Hawk of May Read Free Page A

had died.
    Agravain shifted slightly. He had stood silently during the talk, his eyes glowing with excitement. He knew that, with his fifteenth birthday in another month, he was old enough to be taken along on the campaign. Now, in the stillness, he burst in with “Am I coming?”
    My father remembered us, spun about, grinning again. He crossed the room to my brother and slapped him on the shoulder. “Of course. Why do you think I called you? We leave next month, in March. I am giving Diuran charge of half the warband and the auxiliaries from the Hebrides, and I will give him charge of you as well. Pay attention, and he will show you how a warband is run.”
    Agravain ignored the question of how to run warbands and plunged into what excited him. “Can I fight in the battles?”
    Lot grinned even more, resting his hand on Agravain’s shoulder. “So eager? You are not to fight until I am certain you know how—but no one learns to fight by casting spears at targets. You will go into the battles.”
    Agravain seized Lot’s hand, kissed it, ablaze with delight. “Thank you, Father!”
    Lot threw his arms about his first-born son, gave him a rough hug, shook him, laughing. “It is well. You will receive arms tomorrow, early, you and the others who are of age. Go and tell Orlamh that he is to prepare you for the ceremony.”
    Agravain left the room to tell Orlamh, my father’s chief druid, and was nearly jumping with delight at each step. I turned to follow him, but my father said, “Gwalchmai. Wait.”
    The room seemed to shrink into a trap. I turned back and waited.
    When Agravain was gone, Lot went to the lamp table and picked up his goblet, poured some wine into it. The sunlight struck it, bringing out a deep red fire as he poured it. He sat down on the bed and stared at me, weighing me up. I had felt that stare often enough before, but still I shifted uneasily and avoided his eyes. My father sighed.
    â€œWell?” he asked.
    â€œWhat?” I looked at the bedspread.
    My father’s voice went on: “Your brother is very excited about this war, and eager to prove himself and win honor for himself and for our clan. What of you?”
    â€œI’m not old enough for the war,” I said nervously. “I still have at least two more years in the Boys’ House. And everyone knows that I’m a poor warrior.” I glanced up at Lot.
    The corners of his mouth drew down. “Yes, everyone knows that.” He drank some more of the wine. The sunlight caught on his gold collar and brooch, glittered on his hair, making him look more like Lugh the sun god than ever. He looked over to my mother. “I don’t understand it.”
    I became angry. Another thing that everyone knew was that my younger brother Medraut was not Lot’s son, though no one knew whose he was, and Lot suspected something similar of me. I certainly do not look like my father, as Agravain does. I resemble my mother enough to disguise any other inheritance. Though I sometimes doubted myself whether I was Lot’s son, I didn’t like Lot to do it.
    He caught my anger. “Oh? What is it now?”
    Afraid again, I forced myself to relax. “Nothing.”
    Lot sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. “I am going away next month. It is to a war, which means I may not come back. I do not think that I shall die this time, but one must be prepared. So, since I will have other things to think of until I leave, I want to know, now…” he dropped his hand and stared at me fiercely, his hot eyes full of energy and arrogance and harsh brightness. “I wish to know, Gwalchmai, what you are going to become.”
    Paralysed, I fumbled for an answer, finally replied, “I don’t know,” simply, and met his eyes. I held them for an instant.
    He slammed his fist against the lamp table and swore softly. “By the wind, by the Hounds of Hell, you