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

snorted. “He’s a
lot stronger than you know. I wouldn’t try to hold him against his will, if I
were you.”
    Mari and Arianrhod looked
offended, which only intensified when Gwydion said, “Ruchalia? Can I talk to
you alone?”
    “I have to check on Bran,”
Mari said. “Come on, Ari.”
    Arianrhod looked furious, but
Gwydion couldn’t help it. He needed someone with Ruchalia’s wisdom to help him
figure out what to do.
    When the door closed, Ruchalia
said, “Are you up to shape shifting? I think this conversation would be easier
as boars.”
    Gwydion nodded, and made the
change. He thought it might be a strain after everything that he had done, but
it happened easily, and Ruchalia snorted, “Don’t look so surprised. I meant it
when I said you were strong.”
    “That may be,” Gwydion said,
“But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face my uncle.”
    “Why would you be afraid of
Math?” Ruchalia said, so Gwydion told her the whole story, sparing nothing. It
went surprisingly fast in boar form, but he still felt ashamed and guilty over
everything that had happened.
    “What do you think I should
do?” he said.
    “First of all, Gil’s guilt is
not your own,” Ruchalia said. “Yes, you plotted with him to get him alone with
Goewin, but you had no idea that he would try to murder Bran on the way, or
that when Goewin said no he would resort to rape.”
    “But I feel like I should
have,” Gwydion said.
    “You are not responsible for
any actions but your own,” Ruchalia said. “Feel guilty for those all you like,
but Gil must face his own consequences for what he did.”
    “All I want to do is run
away,” Gwydion said. “I want to hide from all of this, and let it pass by.”
    “And that would be great
folly,” Ruchalia said. “In the end, despite your crimes, which are not as
serious as you want them to be, you are a good man who knows that you must face
the consequences.”
    “I won’t be Tanist anymore,”
Gwydion said. “Math will never trust me that much again.”
    “And is that so horrid?” Ruchalia
said. “You have many talents and abilities. I have no doubt that you can make
your way just fine in the world without needing to be Lord of Dathyl. And the
truth is, you were worried about having that title anyway.”
    Gwydion grunted and gave her
a little nuzzle. “This is why I wanted to talk to you. You have a way of
seeing to the heart of things.”
    “It’s a boar thing,” she
said, nuzzling him back.
    He pulled back and became a
man again. “I have to go,” he said. “Would you tell Arianrhod and Mari where
I have gone?”
    Ruchalia shape shifted to
human form. “You should tell them yourself, you know.”
    Gwydion sighed deeply. “I
think I have courage for either one or the other. Not both.”
    “Go,” she said. “But don’t
forget that these women deserve to hear from your own mouth what is going on
and why. They love you, and they love Gil and Math as well. This will affect
you all.”
    “And don’t I know it,”
Gwydion said. He hugged Ruchalia tightly, then went to the window and leapt
into raven form, winging his way determinedly towards Caer Dathyl.

    Goewin swore she wouldn't
cry. Whatever else happened, whatever further shame she might have to bear,
she would not humiliate herself by crying. She had burnt the clothes that he
had ripped from her, but her shame still felt like a clamp around her heart.
She paced about the tower, scared to leave, and scared of what would happen
when Math returned.
    She heard the war pipes
coming through the windows, and she rushed to the window. Far below, Lord
Dathyl rode at the head of his army, waving in easy triumph to the people who
flocked to watch. The long white beard, still so incongruous against his
armor, looked tangled, and she wondered how long it would take her the brush it
out. The thought of doing something so simple and so familiar made her smile
despite herself. Then he looked up and caught her eye, and she