The Winter Prince (The Lion Hunters:01)(14)

You need not think of me standing apart from the revelers and watching sullenly just beyond the circle of firelight, the slow cancer in the beating heart. I danced and drank with the rest of them. Late in the evening, when the dancing was over and we sat at our ease around the dying bonfires, I set off the colored flares I had from Cathay, and fire snappers that consume themselves with loud bursts of flame. I told the courageous story of Turunesh, the African woman who gave them to me, how she and her father Kidane had left Aksum and traveled halfway across the world to find such things. Those who were still awake listened with wonder and pleasure, so that I felt myself to be one of all, trusted, accepted, and admired among the high king’s companions.

Of the autumn and the following winter I remember little, only certain moments that are bright rimmed in my mind’s eye with the clarity of lightning. All were blows to the tumultuous feelings for Lleu that I fought to master, and the incidents formed a kind of pattern leading to the moment when Artos officially named his son prince of Britain. The earliest was after a day of hunting, when Lleu told me in a voice despising and superior, “You’re certainly bloodthirsty.”

Lleu did not hunt. That is, he rode with us, and helped to dress the meat, but his shots always went wide. At first I had thought he was simply a poor marksman, and I wondered that he had not been better trained. But it was difficult to believe that such a matchless swordsman could be so careless of precision with a bow in his hand. Lleu chose with purpose to miss his mark; he could kill, but would not. I answered, “Are you so noble, to let others kill your winter’s meat for you?”

To which Goewin added, “I like hunting—am I bloodthirsty too?”

“Don’t be silly,” Lleu said. “You aren’t so intent on the destruction of life as Medraut is.”

I at least can heal as well as kill.

Bloodthirst was not all that Goewin and I had in common. One autumn afternoon, while she was roaming the colonnaded porch that opens off the atrium, she came upon me sitting on the wide stone steps that lead down to the Queen’s Garden. I was fitting feathers to arrows, and Goewin sat next to me to watch. It is a task I enjoy, calling for deft hands, and perfect judgment and balance. Goewin sat companionably for a few minutes without speaking or interrupting me; then suddenly she asked, “How did you hurt your hand?”

I loo Custakiked at the hills in the distance for a moment, then glanced at her briefly. “Stag hunting on foot,” I said. I will not lie. “I was nearly killed. The bones of my fingers were… set badly, and had to be broken and set over again.”

She answered as coolly as I had spoken to her. “They don’t bother you.”

“No longer.”

“Your arrows are beautiful,” Goewin stated simply. I really did look at her then, and smiled a little in honest appreciation.

“I wasn’t changing the subject,” she added.

“I know,” I said. “But the hand looks worse than it is. It doesn’t hinder me.” I bent to my work and added in jest, “Though my arrows would be beautiful in any case.”

Goewin laughed. “You sound like Lleu.”

“How?”

“Sure of yourself. Lleu is so sure of himself! How do you bear his insults and commands with such grace? Sometimes he makes me want to strike him.”

“Well… Diana and Apollo may quarrel,” I said.

“Who are they?” Goewin asked, interested.

I smiled. “The old Roman goddess and god of the moon and sun. They’re twins, like you. There is a story where they argue over which of them is the better archer; there is not much doubt in your case.”

“Who will notice Lleu’s poor aim,” Goewin said, “now that he can defend himself against Britain’s greatest swordsman?”

“You’re not jealous?” I asked.

Goewin scooped a handful of brown, dry leaves from the flagstones and spread them over her skirt. It was a gown she had worn for two years, and was too short for her. In spite of the chill she was barefoot. But no one ever scolded her for that as they did Lleu; suddenly I saw her a little neglected. “No,” she answered me. “After all, I could never manage a sword.” She scattered the leaves about her dusty feet. “Only…”

“Only you could manage a kingdom,” I said.

In a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, Goewin said, “Yes. I think I could.”

“You see, Princess,” I said quietly, “you and I are not so different.”