been at your mercy because you held the purse strings, such as they are. I’ve even given up pursuing the one thing I always wanted, the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”
Guerrand’s expression was beyond bitter. “I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning, Cormac—maybe the most important thing I’ve ever understood.” He stood straight and tall before his brother for the first time. “Now that Quinn’s dead, I’m the only male DiThon with a sense of family honor—or any honor at all.” Guerrand unbuckled his sword belt and threw it on the floor.
Cormac’s eyes narrowed in barely contained anger. “I will overlook your impudent remarks because soon our differences will no longer matter. You’ll be living at one of Berwick’s lavish estates, and I’ll still be here, scraping along as best I can. I feel certain that one day, perhaps when you have children of your own, you will understand the sacrifices I’ve made on your behalf.
“And now, we’ll speak no more in anger,” Cormac announced with forced brightness. “So that we may peaceably draw to a close the years we have lived together, I forgive you the night’s indiscretion. In an oddly convenient twist, you’ve provided the Council of Cavaliers with an excuse to knight you. In a matterof days you’ll be married, and all this magic nonsense will be behind you.” Cormac poured more of the ruby-colored wine into his glass, then splashed some into another snifter. Turning with a strained smile, he held out the second glass to his half brother.
Guerrand stared at it for a moment. Cormac nudged the glass closer to Guerrand’s face, until the crimson wine was all that the youth could see.
“Take it, Guerrand. Let’s drink a toast to your impending wedding—and knighthood.” When Guerrand hesitated, Cormac pressed the wine on him one last time. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
Guerrand came to life and slapped away the glass and with it the patronizing suggestion. The crystal crashed to the floor and shattered, splashing Cormac’s boots with the blood-red liquid. “You’ll forgive
me
?” Guerrand shrieked. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said! Well, hear this. I
won’t
feel better just because you say so. I’ll no longer do
anything
just because you say so.” Guerrand snatched up his sword and stomped toward the door, kicking the broken glass from his path. “I’m done with bowing and scraping for some misplaced sense of duty.”
“Wh-What do you mean?”
Hearing the fear and desperation in Cormac’s voice, Guerrand howled with laughter. Poor, pathetic, deluded Cormac. As if the return of some rocky land could restore all that he’d lost through incompetence. “I’m not sure what I mean, Brother.” Giving the door a satisfying slam in Cormac’s red face, Guerrand strode down the corridor toward his room.
He was whistling.
Something darted out of the shadows and grabbed the young man’s hand, startling him. “Rand!” he heard his nephew’s voice cry softly. “Kirah says you captured Quinn’s killers. I knew you were a better cavalier than my father said.”
Guerrand gave Bram a warm smile. “You’re half right, Bram. It’s true we captured the rotters, but I’ll forever be a lousy cavalier.”
How a couple could produce such different children as Bram and Honora was beyond Guerrand’s comprehension. He was just glad they had. He had long suspected Bram had a bit of magical talent in the area of herbs, so he’d intentionally stayed away from him, for Bram’s own sake. He knew that Cormac and Rietta saw more similarities to Guerrand in Bram than they liked, and he did not wish to make the boy’s life harder. The boy … Guerrand realized with a start that Bram was nearly the age Quinn had been when he’d left on crusade. Just a half decade younger than Guerrand, Bram was closer in age to his uncle than Guerrand was to his own brother Cormac. The gulf seemed much wider, somehow.
Bram was
Guerrand’s expression was beyond bitter. “I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning, Cormac—maybe the most important thing I’ve ever understood.” He stood straight and tall before his brother for the first time. “Now that Quinn’s dead, I’m the only male DiThon with a sense of family honor—or any honor at all.” Guerrand unbuckled his sword belt and threw it on the floor.
Cormac’s eyes narrowed in barely contained anger. “I will overlook your impudent remarks because soon our differences will no longer matter. You’ll be living at one of Berwick’s lavish estates, and I’ll still be here, scraping along as best I can. I feel certain that one day, perhaps when you have children of your own, you will understand the sacrifices I’ve made on your behalf.
“And now, we’ll speak no more in anger,” Cormac announced with forced brightness. “So that we may peaceably draw to a close the years we have lived together, I forgive you the night’s indiscretion. In an oddly convenient twist, you’ve provided the Council of Cavaliers with an excuse to knight you. In a matterof days you’ll be married, and all this magic nonsense will be behind you.” Cormac poured more of the ruby-colored wine into his glass, then splashed some into another snifter. Turning with a strained smile, he held out the second glass to his half brother.
Guerrand stared at it for a moment. Cormac nudged the glass closer to Guerrand’s face, until the crimson wine was all that the youth could see.
“Take it, Guerrand. Let’s drink a toast to your impending wedding—and knighthood.” When Guerrand hesitated, Cormac pressed the wine on him one last time. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
Guerrand came to life and slapped away the glass and with it the patronizing suggestion. The crystal crashed to the floor and shattered, splashing Cormac’s boots with the blood-red liquid. “You’ll forgive
me
?” Guerrand shrieked. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said! Well, hear this. I
won’t
feel better just because you say so. I’ll no longer do
anything
just because you say so.” Guerrand snatched up his sword and stomped toward the door, kicking the broken glass from his path. “I’m done with bowing and scraping for some misplaced sense of duty.”
“Wh-What do you mean?”
Hearing the fear and desperation in Cormac’s voice, Guerrand howled with laughter. Poor, pathetic, deluded Cormac. As if the return of some rocky land could restore all that he’d lost through incompetence. “I’m not sure what I mean, Brother.” Giving the door a satisfying slam in Cormac’s red face, Guerrand strode down the corridor toward his room.
He was whistling.
Something darted out of the shadows and grabbed the young man’s hand, startling him. “Rand!” he heard his nephew’s voice cry softly. “Kirah says you captured Quinn’s killers. I knew you were a better cavalier than my father said.”
Guerrand gave Bram a warm smile. “You’re half right, Bram. It’s true we captured the rotters, but I’ll forever be a lousy cavalier.”
How a couple could produce such different children as Bram and Honora was beyond Guerrand’s comprehension. He was just glad they had. He had long suspected Bram had a bit of magical talent in the area of herbs, so he’d intentionally stayed away from him, for Bram’s own sake. He knew that Cormac and Rietta saw more similarities to Guerrand in Bram than they liked, and he did not wish to make the boy’s life harder. The boy … Guerrand realized with a start that Bram was nearly the age Quinn had been when he’d left on crusade. Just a half decade younger than Guerrand, Bram was closer in age to his uncle than Guerrand was to his own brother Cormac. The gulf seemed much wider, somehow.
Bram was
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