"A little while it has been since I have seen you last," observes Bran Davies, unsmiling. Bran has left his harp in Bar's protection, but he is hardly defenseless. The ancient sword whose sheath hangs from Bran's belt may perhaps be familiar to the lady Anghared of Northgalis.
Familiar indeed. She turns to look at him, a cold smile curving her lips, but as she sees the sword in its scabbard shock is vividly clear on her face.
"He did not cross the doorway, you see," Bran answers, his calm unbroken. "He stood at the other side, in his kingdom beyond the North Wind, for long enough to bring my mother there. And to speak to us, and to pass me Caliburn."
Bran shrugs. "I have been invited before, and I could very well have gone this time. But I have work yet to do in Time, in the world where I grew up. And here, too." His lips twist in the old arrogant smile. "I am afraid I am not leaving so soon, not even to make it easier for you."
"Foolish boy," she answers, whisper-soft. "Foolish as your teacher, and so very proud. Not all the pretty metal in the world or out of it will be enough, when the time comes."
"You have said things very like that before," Bran observes. "After thousands of years, I suppose one must repeat the same insults over again. Shame, really."
"I am sure you do mean it, but you may be wrong. I look forward to the test." Bran favors Blodwen Rowlands with a grim smile and walks away, Caliburn swinging gently by his side.
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"Where did you get that?"
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"A pity it is, that you did not go with them."
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