Madoc paused, squinting at her as if he were looking for something deep inside. “Your sorcery, Alwen, is rooted in the spirit, in the sentient soul of all beings. Your power is manifested in the waters, from which all life is fed. You are an extraordinary judge of character. A keen advantage to a man who can ill afford to trust the wrong person, don’t you think?”
Alwen nodded, thinking of Cerrigwen.
“There you have it. Through the four of you, Hywel will have the power of all of the elements behind him. Now then.” Madoc folded his hands in his lap. “You have been too long away from us. Your skills lack daily use, but we’ll fix all that soon enough. Perhaps you are already noticing a change. The Fane is a bastion of its own power, you know, and that amulet you wear is a conduit.”
This explained so many things. “I believe I have felt it.”
“It will get stronger. You will learn to control it, and in time even command it. You must, lest it destroy you.”
Madoc straightened abruptly and stood. Alwen rose respectfully in turn, albeit reluctantly. There was still so much more she wanted to know, but she held her tongue. He was finished with her for now.
“This is but the first of many chats to come,” he said. “Take time to reacquaint yourself with your home and your training, but prepare. In the months ahead there will be many challenges.”
“I am ready.”
“Of course you are,” Madoc said plainly. He accompanied her to the door. “If you were not, you would not be here.”
Nine
Madoc straightened in his chair as Machreth strode into the room and prepared to address his second. It seemed Machreth took longer and longer to respond to a summons. “I expected you long before this.”
“I've been occupied with a group of acolytes who have shown a remarkable affinity for the finer aspects of spellcasting.” Machreth presented himself to Madoc with half a flourish and a perfunctory nod. “I hope I have not kept you waiting too long, Sovereign.”
Madoc smiled at the empty courtesy and then studied his handsome colleague more closely. Too handsome, Madoc thought. Those tawny good looks of his had a blinding effect, particularly on women, who often found him irresistible. Machreth struck quite an impressive figure in his proctor’s robe. He wore the trappings of his title with pride. The black camlet cloak with gold embroidery and indigo insignia added dignity to his stature and afforded him nobility his humble birth did not, and he did possess an arrogant charm. Machreth, high sorcerer of the Ninth Order and chosen heir to Madoc’s throne, was a formidable man.
Machreth hesitated and Madoc sensed him gathering his thoughts and calculating the risks in voicing them. He was as cautious with his actions as he was in their analysis, careful and deliberate in all things at all times — and ever wary. “So our protégés have returned. Indeed, they have grown strong and sure while they have been away. Remarkable, even.”
“As it should be.” Madoc assessed Machreth’s every move, every turn of phrase. The younger man had earned his rank through dedication to his vocation, hard work, and more than a little talent. Machreth was not a man to be trifled with.
“You put great faith in these women, Sovereign, and in the prophecy.”
“In my experience, there is profit in faith,” Madoc said calmly. “And in patience.”
“Perhaps.” Machreth began to prowl the room, hands clutched at his back as he paced. “Hywel has long since come of age, and he has more than proved his worth in both battle and benevolence.” “Yes,” Madoc said slowly. He was still waiting for Machreth to get to his point. “So he has.”
“And yet you still have not endorsed his reign.” Machreth glanced sidelong as he passed. “If Hywel is the chosen king, if true peace will only ever come at his hand, what advantage could there possibly be in waiting any longer? Surely your wise guidance is enough to sustain him.”
“My duty, as is yours, is to sustain the Stewardry,” Madoc said firmly. “The council, when the time comes, will sustain the king.”
“I still say there is no reason to wait. Present this Circle of Sages of yours to Hywel later — as a coronation gift, if you wish. The Stewards council will only add to his strength. In the meantime, let us take our rightful place in the light.”
“The dictates of the Ancients are quite clear, Machreth. We will wait until all of the members of the council have been found and returned. Only then will we consecrate Hywel and reveal ourselves again to the world. Only then will we be strong enough.”
“So you will insist, then, on holding us hostage against the promise of a thousand-year-old myth?” Machreth’s frustration was showing.
“All legends sprout from seeds of fact. Perhaps it follows that the grander the tale, the more potent the truth from which it has sprung.” Madoc frowned. “But the prophecy is not a myth. It is a promise.”
“On that I have only your word,” Machreth countered. “Though I grant you it has been a most powerful yoke. You and your predecessors have indentured the membership for centuries in the name of this prophecy, in the name of a truth that is revealed only unto you.”
“And so we come back to faith, Machreth,” Madoc counseled. “And patience.”
“Faith can be a blinding virtue,” Machreth argued. His gaze remained fixed and intent upon Madoc. “And patience a shallow well whose stores are quickly drained. Shall we speak to the point, Sovereign?”
“By all means.”
“Hywel's success depends upon power we grant him.” Machreth stopped directly before Madoc. “He is but a means to an end. We are the true rulers of this world.”
“By we you mean you — hmm, Machreth?” Madoc shook his head in disbelief and disappointment. “You would put yourself in his place?”
“I would put us above him,” Machreth insisted. “It is where we belong. I say we no longer need to whisper our wisdom in the ears of kings. We should raise our own voices.”
“Blasphemy,” Madoc spat.
“I am not alone,” Machreth warned. “Some of the acolytes are as restless and weary as I, eager for the waiting to end. You have grown impotent, plying the ghosts of your ancestors with quiet words of faith and praise, and the order grows old and impotent with you. The time has come to lead the charge, Madoc. If you will not take us boldly toward the greatness to which we are entitled, I will.”
So there it was, the threat of insurrection. But it was not the sting of Machreth’s words or the depth of his disdain that troubled Madoc now. It was the ambition and resentment burning deep behind the resolve in his dark, cunning eyes.
“You put me in mind of a half-starved scavenger anticipating the last gasp of a wounded beast.” Madoc smiled wryly. “And a bit too eagerly, I might add.”
Machreth was losing his grip on his composure. “You’ve hung on beyond your time. Your days are waning, Madoc.”
Madoc tensed, alerted to the danger in Machreth’s undertone by the prickling of instinct and gooseflesh. “Take care you don’t swoop too soon, Machreth. I still have plenty of fight left in me.”
Machreth’s eyes had narrowed and his jaw was set. “All in good time.”
Madoc watched as Machreth strode from the room, disappointed beyond imagining. Though he had been expecting Machreth to reveal himself, the loss of his loyalty still struck hard and sharp. The sad truth was that Madoc had held out hope for a better end, despite all evidence to the contrary. Now there could be no denying that Machreth’s heart was turning away from him. Madoc would have to act quickly.
Very soon seditious forces would be at work within the guild, if they were not already. Machreth was trusted and respected by the novitiate. His voice would be enough to raise unrest among the ranks, no matter what Madoc said to counter him. Machreth would have to be routed, somehow, but in the interim, Madoc would have to prepare. There was far more at stake than the prophecy now. The Stewardry itself was at risk.
Madoc pulled his weary frame from the throne and shuffled heavyhearted to his desk. He sensed
the skein of his life threads thinning. It seemed at times that he could feel his very soul unraveling. With a baleful sigh, he slid onto the bench and searched the disordered desktop for paper and quill.
There was much to do. Another successor would have to be named in Machreth’s place. Indeed, there was a true heir, one whom Madoc now wished he had acknowledged much sooner. But before this new beneficiary could be named, he had to ensure he would still have a legacy left to bequeath.
And then the circle was yet incomplete. Madoc would have to trust in Aslak’s sure heart and great skill to see that the other two sisters were brought safely back. Without the Circle of Sages, Madoc held little hope the prophecy could be fulfilled. Still, it would be weeks before Aslak returned. Until then, Madoc would be vulnerable, but he was not really alone.
Alwen was a natural leader. While she had not come to fully appreciate the traits in herself, she had already proved her ability to make difficult decisions. He knew that she had sacrificed her word to her mate to honor Madoc’s summons. Yes, she was wise and strong, and of the two he had encountered thus far, she would best weather whatever storms lay ahead. So long as he left her properly prepared, the prophecy would be safe at her hands. And if it came to it, he could trust Alwen to see his rightful heir safely onto his seat when the time came. In that there was a bit of comfort.
By the time he had finished transcribing his thoughts, the day was fading. As was his vigor, he admitted, but there was too much to do yet to sleep. Madoc carefully separated the four sheets of vellum, rolled them one by one, and then sealed each scroll with melted wax embedded with his signet. He slid the papers onto a small, hidden ledge beneath the desktop just as an acolyte arrived to light the oil lamps in his rooms.
“When you’ve finished there,” he said, “send Glain to me.”
* * *
Alwen would have preferred to assert her presence within the membership more quietly, but Madoc insisted. Cerrigwen, on the other hand, was so delighted by the order of a formal presentation the day following their arrival that she had taken on the organization of the entire event.
Several apprentices were conscripted to Cerrigwen’s service and assigned preparations for what Alwen considered an unnecessarily lavish celebration. But Madoc himself encouraged the excess, requesting an array of delicacies and indulgences be added to the already sumptuous table fare. In a matter of hours, revelry had overtaken the temple. The return of the first two sorceresses named to the Circle of Sages heralded the beginning of a new era, and even Alwen could concede, reason enough to be festive.
“You are seated at Madoc’s left.” Glain ushered her into the great hall and gestured toward the sovereign’s table, stationed in front of and centered along the grand dais. From where he sat, Madoc could survey the entire company of guests. “Across from Machreth.”
Alwen took her place beside Madoc’s empty chair and smiled to the others already seated. Cerrigwen offered a nod in welcome from her perch at Machreth’s right. Also seated around Madoc’s table were Glain and the three others who had reached the rank of acolyte, and Emrys, the interim captain of the castle guard.
No sooner had Alwen settled did a hush descend. Madoc had arrived. As he entered the room, the entire assembly stood in his honor, and a cheer erupted from the crowd. Madoc waved as he crossed the hall to his table, clearly pleased with the revelry that greeted him. As Madoc sat, so did his guests, and the merriment resumed.
“A rare occasion,” Emrys observed. “The entire order rejoices. Even those assigned to serve and the soldiers standing watch do so with happy hearts.”
“As well they should.” Cerrigwen tilted her head in such a fashion that her sidelong glance in Machreth’s direction was only half-veiled by her lashes. A flirtatious gesture, some might think. “Is this not the advent of our glory?”
“The first step on a long march,” Madoc cautioned, reaching for the platter of game meats. “But it is a start.”
“All in testament to your great faith, Sovereign.” Machreth picked at the figs and roast boar on his plate with one hand while swirling the contents of his wine goblet with the other.
The shade of mockery in Machreth’s tone was unmistakable, at least to Alwen’s ear. If Madoc noticed, he ignored it. Alwen took flat bread and soft cheese as it was passed, taking note that a kind of nervous tension had taken root round the table.
“Hear, hear.” Ynyr, the eldest of the acolytes though still a youngish man with flaxen locks and a chiseled chin, could not let Machreth’s comment stand unanswered. He stood and raised his goblet high, his toast ringing loud enough for all to hear. “To glory!” he cheered. “To Madoc!”
A deafening echo answered Ynyr’s call, and every Steward and soldier stood in Madoc’s honor. Alwen noticed that Cerrigwen was among the last to rise, waiting for Machreth to do so before following suit. It seemed to Alwen the two shared the familiarity of old friends, perhaps from the days before exile. Whatever it was, the closest thing to warmth she had seen Cerrigwen display thus far had been toward Machreth.
For several long moments the cheer resounded, until Madoc took to his feet and quieted the crowd. He gestured for the audience to return to their seats and then took advantage of the heady atmosphere to speak his piece.
“Brothers and sisters of the guild, Stewards of the prophecy, these are the days of days we have awaited. After nine incarnations of our order, our perseverance is rewarded, our faith redeemed. The time of our resurrection is dawning. The journey has just begun, and the true trials yet to be faced, but tonight we rejoice. The first of the guardians of the Circle of Sages have returned. All hail Alwen and Cerrigwen, Mistresses of the Realms.”
Alwen and Cerrigwen rose again, this time to receive their own accolades. While Alwen was eager to be released from the moment, Cerrigwen basked in it. In some ways, Alwen admired her sister sorceress. Cerrigwen was naturally regal, visibly confident, and seemingly far more comfortable bearing the burden of expectation. Again, Alwen questioned how it was that Madoc considered her the best choice to lead the Circle.
Finally, Madoc concluded his declaration. “Take your fill, Stewards, and may the echoes of your revelry send up such a raucous thunder it awakens the Ancients.”
“Wine,” Madoc bellowed as he returned to his plate. “More wine at my table.”
As Alwen glanced around the room to find her children and other familiar faces, she could not help but feel the joy. Neither could she help but notice that the crowd numbered only dozens around a score of tables — a devastating wane from the hundreds of voices that had filled this hall in her youth.
“Yes, more wine.” Cerrigwen held out her cup as the pitcher was passed. “And another toast, to Machreth, second only to Madoc. His leadership and loyalty also keep us strong.”
Alwen’s was not the only surprise; she felt a collective lull, as if everyone had skipped a breath. All eyes turned toward Madoc, who was implacable.
“Of course,” he said, lifting his cup high. “To Machreth.”
Alwen responded in kind, and the others followed suit. Cerrigwen’s tribute could have been innocent. Perhaps Madoc had not shared his concerns about Machreth with Cerrigwen. Perhaps she was merely paying homage to his title, which would be proper at such an event.
Machreth bowed his head as he raised his drink in return. “I am honored, though you credit me too much. I serve my oath, as do you all.”
“You are modest.” Cerrigwen reached out to pat Machreth’s forearm and then cast a knowing glace around the table, which she eventually settled on Alwen. “As Madoc’s burdens have been great in our absence, so have Machreth’s. However few remain, that the membership has survived at all is due in no small part to his devotion and inspiration.”
“Inspiration, eh?” Madoc raised his cup. “High praise, Machreth, to be lauded a beacon of light in dark times.”
The look that passed between them then could never be mistaken for anything but the challenge that Alwen knew it to b
e. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn. She glanced at the others to see if anyone else had sensed the troubled waters stirring beneath the surface, but other than Cerrigwen, who was raptly attentive to Machreth, they were more occupied with the food than the discussion.
“I am humbled, Sovereign, by Cerrigwen’s kind words. If they are deserved in even the smallest measure, I am redeemed.”
Madoc smiled, as if what was unfolding were a grand drama playing out for his amusement. “Are you in need of redemption, Machreth?”
Machreth returned the smile with his own sly, half-turned lip curl, completely unperturbed by Madoc’s remark. “Aren’t we all, in some way?”
And in that statement, Alwen witnessed another challenge issued. In the baited silence that followed, Madoc and Machreth held each other in a pointed and unyielding eye-lock so unabashed that the rest of the guests began to show discomfort. Ynyr openly glared at Machreth while Nerys pandered to Cerrigwen; Glain turned still as stone and Ariane stared at her plate. Emrys looked at Alwen, who in turn looked to Madoc.
Oddly, it was Cerrigwen who was flustered into interceding. “Never have we depended more on our leadership than we do now. We take heart in your guidance, Sovereign, and comfort in your constancy in these dark hours. But in the echo of your wisdom, Machreth’s voice is raised in reminder of our pride and our honor, of the legacy stolen from us. These are important words, as well, Sovereign.”
Alwen was aghast. Had Cerrigwen meant to avoid disgracing either man by praising them both, or had she meant to argue for Machreth against Madoc? Alwen had the distinct impression that alliances were being declared.
“When the one king is crowned and we are renewed in the eyes of the peoples, the mageborn will come to us again and the order shall be reborn.” Emrys offered a diplomatic attempt to draw a stalemate. “That is the promise of the prophecy, the end we all desire, is it not?”
“Indeed.” Machreth answered without breaking his eye-lock with Madoc. “That is the promise, unless we have withered into extinction before it can come to pass.”
The Well of Tears Page 7
