The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) by Michael A. Hooten

requested. He played it for
Gil as well, who had shown himself to be both murderer and rapist.
    He looked down at Bran, but
the warrior looked peaceful, despite his pallor and the labor of his
breathing. Gwydion said, “It’s not fair.”
    He changed the song again,
reaching for all the power he had always felt at the edge of his consciousness
when he played. It came in a rush, making his hair stand on end. He felt like
he was glowing. And he didn’t know what to do next. He cried out in fear and
frustration, and heard an answer from beyond the pale.
    Ruchalia, the boar who had
taught him so much about shape shifting, stepped from the air, taking in the scene
with one quick glance. She became human and said, “What the hell are you
doing?”
    “Trying to save this man from
dying,” Gwydion said.
    “You look like you’re trying
to destroy yourself,” she said. “You’ve got to let some of that magic go!”
    “I don’t know how!” he said.
“Can you help me?”
    She shook her head slowly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Are you using Cymric or bardic magic?”
    “Bardic, I think.”
    “Okay, then try this: form
the image of what you want in your mind, then start pouring the power into that
image.”
    “Like shape shifting?”
    “Kind of, but bards affect
the world more than themselves. You have to have an iron will. If you get
distracted, you could kill us all.”
    Gwydion shook with the effort
to hold all the power. “Image, iron will, caution. Okay.”
    He looked at Bran, and
instead of pale and wounded, he saw him as whole and energetic, like he saw him
on the training grounds. He tried to channel all the magic he felt into his
vision, but almost lost hold of it entirely. Ruchalia gasped, so he knew she
had seen it, too.
    “You forgot to say slowly,”
he told her.
    “I didn’t think I had to,”
she shot back.
    Gwydion looked back at Bran,
but his sight had changed, and he saw him not as a man, but as a faint glow,
barely visible. He glanced at Ruchalia, and saw a boar shaped glow, but bright
and vibrant. He began to release the magic again, slowly, trying to brighten
Bran’s glow. It felt like almost like blowing an ember into flame, and like an
ember, Bran’s glow remained stubbornly dim, with only hints of flaring to life.
    Still playing, Gwydion tried
harder, increasing the magic gradually, finally seeing the radiance respond,
becoming brighter and steadier. He continued playing and focusing his will
until with a snap, his vision returned to normal, and Bran, looking healthy and
whole, sat up and said, “What did you just do?”
    “He saved your life, idiot,” Ruchalia
said, but the wonder in her voice softened the rebuke.
    Gwydion smiled at her.
“Thank you,” he said, and then slid into oblivion.

Chapter 8: Consequences
    Gwydion awoke back in his
room at Caer Don, surrounded by women. “Am I dead, or dreaming?” he said.
    Mari touched his forehead.
“Alive, I’m thinking.”
    Arianrhod stood very stiff,
but he could see some relief in her eyes. Ruchalia, still in human form, was
grinning from ear to ear. “He’s fine,” she said. “He’s just worried that
we’ll start talking about our experiences with him.”
    Gwydion groaned. “That
hadn’t occurred to me. The dream just became a nightmare.”
    Even Arianrhod managed a faint
smile. “Yes, he’s fine.”
    Gwydion tried to sit up, but
Mari pushed him back down easily. “Is Bran here? Is he okay?”
    “Yes,” she said. “He’s in a
room nearby, and even testier than you about being confined to bed. I’ve been
examining him, but even though he says he was stabbed, I can’t find any
evidence of it, except for the blood stains on his clothes.”
    “He’s telling you the truth,”
Gwydion said. “It was Gilventhy.”
    Arianrhod frowned. “Why
would he do such a thing?”
    Gwydion hesitated. “I have
to get back to Caer Dathyl,” he said.
    “You’re not in any condition
to go anywhere,” Mari said.
    Ruchalia