Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [68]
Gynath looked furious—but furious was probably better than weeping. Certainly Bronwyn seemed to think so. She nodded and pointed back toward the castle. With her head erect and her eyes practically flashing, Gynath stormed off. She didn’t look back.
Bronwyn simply followed, without acknowledging Gwen’s presence. After a moment, Gwen went back to her bowstring.
It was not that long after that Gynath went briskly past, followed by one of the servants, both of them with their arms full of bundles of something. Clearly, Bronwyn’s ploy had worked, though it might take Gynath a while to forgive her.
Gynath was present at dinner, very much present, and sitting in their father’s place. It actually made Gwen proud of her, to see her sitting there, dry-eyed and talking as their mother had talked when the king was not in the high seat. And when dinner was over, she invited the remaining men to stay at the hearth, picked the most senior of the warriors to take the king’s seat, and directed Gwen to tend his cup, before taking the women aside.
“That was well done, tonight, sister,” Gwen whispered when she came to bed. She didn’t know if Gynath was still awake, but as it happened, she was.
“It was hard,” Gynath replied, with a little break in her voice. “And Bronwyn was horrid.”
Gwen debated a moment before saying anything. “Bronwyn was right,” she ventured.
“Which made her all the more horrid.” There was silence on the other side of the bed for a moment, then a sigh. “I wish one of us could See what was happening with Father. At least then I would know.”
Gwen pondered this for a moment. “Why don’t you try?” she asked.
“Because I—” Gynath began. And stopped.
“What would the worst be?” Gwen continued. “That you don’t See anything. You would be no worse off than now, and you’d know you tried.”
“I’ll . . . have to ask Bronwyn. For help. I’ve never tried scrying.” Gynath plucked at the blanket covering both of them nervously.
“Cataruna went to the Ladies. I’m on the Warrior Path. That leaves you,” Gwen pointed out. “You might as well try. You might be stronger in the Blessings than you think. Mother’s blood runs strong in all of us.” Even in the brat, Little Gwen.
She wasn’t sure where those words were coming from, but they seemed to do Gynath a lot of good. “I might as well,” Gynath replied, and the tight sound in her voice was gone.
Gwen, somewhat to her own bemusement, had a real talent for braiding bowstrings and working with the fletcher, so that was what Peder set her to do. The work was exacting enough that it took her mind off her worries and fears, without being so demanding that she felt as if she were being pulled in too many directions at once. The men had taken almost every arrow and spare string with them, for there would be no time to make more on the march, nor when they closed on the Saxons; but that meant that just to have the means to hunt, a lot of work was ahead of those with the skill.
And now that she had rudimentary abilities in fighting—and now that all the older boys were gone—Peder had turned all his concentration on her and the rest of the young squires. This was not a bad thing at all. Such individualized attention meant that instead of being trained as a herd in the same things, Peder was taking the time to assess them, and decide what they might be best suited for. He might not have had that time until they were a year or more older, if it were not for the war. And if they were going to be the last line of defense against the Saxons, or a rear guard on an escape to Gwynnedd, they had better be doing what they were best at.
For some, the choice was obvious. Tall, meaty boys with a lot of sheer brute strength already were clearly made for fighting afoot. To them, Peder now assigned training with the staff, the cudgel,