Read Dreamer's Pool for Free Online

father was more likely to show his opinion of me by lifting his brows and tightening his lips. This occurred, for instance, when I failed to show adequate enthusiasm for such activities as hunting, hawking and combat practice. I had learned to acquit myself adequately at all three; I was no fool. A future king of Dalriada must be as capable at blood sports as he was at, say, strategic thinking.
    My parents had never understood my passion for poetry, my love of lore, my fondness for observing birds and animals about their natural activities, and my corresponding distaste for the business of impaling them on arrows or skewering them with spears. They saw this as a weakness in me, an unfitness for the destiny that lay before me, a destiny that was mine whether I liked it or not, since, inadequate as I might be, I was the only son they had.
    ‘At two-and-twenty, you might at the very least attempt to show some interest in the matter,’ Mother went on. ‘Your manner hints at something . . . not quite right. Something . . . amiss.’
    ‘With respect, Mother,’ I said, though my patience was wearing thin, this being a subject we had edged around many times in the past, ‘if you mean what I think you mean, you are in error. I understand the need to father an heir, and when the right woman comes along, I will marry and procreate as you wish. If you find fault with my demeanour, it is not because I hanker after some young man, Donagan for instance, but because the notion of a strategic marriage fills me with unease. The thought that so significant a matter could be decided on the basis of a formal letter from Father to some ruler in a distant kingdom, and that I might not see my bride in the flesh before she arrives for the betrothal . . . it feels deeply wrong to me.’ In the ancient tales, marriages made for purposes of power and alliance often went awry. The stories that stirred me were those of lovers who met by chance and knew at first sight that they were made for each other. A man like me might wait a lifetime for such a story.
    ‘You speak like a green girl of thirteen, Oran, not a grown man. Sometimes I despair of you.’
    ‘I know, Mother.’
    ‘At eighteen, Lady Flidais is perhaps a little older than is quite ideal, but in view of her pedigree we can overlook that. And there are obvious advantages to your father of an alliance with Cadhan. His holdings may be small, but his connections are beyond reproach. I met Flidais once, when she was a child of six or seven; a charming, well-behaved little thing. Her father’s letter suggests she has retained those qualities. Cadhan describes her as exceptionally comely, accomplished in the domestic arts and of a sweet and gentle temperament, which I must say sounds rather suited to your tastes, Oran.’
    ‘I have read the letter, Mother.’
    ‘So?’
    I suppressed a sigh. ‘Such a missive is written for one purpose only, to persuade the recipient that the woman in question is a paragon of all the virtues and has a face and figure to rival those of ancient goddesses. It’s hardly likely to say the girl is short and dumpy with pimples, and bone lazy to boot. Or that she doesn’t much care for the idea of marrying a man whom she’s never clapped eyes on. Even if that is the truth.’
    ‘There’s a picture.’
    ‘So Father mentioned. Are you suggesting a picture cannot lie just as effectively as a letter?’
    ‘Oran, you would madden the most patient of mothers! At least look at it.’
    She reached across the table and laid the little wooden oval in front of me. Since I could hardly screw my eyes shut like a three-year-old refusing to eat his mashed turnips, I looked.
    The tiny painting had been executed with great skill. Such images frequently have something of a sameness, as if the artist can conjure only one face and varies it with changes in the style of the hair, the clothing, the background. But the girl depicted here was very much herself. Her hair was worn