“Who are you?” Cynan demanded, pushing past me into the room. The sword in his hand trembled in his clenched fist, he gripped it so hard.
“You want them freed?” the Brazen Man shouted suddenly, taking a swift sidestep. “Free them yourselves.” He put out his hand and extended a bronze-mailed finger, pointing to a spot on the floor surrounded by torches. “Do what you will.”
I looked where he pointed and saw two keys in an iron ring lying on the stone-flagged floor. Glancing quickly at the cell doors, I saw that they had been recently fitted with new brass locks.
With a nod to Cynan, we moved forward cautiously. My silver hand began to throb with cold, sending sharp pains up my arm. I gritted my teeth and stepped closer, spear ready. The keys had been placed in the center of a knotwork design, the figure outlined on the floor in lines of fine black ash and bits of bone—the ash of burnt sacrifice, I supposed. The braziers burned with a bitter smoke.
“What is it?” Cynan wondered. “Do you know?”
The sign was a crude parody of the Môr Cylch, the Life Maze, but it was backwards and broken, the lines haphazard, erratic. All the elegance and beauty of the original had been willfully marred.
“It is a charm of some sort,” I told Cynan.
“I am not afraid of a mark on the floor,” he sneered. Before I could stop him, Cynan pushed past me and stooped to grab the keys. Upon entering the circle, however, he was gripped by an instant paralysis, caught and unable to move. “Llew!” he cried, through quick-clenched teeth in a frozen jaw. “Help me!”
I glanced at the bronze-clad man. His eyes glittered hard and black behind the brazen mask. “Oh, help him, yes.” The brazen snake almost hissed. “By all means, do help him.” Then he laughed.
I knew the laugh. I had heard it too many times before not to recognize it now. He laughed again and removed every last crumb of doubt, confirmed every suspicion.
“Enough, Simon!” I shouted. “Let him go.”
Lifting a bronze gauntlet to his chin, the man lifted the metal mask and took off his helmet. The face was pale, deathly pale, and thin, wasted. The flesh seemed almost transparent; blue veins snaked his eyelids and the skin of his throat. He looked like a ghost, a wraith, but there was no mistaking the set of his chin, nor the hatred smoldering in his eyes.
“Siawn Hy,” he corrected and stepped closer. My silver hand throbbed; icy spikes stabbed into my flesh.
“I made that for you,” Siawn said, indicating the circle on the floor. “But I like it better this way. Just you and me. Face-to-face.”
He stood before me and drew his bronze-mailed glove from his left hand, then slowly raised it to his forehead, palm outward. It was a bardic gesture—I had seen Tegid do it many times—but as he turned his hand I saw on the palm, carved into the very flesh, the image of an eye.
Siawn loosed a string of words in a tongue I did not know. I could not take my eyes from the symbol carved into the flesh of his palm. The skin was thickly scarred, but the cuts were fresh and a little blood oozed from the wound.
He spoke again, and the muscles in my arms and legs stiffened. My back and shoulders felt like blocks of wood. Locked in this strange seizure, I could not move. The spear fell from my fingers and clattered on the floor; my limbs grew instantly rigid. More words poured from Siawn’s mouth, a dizzying torrent to drown all resistance, a dark chant of wicked power. My breath flowed from my mouth and lungs. Cynan, immobile beside me, made a strangled, whimpering noise.
Someone screamed my name—Goewyn, I think. But I could not see her. I could not close my eyes or look away. The evil eye drew all thought and volition to itself; it seemed to burn itself into my mind as Siawn Hy’s words swirled around me, now buzzing like insects, now rasping like crows. My breath became labored, halting, but my vision grew keen.
The ancient evil of Tir Aflan . . . this was how Siawn Hy had awakened it, and he now wielded it as a weapon. But there existed a power far more pointed than he would ever know.
Goodly-Wise is the Many-Gifted, I thought, who upholds all that call upon him. Uphold me now!
In the same moment, I felt the Penderwydd’s sacred awen quicken within me. Like the unfurling of a sail, my spirit slipped from its constricting bonds. A word, a name formed on my tongue, and I spoke it out: “Dagda . . . Samildanac . . .”
Up from my throat it came, leaping from my tongue, in a shout. “Dagda Samildanac!”
Searing bolts of icy fire streaked from my silver hand, up my arm and into my shoulder. Whatever the source of the power Siawn possessed, it could not quench the cold fire flame in my silver hand: the smooth silver surface glowed white; the intricate-patterned maze-work of the Dance of Life shone with a fiery golden light.
Siawn’s voice boomed in my ears as he moved closer, barking the words. I saw the hideous eye carved into the flesh of Siawn’s palm as he reached to touch me with it, to mark me with that hideous symbol.
“By the power of the Swift Sure Hand, I resist you,” I said, and raised my silver hand, pressing my palm flat against his.
He screamed, jerking his palm away from mine. Threads of smoke rose from the wound on his hand. Air flowed back into my lungs, and with it the smell of burning flesh. Siawn Hy staggered backwards moaning, cradling his injured hand. The red wound on his palm had been obliterated, the obscene stigmata cauterized; in place of the evil eye was the branded imprint of the Môr Cylch, the Life Maze.
Suddenly free, I leapt to Cynan’s aid, knelt beside him, drew a deep breath, and blew the black ash away, breaking the power of the charm. Cynan fell forward onto his arms and sprang quickly to his feet. “Brother, that was well done!”
I grabbed the keys. “Watch him!” I commanded Cynan.
“Gladly!” Cynan raised his word and advanced on the stricken Siawn, pressing the blade into the base of his throat.
I ran to the iron-bound doors, thrust a key into the first lock and turned. The lock gave grudgingly and I pulled with all my might; the hinges complained, but the door swung open. Goewyn burst from her prison and caught me in a crushing embrace. I kissed her face and lips and neck, and felt her lips flitting over my face. She kept repeating my name over and over as she kissed me.
“You are free, my love,” I told her. “It is over. You are safe now. You are free.”
I held her to me again, and she gave a little cry and pulled away. Her hands went to her stomach, now swelling noticeably beneath her stained and filthy mantle. I put my hand to the softly rounded mound to feel the life within.
“Are you well? Did he hurt you?” I had refused the thought of her suffering for so long that belated concern now overwhelmed me.
Goewyn smiled; her face was pale and drawn, but her eyes were clear and glowing with love and happiness. “No,” she said cupping her hand to my face. “He told me things—terrible things.” Tears welled up suddenly in her eyes and splashed down her cheeks. “But he did not hurt me. I think Tángwen is safe too.”
Cynan, holding Siawn Hy at the point of his sword, turned at the mention of his wife’s name. The sword point wavered as his eyes shifted to the door of her cell. Wrapped in Goewyn’s embrace, glancing over her shoulder I saw the door swing open. Cynan’s first response was elation. And then the full significance of the unlocked cell hit him.
The joy on his face turned sickly and died. His eyes grew wide with horror.
“Treachery!” he cried.
The door to Tángwen’s cell banged open and armed men charged out of its dark depths and into the room. Cynan was already moving toward them, sword raised. Siawn reacted with blinding speed: his foot snaked out and Cynan pitched forward. He hit the stone floor with a crack; his blade flew from his grasp and skittered across the floor.
A heartbeat later, four men were on his back and four more, with Paladyr chief among them, came for me. I thrust Goewyn behind me, shielding her with my body and drawing the knife Scatha had given me. But I was too late. They were on me. Paladyr’s blade pricked the skin of my thr
oat.
Two more foeman caught Goewyn and held her by the arms. Just then, Tángwen, smug with victory, emerged from her cell. “One should always be careful who one marries,” Siawn said, as Tángwen came to stand beside him.
“What I did, I did for my father and for my brothers,” Tángwen exulted. “They rode with Meldron, and you cut them down. The blood debt will be satisfied.”
Siawn, still cradling his branded hand, stalked forward, laughing. He came to stand before me, his face the terrible, twisted leer of a demon. He spat a command to one of his minions, and the man disappeared into the shadows somewhere behind me. “So you begin to see at last.”
“Let the others go, Siawn,” I said. “It is me you want. Take me and let the others go.”
“I have you, friend,” he jeered. “I have you all.”
Just then there arose a commotion from the far corner of the room. A door opened behind me—I could not see it, but I heard the hinges grind—and in shuffled Tegid, Gwion, Bran, and the Ravens, handbound all of them, with chains on their feet and a guard for each one. Tegid’s face was bruised and his clothing torn in several places; Bran and Drustwn could not stand upright, and Garanaw’s arm dangled uselessly at his side. My proud Raven Flight appeared to have been battered into bloody submission. Behind them came Weston and four other strangers, looking frightened and very confused.
Upon seeing me, Bran cried out and struggled forward; the other Ravens shouted and turned on their captors, but all were clubbed with the butts of spears and dragged back into line.
“You see?” Siawn Hy gloated. “You never fully appreciated me, did you? Well, you have underestimated me for the last time, friend.” The word was a curse in his mouth.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I said, speaking loudly and fighting to keep my voice calm. “My war band is waiting at the gate. They are invincible. If anything happens to any of us, you will die. That is a fact.”
If Siawn Hy cared, he did not show it; my words moved several of his warriors, however. Paladyr’s sword relaxed.
“It is true, lord,” he said. “We cannot hope to defeat them.”
Siawn waved aside the remark. “But I am not interested in defeating them,” he replied casually. “I am only interested in defeating the Silver Hand.”
“Then let the others go,” I said again. “Once they are free, I will command the war band to allow you safe passage. Without my word, none of you leave this place alive.”
“Listen to him, lord,” Paladyr said; a note of uncertainty had come into his voice.
“What is he saying?” demanded Weston, his voice an almost incoherent babble in my ears. He started forward. “I demand to know what is going on! You said there wouldn’t be any trouble. You said it was all under control.”
“Get back!” Siawn snarled in the stranger’s tongue. “I gave you what you wanted. Now it is my turn. That was the agreement.”
“Some of my men have been killed,” Weston whined. “What am I supposed to do ab—”
“Shut up!” Siawn growled, cutting him off with a chop of his hand. He turned to me once more. “If I let the others walk free, you will give us all safe conduct to leave—is that right?”
“I give you my word,” I vowed. “But they go free first.”
“No, Llew,” Goewyn pleaded softly. “I will not leave you.”
Siawn chuckled. “Oh, I am enjoying this.”
“The war band is waiting,” I told him. “They will not wait forever.”
“Do you think I care about any of that?” he mocked. “I will not be ordered about by my own prisoner.” He brought his face close to mine, breathing hard. The veins stood out on his neck and forehead. “Your word is nothing to me! You are nothing to me. I have had nothing but grief from you ever since you came here. But that is about to end, old friend.”
He backed away from me. “Do it!” he yelled.
“What do you want us to do, lord?” Paladyr asked.
“Kill him!” Siawn cried.
Paladyr hesitated.
“Do it!” Siawn shouted again.
Paladyr’s head whipped around; he glared at Siawn. “No.” He lowered the blade and stepped aside. “Let the others go free, or they will kill us.”
“Paladyr!” The voice was Tegid’s; the bard had waited for precisely this moment to speak. “Hear me now! You claimed naud, and Llew gave it,” he said, reminding Paladyr that he owed his life to me. “He did not lie to you then; he is not lying now. Release us all and you will not be harmed.”
“Silence him!” screamed Siawn Hy. I heard a crack, and Tegid slumped to the floor.
“I gave you your life, Paladyr,” I said.
“He is lying!” insisted Siawn. “Kill him!”
Paladyr shook his head slowly. “No. He is telling the truth.”
“Siawn Hy!” I said. “Take me, and let the others go.” To show I meant what I said, I turned the knife in my hand, took the blade, and offered him the handle.
“Oh, very well,” snarled Siawn Hy. He snatched the knife and half-turned away. Then, with a quick, catlike movement, he lunged into me. The blade came up sharp and caught me in the center of the chest just below the ribs. I did not even feel it go in.
Goewyn screamed and fought free. She ran two steps toward me, but Paladyr turned and caught her by the arm and held her fast.
I looked down to see the sharp blade biting into my flesh. With a cry of delight, Siawn thrust the knife deeper. I felt a burning sensation under my ribs and then my lung collapsed. Air and blood sputtered from the wound. Siawn forced the blade deeper still and then released it. The three men holding me stepped away.
My legs grew suddenly weak and spongy. I lifted my foot to take a step, and the floor crashed up against my knees. My hands found the knife hilt, grasped it and pulled. It felt as if a beacon fire had been lit under my chest and was now burning outwards. I flung the knife from me.
Blood, hot and dark, welled from the wound, spilling over my hands. A dark mist gathered at the periphery of my vision, but I was conscious of everything around me: Siawn staring at me with wicked glee; Cynan fighting with all his might, still pinned to the ground by Siawn’s men; Paladyr grim and silent, clutching Goewyn’s arm.
My throat tickled, and I opened my mouth to cough, but could not. My breath rasped in my throat. My mouth was dry—as if the fire in my chest was devouring me from within. I gasped, but could get no air. A strange, sucking sound came from my throat.
I put out my hand to support myself, but my elbow buckled and I rolled onto my side. Goewyn jerked her arm from Paladyr’s grasp and ran to me. She gathered me in her arms. “Llew! Oh, Llew!” She wept, her warm tears falling onto my face. “Llew, my soul . . .”
I gazed up at her face. It was all I could see now. Though she wept, she was beautiful. A flood of memory washed over me. It seemed as if all I had endured in her pursuit was nothing—less than nothing— beside her. I loved her so much, I ached to tell it, but could not. The burning stopped, and I felt instead a chill numbness in my chest. I tried to sit up, but my legs would not move. Instead, I raised my hand to Goewyn’s face and stroked her cheek with trembling fingers.
“Goewyn, best beloved,” I said; my voice came out as a dry whisper. “I love you . . . farewell . . .”
Goewyn, tears streaming from her eyes, lowered her face to mine. Her lips, warm and alive, imparting a final sweet caress, was the last sensation I knew.
Darkness descended over me. Though my eyes continued to stare, I could see nothing for the black mist that billowed over and around me, swallowing me down and down. It seemed that I was floating and falling at the same time. I heard Goewyn weeping, saying my name, and then I heard a roaring crash like that of the sea rolling in upon a far-off shore.
The sound grew until I could hear nothing else. It grew so great that I thought my head would burst with the pressure of the noise. For one terrible instant I feared the sound would consume me, obliterate me. I resisted, though how
I resisted, I do not know. I could not move, could not speak or see.
But when I thought I could not bear it anymore, the sound stopped abruptly and the dark mist cleared. I could see and hear again, more clearly than I ever had before. I could see, but now saw everything from slightly above and outside my normal view. I saw Goewyn bent over me, cradling my still body in her lap, her shoulders heaving as she wept. I saw Siawn and Tángwen looking on, their faces flushed with a hideous gloating pride. I saw Paladyr standing a little apart, subdued, his arms hanging limp at his sides. I saw the Ravens and Tegid, stunned and staggered at the atrocity they were powerless to prevent.
I saw Cynan lying on the floor, enemies kneeling on his back as he raged against my death. I felt sorry for him. His wife had betrayed us all to Siawn, had deceived us from the beginning; he would bear the burden of that shame for the rest of his life, a fate he did not deserve. Through all things he was my good friend; I would have liked to bid him farewell. Peace, brother, I said, but he did not hear me.
Siawn turned and ordered his men to bind Cynan. Then he turned to Paladyr. “Pick up the body and carry it outside,” he commanded.
Paladyr stepped forward, but Goewyn clutched me tighter and screamed, “No! No! Do not touch him!”
“I am sorry,” he mumbled as he bent over her.
“Take her!” shouted Siawn. Two of his minions scurried forward, grabbed Goewyn, and tore her from me. Shouting, crying, she fought them, but they held her tight and pulled her away.
Paladyr knelt and gathered my corpse into his arms. Straining, he lifted my limp body and held it.
“Follow me!” Siawn Hy barked. He turned on his heel and started from the room, taking a torch from a nearby sconce as he passed.
At the vestibule, Siawn paused and let Paladyr pass. “They are waiting for their king,” he smirked. “They shall have him.”
Paladyr carried me out of the hall, across the empty courtyard, and out of the gate to the war band gathered beyond. Behind him came Siawn and Tángwen, followed by Cynan and Goewyn, both with a guard on either arm, though the fight had gone out of Cynan, and the guards had to support Goewyn to keep her upright. Tegid and the Ravens marched boldly forth, quickly recovering something of their dignity and mettle. Lastly came Weston and his hirelings, edging their way with fearful and uncertain steps.
The Endless Knot Page 38
