The first week after Deanna’s ascent was filled with grief; the second began a celebration that the new queen of Avon declared would last for a fortnight. It began as a farewell to Asmund and the Huegoths, but seeing that the party was about to commence, the pragmatic barbarian changed his plans and allowed his rightly weary warriors to stay a bit longer.
On the first night of revelry, after a feast that left the hundred guests at Deanna’s table stuffed, Brind’Amour pulled Luthien and Oliver, Kayryn Kulthwain and Proctor Byllewyn aside. “Greensparrow was right in dividing his kingdom among dukes,” the king explained. “I will not be able to see the reaches of my kingdom from my busy seat in Caer MacDonald.”
“We accept you as king,” Proctor Byllewyn assured him.
Brind’Amour nodded. “And I name you again, and formally, as duke of Gybi,” he explained. “And you, Kayryn Kulthwain, shall be my duchess of Eradoch. Guide your peoples well, with fairness and in the knowledge that Caer MacDonald will support you.”
The two bowed low.
“And you, my dearest of friends,” Brind’Amour went on, turning to Luthien and Oliver. “I am told that there is no duke of Bedwydrin, and no eorl, but only a steward, put in place until things could be set aright.”
“True enough,” Luthien admitted, trying to keep his tone in line with the honor that he expected would fall his way, though his heart was not in the assignment. Luthien had his fill of governments and duties, and wanted nothing more than a free run down a long road.
“Thus I grant you the title of duke of Bedwydrin,” Brind’Amour announced. “And command of all the three islands, Bedwydrin, Marvis, and Caryth.”
“Marvis and Caryth already have their eorls,” Luthien tried to protest.
“Who will answer to you, and you to me,” Brind’Amour replied casually.
Luthien felt trapped. How could he refuse the command of his king, especially when the command was one that almost anyone would have taken as the highest of compliments? He looked to Oliver, then his gaze drifted past the halfling, to Katerin, who was out on the floor, dancing gaily. There, in the partner of the red-haired woman of Hale, Luthien found his answer.
“This I cannot accept,” he said bluntly, and his words were followed by a gasp from both Kayryn and Byllewyn.
Oliver poked him hard. “He does not mean to say what he tries to say,” the halfling stammered and started to pull Luthien aside.
Luthien offered a smile to his diminutive friend; he knew that Oliver wanted nothing more than the comfortable existence that Brind’Amour’s offer to Luthien would provide for them all.
“I am truly honored,” Luthien said to the king. “But I cannot accept the title. Our ways are beyond the edicts of a king, are rooted in traditions that extend to times even before your brotherhood was formed.”
Brind’Amour, more intrigued than insulted, cocked his head and scratched at his white beard.
“I am not the rightful heir to Bedwydrin’s seat,” Luthien explained, “for I am not the eldest son of Gahris Bedwyr.”
That turned all eyes to the dance floor, to Katerin and to her partner, Ethan Bedwyr. Brind’Amour called the couple over, and called to Asmund as well.
Ethan’s initial response to the offer was predictable and volatile. “I am Huegoth,” came the expected claim.
Katerin laughed at him, and his cinnamon-colored eyes, that obvious trademark to his rightful heritage, flashed as he snapped his gaze about to regard her.
“You are Bedwyr,” the woman said, not backing down an inch. “Son of Gahris, brother of Luthien, whatever your words might claim.”
Ethan trembled on the verge of an explosion.
“You left Bedwydrin only because you could not tolerate what your home had become,” Katerin went on.
“Now you can make of your home your own vision,” added Brind’Amour. “Will you desert your people in this time of great change?”
“My people?” Ethan scoffed, looking to Asmund.
A large part of Oliver deBurrows, that comfort-loving halfling constitution, wanted Ethan to reject the offer so that Luthien had to take the seat, that Oliver could go beside him and live a life of true luxury. But even that temptation was not enough to tear the loyal halfling from the desires of his dearest friend. “Even Asmund would agree that such a friend as Ethan Bedwyr sitting in power among the three islands would be a good thing,” Oliver put in, seeing his chance. “Mayhaps you have seen your destiny, Ethan, son of Gahris. You who have befriended the Huegoths might seal in truce and in heart an alliance and friendship that will outlive you and all your little Ethan-type children.”
Ethan started to respond, but Asmund clapped him hard on the back and roared with laughter. “Like a son you’ve been to me,” slurred the Huegoth king, who had obviously had a bit too much to drink. “But if you think you have a chance of claiming my throne . . . !” Again came the roaring laughter.
“Take it, boy!” Asmund said when he caught his breath. “Go where you belong, just don’t you forget where you’ve been!”
Ethan sighed deeply, looked from Katerin to Asmund, to Luthien, and finally to Brind’Amour, offering a somewhat resigned, somewhat hopeful nod of acceptance.
It might have been simply the perception, the hope that embraced the kingdoms of Avonsea, but the ensuing winter did not seem so harsh. Even on those surprisingly infrequent occasions when snow did fall, it was light and fluffy, settling like a gentle blanket. And winter’s grip was not long in the holding; the last snow fell before the second month of the year was ended, and by the middle of the third month, the fields were green once more and the breeze was warm.
So it was on the bright morning that Luthien, Katerin, and Oliver set out from Carlisle. Brind’Amour and the Eriadoran army had long ago returned to Caer MacDonald, Ethan Bedwyr to Bedwydrin, Ashannon McLenny and his fleet to Baranduine, and Bellick dan Burso to DunDarrow, all ready to take on the responsibilities of their new positions. But for Luthien and his two companions, those responsibilities had ended with the fall of Greensparrow and the official coronation of Queen Deanna Wellworth of Avon. Thus the trio had lingered in Carlisle, enjoying the splendors of Avon’s largest city. They had spent the winter healing the scars of war, letting the grief of friends lost settle into comfortable memories of friends past.
But even Carlisle, so huge, so full of excitement, could not defeat the wanderlust that held the heart of all three, of Luthien Bedwyr most of all, and so, when the snows receded and the wind blew warm, Luthien, upon Riverdancer, had led the way to the north.
They rode easily for several days, keeping to themselves mostly, though they would have been welcomed in any village, in any farmhouse. Their companions were the animals, awakening after winter’s slumber, and the stars, glittering bright each night above the quiet and dark fields.
The trio had no real destination in mind, but they were moving inevitably to the north, toward the Iron Cross, and Caer MacDonald beyond that. The mountains were well in sight, Speythenfergus Lake left far behind, before they formally spoke of their destination.
“I do not think Caer MacDonald will be so different from Carlisle,” Luthien remarked one morning soon after they had broken camp. Again the day was unseasonably warm and hospitable, the sun beaming overhead, the breeze soft and from the south.
“Ah yes, but Brind’Amour, my so dear friend, rules in Caer MacDonald,” Oliver said cheerily, kicking Threadbare to move ahead of Katerin’s chestnut and come up alongside Riverdancer.
Katerin did not smile as Oliver moved past her; her thoughts, too, were on Caer MacDonald, and the impending boredom promised by such a peaceful existence.