He blinked, slowly, like a morning lizard before it trills its call.
“You could not tell anyone what you are,” he said, sounding out each word as if tasting it, “because the queen made you promise not to?” I nodded. “Made you promise, on pain of death,” he added.
“Yes,” I said, “on pain of death.”
A smile broke over his face. It was as if a wind had risen to blow away all the hurt and puzzlement he felt and I knew a solution had presented itself to him. “Then you did not lie to me, Girton.”
“I didn’t?”
“No.” He smiled. “You really are a hostage. Just like you said.”
“But I did lie. My name is not ap Gwynr and I am no fool with a blade”
“No, but you are a hostage. Hiding who you are is part of your hostage conditions … so you have acted entirely honourably, and besides—” he shrugged and the echo of something dark returned to his face “—we all have secrets.” Then he brightened. “And as to your skill with a blade? Well, I would not be here to be angry with you without it.”
He picked up his sword and then sat by me with his legs slightly apart and the blade tip down in the dirt between them, his hands resting on the hilt. At first the silence between us was uncomfortable, and I could barely believe he would forgive so quickly.
Then he spoke softly:
“Maybe it was two weeks training with the blade.” He did a poor impression of my voice and laughed to himself. “You know how time flies when you are doing something you enjoy.” He chuckled again. “That was a clever thing to say. I can never think of clever things to say. It made you sound like a hero from the old stories.”
“That is because I stole it from the old stories. Gwyfher the bladesmistress says it in the tale of the Angered Maiden.”
He looked at me disbelievingly. “You stole it from a child’s tale?” He looked so outraged that it struck me as ridiculous. That same hysteria that had bonded us fell upon us again and we could not stop laughing. In moments we were leaning against each other and so helpless with laughter that it hurt. Eventually, our laughter died down and a more comfortable silence fell.
“That is an awful sword,” I said, pointing at his blade. “I would have been embarrassed if you had killed me with such a terrible blade.”
More laughter, but it did not last as long.
“I’ll have you know, Girton ap Whatever-it-might-be, that this sword has a long history of being given to the least popular members of my family, and contributing to their unheroic but convenient deaths.”
“My apologies, Blessed ap Vthyr,” I said. “I did not realise it was such a storied weapon.”
“Aye,” he said, suddenly serious. “Sometimes, Girton, I feel like death is always at my shoulder.”
“I am.”
He laughed again. “Oh, don’t make me laugh any more, Girton. My head still aches from yesterday’s fight.”
“Rufra,” I asked gently, “why did you think I may have wanted to kill you? You ran into a trap yesterday so someone clearly wants you dead, but why?”
He turned to me and his thick brows knitted together. “You really don’t know? I hope my life never rests on your investigative skills.” He idly played the tip of his sword backwards and forwards in the dirt. “The rumour I am Neander’s son is just that. When I came here a few knew the truth and spoke of it. They feed the pigs now.”
“What secret is so terrible?
“Do you remember me saying that Tomas hated me?”
“Yes.”
“Tomas hates me because he is my brother, Girton, my half-brother. I am second in line to the throne, though Adran and Daana ap Dhyrrin have buried the truth under a mountain of fear.”
“But Tomas is older than you.”
“Aye, by two years. What is kept secret is that Tomas is illegitimate.”
I sat straighter. “How can that be?”
“Our father was Dolan ap Dhyrrin, and when he was my age he was sent on an outing to make sure the ap Vthyrs knew their place and were behaving themselves. He met my mother, Acearis Vthyr. They fell in love and they married. My great-grandfather, Daana ap Dhyrrin, was disapproving and had the marriage declared improper. They said it was never consummated and quickly married Father off to someone politically useful, an ap Mennix, but he kept sneaking away. Father had also written a letter swearing he consummated the marriage with my mother and it was legal. There were witnesses too: my grandfather, my mother, my uncles and our priests.”
“That sounds like a crowded bedchamber.”
He tried to smile at my joke but it faded from his face.
“They are all dead now. As is my father and his other wife, Tomas’s mother. There, now you know my secret. Are you impressed?”
“As a friend? Not really. But as an assassin? Well, I am impressed that you have lived this long.”
He laughed, though there was little humour in it.
“But to answer your question—of who would want me dead. Well, first there is my uncle, Suvander, who rules the ap Vthyr. Grandfather is still remembered fondly among the ap Vthyr and my mother was always his favourite. To Uncle Suvander’s way of thinking this makes me a threat. But my death would more directly profit Tomas and his great-grandfather as I have a better claim to the throne, and even my existence is a problem for them. Aydor and his mother would also love to see me dead as my claim is as strong as the heir’s, stronger in many ways.”
“Rufra,” I said, turning to him, “how have you survived this long? Honestly?”
“Nywulf,” he said simply.
“The squiremaster? But I thought he was an … I mean he looks …”
“He was a friend to my father when they were young—they trained together here. Nywulf was meant to take over from the old Heartblade but a few weeks after my mother announced she was pregnant Nywulf turned up at our hall. He’s followed me around ever since. I don’t think he likes me much, if I’m honest. I always seem to let him down.” He dug the tip of his sword into the earth. “But I trust him.”
“And me?”
His brows came together again, that puzzled expression that turned an already plain face into something undeniably ugly. “It hurt when I thought you had betrayed me,” he said. Again the sword tip carved intricate little nonsense symbols in the dirt. “But I had lied also.” More scratching. Then his brows parted and he went from puzzled and ugly to plain old Rufra. “Yes. I don’t know why, Girton, but I do trust you.” He stood and put out a hand to help pull me up.
“Thank you, Rufra,” I said. He seemed much older than me then. Maybe because, though he was a year younger, he was taller than I was. “Your friendship is precious to me.”
We left the tent and found Nywulf waiting outside. The squiremaster stared at me for a moment and then gave a shrug. I wondered how much Rufra had told him and touched my neck nervously. My hand came away wet with blood where Rufra’s sword had nicked it.
“Here,” said Nywulf, and passed me the black scarf he wore. “I want it back tomorrow. And make sure you wash it.”
“Yes, Nywulf.”
“Did you tell him the truth?” The trainer looked at me.