He was also the only man who could have possibly possessed the confidence, courage, and understanding it required to be her mate. What other would have welcomed her as she was when they met, a sorceress in hiding and in need of his protection, and then continued to accept her, such as she was deigned to become, knowing one day what her destiny would demand of them both? She was blessed — of this she had always been sure.
Alwen loosed a sigh and swallowed the last of the aleberry in her cup. Too much thought on Bledig would only do more harm than good. With luck and enough wine, she might yet find sleep. The morning sun was soon to rise, and with it a new horizon.
Five
After a western crossing over the North Sea that brought them ashore in Northumbria, Aslak led the caravan of eight men and two women south, along the less traveled byways through the Briton countries, avoiding the cities and trading routes in favor of a quiet although lengthier journey. Alwen knew he worried about kidnappers or worse, those who would consider a sorceress an abomination. For nearly nine weeks, it was his daily routine to send a scout ahead, leading the rest of the contingent himself, with Alwen between him and Fergus. The soldiers rode in a loose but defensive formation behind them. Rhys and Odwain had melted in with the Cad Nawdd, enjoying the camaraderie of the other men. Eirlys rode with her mother, except when Odwain sought her company.
Most days, the sky dawned clear but there blew a constant crisp breeze, hinting at the coming frost. Autumn had begun to strip the trees of their verdant splendor, daubing the rowan, alder, and oak leaves copper and bronze. Hemlock stands, ever green, stood in defiant contrast against the gilded backdrop. Yet, even in the fade of fall, the dense forests and fertile lowlands had a familiar look and feel. The landscape seemed to speak to Alwen’s soul, in a distant whisper she still had to strain to hear.
Once they passed the tiny border towns into the Powys provinces and neared the northern hinterlands of Seisyllwg, Alwen began to feel impatient.
“It’s been a long journey.” Fergus noticed her fidgeting. “We’re all of us road weary.”
Alwen managed a smile. “Apparently I am not as well suited to travel as I was in my younger days.”
“You’re suffering the call of the motherland to all her wayward sons and daughters,” Aslak interjected. “No native child can resist it. It is inborn, like instinct.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged, glad to have an explanation for what she was feeling. For days Alwen had experienced an excruciating sensitivity to everything — the bone-jarring trod of the horses, the screech of the woodland creatures, even what little sunlight that penetrated the trees. “Every mile it grows stronger. If I were to judge the distance by my discomforts, I’d say we must be close.”
Aslak reined his mount alongside. “Then, perhaps you know this road?”
“It is familiar.” Alwen glanced to either side of the well-worn track, first at the barren farmland and withered orchards to her left, then the deep, untamed overgrowth to her right. “I have traveled this way before, though I remember it unspoiled.”
“Twenty years of border skirmishes has left ugly scars, on the land as well as the people,” he explained. “Cymru remains a nation divided by conflict, but the Ancients willing, not for long.”
“Up ahead, beyond that bend.” Alwen suddenly envisioned a cluster of small stone and sod huts. “There is a sleepy place, a town.” Aslak smiled wide. “That would be Pwll. Never was much more than a huddle of crafts folk and merchants, an inn and an alehouse or two.”
The village had stood nearly as long as the Fane, though the townspeople lived unaware that magical folk often walked among them. Madoc had called it hiding in plain sight.
“The temple is near.” Alwen was beginning to feel oriented.
“Not far, about a day’s ride into the forest.” Aslak pointed into the brush. “We’ll leave the road here.”
He led them onto a narrow path that took them parallel to the byway, under the cover of shrubs and brush. Thankfully the horses were able to pick their way through the scrub and vines. They hadn’t traveled much more than a few hundred feet into the woods when Alwen sensed an intruding presence ahead.
“Aslak.”
Heeding her warning, Aslak pulled up and signaled the halt to the rest of his men. He watched the trees, anticipating. “Where?”
As if in answer, the spit and image of Aslak, though younger and beardless, emerged from the woods not more than ten yards ahead. “About time. We’ve been waiting here for two days.”
Aslak grinned at his son. “You’ve youth on your side, Thorvald, and not as many miles to travel. “You found Cerrigwen?”
“Yes.” Thorvald scowled, as if he were counseling himself that it would be best to stop short of speaking his full mind. “She is an impatient woman. If she’d had your knowledge of the secret trail, she’d have ordered us to go on without you. It’s good you’re here.”
Aslak’s grin grew wider. “Where’s your camp?”
Thorvald motioned into the thicket. “There’s a good-sized clearing through here. We’ve made camp along the stream. It will go easier if you walk the horses.”
Some distance beyond the trail, the woods opened to a narrow strip of barren ground edged by river rock and a rush of water. A small tent stood near the bank, and horses milled in the reeds and scrub. Several young men sprawled around a fire pit entertaining an even younger auburn-haired woman, while an elder warrior stood guard.
“We’ll spend the night,” Aslak advised as they dismounted. “Better to cross the veil in the morning, when we have more light.”
Fergus took the reins from her hands. “We’ll pitch canvas for you and Eirlys. The rest of us can manage with blankets and a good fire. It’ll make for an earlier start in the morning if there is less camp to break.”
Alwen felt a sudden swoon. She had all but forgotten the quickening of breath and blood that revealed one Steward to another. “Cerrigwen is here.”
“Once I’ve had my speak with her, I’ll send her to you if you like,” Aslak offered.
“Be forewarned,” Thorvald advised. “She has a…well, a strong personality.” He gestured toward the campfire. “And that’s Finn MacDonagh there, keeping watch over her daughter, Ffion.”
“Hah!” Fergus let loose a rare display of delight. “The entire MacDonagh clan in one place! Thought I’d never see the day.”
Finn was Odwain’s father, Fergus’s elder brother. Finn and his first son, Pedr, had been Cerrigwen’s escorts all these years.
“No doubt there will be plenty of celebrating round the fire tonight,” said Aslak. “But let’s see to the horses and camp first.”
Fergus wandered away, barking orders right and left. Alwen thought she had never known him to be happier. While some of the men unburdened the animals and raised her tent, she lingered near the tree line, observing introductions and long-awaited reunions around the fire. Eirlys was quick to make friends with Cerrigwen’s daughter, while Rhys joined Odwain’s family circle. In the midst of the merriment, Alwen noticed Aslak slip into the first tent, near the stream.
She imagined the encounter, Aslak examining Cerrigwen’s amulet, as he had her own, verifying her place in the Circle. Moss agate, Alwen remembered, the stone of nature and healing. This was Cerrigwen’s realm.
Alwen began to anticipate the end of an interminable oneness. Bledig and her children were family, the one true gift exile had given her. But much as she loved them, even needed them, they could not replace the magical kinship she had lost. Alwen had learned to live without her own kind, but she had never overcome her yearning for belonging, for sisterhood.
As if she had heard the thought, Cerrigwen swept through the tent flap, draped in the indigo velvet mantle of the Stewards Guild and elegant brocaded cloth skirts more suited to a woman of substance than a sorceress in hiding. An imprudent display, Alwen thought. Her own robe was packed away, awaiting the appropriate place and time.
“So here you are.”
The words fell dull and cold from Cerrigwen’s lips as she approached. “And in the personal escort of the great Aslak himself, no less, while I, it appears, warrant only his son.”
“Thorvald is of the Cad Nawdd, blooded to the service of the Stewardry. I would say he is a credit to his father, and to you.”
“I suppose I should feel honored.” Cerrigwen shrugged. “But it is hardly a great triumph that the son should manage to stumble along in his father’s footfall.”
Cerrigwen stared hard at Alwen, as if she were leaving time for Alwen to be properly impressed. She appeared nearly untouched by age, though aside from the unspoiled skin and the honey-colored tresses that curled over her shoulders and billowed about the cowl of her cloak, few hints of the sanguine youth remained. Alwen recalled a friendlier girl than the austere woman that stood before her now. Not at all the person Alwen had imagined.
Alwen stepped forward, uncertain, considering whether a handclasp or embrace would be welcome. They had been childhood friends, after all. Cerrigwen’s stance, however, indicated that an approach of any kind would be unwise. “You have spoken with Aslak?”
“Aslak has adjudged me to be who I say I am.” Cerrigwen cocked her head pointedly at Alwen. “If that is what you mean.”
“It gives me gladness to see you, Sister.” Alwen used the familiar address, one sorceress of the order to another, in an attempt to breach the distance between them. “At long last.”
“Hmm.” Cerrigwen tipped her chin in response to Alwen’s greeting, though she remained both wary and distant. Her amber eyes narrowed. “You’ve hardly changed. I would have known you, even without that amulet hanging from your neck. You have the same sanctimonious bearing, the same superior airs.”
Alwen smiled at the slight. Though unexpected, the insult offered Alwen at least some shallow insight into Cerrigwen’s character. She behaved as if she felt threatened. Strange, Alwen thought. Even more disconcerting, however, was a turbulent emotional undercurrent that Alwen could sense but not completely perceive, despite her best efforts to penetrate the surface of Cerrigwen’s mind. “You misjudge me, Sister.”
Cerrigwen shook back her hair with a casual toss of her head and leveled a sidelong look at Alwen. “We shall see.”
She turned to leave and then paused, glancing back with what might have passed for admiration in her smile. “I have felt you prodding my mind, Alwen. To no avail, I’m afraid. I am immune to your gift.”
“Forgive me.” Alwen feigned regret and quickly withdrew her probing thoughts, surprised a bit. It had been twenty years since she had last tried to sense the psyche of one of her own. Perhaps the skill suffered from the lack of use. Then again, perhaps Cerrigwen had in fact developed the power to resist. “It was an impulsive intrusion.”
“Gifts are given to be used, and you are wise to use them to your best advantage,” Cerrigwen acknowledged. “But you would be advised not to waste your talents on me.”
Cerrigwen’s skirts rustled in concert with the breeze as she departed, leaving surprise and disappointment in her wake. Alwen regretted the lost opportunity, wishing she had been more successful in her attempt to detect Cerrigwen’s deeper motives. Certainly her sister sorceress was not to be underestimated.
“Well, that was short.” Fergus had left the revelry to find her. “And not particularly sweet, I’d say, given the look on your face. Do I dare come any farther?”
Alwen had to smile at the burly, red-bearded old Scotsman. All these years inseparable and the man still showed her absolute reverence. Fergus MacDonagh was a credit to his calling, a true defender of the oath, and a true friend. “Of course. Come ahead.”
“She troubles you, aye?”
Alwen sighed. “Time has the power to alter many things, Fergus, even the course of one’s character.”
“So it does,” Fergus nodded. “From what little Finn will say, I gather the years have not been as kind to her as they have to you.”
“Is that so?” Alwen had not considered Cerrigwen’s life in exile. She wondered now where Cerrigwen had been, how she had survived her years outside the protection of the Fane. “All the same, she is more complicated than she appears.”
“Well,” Fergus chuckled, “so are you. Any witch is a formidable mistress in her own right, but give her rank and command and she is a damned indomitable force.”
Alwen narrowed her eyes at him in jest. “Do you mock me, Fergus?”
“Mock you?” He tried hard to pull a look of injury as he straightened and folded his arms over his chest, but his eyes belied the tease. “I revere you.”
“As well you should.” She smiled. “Go back to the merriment, Fergus. Please. I’m poor company just now.”
“All right, then. I’ll leave you to your thoughts. Your tent is ready, whenever you are.” Fergus gave her a wink as he made to leave. “Trust your instincts, Alwen. I always do.”
Six
Alwen awoke with a start, responding to a discordant energy that had encroached upon her dreamless sleep. It would not be ignored. And so it was that she arose just before dawn to witness a terse exchange between Aslak and Cerrigwen.
Aslak was taking the full brunt of Cerrigwen’s considerable wrath while Thorvald and Ffion stood in obvious discomfort at the edge of the conversation. Rather than approach them, Alwen chose to observe through her tent flap. Though at first she could catch only bits and pieces, soon enough she overheard more than she would have liked.
“Thorvald is captain of this expedition, Cerrigwen,” Aslak asserted. “If I did not have faith in his judgment, I would not have given him the commission.”
Cerrigwen pulled herself tall and straight. “The soldiers of the Cad Nawdd serve the Stewardry, and those of the guard selected to the Crwn Cawr serve the Mistresses of the Realms. Is that not so?”
Aslak remained composed, despite the displeasure Alwen could easily sense in him. “Yes, it is.”
She thumped him in the chest with her extended forefinger. “Then there need be no further discussion. I have given Thorvald my instructions, and it is my judgment that shall stand. Ffion will accompany him as my emissary, a gesture of goodwill from the guild. It is not only fitting, it is prudent.”
“It is unsafe, Cerrigwen,” Aslak insisted. “Surely you do not mean to put your daughter in harm’s way.”
Alwen watched as the girl stepped forward. Cerrigwen’s chin lifted in what looked like genuine admiration, but Alwen easily sensed a stronger, truer underlying feeling of self-assuaging pride.
“I am well trained,” Ffion asserted. “And well traveled. I will be no burden, curry no threat. If anything, my presence will be a help, not a hindrance.”
The girl presented far more confidence than she actually felt, another truth Alwen could easily sense. It was equally clear, however, that Ffion would do anything in her power to please her mother. No matter what it cost her.
Aslak held his ground in silence for several long moments before finally agreeing. He had no choice, really, but Alwen appreciated his intent to be clear that he acquiesced unwillingly.
“It will be a hard ride, to outrun the winter, and a difficult winter to weather so far north. Make sure she has the proper clothing.” Aslak gave his son a curt nod. “We’ll start to watch for you once the first signs of spring show. Shouldn’t be much longer than a few fortnights beyond that.”
Without further exchange, Thorvald led his small contingent of three soldiers and the formidable Ffion away from the campsite. Their journey would take them northeast, past the lands of the Saxons and deep into the Norse kingdoms. Precisely where, Aslak would not say. For safety’s sake, none but he and his son knew the exact destination. If all went well, Thorvald would return with his older brother and the youngest of the four women named to the Stewards council.
Alwen emerged from the tent just as Fergus lumbered up, agitated and short of breath, tugging her horse by the reins. “Would ye believe? That woman has insisted her daughter accompany Thorvald on h
is quest to find Branwen. And Aslak agreed!”
“To be fair, Aslak could hardly refuse her.” Alwen pulled the bed rugs from her tent while Fergus began to take down the canvas. “He can refuse none of us any request, though I can not begin to guess how her interests are served by sending her own emissary.”
“Nor can I,” said Aslak, reaching out to take the furs from her as he joined the conversation. “But she’ll be safe enough in Thorvald’s charge.”
“He strikes me as a remarkable man,” Alwen offered, sensing the worried father in him. She also felt Aslak’s strong memories of a woman who had stolen his heart and been lost long ago. His love for her still lingered. “He carries his mother’s influence in many ways, but he is also every bit the warrior and leader his father is.”
“Aye, though I am hardly to credit. He has taken to this life as though he was born for it rather than to it, but it is never easy sending him off.”
“One of the many pains of parenthood,” she commiserated.
“You have fine children yourself.” Aslak smiled over her head as he took the last of the rugs from her and then rolled them into bundles. “Take your daughter, for instance. Small wonder that Odwain is so taken with her.”
Alwen glanced around to see Eirlys already astride. “I hadn’t the chance to meet Cerrigwen’s child.”
“Ffion is lovely, and certainly seems a capable lass,” said Fergus. He had finished lashing the canvas behind her saddle and waited to help her mount.
Aslak knelt to gather the rolls, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard. “Though she does have her mother’s airs. If Ffion has even half of Cerrigwen’s demanding nature, Thorvald will have aged years by the time I see him next.”
Alwen noted Aslak’s veiled observations with a smile of understanding, imagining poor Thorvald’s plight. He’d already had the dubious pleasure of shepherding mother and daughter for several long weeks. “Cerrigwen is not an easy woman.”
The Well of Tears Page 4
