A Song for Arbonne

by Guy Gavriel Kay

He was a dancer with the bulls, moving with their movements, in flight now over the horns of his fate.

Arbonne, where they were godless and heretical, ruled by women and womanish men steeped in their blood-soaked rites.

Thy table set with rarest wine, Choice meats, sweet ripened fruit And candlelight when we dine In Fionvarre. On we two the high stars will shine And the holy moon lend her light. If not here you wilt be mine In Fionvarre.

the sirnal—the north wind that swept down the Arbonne Valley with the bitter force of winter behind it.

The mistral?

The men of Arbonne are cowards, they are woman-mastered, cuckolded as a matter of course by their own musicians and barnyard servants. What, Galbert de Garsenc asks, what will such soft men do when they come face to face with the assembled might of Gorhaut sweeping down upon them with the power of the god?