Chapter Five

"You made me look like a fool before all my servants, Guerrand." Cormac's voice was low, threatening.

"So that's what made you so angry in the courtyard." Guerrand still wore his sword, hoping a martial appearance might soften his brother's fury. He stood, rather than sat, to get the full benefit from the prop.

"Of course," said Cormac. "My men and I-seasoned cavaliers, all-have been searching for these bandits for days. You and a string bean of a girl-"

"That string bean is our sister."

"Half sister." Cormac glowered at Guerrand's interruption. "You ride into the courtyard with them all trussed up, as if it were as easy as… as… magic." Cormac's eyes widened in sudden understanding. "You used magic somehow, didn't you?"

Guerrand flinched at the accusation. Not that he hadn't expected it, but it came sooner than he hoped.

"You look like you were dressed for battle, but I'll wager…" Cormac bounded to his feet and prodded Guerrand in the ribs. A look that mixed satisfaction with disgust crossed his face. "You're not even wearing armor under that tunic, as I suspected. You never had any intention of fighting."

Cormac shook his head and paced across the room. "It all makes sense now. The bandit I questioned said you threw dirt at them, and then they fell unconscious."

Guerrand was incredulous. "Quinn's killers have been found, and you're more concerned about how I did it?" He shook his head in disbelief.

Cormac drained a goblet of wine in one gulp, then held the glass up to Guerrand in a mock toast. "Congratulations," he said, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What dark sorcerer's spell did you use to find and bring them here, Guerrand?"

"What does it matter?" asked Guerrand. "Isn't it enough that magic accomplished what ordinary measures could not?"

"Any good cavalier could have done the same thing! You could have called on those skills, instead of the evil secrets of magic."

Guerrand sneered. "We both know I'm not a good cavalier. Besides, you said yourself, well-trained knights already tried to defeat those bandits and failed.

"I've really tried to understand your hatred of magic, Cormac," he continued softly after a pause, "and now I finally do. It came to me suddenly that you're no different than me or anyone else. Behind your bluster, you're afraid of what you don't understand."

"I'm not afraid of anything!"

Guerrand arched one brow. "You don't sound fearless."

Cormac whirled on him. "How dare you? You know nothing of fear! Have you watched men die on your sword in battle? Have you struggled to maintain the lifestyle expected of a lord with more debt than income? No, you haven't." He thumped his chest. "I have. And because I've struggled for this family-for you-your life has been easy."

"Maybe I haven't killed a man, or even tried to understand your struggles," said Guerrand, "but neither do you know what my life has been like."

The young man stood, his face glowing. "Since Father died, I've toed the line-" he poked his brother's beefy shoulder "-your line-as best I could for the sake of family honor, because that's what Father taught me I must do. And I've 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 matter of 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 puzzled by his uncle's obtuse answer. "Then how did you and Kirah catch them?"

"It's a long story better told when we're both older." Guerrand found himself hugging his nephew's already broad shoulders fiercely, which surprised them both. He realized now that he'd spoken incorrectly about being the only male DiThon with a sense of honor. He only hoped Bram would be able to hold on to his. "You're a good person, Bram. Remember to always do what you know in your heart is right."

This strangely timed advice confused Bram even more. He looked at the older man oddly as they separated, then strode down the hallway toward the staircase. "I'll remember, Rand," he called just before disappearing from sight.

Guerrand hastened toward his room. The hand he placed on the latch was shaking. By the time he got inside, the anger that had held him up before Cormac had burned away like fuel oil. He felt weak-kneed and wanted only to collapse; he would have if his armor had not been still spread across his bed, where he had left it the night before.