“As good as any,” Aslak agreed, bowing slightly in deference to her.
“I long ago lost my taste for courtly conduct, Aslak.” Alwen set herself primly on the edge of the other rock and waited for him to sit. “And apparently my aptitude. You’ll forgive me if I forget my manners.”
Aslak settled his bulk across from her. “There’s no call for ceremony with me, nor the nerves, neither. If anything, it is I who should be fretting over first impressions.”
“You flatter me.” Alwen managed a smile, but the suspense had begun to take hold of her. She was eager to get to the point. “Well then, Aslak. What news?”
For the first time, his face took on the gravity of the occasion. “I must ask you to indulge me a moment more. There is one thing I must do before we begin.”
“Anything,” she offered. “Anything at all.”
“I daresay I would know you anywhere.” He smiled. “You are the same flawless, fair-haired girl of twenty that I remember. There is no doubt in my mind that you are Alwen of Pwll, High Sorceress of the Stewardry, and guardian of the realms. No doubt at all. All the same, I am required to examine that amulet of yours.”
Alwen’s fingers instinctively reached for the silver and lapis pendant at her throat. She hesitated a moment, but only because she had never removed it. From the moment it had been placed round her neck, it had been more than a symbol of her rule over the spiritual realm. It was the lifeline to her past. “Of course.”
She unfastened the clasp on the chain and handed it to Aslak. He cradled the amulet in his hand and then tumbled the silver casing in his palm, as if feeling for balance and bulk. Turning the pendant face up, Aslak held the stone into the stray sunlight that filtered through the clouds. Apparently satisfied that the gem was true, he flipped the casing over and drew the metal close to his eye.
The sovereign’s mark, she thought. Aslak was looking for the tiny visage of a bearded wizard encircled by a wreath of oak leaves hidden in the scrollwork on the back of the amulet. “It is there.”
Her words stopped him midpeer and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Indeed.”
Aslak lowered the pendant and turned his eyes toward her. “That you know the mark is there is enough for me, Alwen of Pwll. It is such a closely guarded secret that I did not know of it myself until Madoc charged me with recovering you.”
Alwen retrieved the amulet and fastened it again round her neck. “Madoc meant that it should serve as proof against forgery, but I know every facet of this pendant,” she explained. “Every crevice and curve. In the beginning I spent hours searching for secret magic in the stone, or some hidden message in the design.”
“And what did you find?”
Alwen found comfort in Aslak’s warm smile and his confident bearing. The more time she spent in his company, the more she recalled of his kindly nature, and the more he reminded her of another gentle giant. “I am still searching.”
Aslak pulled a small parchment scroll from a hidden pouch beneath his tunic and held it out to her. “Perhaps this will help.”
Alwen could only nod as she accepted the parchment. Sealing wax roughed against her palm and she turned the scroll to see the imprint, knowing without looking what she would find.
“It bears Madoc’s seal,” she whispered. The sound of his name spoken aloud after so many years kept safe in silence almost frightened her.
“Aye. It does,” said Aslak. “I hope it gives you some assurance that I am who I say I am.”
Alwen felt herself smile. “I am fully assured, Aslak. Am I to read this now?”
“Madoc’s words to you are a private matter, though what I have come to say might offer some insight.”
She raised the scroll. “I assume this is the summoning.”
“It is,” said Aslak. “Hywel, son of Cadell, has arrived at the eve of his ascension, as it was foretold. The time has come for you and the other guardians to return to Cymru to safeguard his succession and secure his reign. With the four of you as his divine council, Hywel will unite the three kingdoms and, one day, bring a true and lasting peace. I expect anything else you need to know is on that parchment.”
The enormity of the calling she was about to face rendered her speechless. Finding the words to express what she felt was like trying to pluck the clouds from the air.
“I hope you can forgive my befuddled haze, Aslak. You’d think I would be more prepared.”
“How else should I expect to find you after all these years?” Aslak offered her a look filled with compassion. “Madoc never intended that your time in hiding should be a time of suffering. Naturally you would seek to thrive, to grow wise in the world and its ways. All the better for serving the king and the Stewardry, when the time came. By the looks of things, I’d say you’ve done well.”
“Yes,” Alwen spoke with pride, thinking of her children and their father. “It has been a lifetime. Twenty years exiled, hiding my true self. But Norvik is an unassuming place, a welcome place for one like me. Though it has not been easy, Aslak.” She flashed a sly smile. “I am made of magic, after all.”
Aslak’s unrestrained grin pleased her. “So you are, Mistress.”
“What of the others?” she asked abruptly, turning the conversation back to the business at hand. Alwen could scarcely recall them now. They were four in all, sister sorceresses who were not really sisters at all. Bred of the same ilk but not of the same seed, and each of them possessed of a unique elemental magic — a distinct arc in a universal circle which could only be complete when they were rejoined. Just like her, the others had all been sent into hiding to await the call. “Who of them has returned?”
“None, yet. I have come for you first, at Madoc’s behest.”
“I see.” Alwen could not imagine why Madoc would make such a request, but she understood that there was significance in it. It was then that Alwen sensed in Aslak the suppressed desire to speak some secret thought. She’d been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice before. “What is it, Aslak?”
Aslak’s smile straightened, as did his posture. One eyebrow arched, as if he had been caught unaware and worry wriggled into her mind. When Aslak did not answer readily, Alwen entered his thoughts.
While she had not yet fully mastered the manipulation of minds, she did possess the power to force her way in. This, however, was a violation that Alwen felt should only be used in the most necessary circumstances, and only then when all else had failed. Rather, she would encourage his disclosure by assuaging his conflicting emotions. A less intrusive use of her skills, most akin to an intimate empathy, the kind of connection one might have with a lover or a child she had borne. After several long minutes and a difficult inner struggle, she felt Aslak relent.
“I will speak on this if for no other reason than for you to be forewarned.” Aslak adopted a more sober attitude as he faced her, and the casual familiarity between them was replaced with deference due her rank. Alwen recognized these as signs of respect for her power, though the display was not as appealing as she had expected it would be.
“The young king in waiting is plagued by his enemies and his crown will be threatened from the day he accepts it. Though Madoc prepares, already there are forces at work against us. No one can require your return, not even Madoc. Only you or one of your bloodline can claim your place on the council, but it must be your choice. You are free to accept or deny your claim to the guardianship and send me on my way, but know that you are needed, Alwen.”
“Refuse?” Alwen scoffed. “I would no more deny my calling than my own existence.”
But therein, she realized, lay an unacknowledged irony. One that Aslak had already considered. Returning to the life she had left behind required she leave behind the life she had come to love. Aslak wondered whether she had reconciled herself.
“Rest assured, Aslak, I am ready,” she avowed, with the certainty of a long-held conviction. “When do we go?”
Four
Alwen poured a
cupful of aleberry from the small pot she kept warming in the coals and settled herself onto the chair beside the rock-rimmed fire pit dug into the center of the two-room house she shared with her daughter. Rhys had taken to quartering with Fergus, as much to escape her mothering as for the freedom it afforded him. Alwen was grateful to find solitude, however little it might last. She sipped absently at the spiced wine, meditating on the glowing alder embers in the hearth.
It had been a full day and even more was promised on the morrow. These were the last hours she would spend in Norvik. Aslak was prepared to leave at dawn and there was much yet to do. But for a moment, or maybe two, Alwen decided to sit in the stillness that fell with dusk, hoping to quell the many voices in her head. And perhaps, for just a little while, she could abdicate her thoughts and defer her responsibilities.
The aleberry was not much of a healing brew this night. Two full cups later, Alwen found herself still feeling plagued by restless thoughts. Apparently she had rendered herself temporarily immune to the aleberry’s numbing magic. The more she tried to quiet her mind, the more agitated she became.
Alwen sighed and lifted her feet onto a squatty three-legged stool, only to be distracted by the rustle of parchment against cloth. Madoc’s letter was yet to be read, and a better time would never come. Lifting the skirt folds of her woolen apron dress, Alwen pulled the vellum roll from a lambskin pouch sewn into the hem of her linen underskirt.
The single sheet took on the weight of rock in her hands. Great words awaited her, the sovereign’s words. With a snap of her fingers, Alwen brought the embers in the hearth to flame. The fire brightened the room, but it was still too dim for reading.
“Alight.”
A single word, and the wicks of two oil lamps mounted on the wall beside her began to burn. In the privacy of her hut she could risk this little bit of magic. Soon she would be free to spin spells without worry. Alwen was tired of hiding.
With bated breath, Alwen slit the seal with the nail of her forefinger and settled back into the chair. As she uncurled the scroll, a swarm of emotion whelmed her. The paper smelled of ink dust and pipe smoke, of tallow and sweet tea. The familiar scents tickled her senses and long-dormant memories flared. Visions of home came alive and tears of longing filled her eyes. Reminiscence appeared in her mind’s eye so crystal and purely preserved it was as though it had all occurred only moments ago.
She saw Madoc, just as he had been on that last, long-ago night, gnarled and white capped by his years and yet still imperious as he paced the floor of his chambers. His voice rang in her mind with the clarity of presence rather than past. So real were his touch on her cheek and his whisper in her ear that she nearly reached into the fire as Madoc extended his arms toward her.
The fate of our world rests in your hands.
So the letter began. Madoc’s message, inked in his distinctive hand, somehow made the summoning far more real. Alwen’s hands trembled so roughly that she could hardly hold the page steady enough to read. Her mouth had gone too dry for even the aleberry to wet it, although she emptied her cup again in the vain attempt.
The rest of the message was simple, succinct — and commanding. Hywel was soon to gain control of all the great kingdoms of the land. Once he was seated as high king, the pledge of the prophecy would come to pass. It was foretold that Hywel’s would be a lasting legacy, more eternal than the lineage he would produce. Before his death he would set forth a codicil that would decree the first abiding law of his land. Through this law, true peace would come. But first he would have to survive a reign threatened at every turn. A Stewards council would be sent to sustain him, to guide him through treachery and see him safely to his destiny. Madoc had discovered that Hywel’s enemies were gathering strength and resources, and Alwen was to return with haste.
These were the words she had awaited all these years in Norvik. Though they were merely ink lines on paper, she could feel Madoc’s sentience through them. His feelings of urgency underscored her own, and anxiety was suddenly a sensation so strong it was palatable.
Familiar voices outside her door interrupted her thoughts, signaling an end to her privacy. Alwen quickly folded the parchment back into the hem of her skirt, refilled her cup from the pot in the hearth, and then sat back to wait. Soon enough, Eirlys slipped inside and quietly latched the door, unaware at first that she was watched.
“I’d begun to wonder if I should expect you to come in at all,” Alwen said softly from the shadows.
Her daughter’s flushed cheeks betrayed a tryst and wicked delight shone in her smile. Eirlys of the impish face and elfin grin whose iridescent eyes, violet blue like her mother’s, sparkled with mischief no matter what her mood. Her silken, coal-black curls and milky skin mirrored her brother’s, though Eirlys was more magical than he. She burned with the blood of the faerie folk, inherited on their father’s side. Bledig’s mother had been a tangie, a shape-shifting river spirit who had taken mortal form to seduce him, and then found herself so beguiled by the nomadic raider she had remained mortal to stay with him. After giving birth to a halfling son, she could no longer hold human form and had returned to the river from whence she had come. Bledig had followed his father’s path, but he was affected by his faerie legacy in subtle ways that manifested in Eirlys most of all. While Bledig and Rhys considered themselves more mortal than mystical, Eirlys embraced her magical heritage.
“I was helping Odwain prepare for the journey, that’s all.”
“Hmm.” Alwen would let her daughter keep her secrets. It was not so long ago that she had felt her own heart so full of anticipation, swelled with intimate yearnings yet to be realized. “And you, daughter, have you prepared?”
Eirlys flopped onto the woven-rag hearthrug at Alwen’s feet and laid her head against her mother’s knee. A blissful sigh escaped her lips as she gazed dreamily into the fire. “What’s to prepare? My bag is packed.”
“Things as you know them will change.” Alwen stroked her daughter’s unruly locks. “A new life, a new home, new allegiances.”
Eirlys shrugged. “As long as I have Odwain with me, I am content.”
“Odwain is blooded to the Crwn Cawr,” Alwen cautioned. Odwain had come to Norvik as his uncle’s ward, and like him lived in service to Alwen as her protector in exile. “He owes an oath to the Stewardry, as does Fergus.”
“I know this.” Eirlys was impatient with her mother’s subtlety. “Where you go, Fergus will follow, and where Fergus goes, Odwain will go. And I will follow Odwain.”
“Yes, but Odwain’s first duty will be to the order, Eirlys, not to you.”
Eirlys raised her head to frown at Alwen. Though her rationale often appeared more like a flurry of random thought, she had come to the only natural conclusion, self-serving though it was. “Well of course, Mother. I’m not an idiot. The wedding will have to wait, at least until Poppa arrives.”
And, just as quickly as she arrived at one assumption Eirlys was off to the next, usually leaving whoever happened to be listening completely confounded. It was but another piece of her natural charm. “And Poppa will follow you anywhere, from one end of the earth to the other, and twice around the moon.”
Alwen’s lips curled in an involuntary smile. “Once around the moon, perhaps. Twice for you though, of that I am sure. But, he is overdue, Eirlys.”
Alwen stopped short of stating the obvious, hoping her daughter would come to this on her own as well.
“Poppa will come. How else could he give Odwain his consent? You will leave word, won’t you?”
“I already have,” Alwen assured her.
Eirlys smiled, thinking again of weddings, and then peered sideways through long, dark lashes. “Is it wonderful? To be with Poppa, I mean.”
Such a question, but this was Eirlys. She was absolutely unabashed in her innocence and yet so eager to embrace the life ahead of her that it made a mother’s heart ache with joy — and fear. So young, this girl child, and yet she was so grown. A woman now at s
eventeen, Alwen realized, with a woman’s needs.
“Your father rescued me,” she said. “He spared me a life of utter loneliness and made me feel safe. He honored me with his compassion and his devotion, and he offered me his heart. He accepted me as I was, without question and without expectation, and that was more than I could have ever hoped. Because of your father I have known what it is to love, and what it is to be loved. And, to answer your question, yes. It is wonderful to be with him. Absolutely wonderful.”
“Poppa is a very handsome man.”
Eirlys’s sly grin made Alwen laugh. “Bledig is more than handsome, little girl. He is irresistible.”
She sobered. “But he is also gentle, and giving, and respectful. He is never brutish or rough or unkind, though he is just enough of a rogue to keep things interesting. Don’t you ever allow anything less, Eirlys, not from Odwain or any other man.”
“Odwain will be good to me, I know it.”
“I am sure he will.” She smiled at her daughter. “And if by some happenstance he were not, he would have Bledig to answer to. That ought to be enough to keep any young buck in line.”
Eirlys giggled. “Poor Odwain. What have I got him into?”
“Oh, my dear,” Alwen whispered as tears filled her eyes. “The most amazing and unendingly glorious journey of his life.”
Eirlys fell quiet, for good this time, soon drifting to sleep curled on the knotted rag rug near the hearth. Alwen covered her with a woolen shawl and tried again to relax as the heat of the hearth warmed her feet, just as her child’s contentment warmed her heart.
The late hour and earnest confessions had sent her mind wandering in dangerous territory. Bledig’s excursions kept him away for months at a time, and she missed him. The longing was insufferable, more so now than ever.
For a moment she indulged herself, invoking his memory. Images of her lover snapped to life like flames igniting and danced wildly through her mind — his raucous laugh, the salt of his skin on her lips, the scent of his musk. She looked again into his smoldering green eyes and felt his hands on her face. Bledig Rhi, the wild and roguish Wolf King — and the most fiercely noble man she had ever known.
The Well of Tears Page 3
