and trained in such numbers as are commensurate with the lands and titles I choose to bestow upon you?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘And do you swear to honour me in whatever task I set before you?’
‘Unless death prevents me, I do so swear.’
Beulah was almost taken aback by the deviation from the set protocol, but delighted at Clun’s new-found confidence. She could tell by the murmuring of the collected witnesses that they approved. Good. It would make her next proclamation easier for them to accept.
Bending forward to the still-kneeling Clun, she touched the shimmering blade of light to his left shoulder, then his right, smelling the slightest odour of singeing cloth and leaving two almost imperceptible dark lines on the simple shirt that he wore.
‘Then rise, Clun Defaid, Duke of Abervenn.’
Clun stood slowly as the murmurs fluttered back and forth through the hall. There were some among the crowd who thought him perhaps too young to take on the responsibilities of a whole province, others who saw in his elevation a fairy story turned real.
‘Now take my blade, my love.’ Beulah whispered the words just for Clun as she held out her hand, offering him the blade of light. His eyes widened in surprise. This had
not been a part of the ceremony he had rehearsed with Padraig the night before. She smiled at him, then released her control, directing the flow of the Grym towards him. An unskilled peasant would likely have been burned alive from the inside, but he caught it naturally, as if he had been practising all his life. Beulah could see the near panic in his face as he realized what he was holding. She didn’t need to skim the edge of his thoughts. But she took his free hand, turned him to face the crowd, which stood silent, enthralled.
‘Duke Clun has proven himself worthy as my protector.’ She pitched her voice to thunder through the hall, drawing power from the throne even though she wasn’t sitting in it. The moment was perfect. She felt like she could have taken on the whole of Llanwennog single-handed.
‘Now hear me, all of you, when I make this proclamation. Today will be a day of celebration for the new Duke of Abervenn. Tomorrow will begin two weeks of festivities, at the end of which I will take this man as my consort.’
Errol slipped into the ice-cold water, shuddering as it rose to his waist, his chest and finally his neck. Downstream of the ford it deepened rapidly, the flow slowing into a long pool. Taking the weight off his ankles was bliss, but the main reason for this morning dip was hygiene. He swam to the opposite side and ripped off some of the soft grass that overhung the bank, tearing it in his hands and pulping it as best he could to form a basic soap. Kneeling in the shallows, he scrubbed at his skin until he began to feel
clean, trying to remember the last time he had bathed properly.
The sun had broken over the treetops and was shining down on the flat rocks closer to the ford and the waterfall. Errol let it dry him, the light breeze causing involuntary shivers to run across his bare skin even though he drew warmth from the Grym. Then he turned his attention to his clothes.
His shirt was frayed and thin, crusted with ingrained dirt and blood; a ragged tear ripped the fabric where Beulah had stabbed him. He plunged it into the cold water then laid it flat on the rock, using a smooth stone to try and work out the worst of the stains. He was pummelling away at the blood on his breeches when Corwen appeared.
‘Is it worth all the effort?’ the old dragon asked.
‘I’ve nothing else to wear.’ Errol thought of his novitiate’s robes hanging in their locker in the monastery at Emmass Fawr; the selection of unfashionable but well made and hard-wearing clothes in the chest in the back room in his mother’s cottage. ‘And I can’t wander around naked.’
‘Dragons do.’
Errol laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose they do. But I’m not a dragon. I don’t have thick scales to
‘I do so swear.’
‘And do you swear to honour me in whatever task I set before you?’
‘Unless death prevents me, I do so swear.’
Beulah was almost taken aback by the deviation from the set protocol, but delighted at Clun’s new-found confidence. She could tell by the murmuring of the collected witnesses that they approved. Good. It would make her next proclamation easier for them to accept.
Bending forward to the still-kneeling Clun, she touched the shimmering blade of light to his left shoulder, then his right, smelling the slightest odour of singeing cloth and leaving two almost imperceptible dark lines on the simple shirt that he wore.
‘Then rise, Clun Defaid, Duke of Abervenn.’
Clun stood slowly as the murmurs fluttered back and forth through the hall. There were some among the crowd who thought him perhaps too young to take on the responsibilities of a whole province, others who saw in his elevation a fairy story turned real.
‘Now take my blade, my love.’ Beulah whispered the words just for Clun as she held out her hand, offering him the blade of light. His eyes widened in surprise. This had
not been a part of the ceremony he had rehearsed with Padraig the night before. She smiled at him, then released her control, directing the flow of the Grym towards him. An unskilled peasant would likely have been burned alive from the inside, but he caught it naturally, as if he had been practising all his life. Beulah could see the near panic in his face as he realized what he was holding. She didn’t need to skim the edge of his thoughts. But she took his free hand, turned him to face the crowd, which stood silent, enthralled.
‘Duke Clun has proven himself worthy as my protector.’ She pitched her voice to thunder through the hall, drawing power from the throne even though she wasn’t sitting in it. The moment was perfect. She felt like she could have taken on the whole of Llanwennog single-handed.
‘Now hear me, all of you, when I make this proclamation. Today will be a day of celebration for the new Duke of Abervenn. Tomorrow will begin two weeks of festivities, at the end of which I will take this man as my consort.’
Errol slipped into the ice-cold water, shuddering as it rose to his waist, his chest and finally his neck. Downstream of the ford it deepened rapidly, the flow slowing into a long pool. Taking the weight off his ankles was bliss, but the main reason for this morning dip was hygiene. He swam to the opposite side and ripped off some of the soft grass that overhung the bank, tearing it in his hands and pulping it as best he could to form a basic soap. Kneeling in the shallows, he scrubbed at his skin until he began to feel
clean, trying to remember the last time he had bathed properly.
The sun had broken over the treetops and was shining down on the flat rocks closer to the ford and the waterfall. Errol let it dry him, the light breeze causing involuntary shivers to run across his bare skin even though he drew warmth from the Grym. Then he turned his attention to his clothes.
His shirt was frayed and thin, crusted with ingrained dirt and blood; a ragged tear ripped the fabric where Beulah had stabbed him. He plunged it into the cold water then laid it flat on the rock, using a smooth stone to try and work out the worst of the stains. He was pummelling away at the blood on his breeches when Corwen appeared.
‘Is it worth all the effort?’ the old dragon asked.
‘I’ve nothing else to wear.’ Errol thought of his novitiate’s robes hanging in their locker in the monastery at Emmass Fawr; the selection of unfashionable but well made and hard-wearing clothes in the chest in the back room in his mother’s cottage. ‘And I can’t wander around naked.’
‘Dragons do.’
Errol laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose they do. But I’m not a dragon. I don’t have thick scales to
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