“Your brother? Which?” I knew both Tristan’s brothers, of course—half-brothers, older than he, from his mother’s first marriage. The elder, Taran, had already inherited his father’s small kingdom; the younger, Owain, was much closer to Tristan’s age, and had been part of our childhood group of playmates.
Tristan hesitated. “I did not wish to speak of this where there were any chance the dragon might overhear. You are quite certain he is in the stable?”
“I do not think he could possibly leave it, in his condition. But if you prefer, I will send Genevieve with more stew for him, to be certain.”
He did prefer, and so I did send Genevieve. She returned, and nodded; all was well.
“Very well, then, Tristan,” I said, “what is it you wish to say about your brother that Braith must not hear?”
