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not a warrior,
and never intended to be one, but now you are showing massive potential in the
area. The arms masters, who were offended by your original attitude, are even
more offended by your recent success.”
    “Are they jealous?” Gwydion
said, his eyes widening.
    “More than that,” Math said. “They
are also scared.”
    “But why? I am no threat.”
    “But you are, my boy, you are.
Even Gilventhy begins to wonder if you are not more powerful than he believed.
And he wonders if you could defeat him someday.”
    “He has little to fear from me,”
Gwydion said. “He is still master of the claymore among the students.”
    “Is Gilventhy the master
because of his skill or because you have not challenged him in earnest?”
    “For the moment, Gilventhy
still defeats me every round we have, no matter my intent.” Gwydion said. “But
it is true that I am not as sore afterwards as I used to be.”
    “That is an excellent start.
If your goal is to hold your own, you are well on your way.”
    “And if my goal were grander?
To actually defeat Gil?”
    Math smiled. “A grand goal,
indeed.” He sat listening to the winds for a few minutes, then said, “Greatness
is not something truly taught. I may give you all the means to become a greater
warrior than your cousin, who has shown more promise than any in his
generation, but I cannot make you use them.”
    Gwydion said, “So it is up to
me, then.”
    “It always was.”

    The next day, Gwydion approached
Bran after the other students had headed off to the baths or to their lunch. “I
want to learn more about the claymore.”
    Bran stopped checking the
wicker wrappings on the practice blades and looked up at Gwydion. “Why do you
want to do that?”
    “Mostly because I’m tired of
Gil using me as a practice dummy.”
    Bran laughed. “I think that’s
a good enough reason,” he conceded. “But why now? Training is over for the
day.”
    “I don’t want prying eyes
knowing what I’m about,” Gwydion said. “Especially Gil’s.”
    “Fair enough,” Bran said. “But
how will you explain meeting me for extra training every day? Because I expect
a commitment from you on this matter.”
    Gwydion looked him square in
the eye. “I intend to tell him just enough of the truth that he will jump to
the wrong conclusion. But it will not work without at least your tacit
cooperation.”
    Bran started checking the
blades again. “So speak your mind.”
    “You know that Dylan and Falgar
both dislike me.”
    “I’ve seen some evidence of
that.”
    “And although I’ve improved
more than they ever expected, they still demand more of me than any other kern.”
    “True as well.”
    “So, to improve my skills
further, I need someone who is at least not hostile towards me.”
    Bran looked up again. “You
think I am that person?”
    “I hope so,” Gwydion said. “Because
I also think you are more than you seem.”
    Bran laughed. “Me? I am
nothing but a simple kern.”
    Gwydion shook his head. “You
came to Caer Dathyl fifteen years ago. No one knew you, yet Math made you a
lieutenant among the kerns, a position you have held ever since; you have never
been promoted. You are the undisputed master of the claymore, but with other
weapons, you appear to simply hold your own. Everyone is your friend, you
offend no one, but you are never with the same people on two different days.
You are a riddle that no one has asked.”
    Bran had become very still. “Are
you asking it now?”
    “Me?” Gwydion asked. “Why would
I? I’m just a clumsy heir apparent who needs extra tutoring in sword play—and
who trusts his uncle’s judgment in these matters.”
    “Of course,” Bran said with a
faint smile. He stood up and brushed off his hands. “Very well, I will help
you, but not because of what you think you know.”
    “Oh? Then why?”
    “Because of the love I owe
Math.”
    Gwydion smiled. “That’s fair.”

    “Let me show you something,”
Bran said.