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“I am not a liar,” I said, hearing my voice cold and quiet, like someone else’s, “I do not dishonor my clan.”
    He laughed at me. “You are always dishonoring our clan. Do you call it no dishonor that the king’s own son can’t throw a spear straight? That he can’t kill as much as a sparrow when hunting? That all he can do is ride horses and play the harp—play the harp! That you want to learn sorcery and the casting of curses so that you won’t have to fight…”
    â€œIt’s not true!” I screamed.
    â€œNow you want to make me a liar!” yelled Agravain, and struck out at me.
    It is good that I was not right by the spears: if I had been, I believe I would have used one. I jumped on my brother with a fury which surprised him, and struck as hard as I could. I felt cold, deathly cold, filled with a black sea. My fist hit Agra-vain’s face, contacted again. He grunted with pain, and I felt a thrill of exultation. I wanted to hurt him, to hurt everyone who hurt me, who hurt Morgawse, who hurt Medraut, who belonged to a world I could not enter, and hurt, and hurt, and kept on hurting.
    Agravain flung me off and fought back, coolly, calmly, not even very excited any more. I realized that he had not really believed his own accusations, had only been angry at my doing something he could not…I tripped and sprawled on the grass. Agravain kicked me, jumped on top of me, and told me to yield.
    I thought of Morgawse’s eyes; of Medraut’s, admiring. I thought of my father smiling and imagined praise, of warriors, bright weapons, and swift war-hounds. I tried to fight some more. Agravain became angry and hit harder. I scratched him. He cursed.
    â€œCall you a hawk, but you fight like a woman! Like a witch! Yield, you little bastard—you’re no true brother of mine…”
    I tried still, to fight, and was hurt worse. The black wave ebbed a little, taking with it the insane strength it had lent me. I was no warrior, I knew. Not really. I couldn’t fight Agravain. I was no true brother of his anyway, and had no real claim to the honor of our clan, so he and Lot, at least, must believe…I went limp.
    â€œYield?” asked Agravain. He was panting.
    I felt sick. I had no choice. If I didn’t yield, he would only hit me some more, and call me names, and laugh at me.
    â€œI yield.”
    Agravain rose, dusted himself off. Two bruises were beginning to blotch his face, but he was otherwise unmarked. I rolled over, got on my hands and knees, stared at the packed earth under the grass of the practice yard, damp from winter rains. I was smeared with it and with blood.
    â€œRemember this, little brother,” said Agravain “and forget about reading. Try to learn how to throw a spear straight, the right way, and maybe you’ll someday make a warrior. I’m willing to forget about this and come and help you some more tomorrow.”
    I heard his footsteps going, striding, confident. A warrior, my brother, a sun-bright prince, first-born of a golden warrior king. But I remembered Morgawse, dark and more beautiful than anything on earth, who held Lot’s fate in her slim white hands. Morgawse, who hated. Hate. I realized that the black tide had not left me, but was coiled down within my being, waiting. It was hate, strong hate. I was my mother’s son.
    Morgawse knew when she saw me. I had washed myself somewhat before coming to her, but I had clearly been in a fight and it needed no guessing with whom. She saw when I came into her room that I was ready, and she smiled, a slow, triumphant smile.
    She said nothing of it at first. She poured me some of the imported wine from a private store, told me to sit on the bed, and spoke to me gently, compassionately, asking what had happened, and I told her of the quarrel with Agravain.
    â€œHe said that you were a witch,” I told her. “He accused me of wanting to fight