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9:24 Dragon
Teyrnir of Highever, Ferelden
Fergus hadn’t said a word all morning, but, honestly, Gwyn thought he appreciated not being made to talk. There was talk enough back home, more than enough talk, with visitors in from all over Highever and coming in from all Ferelden to pay their respects to Grandfather, and Fergus had to talk to every one of them. He was grieving himself, but he was the son of the teyrn, heir to the teyrnir now, and he had to listen to their grief, hear all their stories about how brave and fair Grandfather had been, his sense of humor, and all the battles he’d fought in during the war against Orlais. That was what it really meant to be the teyrn’s firstborn son: that when your grandfather died, it didn’t matter how you had thought about him or how much you had loved him. All that mattered was serving the people he had taken care of once and who you would take care of one day in the future.
It wasn’t unlikely that one day, if she married, Gwyn would share the care of some other lands with the man that she married. That day, she’d have to take on the kind of responsibility that Fergus had to take on now. But Gwyn didn’t envy her brother this week.
He’d found her in her room even before breakfast this morning. “Let’s take out Vagabond,” he’d said. His face had a pale, pinched look to it she didn’t care for, like he hadn’t slept all night but hadn’t cried either. She’d agreed without any more talk about it.
Vagabond was Fergus’s boat, really. He’d built it himself, through consultation with several of Mother’s old acquaintance and some of the older fishermen around Highever, and an interesting sequence of trial and error that had made Mother very glad she’d taught both of her children to swim by the age of five. He’d finished it when Gwyn was eleven years old and was so proud of it that the Chantry sisters would probably say it was a sin.
Vagabond was a little thing, with her mast set far forward on the bow and sails set fore and aft, with two oars just in case. She held a crew at three at most. Fergus occasionally used her for fishing, sometimes took trips with a friend or two down the coast or out to nearby islands on the Waking Sea for a few days, but most often, he sailed Vagabond with Gwyn as his first mate and sole companion.
Gwyn appreciated it for all it was worth. Fergus was a full seven years her senior. He’d complained more than once about her trailing along after him in the past, calling her a pest and a nuisance who couldn’t keep up and would do better to leave him and his friends alone and stop trying. Vagabond was his boat, not just by gift but by creation, and no one had ever ordered him to include her in the sailing of it. But he always had anyway.
For both of them, perhaps, it was a way to honor Mother—not the person she wanted to be now but the person she had been once upon a time, the person Father had fallen in love with. Most Fereldans didn’t go in for ships and navigation, but Eleanor Mac Eanraig had always been an exception, and although she no longer even wished to be seen as the Seawolf she’d been called during the war against Orlais, she had passed her love of the sea on to both of her children. So now Fergus shared his boat with Gwyn, and they both thought of her, and sometimes, Gwyn wondered if they thought of their mother with similar reflections.
It was a fine day, with a crisp but not overpowering breeze out of the northeast. The waves slapped off the bow of Vagabond as she skipped over them, sending up a spray that flew back onto Gwyn and Fergus. The ocean was an inviting green-brown, and the sky overhead deep blue, broken only by a few wisps of cirrus cloud. Gwyn wanted to sail on forever, to the farthest island she’d ever explored with Fergus and past it, to the Free Marches, to Antiva and Rivain and off the edges of all the maps to where the Qunari came from centuries ago.
But there was a tug in her chest tied to a cord that led back to Castle Cousland, to home, to duty. Duty. She hated the sound of it today, knew Fergus had to hate it even worse. But it was impossible to ignore. “We have to go back eventually,” she said finally.
Fergus adjusted the tiller—unnecessary, as they’d been cutting a nearly perfectly straight course. “I know, damn it,” he said—not viciously, but with feeling. Then— “Gwyn, they’ll all be looking at me now.”
Gwyn waited. After a moment, Fergus continued. “It didn’t matter so much when Grandfather was alive. Father was there, the bright future of Highever, the capable leader we could all look to with no fear, and I could just . . . blend in to that future. Now—” his face creased again. “I’m it. I’m supposed to be right hand to the teryn, ready to take over in emergencies, planning ahead. And I—” he laughed— “I’m me. I can handle a sword. People like me, respect me well enough, but I’m not like Father or Grandfather. I’m no hero, no giant. Just . . . me.”
Gwyn hesitated. “I think . . .” she said, “that people become what their circumstances need them to be. Father and . . . and Grandfather,” she fumbled over his name but managed to keep going without breaking down again, “they led Highever and our family during a very different time. They had to be heroes, or we would all still be overrun with the Orlesians. It’s different for you. From you, all our people need is someone honest and fair, with a good sense of humor and the will to serve them. And I know you can do all that.”
Fergus’s mouth quirked, and Gwyn closed her eyes and sighed, realizing she was probably just making everything worse. “Oh, Fergus, you know what I mean,” she said. “If something horrible happens, if there’s another war, or a famine, or a storm takes out half the town, I’m fairly certain you won’t disgrace us. And I think if Father and Grandfather had grown up the way we did, they probably would have been teryns-in-waiting and teyrns like you will be.”
“Like you would be, maybe,” Fergus answered. “Trim the sails to turn about.”
Gwyn obeyed, and Fergus steered the boat around. The wind moved them even faster this way, and Vagabond started flying faster than Gwyn wanted back home. An uncomfortable awkwardness had settled over her and Fergus now. He’d approached a subject they both usually preferred to avoid.
“I could abdicate,” he said finally. “The laws of the Landsmeet are more sensible about the monarchy than Highever tradition is about the teyrnir. I’ve only got to be teryn after Father now because I was unlucky enough to be born first. It should’ve been you; we’ve all known that since you were about seven.”
Gwyn shook her head. “No one knows that,” she disagreed. “Fergus, I’m not about to bilk you out of your birthright. I would never want that. You have to know that.”
Fergus made a frustrated noise. “Birthright! And what if I don’t want it? What of that? What if the most dutiful thing I can do for everyone from the top of the bannorn to Amaranthine is to resign my rights, go be a sailor, and leave my brave, clever little sister to handle things? Would you support it if I decided that’s what I wanted?”
Gwyn was silent a long time. They would come into the cove and the floating dock Fergus had built for Vagabond in about five minutes. “It isn’t my choice to make,” she said at last. “You know I’m at your disposal, whatever you need for the rest of your life if you ask it of me. I suppose, then, if you abdicate, that means I’ll one day be teryna of Highever. A Cousland does her duty.”
As she had thought, that was all she had to say. Fergus scowled darkly. “The duty we’re given, you mean, however ill we may be suited for it. Not the duty we happen to like better for ourselves.”
Gwyn tilted her head. “You’ll be all right,” she told him.
“Bumbling, stupider than I ought, forever in the shadow of the fame my little sister will win throughout the whole country at the king’s right hand,” he sighed, “but I suppose ‘all right’ will have to do.” But he smiled at last, although the smile was rather sad. “Forgive me, sister,” he said. “I suppose I’m a bit panicked, is all. I don’t actually mean the half of it.”
“I know,” Gwyn answered, keeping her eyes on the horizon. “You’re an inveterate liar. In the light of my superior virtue, however, I mean every word.”
“Superior virtue, hah!” Fergus scoffed. “Superior capacity to bore us all. Lower the sail,” he instructed her, as they came into the dock. He hopped over the side of Vagabond, carrying the line to secure her in place.
For a moment, they were silent together, tying the boat up, making fast all the lines. Then Fergus held out his hand to help Gwyn out. She took it. “Fergus,” she said, very quietly, “I mean it: I won’t abandon you. Even if Mother has her way and I do get married and have to leave. I’ll be there, whenever you happen to need a first mate.”
Fergus gripped her hand and reached across with his other hand to squeeze her shoulder. Then he released her and started toward the cliffs. There was a path through a pass down the shore a ways, but climbing the cliffs was faster, and more often than not, they took that route.
“Will you be all right?” Fergus called back over his shoulder into the wind, beginning to scale the rocks. “Grandfather—”
Gwyn focused on the stretch in her arms and legs as she climbed, the feel of the rock under her fingers. “He’s been worse and worse the past four summers,” she answered. “His mind was going, but not fast enough that he didn’t know and hate it. He was sick and in pain almost all last year. It isn’t as though we didn’t have time to prepare. And they say he’s happier now. At rest at the Maker’s side.”
Her foot dislodged some loose rock, and she shifted her weight, clinging to her other three holds until it was settled, then searching for a better hold for her foot.
Fergus waited for her. “But are you all right?” he asked again. “Sometimes I could swear you liked the old man better than any person your own age you ever met.” He was trying to force a light tone, but she could hear the grief in the back of his throat, even over the wind.
Gwyn passed him on the cliff face. Her eyes stung again, and her own throat was choked, but she couldn’t afford to cry. Not now. She pulled herself up onto the top of the cliff face and dusted her hands off on her leggings. She waited for Fergus to join her. “Are you all right?” she asked then.
Fergus closed his eyes. He swallowed, and she went to him and hugged him hard. He hugged her back. “No,” he said into her hair. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”
“A Cousland does his duty,” Gwyn answered.
Fergus shook with something she thought was half a laugh and half a sob. “You should follow Mother’s advice and jump to get married, little sister. Get right out of being a Cousland.”
“Never,” Gwyn told him. “Are you ready?”
Fergus swallowed again and let go of her. “No,” he said. “But Void take it, let’s head home anyway.”
“With you,” Gwyn promised, and the two of them set up the path for the castle.
She meant to keep her word. She truly did. Gwyn stayed close to Fergus for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. She circulated occasionally to stand near Mother and Father, but as Mother had effectively acted as teyrna for as long as Gwyn could remember, and Father as teryn since Grandfather had first begun going downhill several years ago, they were much readier to do what was required of them than Fergus was. Father was grave; she hadn’t seen him smile or make a joke in weeks, since they had known Grandfather’s death was imminent and before he had actually died. But he seemed at peace. Prepared. Mother was less sanguine; occasionally she was overcome with tears. Never too violently or for very long; she was strong. When she did give in, Gwyn wrapped her arms around her and drew her back away from the crowd, letting Father and Fergus take over their reception until Mother was recovered again.
She brought both her parents and Fergus water, wine, and refreshment when she thought that they needed it. On the intermittent occasions where someone actually wanted to talk to her instead of her parents or Fergus, she received them as calmly and kindly as she could. Prince Cailan, who rarely left court, had honored their family by accompanying his father to pay his respects to Teyrn William, and he took the trouble of speaking with her. He was more beautiful than she remembered and every bit as kind. He especially apologized that Anora, whom he was now widely known and not just rumored to be courting, had seen fit to assist her father Teyrn Loghain in the management of affairs of state in Denerim while the king was away. The Wulffs stopped to speak with her, and so did young Thomas Howe, three years her junior but more her particular friend than either of his siblings, who were closer in age and intimacy to Fergus, by virtue of her taking pity on his often being left behind by the others.
Gwyn appreciated the kindness of her true friends, those that seemed genuinely present to honor Grandfather and to grieve for the grief of her family. The difficulty was that, contrary to what she had thought at first, the great majority of the people in attendance seemed like they weren’t there for Grandfather at all but instead because the formality and solemnity of the occasion offered a better chance for them to forward their own interests with the Couslands.
More than five times she watched Father change the subject after a person, having offered their condolences on the loss of his father, moved to discuss a business concern or an upcoming social event at which they prayed for the honor of his attendance. She lost count of the number of older nobles who attempted to introduce their eligible daughters to Fergus, after the thinnest remembrances of Grandfather she could possibly imagine.
Of course, Fergus would have to marry, and the sooner he did, the more comfortable the people would be. But to Gwyn’s mind, their grandfather’s wake was the last place Fergus should have to field the flirtation of eligible ladies and the politicking of their mothers and fathers.
To their credit, the ladies seemed to know it. Embarrassed by the ambition of their parents, most of them yielded willingly or more than willingly when Gwyn moved to intercept them and submitted to small talk with Fergus Cousland’s sister instead of the object of their guardians’ aims.
Fergus looked grateful for her help too, but the more Gwyn saw of the callousness and social climbing of the nobles even from Highever and Amaranthine themselves, the more her throat closed up, her stomach tightened, and her fists at her sides tended to clench.
Gwyn could understand why people wanted to acquaint their daughters with Fergus, why the daughters might not be averse to the idea. He wasn’t the handsomest man in the world, but he was well-looking enough; young, strong, and tall, with good teeth. His father still had all his hair and no gut to speak of, which promised well for his own future. Gwyn also knew, without partiality, that Fergus’s reputation among the nobles of Highever and beyond—deserved, and without respect to his rank—was one of even temper, good humor, and frankness that had made him popular even among the disinterested set. Although Fergus had doubts about his suitability as a future teyrn—nonsense, to Gwyn’s mind—he was likable at the very least. When one did consider his rank—one of the highest in Ferelden—and the fact that he was not already betrothed, it made sense that he was one of the most suitable bachelors in the country right now.
But suitable bachelor or not, pursuing him at his grandfather’s memorial was eminently unsuitable. Then a few nobles, seeing, perhaps, Gwyn speaking with the daughters whose parents wanted to recommend them to Fergus, began trying the same sort of tricks with her. Not identical, of course. Most everyone was reasonable enough to know she was still too young for an actual marriage, or even a betrothal, and even the unreasonable ones knew the new teyrn and teyrna thought her such. But apparently, they weren’t above trying to lay the groundwork for one in a few years, recommending their sons to her and proposing outings and get-togethers like she would consider doing anything with anyone for the next several weeks at least.
At first, Gwyn was able to accept the attentions, stuffing down her building indignation. She promised nothing—no letters, no visits, no parties, thanked them for the honor they did her Grandfather, and made her excuses. But then she started reminding them, with increasing sharpness, that her and her family would be in mourning for the next several weeks and responding with less and less graciousness to their repeated apologies and exits from her company.
She was breathing heavily now. Her eyes stung. She looked around the great hall and felt so furious it actually made her dizzy. People were eating and drinking and laughing and talking in small groups—and aside from a very few of them—they weren’t talking about Grandfather or her parents or Fergus. They didn’t care. As much as they’d honored and respected Teyrn William Cousland in life, now, he didn’t matter at all to them. It was on with business as usual, and a free feast on the Couslands, who would miss Grandfather the whole rest of their lives.
The room spun.
“Darling, are you alright?” Mother asked, noticing Gwyn’s difficulties.
Gwyn bit her lip and closed her eyes. Then she curtsied. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
And she ran, feeling the eyes of Mother, Father, Fergus, and every person in the entire sorry place on her as she went, their amazement and their censure. Her face was hot. She was embarrassed, regretful, ashamed, guilty. So much for a Cousland’s duty. But she kept running.
“Are they dismissed already to prepare for supper?” Nan asked when she walked into the kitchen.
There was a bitter taste in Gwyn’s mouth as she flung herself into her old nurse’s arms. The wrinkled, calloused hands caught her in an embrace. “There now, don’t fuss,” she murmured. “These grand events are even harder on people grieving. I know your brother’s taking it hard, and your poor mother, Maker bless her.”
Gwyn couldn’t suppress a sob. She buried her face in Nan’s bony shoulder. Her work dress was rough, but it was honest. More honest than Gwyn herself could stand to be right now. She just needed her old nurse to love her.
And Nan did. She didn’t ask anything more about the situation in the great hall, or why Gwyn had changed out of her gown into the well-worn cotton short tunic and leggings and the sleeveless leather jerkin she preferred to wear summers—the kind of thing she could wear to hunt or sport with intimate friends or family but never to receive guests of the house on formal occasions. Nan just rebraided Gwyn’s disordered hair, wiped her tears away, and held her, and handed her a somewhat floury handkerchief when she wanted it.
Eventually, Gwyn collected herself. “Nan, do you think I could have a few scraps?” she asked.
Nan clucked. “Of course you can. Take some of the stew meat if you want it. Going to the kennels, are you?”
“I want to try and get Sella to eat again,” Gwyn confirmed.
Sella had whelped seven weeks ago, but unfortunately, her litter hadn’t done well. Anxious for Grandfather, Sella hadn’t been the most attentive or patient mother to her five puppies after he’d fallen ill and stopped coming to the kennel. She’d been off her food, snappish and restless, and her puppies had been nervous, scared, and slow to grow as a result.
Watching Sella grieve Grandfather was almost as painful as grieving him herself. Sella was wasting away from it, and though her puppies were old enough now that Gwyn didn’t think the dog would take them with her if she died, her depression still hurt them as well. But Gwyn wasn’t ready to give any of them up. She’d taken to spending a lot of her time in the kennels. There had been nothing she could do for Grandfather, but maybe, just maybe she could save his favorite dog and her puppies. She had strength enough for that anyway, she thought, with another pang for her behavior in the great hall and her broken promise to her brother.
But she hadn’t told Nan about any of that, and Mother’s old servant was actually proud of her. “You’re just like your grandfather the way you dote on those hounds,” she said in that grumpy way she had that meant she was really truly pleased. “Maker rest his soul. As if offal and bones wouldn’t tide them over just fine. No, he always wanted fresh meat for treats from our larders, and you’re just the same. Far too good for those greedy, spoiled curs out there.”
Gwyn just shook her head, moving to the stew meat Nan had indicated on one of the tables. She picked up a couple of leg bones besides and put everything into a basket.
“Will you be up to hunting tomorrow to make up for that lot?” Nan asked her. “There might as well be an army in this house for all the folk here, and who knows how long they might stay? They aren’t going to feed themselves, you know.”
“No, you do that now,” Gwyn said, much flatter than she would have normally. Just now, she couldn’t tease her old nurse about her new position without some pain. She’d understood when Nan had gone to Mother last autumn to say, with Gwyn near grown, and with the former cook at Castle Cousland retired, she’d just as soon make herself useful in the kitchens as follow around a great girl with no need of her like an idiot. Mother had protested—for such an old, valued servant of their family to go from half-raising the children of the house to cooking their meals seemed an inappropriate decrease in importance to her. But Gwyn understood a woman unconstrained by any greater duty choosing to do what she liked. Nan liked food, and more than that, she liked managing folk, and, like she’d said, there were plenty of people for her to manage in the kitchens.
Nan had done well in the kitchens. She ran them with as tyrannical a temper as she had ever run the nursery, but ever since she had taken over, they had saved money on supplies almost every month, had no trouble with the dishes the undercooks prepared, and had introduced a few entrees from Mother’s old home further west into the usual rotation. Also, Nan always was willing to help Gwyn with treats for the dogs and horses, however much she complained.
But now Gwyn missed her upstairs. She missed her so much it hurt. She was always welcome in Nan’s kitchen, but however warmly Nan greeted her when she came, it was nevertheless still an interruption of Nan’s workday when she did. Nan wasn’t solely at her disposal anymore, there to share stories and soothe hurts, to scold and to listen. Gwyn hadn’t needed that so much when Nan had left, had even been happy to get a little distance from Nan’s fussing, but by the Maker, she needed to be a child with a nurse again now.
Nan recognized the halfhearted nature of Gwyn’s teasing flattery and came over to hug her again, saying without words what Gwyn had understood for years, that she and Fergus were, to Ceitrin Pulver, the only children she would ever have, and that she loved them, in her own way, as fiercely as Father and Mother did.
“I’ll go hunting tomorrow,” Gwyn whispered. “It’ll be an excuse to get away from the rest of them that I can actually justify.”
Nan sighed and thrust her out to arms’ length. “Don’t stay away too long, girl,” she said. “Well I know you’ll never forgive yourself if you do, no matter how richly your good parents’ guests might deserve the rudeness. But in the meantime, rabbits and pheasant are all very well, but get us a deer if you can. Goes a lot farther down table.”
Nan released her, and Gwyn curtsied in acknowledgment of the request. Then she took up the basket for Sella and the puppies and left.
It was impossible to go to the kennels without thinking of Grandfather. While the Couslands had almost always had hounds, since their reestablishment at the castle after the war, Grandfather had made their mabari a breed to be proud of. As far back as Gwyn could remember, nobles all over Ferelden—and some in the Free Marches, Antiva, and Rivain—had been glad to pay for one of his dogs, and even more honored when they received one as a gift.
Roget didn’t think they would be able to sell or breed any of Sella’s latest litter. Though none of them had died of Sella’s grief, having begun eating solid food before Sella had gotten really bad, enough damage had been done to be getting on with. Roget said he would probably give most of them to freeholders in need of watch dogs.
Still, there was pleasure in visiting even undersized, nervous new puppies. The five of them met Gwyn at the gate, barking with their small, underdeveloped voices, entire behinds wagging with joy. Gwyn couldn’t help smiling at them, a much more genuine expression than any she had been able to offer the visitors back in the great hall, even before her anger and weakness had overcome her.
She opened the gate, and they were on her, jumping up and tugging at the tops of her boots, her bootlaces, trying to catch the hem of her tunic. One lost control of her bladder in an ecstasy of submission. As ashamed as she was of how she had behaved today, Gwyn was glad she had thought to dress to receive the attention of seven-week-old puppies.
Or their attention to the meat she carried, anyway. They had smelled she brought a treat and set to whining now, begging and panting at her. Gwyn tossed the smaller scraps she had brought for them, watching them run and chase the meat. When they had dispersed across the yard, busy with the treats and with one another, she crossed the yard to where Sella lay, head on her large front paws.
Her eyes rolled to look at Gwyn when she came over, and her ears went back in due deference, but her tail didn’t even twitch, nor did she lift her head. Gwyn knelt down beside her, heedless of the dirt, and scratched her big, broad forehead. “Oh, girl, please don’t do this,” she whispered.
Sella only whined once.
“I miss him too,” Gwyn told her in the same quiet voice. “What do you think I’m going to do without him?”
She closed her eyes against the tears—both for Sella and for Grandfather. Fergus had joked she liked the old man better than any of her peers her own age, but there was a lot of truth to it. Grandfather had been a better friend, a better listener, and a better teacher than anyone else she had known. He had taught her more than Aldous ever had, which said nothing at all about the abilities of her tutor—an accomplished and respected laity scholar and master—and everything about how much time Grandfather had taken with her over the years and all the knowledge that he’d shared with her. If Father had taught her principle, and Mother had taught her courtesy, Grandfather had taught her duty, curiosity, and logic all three. The thought of the absence of his calm voice, asking her what she thought about things, from here on out was almost too much to bear.
“But we have to move on, Sella,” she whispered to the dog. “We’re his legacy, you know. If we admit defeat now, we aren’t doing much honor to him, are we?”
She took a breath. “I’m not doing much honor to him today anyway.” She had promised Fergus she would be there for him. She had been the one to convince him to turn and face the day. She had seen Mother, barely able to hold it together.
Gwyn felt a warm tongue on her arm and opened her eyes to see one of the puppies had left his brothers and sisters fighting over the treats and the toys in the yard to come and join them. He pawed at her thigh and mouthed her fingers, looking up at her with understanding eyes. His rear wiggled in a friendly way.
Gwyn scooped him up into her arms. Even an undersized seven-week-old mabari was an armful, but the puppy started washing her face to show her the attention was appreciated. “And what are you about, huh?” she asked him. “Little beggar. You should be playing with your brothers and sisters, not fussing over me and your mother.”
The puppy yipped, as if to disagree with her, and squirming, tumbled out of her arms and back onto the ground. He tugged at one of his mother’s ears and pawed at her chin. Sella lifted her head far enough to kiss his nose and head.
“Come now, Sella, even your son here wants you to get up and eat something,” Gwyn urged her, “and he’s much too little to be worried about anything but the sunlight on the daisies, chasing squirrels, and tugging ropes.”
She scratched the puppy’s ears, and he looked up to pant at her. Sella whined again, but then she actually got up and trudged over to the water trough. Her son followed her, got his own drink, but quenched his thirst faster than his mother and came back to Gwyn, climbing up into her lap to be scratched again. Gwyn obliged him. You didn’t deny a puppy who wanted to be loved.
When Sella turned around, the puppy yipped at her, a tone of gentle urging very similar to the tone Gwyn herself had been using with his mother, if Gwyn had been a mabari. Sella huffed, then sat down in front of Gwyn and nodded her great head as if to say Gwyn could give her the rest of what she had in her basket.
Gwyn unfolding the meaty bones she had brought from the kitchen caught the attention of the other puppies, and they came galloping up to beg and cavort, but to Gwyn’s surprise, her little companion barked at them in a more militant tone. They shied and scampered away like privates from a lieutenant, and Gwyn’s little friend climbed down off her lap again, went to his mother, and licked her legs and what he could reach of her chest encouragingly.
Gwyn laid down one of the bones for Sella, and, with dignity, she lowered her head to eat. She seemed to be saying she did so under sufferance, for Gwyn and for the sake of her son, but she was doing it. Gwyn smiled at her. “Oh, good girl,” she whispered. “And good boy.”
Watching Sella eat, she sighed. “You’re better than I am today,” she remarked. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. If she hurried, she could probably still change in time to make supper at table.
Taking the other bone, she stood up, walked a few paces away, and laid it down for the puppies. The five of them grouped together again and lowered their own heads to the meal, and, satisfied, Gwyn let herself out of the kennel yard.
But before she’d gone three paces, she heard a sharp bark from behind her. She turned and saw her little friend standing there, distinguishable from his brothers and sisters by the shape of his body and the peculiar tilt of his head. His hindquarters wriggled, and he barked again, whined, and scratched at the fence.
Gwyn took in a breath. Anyone could own a mabari war hound, but to be chosen by one was an honor. Even a pup who didn’t have the most promising start to life would go to great lengths for a master to whom he or she was personally loyal. Run farther, fight harder, endure through any trial, overcome any obstacle. Gwyn’s family had bred and loved dogs as long as she could remember. There were always a few around, but despite the many, many dogs Grandfather had owned and cared for, to her knowledge, he had only had that special relationship with three or four in his long life, including Sella, and a hound hadn’t looked to Father since the wars. According to Roget, Father hadn’t had the heart to even try to develop a similar relationship with a hound for years after his last had died, but even though he had tried for the past seven years, he’d yet to experience another success.
“Me?” she asked the pup, a bubble of incredulous happiness beginning to expand in her chest. In the middle of one of the worst failures she could remember, this brave, good little dog wanted her?
He barked again.
She heard a joyous laugh and turned to see Roget there, heading to the kennels with his own meal for the dogs. “He’s like to dig out if you don’t take him, lady,” he said, “and then we’ll all be in trouble. Don’t expect my lord and my lady will make any objection.”
Gwyn shook her head, speechless.
“He’ll be alright, if you take him,” Roget told her, nodding at the pup. “Them that choose their masters always do better than the rest. And, if I may be so bold, he could hardly choose a better.”
Gwyn shook her head, with more feeling. “I—” I don’t deserve his loyalty, she meant to say, but all that came out was, “I wish Grandfather were here.”
Roget’s eyes sparkled with his own tears. “He is,” he said. “Don’t you doubt it, lady. Watching you from the Maker’s side, as proud and happy as he’d be were he this side of the Fade, and a great deal more comfortable.”
Gwyn looked back at the puppy—as small and nervous as the rest of his siblings until today, when she had needed him to help encourage his mother. Cowardly—until her own fortitude had failed her. Tears pricked at her eyes again, but this time, they felt better. She walked back over to the fence. “Will you come with me then, little lord?” she asked the dog.
By way of answer, he trotted back over to his mother and looked up at her, as if asking permission. Sella, finished with her supper, bent her head down to her son and licked his nose. Then she huffed and jerked her head, as clear of a go on as Gwyn had ever seen, from a dog.
The little puppy walked to the gate, rump wagging once again. Gwyn laughed once, a release more of surprise than anything else, and a little wet. She opened the gate. The dog took his place at her heel just as if he had always known how to do it.
Roget grunted approval. “He’s a good one, he is, even if he is a little on the small side for now. Knows he’s your partner, not some pampered court toy. You’ll have to remind him now and again who’s the top dog in that partnership, acourse, teach him what tricks and maneuvers you want him to know, but he’ll follow you now, wherever you go, without teaching.”
“Alright,” Gwyn whispered. “Alright. Come on then,” she told the dog. “We’ll visit your mother, brothers, and sisters again tomorrow, but though you’ve had your supper, if we don’t go now, I’ll be late for mine.”
Her new little friend was vastly interested by everything he saw and smelled in the castle proper, never having been out of the kennels before. But a word from her was enough to get him to leave off chewing on the tapestry fringe or exploring a promising corridor. He followed her to her room and lay down panting in her discarded clothes as she changed, waiting. When she got up again, he followed her again.
“I’ll have to apologize to them all,” Gwyn told him as they walked. She already felt he understood her; everyone always said mabari could talk if they wished but were simply wise enough not to. “They probably gossiped about my leaving for an hour, and I don’t even want to think about what Mother and Fergus felt. I have to make up for it, Cavall. I have to.”
Naturally, Fergus was the first to see her when she reentered the great hall, and of course, far from looking angry or disappointed with her, his face creased in concern and he crossed to her immediately. “You had us worried, sister,” he said. Then he caught sight of her shadow, and his expression changed. He shook his head, beginning to grin. “You lucky little chit.” He laughed, knelt, and held out his hand to the puppy, who stepped forward to lick his hand politely but, despite Fergus’s encouragement, wouldn’t be coaxed too far from Gwyn’s side. “One of Sella’s?”
Gwyn nodded. “He helped me get her to eat something and then politely asked to accompany me when I left. I don’t know why he did it. I didn’t deserve it, but he’s a helper, and I didn’t feel like I could refuse him. Fergus, I’m so—”
Fergus cut her off. “It’s fine. I just wish you’d been good enough to take me with you.”
Gwyn managed a smile. “I know.”
But Fergus’s disappearance from the crowd, and Gwyn’s reappearance, was drawing attention now. When people saw Cavall, they pressed in even more tightly. A mabari puppy was an even bigger attraction than the delinquent first daughter of Teyrn Cousland.
“Is that one of Teyrn William’s mabari?” Prince Cailan asked, kneeling to pay his own respects to the dog. He scratched Cavall’s ears and beamed up at Gwyn. “You’ve scored a triumph here, Lady Gwyn. Not everyone can command the loyalty of a mabari.”
“What’s his lineage?” Nathaniel Howe wanted to know. “For a pup old enough to leave its mother, he is rather small.”
Gwyn satisfied the crowd’s curiosity on the dog’s descent. “Cavall?” Fergus asked afterward, hearing her referring to the puppy by that name. He couldn’t help smiling. “More of a wish than a truth for him, is it not?”
The word was a corruption of the old Tevene for horse. Gwyn smiled. “And why not? Give him something to live up to. We all should do so well.” She did appreciate the irony of it, of calling the little pup ‘horse.’ There were some dogs that did grow as large as ponies, but even the largest mabari didn’t get so tall. They were a medium-sized breed in actuality, remarkable more for their strength and intelligence than for size. But mostly, she just liked the way the syllables rolled off her tongue and the way the pup’s ears pricked up when he heard it.
“Indeed,” Father said, making his own entrance into the conversation. “And I have no doubt of his living up to it, but lest our guests think themselves neglected in the coming of one more recently arrived, I suggest we start supper.”
Gwyn curtsied. “Of course. Father, I’m sorry. Should I take him away?”
Father cocked an eyebrow and for a moment looked so much like Grandfather, even with his smaller beard, that Gwyn felt she loved him more than ever. “And have we ever sent dogs away from this hall? Maker forbid! Let your friend stay, by all means, just so long as he minds his manners.”
Gwyn smiled gratefully, and, the crowd dispersing to their various tables, she repaired to her own seat at the high table, a little farther down than usual due to the attendance of King Maric and Prince Cailan, who must be given place even at a ceremony so particular to the family.
Cavall curled up on her feet beneath the table. He was content enough there, though once or twice he did beg scraps from her or from Mother, Gwyn’s nearest neighbor. His weight on the tops of her feet gave her more strength than she could have guessed it would. Knowing he was there, loving her, supporting her as only a good dog could, let her look out at the rest of the hall talking and enjoying themselves, even at her grandfather’s memorial, without feeling furious or dizzy about it.
“Are you well now, darling?” Mother asked in a low voice after the opening ceremonies. “You ran out so suddenly this afternoon, and told nobody where you had gone—”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gwyn replied. “At least, I’m better than I was. I know it was wrong to leave that way, and I’ve been ashamed ever since. I owed better to our guests, and still more to you, to Father, and to Fergus. There’s no excuse for my behavior—but I hope you’ll forgive me anyway.”
“There is every excuse for your behavior,” Mother replied. Her voice remained low, but Gwyn heard the intensity of it. “Propriety sometimes expects more of us than can reasonably expected of any feeling creature, and you bear up beautifully for the most part. In any rational world, you would be allowed to mourn your Grandfather away from the judgment of society—and Fergus to step into his new role upon his own terms. He told me you spoke with him this morning.”
Gwyn blushed. “Promised him I’d stay with him, help him whatever happened, then ran off the moment it became too taxing to do so,” she muttered.
At her feet, Cavall whined at her distress, and Gwyn reached down beneath the table to scratch his downy puppy ears.
“Be kind to yourself, darling,” Mother advised her. “You’re a good deal younger than Fergus. I know we all forget it; you’re so thoughtful and mature for your age. I know your father and grandfather, Maker rest his soul, have been in the habit of talking to you as an adult for years since, and I know your brother already depends on you a great deal, loath as he may be to admit it at times. I cannot fault them for it; in many ways you are a lady already fit for such trust and confidence. In others, however—and I trust you know I mean no reflection on you by it—you are yet just fourteen.”
Gwyn sighed. “And in many ways, I’m grateful for it,” she said drily, mirroring Mother’s mode of speech. “In others, however, I feel I should do better. I must. I shall.” Beneath the table, Cavall growled at her tone. “Isn’t that right, Cavall?” she said in a lighter tone. “We both of us shall rise above what’s expected of us.”
Cavall tugged at the hem of her dress in seeming agreement. Mother took Gwyn’s hand and pressed it to her lips. “Not too quickly, dearest,” she urged. “Oh, darling, it’s not your part to take on so much of your brother’s concerns and ours.”
Gwyn smiled at her. “Love is the first duty, isn’t it? And family the first love?”
Mother had no answer for this, and she simply kissed Gwyn’s hand again.
The supper progressed, and at its end, right before she knew Father would be thanking all their guests for coming and dismissing them to bed, to inns, or to caravans away from Castle Cousland, whichever might be their separate destinations, Gwyn rose.
Before the teyrn’s dismissal, it was obvious she had some object in mind, and first the high table, then the entire hall fell silent. Curtseying first to her mother as she left her place, Gwyn circled the high table to stand before Father. His eyebrow was raised again, but he smiled at her, giving her his tacit approval to speak.
Gwyn sank to her knees in front of him, spreading her skirts around her as she did so. Cavall ruined the formality of the moment a little. Supposing she meant to pay attention to him, he jumped up on her, and the guests in the hall all laughed.
Gwyn’s face went red, as much from all the attention as from the dog’s antics. “Down, Cavall,” she said. “Quiet.”
He whined, rolled over on his back to stick his legs in the air, but lay down again with such a puppyish pout and look of reproach at her that Gwyn couldn’t help laughing herself, despite everything, if a bit nervously.
She looked back at Father and bit her lip, then clasped her hands and held them out in front of her. She was hot all over, but by Mother’s look, the way she pressed her heart at the end of the table now, and King Maric and Prince Cailan’s smiles, she knew she was right. She might be only just fourteen, but it was good, honorable to make a gesture like this to Father and to Fergus.
“Witness all,” she said, in the voice Mother had taught her—not loud, but one that would carry through the entire hall. Her nervousness made it waver a little, but tensing, she steadied it. “My name is Gwyn Cousland, second child and first daughter of the Cousland line. I hereby pledge my loyalty to Bryce Cousland, teryn of Highever, and to Fergus, his son and heir, above all others—” with a quick glance to Father’s right— “save His Majesty Maric Theirin and his heirs to the throne of Ferelden as confirmed by the Landsmeet.”
The king’s smile widened. The exception was traditionally part of formal oaths of this kind, but she had said it almost as an afterthought. Cailan tipped his fingers in a sort of cavalier salute.
Gwyn turned back to face forward. “Father, brother, I’m your vassal, as much by law and love as by family right. I will defend you against your enemies, uphold you by word and by deed, and in whatever way you require. This my oath, by the grace of Our Lady and the Maker. Do you accept it?”
There was a murmur of approval from around the hall. Gwyn ignored it. She only cared about the approval in Father’s eyes, the love and pride that shone there, and for Fergus’s fond shake of his head. Father stood, stepped forward, and closed his hands around hers.
“I accept it, my darling girl, and value that oath for all the precious trust it presents, and I will return loyalty for loyalty and love for love until such time as you may wish to be released to the service of another.”
Gwyn rolled her eyes at this, so only he and Fergus could see, and Father chuckled softly at the expression. He lifted her hands in his and kissed them, then pulled her to her feet and kissed her forehead and placed her hands in Fergus’s.
“This wasn’t really necessary, you know,” Fergus told her. “But bless you for doing it.
“Well, I don’t think I need accept it, as Father’s done it for me, but I do anyway.” To the hall at large he said, “Here comes my sister, who herself killed about half the meat on your table—”
“A couple of pheasants,” Gwyn muttered, reddening.
“About half the meat on your table,” Fergus repeated, eyes dancing, “a mabari war hound at her heels—”
“An undersized pup Roget was going to give away.”
Cavall barked indignantly, and Fergus laughed aloud and then pressed on, “Here comes my sister,” he said again, “to swear to us to use her mighty bow only in our service, to set all the fame and fortune she could gain elsewhere at our feet, and to stand behind me in the future with all her best advice even when I’m stupid enough to ignore it.”
“I don’t know that I said all that,” Gwyn retorted, and the hall laughed again. Fergus drew her up to stand beside him.
“My grandfather, Teyrn William, will be sorely missed,” he said. “His wisdom, his steadiness, his humor, and his patience must be a terrible loss, even when he taught them all to my father. I’ve yet to learn most of it, and I don’t doubt it will be years yet before I can be half as much use to my father, Teyrn Bryce, as my father has been for the past two decades to his. But with such help as this—” raising Gwyn’s hand high and indicating Cavall with his other hand— “how can Highever fail?”
He released Gwyn’s hand, and turning behind him, took his cup from Mother, who had anticipated him.
“To Teyrn William,” he said, raising the goblet. Gwyn reached behind her for her own cup, which Mother also gave to her to join in the toast, and the entire company drank.
“To the new Teyrn, Bryce Cousland, and his gracious wife, my mother, Teyrna Eleanor Cousland,” Fergus continued. They all drank again.
“And to our children,” Father finished, stepping forward again, “Fergus and Gwyn Cousland. The future is in good hands.”
The great hall let out a cheer, and Cavall barked at the top of his underdeveloped voice, as if in agreement.