way for a month as the last bit of spring gave way to the heat of summer, which didn’t help him any.

  One night, he was playing for a laird and his people, some one hundred souls in all, after a dinner of roasted boar that Gwydion had politely declined. The people, curious about his refusal to eat the pork, whispered while he played, and the winds seemed intent upon bringing him every remark. The buzz in his ears was worse than normal, affecting his playing.

  The laird noticed. “Lord?” he asked politely. “Is there something wrong? You have a reputation for being a fine harp player. Are you distracted by something?”

  Gwydion looked at the man, remembering his name: Moryus. “I apologize if my playing has been offensive, laird Moryus. Truly, I have much on my mind these days.” And in my ears, he thought.

  Moryus nodded. “Taking on new responsibilities will do that. Tales of you have been circulating throughout the cantref, some
of which seem too outrageous to believe.”

  Gwydion knew that the tale of the bandits, complete with his shape shifting, had gotten out, most likely from Gil. Gwydion cursed him offhandedly; steps were already being taken by Math, who used Bran to spread the counter rumor that some people were so skeptical of Gwydion’s ability that they had included shape shifting into the tale to explain how Gwydion had been able to defeat anyone. Still, the true tale had better legs than any of them had expected.

  One of the farmers left the hall, letting in a fresh wind from the outside. It insisted on bringing Gwydion all the noise from the yard, from the lowing cattle and the men talking about the crops to the squeaking rats and the sound of a scullery maid sweeping. He saw Moryus speaking again, but could not hear his words. Gwydion could feel a headache developing behind his eyes.

  He nodded at Moryus and made affirmative noises in what he hoped were the appropriate places. He touched the strings of the harp in his lap, strumming them lightly. The music had helped soothe him before, and maybe he could use it to stave off the pain before it got too bad.

  He used his mind to twist the notes a little, and the noise of the winds began to die down. Moryus voice became clearer; the laird was telling him a story about a cattle raid. Gwydion didn't know how the topic had wandered into that area, but he didn't care. He was reveling in the fact that he could hear the man at all.

  “So that's how I focused on the task at hand,” Moryus said, “Even with all the shouting men and cattle running all about.”

  “Thank you, laird,” Gwydion said. “You have been very helpful. Very helpful indeed.”

  Moryus looked flattered. “Would you like to try it, my lord? Would you play us one last song for the night?”

  “Yes, I think I will.”

  Gwydion lifted his harp but into playing position, and set his fingers to the strings. “To make up for my poor performance thus far, and to thank you for your story, laird Moryus, I shall now play the Cattle Raid of Coomly.”

  Throughout the hall, people sat up, and shushed their neighbors who hadn't heard. The Cattle Raid was one of the three great stories of Glencairck, and as the telling of it often took hours, it was normally reserved for special occasions. Moryus flushed to the roots of his hair, flattered beyond words that Gwydion would give them such a treat.

  But Gwydion, having discovered a way of hiding from the winds, had also discovered that he could think clearly for the first time in days. He analyzed not only how he was using the music, but also it exactly how it affected the winds. The length of the story gave him time to play, seeing how many or how few of the winds he could let in at one time, and testing whether or not he could expand the influence of his magic. All the lessons that Math had given him came into play, but even so, he gained only the broadest understanding of what he was doing by the time the song came to an end.

  Laird Moryus rubbed his eyes. “My lord,” he said, “Forgive me for questioning your talent. And many thanks both for me and my people.”

  The folk of the caer began streaming out, letting in the cold, grey light of early dawn. Many were yawning, but all were smiling, and Gwydion watched them go, knowing that he too would sleep well. “The thanks are mine,” he said. “You have given me a greater gift than you know.”

  Gwydion slept most of the day, awakening in time for the evening meal, where he was greeted more warmly than he had been in a long time. Laird Moryus bowed to him, and when the food came around, offered him the first choice. The same form had been followed the night before, but it now felt genuine, not merely protocol.

  After the meal, everyone looked to Gwydion expectantly, and he said with a laugh, “I doubt that I can play all night again.”

  “Just a few songs,” Laird Moryus said. “Perhaps a bit of dancing, and a story or two— “

  The door banged open, and a farmer rushed in. “Cattle raid,” he said, trying to talk and catch his breath at the same time. “Dyfedians, ten or so, Cofach’s dun.”

  Moryus called for his sword and his horse, and Gwydion quietly put his harp away and checked his own blade. He followed the men of the caer into the courtyard, and saddled his horse. The laird did a double take to see him in the group. “Tanist!” he exclaimed. “You can’t go with us! Your uncle would raze my caer if something happened to you.”

  “My uncle sent me out to tour the cantref with no escort,” Gwydion replied. “He expects me to take care of myself.”

  Moryus looked like he was swallowing a hundred arguments. “Fine,” he managed to say. “But do not expect us to wait for you, or to defend you.”

  Gwydion nodded, and the group was off through the gates, pounding towards the southern part of the caer. Gwydion kept up easily, but did not try to stay near the head; instead he lingered towards the back and simply followed the wild dash through the hills. It took over an hour of hard riding before they saw the dull red of a fire ahead.

  Moryus spurred his horse even faster and pulled up sharp in front of the chieftain. “Hail Cofach!” he called. “Where do you need us?”

  The chieftain looked like he was made of old leather, and he squinted up at his laird. “We've got the fire under control,” he said. “But those robbers took off towards their lands with a good dozen kine. It'll slow them; you should be able to catch them if you hurry.” He spat on the ground. “Dirty Dyfedians.”

  Moryus led the group in the direction the chieftain had pointed. After riding a bit, he stopped and got off his horse to examine a fresh pile of dung. “Twenty minutes ago,” he said. “Now lads, what say you? Shall we try to surprise them, or just come on them like a pack of hounds?”

  “Hounds!” his men yelled.

  “And the Tanist?” Moryus asked. “What say you?”

  “It's my first cattle raid,” Gwydion answered. “I bow to your leadership.”

  “Hounds it is then,” Moryus said. “There only look to be five or six, so let's run them back over the river where they belong. No blood unless they force us though; you all know Math's rules.”

  Gwydion didn't, but he held his tongue. The men checked their weapons again and were off, streaming through the hills. The path narrowed, descending into a steep sided valley. The terrain slowed them, and Gwydion sniffed the wind with sudden suspicion. The winds brought him whispers and the creak of a bow being drawn.

  He pulled back hard and in the loudest voice he had, bellowed, “Ambush!”

  The riders ahead of him pulled up in confusion, and an arrow whistled by Laird Moryus. “Fall back!” he yelled as the warriors brought around their shields.

  “To the left!” yelled Gwydion. The men shifted their shields just in time, and several arrows clunked against them.

  Gwydion looked around and spotted a thin trail leading with a few fresh hoof prints leading out of the valley. He spurred his horse and charged up to the ridge, where six Dyfedians still held cocked bows, looking for openings. He let out a tremendous roar and drew his sword. They had just enough time to look up before he was among them, bowling them over.

  He wheeled his horse around for another charge and found himself facing a tall man with a four-colored cloak. “Who are you?” the man demanded. “You’re not one of Moryus’ regular warriors. You’re just a boy.”

  “I am Gwydion.”

  “The new Tanist of Gwynedd?” The man whistled. “You should fetch a handsome ransom.”

  “You’ll have to capture me first.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. I have a half dozen men with bows after all.”

  “Had,” Gwydion said. The man looked behind him where Moryus’ men were grappling with the Dyfedians. Moryus pulled up beside Gwydion. “It’s all but over, Deykin. Give up the cattle and go home.”

  Deykin cursed, and Gwydion saw a dagger drop out of his sleeve into his hand. The man’s eyes darted back and forth, but Gwydion knew who he hated more, and threw his shield in front of Moryus. The dagger clattered off the hard wood, and Deykin used the distraction to make his escape.<
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  “Should we go after him?” Gwydion asked.

  Moryus didn’t answer directly. “That’s the second time in a night you’ve saved my life. If you want to give chase, my sword is yours.”

  Gwydion shifted uncomfortably. “I did what I could to help, that’s all.”

  Moryus grinned suddenly. “Let Deykin go nurse his wounded pride. He’s been getting desperate, but I think we’ll let him be for tonight. Have you ever driven cattle before?”

  Gwydion helped the men get the cows safely home, where Cofach thanked them warmly. Moryus told him of Gwydion’s exploits, embellishing it more than a bard, and Cofach offered his hall for a feast. They spent the day there, and more people arrived from surrounding caers to join the celebration. Gwydion felt like they were overdoing it, and as Moryus told the tale once more to a rapt audience, he managed to pull Cofach aside.

  “Am I missing something?” he asked. “Moryus seems to be making this out to be much more important than it is.”

  The chieftain eyed him up and down. “You said this is your first cattle raid,” he said slowly. “Do ya know much about these things?”

  Gwydion shrugged. “Just the stories. Like the Cattle Raid of Coomly.”

  “So you think all cattle raids end in war?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Cofach nodded. “And you are training as a warrior, so you reacted like one.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Not at all!” Cofach said quickly. “But cattle raids are usually like a game of capture the flag, but for grownups. I steal some of your cattle, you steal them back. Then next time you may do the stealing first. See how it goes? And death is rare, and never sought.”

  “But Deykin—”

  “Oh, aye, he’s a bad one,” Cofach said. “His brother was killed in a cattle raid some years ago. Nothing malicious mind, but he fell off his horse and broke his neck when Moryus was chasing them back over the border.” He shook his head. “An accident and a tragedy, it was. But it has long been thought Deykin sought the Laird’s blood, and now we know for sure.”