The Well of Tears

by Trahan, Roberta

  “The feather,” Nerys whispered.

  The raven’s quill was spinning wild, rotating left then right, indicating randomly in every direction. Glain stood entranced, lost in the spell and apparently unaware of the chaos she had invoked. Alwen was growing concerned that Glain had unleashed forces she was not equipped to control.

  “Glain,” she cautioned, just as one of the massive thunderstone floor tiles shifted beneath their feet. “Stop!”

  Alwen’s stern command broke through Glain’s concentration, interrupting the bind between the sorceress and the spell. The commotion stilled, and a stunned silence settled on the room.

  “Great gods!” Ariane’s mouth fell open. “What was that?”

  “All right, ladies,” Alwen said, watching Glain make a gradual return to herself. “That will be enough for tonight.”

  Nerys was already halfway to the door, visibly shaken. Ariane hesitated a moment, awestruck, but also curious. A terse nod sent Ariane on her way, and Alwen turned her attention to Glain.

  “Well,” she said kindly, taking Glain by the shoulders. “Such mighty magic from such a tiny witch.”

  Glain looked up, pale and apologetic. “I guess I made a mess of things.”

  “We’ll worry about that later.” Alwen ushered Glain toward the door. “What happened?”

  Glain sighed. “I’ve worked that spell many times before, but never like this.”

  “Perhaps you were trying too hard?” Alwen prodded. She already knew why it had all gone awry but she wanted to be sure that Glain knew as well.

  Glain stopped in the hallway outside the scriptorium and faced Alwen with her hands laced in a contrite knot in front of her. “I was trying to prove a point.”

  “A display of power can be very effective,” Alwen counseled. “At the right time, in the right place, and for the right reason.”

  “I was angry.”

  A difficult admission for Glain, no doubt, but Alwen was relieved to hear it. “Yes, you were,” she said. “Anger is a potent fuel. And quite dangerous when misused.”

  “Nerys vexes me,” Glain frowned. “I wish she cared more for others and less for herself. I wish she had a better sense of her place.” Glain shook her head. “I wish I trusted her more.”

  “Well-meant wishes.” Alwen was reminded of her own challenges with Cerrigwen and felt great empathy for Glain. “Sometimes that is all we can do. That, and provide an admirable example.”

  Glain nodded, clearly humbled. “I can do better.”

  “You have great talent, and wisdom beyond your years. Have faith in your insight, but temper your judgments with that compassion you’ve wished on Nerys. Now, get some rest.” Alwen smiled. “Tomorrow is a new beginning.”

  Alwen watched Glain disappear down the stairs and returned to her rooms. So late was the hour that the temple had slipped into the dead silence of deep slumber, and she was eager to follow. She hung her robe on the bedpost and sat on the edge of the bed to tug off her boots and free her feet from the stranglehold of woolen hose.

  One day ended so near to the dawning of the next these past two weeks that she had scarcely noted the passage of time. Alwen was exhausted. Her mind was so overwhelmed and overworked that her brain felt bruised.

  Glain had raised the question of loyalties, something that concerned Alwen more and more. Daily discussions with Madoc on matters of the Stewardry had made her more mindful of the risks they all faced. And, like it or not, underlying the oath every Steward owed the order were individual alliances and ambitions. How these inner power struggles would influence events was impossible to tell. This was a time for unity, and Alwen was beginning to wonder how strong the ties that held their world together really were. Nights like these she missed Norvik, and Bledig.

  A soft rap preceded the creaking of the outer chamber door. “Pardon, Mistress,” Glain whispered from the hall. “Are you still awake?”

  Alwen padded barefoot across the darkened sitting room to the doorway. “What is it?”

  Rhys stepped around Glain. “I know it’s late, but I didn’t know when else to come.”

  “Of course.” Alwen beckoned him in. Glain excused herself, closing the door as she left. “There isn’t much of a fire, but I think the aleberry will still be warm.”

  Rhys made straight for the hearth and busied himself stoking a blaze while Alwen crossed the room to retrieve two silver cups from the desk under the window. Her son seemed changed to her. It struck her then that it had been days since she’d seen him, even longer since they’d exchanged more than a passing greeting.

  “Sit with me.” Alwen sat on one end of the divan, leaving ample room for Rhys. She was glad he’d come, no matter what had brought him. “Bring the pot. We’ll drink while we chat.”

  Rather than join her on the sofa, Rhys settled instead on the hearth stone, across from her. Alwen handed over the cups and waited while he plucked the aleberry pot from the coals and poured. “Are you well? You must be worn from your training. Fergus can be a task master.”

  Rhys nodded as he studied his cup, his brow drawn in pensive lines and his jaw taut with determination. Alwen noted an air of command and self-assuredness about him that reminded her of Bledig. The reflection brought an instant sadness. She missed him.

  “The Cad Nawdd is a disciplined regiment.” She continued with what should pass as casual conversation. “More reliant upon structure than the ranks you’re accustomed to.”

  Rhys emptied his cup in one full swallow. “It is unlike what I’ve known,” he said as he poured another draught. His tone was cavalier, as if the complete rearrangement of his life had been a minor inconvenience. “I feel useful.”

  Alwen heard the truth underlying the words. He was not as comfortable or as confident as he professed, but he did impress her as a man more self-possessed. She recalled their conversation in Norvik months before and her philosophizing on the endless opportunities and inescapable consequences of change. While this new life had brought Alwen more fulfillment than she had ever imagined, she had worried that the same might not be true for her son. However, it was clear that Rhys had, at the very least, come to some greater understanding of himself. How she admired this son of hers.

  “I had not realized until this very moment how much I have missed your company.”

  Rhys stretched his legs out before him and reclined on his free arm. “Oh, I’d say you’ve missed a great deal more than my comings and goings.”

  Alwen squinted sidelong at him. “How do you mean?”

  He smirked at her over the rim of his cup, one eyebrow arched, and made her wait while he sipped. “Take Eirlys, for instance.”

  “Yes?” she asked. “What of her?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Asleep in her bed,” Alwen answered, suddenly not at all sure. It was a rare day anymore that she and her daughter met in waking hours. Eirlys took very little interest in the order or the training of Stewards, preferring to spend her days wandering the compound, discovering the magic of her surroundings in her own way.

  “She should be.” Rhys had a wicked gleam in his eye, the look of a boy about to spill his sister’s secrets. “She and Odwain have taken to late-night trysts, when they think no one is watching.”

  Alwen blew a sigh of exasperation and Rhys’s delighted expression fizzled into contrition. “And just how long has this been going on?”

  “It’s innocent, really.” Rhys straightened his posture and his attitude as he attempted to explain. “Nothing for you to fuss over, at least not as yet. To be fair, I cannot bring myself to fault them for it. Fergus keeps all of the guardsmen at drill from sunup ’til dusk, and he holds a taut rein after hours.”

  Alwen took a moment to examine her son and his earnestness, realizing at last that the change she had noted in his demeanor was maturity. Rhys had come to her on family business, acting as the head of his house. Over the years, it had been Alwen who had taken the role in Bledig’s absences, but much had
changed since their arrival at the temple. It appeared that Rhys, of his own volition, had taken up where she had left off.

  “I suppose we can hardly begrudge them a few stolen moments,” she conceded, making a mental note to consult Madoc’s scrying stone at regular intervals on her daughter’s whereabouts. “It seems you have things well in hand. I trust you’d have come to me sooner had you any reason to be concerned.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I would. I will.”

  Despite his assurances she sensed there was more. What now, she wondered.

  “Eirlys has all but given up on her wedding plans,” he hedged. “But I suppose that cannot be helped.”

  What Rhys meant but would not say was that Eirlys had given up on her father. Alwen sent her feathered friends as far as they would go on her daily spirit-farings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bledig’s approach. So far, in vain. Even Madoc’s scrying stone had failed her.

  “Eirlys has waited long enough,” she decided. “I will speak to Finn, and then to Fergus. We may not be able to manage an Obotrite ritual, but the Stewardry has its own traditions.”

  Rhys picked up the pot and bent forward to pour for her. “But have you the time to see to a wedding? There are, after all, more important things.”

  “Not to Eirlys,” Alwen smiled. “I’ll see to it straightaway. High sorceress and Mistress of the Realms I may be, but I am mother too.”

  “You mustn’t worry overmuch about mothering.” Rhys was quick to assure her. “We are well provided for here, and your first duty is to Madoc now.”

  Rhys, it seemed, had come under the influence of the Cad Nawdd in more than just soldiering ways. “I can well enough see to my own needs.”

  He winked at her over the rim of his cup. “And Odwain is more than willing to see to any need Eirlys may have.”

  Alwen’s eyes popped wide at the bawdy thoughts behind his flip remark. “Barracks talk, Rhys? In my chambers?”

  Dismay and regret washed across her son’s face. Rhys glanced at his toes. “I didn’t mean that as it sounded.”

  “Ah, but you did,” Alwen chided.

  “Forgive me, Mistress.” The formal address sounded stilted, coming from Rhys, though a grin widened his mouth. “I had forgot to whom I was speaking.”

  “Finish your drink,” she smiled. Alwen surprised herself with her imperious attitude. Position and authority had put her in the habit of expecting certain protocol, but this was not a tactic she wished to employ in private conversation with her son.

  “As I said, everything is different.” Rhys saluted her with his cup. “Especially you.”

  Alwen settled deeper into the cushions on the divan, beginning to enjoy the familiarity between them. “I am the same person I have always been.”

  Rhys stared at her, as if assessing her anew. “You are changed. Just how many titles do you carry now?”

  “I’ve lost count,” she smiled. “Does it matter, really?”

  “Not so much to me. But I have seen how the others revere you. That is truly impressive.” Rhys emptied the last of the aleberry into their glasses and stretched himself lengthwise at her feet. “Still, it has not been easy for you.”

  Such a profound observation, she marveled, and yet so entirely inadequate. Rhys could not possibly understand the depth and breadth of the simple truth he had uttered, though he offered it with such empathy that Alwen’s heart ached in response. It had not been easy, but to say as much would be to show weakness in a time when a strong example was so needed. However, to deny it only gave the burden more weight and she was growing weary of the load. Alwen upended her cup and decided to give voice to her most secret desire. “I so wish your father was here.”

  Twelve

  “He underestimates you.”

  “He does not know me.” Cerrigwen was still resistant. “Madoc will come to recognize my strengths. I will have my reward.”

  “Then it is you who underestimates him,” Machreth warned. “Your time has passed, Cerrigwen. He has already dismissed you.”

  “He has dismissed you, as well,” she countered.

  “Yes.” Machreth smiled grimly. “That was to be expected. From the moment I first questioned his plans my time was measured. He keeps me close, though, in hopes I may yet be controlled. But you he still trusts.”

  “And this trust is something you wish to exploit,” she challenged. Her eyes gleamed with suspicion, and something else he couldn’t yet discern.

  “Of course.” Machreth circled her and slid his hands around her waist from behind. Cerrigwen tensed and trembled at his touch. From disgust as much as desire, he suspected. “To our mutual advantage.”

  “I can well imagine how you may benefit from my help,” she said. “But how do you propose it will benefit me?”

  Cerrigwen was not yet convinced of his potential, of his power. He grabbed her roughly by one wrist and wrenched her around to face him. “Take care that you do not underestimate me,” he snarled. “Or you will find yourself buried in the ruins of this place alongside Madoc and the rest of his sheep.”

  Her eyes snapped wide with surprise as she recoiled from the force of his grip. Machreth saw uncertainty, but not the fear he expected. “I am more dangerous than you could ever imagine, Cerrigwen. Either you are with me, or against me. The choice is yours.”

  He waited, watching the conflict in her eyes. It was always the same. She resisted and he persisted, but that was all part of the game.

  He began to circle the room, hands clasped at his back, to give her time to consider him carefully. “I offer you the only chance you have at true power. I offer you the Stewardry, Cerrigwen, to rule at my side. Take it, or not. It makes little difference to me.

  “And if not you…” He shrugged. “Then someone else will happen along, eventually. I have waited this long for a worthy consort. I can wait longer, if I must. Pity, though. You are of an exceptional breed.”

  Machreth stopped directly in front of her and lifted her chin with his forefinger until her gaze met his. He almost smiled. There it was — a glimmer of panic in her eyes. Nothing distressed Cerrigwen more than being overlooked or forgotten.

  He gentled his expression and his tone. “Do not misunderstand my frustration, Cerrigwen. It is you that I want, but there is no time to trifle with insecurities. I can no longer abide your wavering. I cannot afford the distraction. If I cannot rely upon you, then I must find someone who is truly devoted, truly ready for the greatness I can bestow. I must be prepared to seize opportunity.”

  Her lips trembled, but her eyes had brightened. “What opportunity?”

  Machreth rewarded her with his smile and slid his hands around her waist. “Madoc may be stubborn and set in his ways, but he is no fool. He sees the end of his days, to be sure. Already he takes measures to protect his legacy. Sooner or later, he must reveal his secrets.”

  “Yes.” Her breathing became ragged as he turned her in his arms and pulled her against him. Soon her spine would buckle and her hips would sway. She would be ripe, and pliant. “But he will not reveal them to me.”

  “No. Not directly.” He lifted the long tresses from her shoulders and gently nipped the tender flesh at the nape of her neck. Cerrigwen moaned with the agony of need. How easily she was seduced. It was such an obvious guile, or at least, it should have been. She was just too desperate to care.

  “But if you are very vigilant, you will see when and to whom he does. No one suspects you. Your lurking will not be noticed, and once you have what I must know, we will take what is ours.”

  “You ask me to betray him, Machreth.” She pulled away from him, but only slightly, an admirable attempt to show him she was still in control. Her allegiance did not come easily. “You ask too much.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I ask a great deal. But you must understand. He leads us to ruin. We are saving him from himself as much as we are saving ourselves.”

  “But this is treason,” she whispered.

  “So it is.” Machr
eth stepped back and held out his hand. “You will have everything you have ever wanted, Cerrigwen. I swear I will see to it, if you will only let me.”

  Machreth smiled as ambition and lust and greed stripped her of the few remaining shreds of her loyalty to Madoc. Cerrigwen took his hand and Machreth led her to his bed. Her allegiance was to him now.

  * * *

  First light crept over the horizon and reached earthward with its shimmering tendrils. Alwen stood in quiet reverence at the open window as the subtle glow encroached on the night and then overwhelmed the blackness in a sudden rush. The sky came alive with color.

  A flutter of feathers tempted her as a hawk’s cry echoed against the stillness. Alwen had no more reason to expect to find Bledig on the road to Pwll today than any day before, but she could not deny herself the pleasure of a spirit-faring. The hawk did not seem to mind her intrusion, nor did he object when she gently prodded him on a course that would carry them both along the byway. He took a meandering route, flittering through the open grounds of the temple before skimming the trees of the White Woods as he vaulted over the tiny town of Pwll. Growing impatient, Alwen urged the bird to abandon his leisurely loop around the outskirts and fly directly northeast along the main road.

  No more than two furlongs beyond the last of the village farms, a small band of riders entered the hawk’s field of view. As the hawk approached, the horsemen took on familiar form. Alwen felt her soul smile and instantly wished her wandering mind back within her own form.

  Her consciousness returned to her body, only to collide with the physical sensations her emotions had unleashed. Alwen gripped the dressing table with both hands to steady her wobbly legs. It was suddenly hard to draw air. Several slow, deep breaths brought her rampant heartbeat under control. An unsteady step toward the divan brought Alwen face-to-face with the looking glass above the hearth. There she met the reflection of a woman overcome, with eager eyes and cheeks flushed with anticipation.

  Alwen forced herself to take a few moments’ pause, reminding herself of her station. This was not so free a place as Norvik, nor was she so free a woman. Her public comportment must project a dignified, even royal profile no matter how flustered she felt.