Idiotic! Morgause thought. I will not blush before a boy his age! "If you would like to send Lochlann fishing, love, do so. He can be spared today, I suppose."

And she thought, she would like well to know what was really in Gwydion's mind, with his holiday tunic and his insistence that she should wear her finest gown and provide a good dinner. She called her housekeeper and said, "Master Gwydion would like a honey cake. See to it."

"He shall have his cake," said the housekeeper, with an indulgent look at the boy. "Look at his sweet face, like one of those angels, he is."

Angel. That is the last thing I would call him, thought Morgause; but she directed her woman to do her hair up with the gold coil. She would probably never learn what was on Gwydion's mind.

The day wore slowly along in its accustomed way. Morgause had wondered at times whether Gwydion had the Sight, but he had never shown any of the signs, and when once she asked him point-blank he had acted as if he did not know what she was talking about. And if he had, she thought, at least once she would have caught him bragging of it.

Ah, well. For some obscure child's reason, Gwydion had wanted a festival and had coaxed her into it. No doubt, with Gareth gone, he was lonely all the time-he had little in common with Lot's other sons. Nor did he have Gareth's passion for arms and knightly things, nor so far as she could tell, Morgaine's gift for music, though his voice was clear, and sometimes he would bring out a little set of pipes like those the shepherd lads played and make strange, mournful-sounding music. But it was not a passion as it had been with Morgaine, who would have sat happy all day at her harp if she could.

Still, he had a quick and retentive mind. For three years, Lot had sent for a learned priest from Iona to dwell in their house and teach the boy to read; he had said the priest was to teach Gareth too while he was about it, but Gareth had no mind to his book. He struggled obediently with letters and Latin, but no more than Gawaine-nor Morgause herself, for that matter-could he keep his mind fixed on written symbols or the mysterious tongue of those old Romans. Agravaine was quick enough-he kept all the tallies and accounts of the estate, he had a gift for numbering things; but Gwydion soaked up every bit of learning, it seemed, as quickly as it was put before him. Within a year he could read as well as the priest himself and speak in Latin as if he were one of those old Caesars reborn, so that for the first time Morgause wondered might there not be something, after all, in what the Druids said-that we were reborn again and again, learning more and more in each life.

He is such a son as should make his father proud, Morgause thought. And Arthur has no son at all by his queen. One day-yes, one day, I shall have a secret to tell Arthur, and then I can hold the King's conscience in my hand. The thought amused her vastly. She was surprised Morgaine had never used that hold she had on Arthur-she could have forced him to negotiate a marriage for her with the richest of his subject kings, could have had jewels, or power ... but Morgaine cared nothing for such things, only for her harp and for the nonsense the Druids talked. At least she, Morgause, would make better use of this unexpected power thrust into her hand.

She sat in her hall, dressed in her unaccustomed finery, carding the wool from the spring shearing, and making decisions: Gwydion must have a new cloak-he grew so fast, his old one was about his knees already and no good to him in the winter cold, and no doubt he would grow faster yet this year. Should she, perhaps, give him Agravaine's cloak, cut down a little, and make a new one for Agravaine? Gwydion, in his saffron holiday tunic, came and sniffed appreciatively as the scent of the honey cake, rich with spices, began to drift through the room, but he did not hang about to tease that it should be cut and that he should have a slice early, as he would have done only a few months ago. At midday he said, "Mother, I will have a piece of bread and cheese in my hand and I will be off to walk the boundaries -Agravaine said I should go and see if all the fences are in good order."

"Not in your holiday shoes," said Morgause.

"Certainly not. I will go barefoot," Gwydion said, unfastening his sandals and leaving them beside her near the hearth; he tucked up his tunic through his belt so that it was well above his knees, took up a stout stick, and was off, while Morgause frowned after him-this was not a task Gwydion ever took upon himself, no matter what Agravaine wanted! What was with the lad this day?

Lochlann came back after midday with a fine large fish, so heavy Morgause could not lift if, she surveyed it with pleasure-it would feed everyone who ate at the high table and there would be cold baked fish for three days. Cleaned, scented with herbs, it lay ready for the baking oven when Gwydion came in, his feet and hands scrubbed clean, his hair combed, and slipped his feet into his sandals again. He looked at the fish and smiled.

"Yes, indeed, it will be like a festival," he said with satisfaction.

"Have you done walking all the fences, foster-brother?" Agravaine asked, coming in from one of the barns where he had been doctoring a sick pony.

"I have, and they are mostly in good order," said Gwydion, "but at the very top of the north fells where we had the ewes last fall, there is a great hole in the fences where all the stones have fallen down. You must send men to fix it before you put any sheep to pasture there, and as for goats, they'd be away before you could speak to them!"

"You went all the way up there alone?" Morgause frowned at him in dismay. "You are not a goat-you could have fallen and broken a leg in the ravine and no one would have known for days! I have told you and told you, if you go up on the fells, take one of the shepherd lads with you!"

"I had my reasons for going alone," retorted Gwydion, with that stubborn set of his mouth, "and I saw what I wanted to see."

"What could you possibly see that would be worth risking some injury and lying there all alone for days?" demanded Agravaine crossly.

"I have never fallen yet," Gwydion said, "and if I did, it is I who would suffer for it. What is it to you, if I take my own risks?"

"I am your elder brother and ruler in this house," said Agravaine, "and you will show me some respect or I will knock it into you!"

"Perhaps if you knocked your head open, you could shove some sense inside it," Gwydion said pertly, "for sure, it will never grow there on its own-"

"You wretched little-"

"Aye, say it," Gwydion shouted, "mock me with my birth, you-I do not know my father's name, but I know who fathered you, and between the two I would rather be in my situation!"

Agravaine took a heavy step toward him, but Morgause quickly rose and thrust Gwydion behind her. "Don't tease the boy, Agravaine."

"If he always runs to hide behind your skirts, Mother, is it any wonder I cannot teach him to obey?" demanded Agravaine.

"It would take a better man than you to teach me that," Gwydion said, and Morgause drew back at the bitterness in his voice.

"Hush, hush, child-don't speak so to your brother," she admonished, and Gwydion said, "I am sorry, Agravaine-I should not have been rude to you."

He smiled up, his eyes big and lovely under dark lashes, the picture of a contrite child. Agravaine grumbled, "I am only thinking of your welfare, you young rascal-do you think I want you to break every bone in your body? And why would you take it into your head to climb the fells alone?"

"Well," said Gwydion, "otherwise you would not have known of the hole in the fences, and you might have pastured sheep there or even goats, and lost all of them. And I never tear my clothes-do I, Mother?"