Falls the Shadow Read Free Page A

Owain’s company as a penance, for there lay between the brothers the formidable gap of nine discordant years. Finally he reached for his tunic, hunted in the floor rushes for his shoes. There was sure to be leftover food somewhere in the kitchen, and even if he awakened the cooks, they’d turn a blind eye, for he was Lord Gruffydd’s son, grandson to their Prince, the man known to enemies and allies alike as Llewelyn Fawr—Llewelyn the Great.
    But as he made ready to slip around the screen into the hall, a meagre glow caught his attention. In the center of the hearth, flames fed upon dried peat. Smoke spiraled upward; no matter how much whitewash was lathered upon the walls, they still showed the smudged proof of past fires. It was not the flickering firelight that brought Llelo to an abupt halt; it was the oil lamp that illuminated the dais, the intent faces of his mother and brother.
    Llelo shrank back, for to make his presence known would be to invite two sharp scoldings. Balked but by no means deterred, he pondered strategy, and then remembered that wine and bread were always set out in his father’s bedchamber for night hungers. And the stairwell lay to his left, hidden from his mother’s view by the shielding screen.
    The door to Gruffydd’s bedchamber was ajar. It creaked as Llelo pushed it inward, and an imposing shape loomed before him, barring the way. Unfazed by the growl, he whispered, “Gwlach, down,” and the wolfhound quieted. Fire still smoldered in the hearth, and by its light, Llelo was able to reach the table, keeping a wary eye upon the bed all the while. He had torn off a large chunk of bread, was turning toward the door when his father cried out.
    Llelo spun about, and the bread fell to the floor, to be pounced upon by the wolfhound. His heart pounding, the boy braced himself for the reprimand. But none came. His father lay back against the pillow; his words were slurred, unintelligible. Llelo let his breath out slowly. His relief was considerable, for he dreaded his father’s disapproval, never more so than when he seemed most bound and determined to provoke it.
    He’d begun to sidle toward the door when his father cried out again, gave a low moan. Llelo froze, until another moan drew him reluctantly to the bed. His father was twisting from side to side, as if seeking escape. Llelo was close enough now to see the sweat streaking his face and throat; one hand was entangled in the sheets, clutching at…at what? Llelo did not know. Unable to move, he stared, mesmerized, at the man on the bed. A troubled sleeper must not be abruptly awakened. But he knew, too, that demons came in the night to claim the unwary, to steal away men’s souls, and he shivered. His father turned his head into the pillow, groaned. Llelo could bear no more. He leaned forward. “Papa?” he said softly, and touched Gruffydd’s shoulder.
    Gruffydd gasped, lashed out wildly. His outstretched arm caught Llelo across the chest, sent the boy reeling. Flung backward, he crashed into the table; the trestle boards buckled, plates and flagon and food thudding to the floor. The dog scrambled for safety, began to bark, and Gruffydd’s favorite falcon snapped its tether, soared off its perch and swooped about the chamber with the wolfhound now in frenzied pursuit. Gruffydd sat up abruptly, blinking in dazed dismay at the chaotic scene that met his eyes. He swore, snarled a command that dropped the dog down in a submissive crouch. The falcon circled and then alighted upon the bed canopy. Gruffydd rubbed his eyes, swore again. And only then did he see his son sprawled amidst the wreckage upon the floor.
    “Llelo? What are you doing here? What—” He broke off, seeing the blood trickling down the boy’s chin. “How did you hurt yourself? Did I…did I hit you, Llelo?”
    Llelo shook his head, got unsteadily to his feet. “No, Papa.” He swallowed. “You cried out in your sleep and I…I sought to wake you. When I fell, I bit