By the time he made his own grand entrance, Cerrigwen had situated herself. Machreth was pleased. Madoc headed the table with Alwen at his left, directly across from Machreth’s chair, to his right. Next to Alwen sat her Wolf King, with Cerrigwen seated at his left. Perfect.
Once Machreth had taken his seat, Glain made formal introductions, presenting the newcomers to Madoc one by one. The Obotrite captain, Domagoj, who never strayed far from the chieftain’s side, was also a guest at Madoc’s table. The rest of the barbarian horde, which numbered only seven in all, was being hosted at the lesser tables, where their fearsome oddity made them the objects of the awed curiosity of his apprentices. This was annoying, but of no real consequence to him. It was Alwen who concerned Machreth most. She possessed power she did not yet understand, and that, coupled with her righteous devotion, could move worlds. Machreth could not allow her to threaten the relationship he had begun to forge with the sons of Cadell, and the king-to-be, nor his plans to supplant Madoc’s vision of the prophecy with his own.
Machreth spent the meal dabbling in polite conversation while covertly observing, waiting for proof of a vulnerability he could exploit. Alwen smiled with rare abandon this evening, doting on her barbarian king and obviously more confident than ever. Still, Alwen presented herself with all the decorum one would expect in Madoc’s presence. She was too committed to the old wizard to allow the warlord to interfere. It would take more than Bledig’s presence to distract her. If anything, he seemed to bolster her.
For her part, Cerrigwen played the role of the contented disciple well, keeping her resentments secreted beneath warm exchanges and inviting gestures. Even Madoc appeared to find Cerrigwen engaging, a relief considering how close she had come to insolence at the last affair. Tonight, she was better prepared and focused on the task she had been given. Machreth’s last worries over Cerrigwen’s discretion were allayed, for now.
“Perhaps the Wolf King would regale us with tales of his travels,” Cerrigwen prompted, resting her hand on the barbarian’s arm and affecting a coy tilt to her chin and a fawning smile. “I understand your people to be successful traders.”
Well played, Machreth thought, noting the slight flush to Alwen’s cheeks over the rim of his wine cup. Enough of a rift already existed between the two sorceresses that any overture Cerrigwen made would be met with suspicion, especially if it were focused on Alwen’s family.
“Traders?” Bledig chuckled. “A nicer name for it than I’m accustomed to hearing, but yes, Obotrite horsemen have been known to travel great distances collecting wares for trade, to provide for our families and the tribe. We’re only just a few weeks returned from Ausoria. The journey there and back is long, the better of two seasons, but the most exotic riches find their way to the ports there.”
“You must be a very wealthy man,” said Machreth.
Bledig paused to glance briefly at Machreth before helping himself to more meat and bread. “It is my honor to lead, but every householder in the tribe takes an equal share. Most years we are fortunate enough to have more than we need.”
“Risky business, the transport of fine goods over such long distances,” Madoc interjected. “You and your men must encounter a fair number of thieves and miscreants on your excursions.”
“No match for you, I’m sure,” Cerrigwen nearly cooed. “I can’t imagine any raiding party daring enough to take on the likes of your warriors.”
Bledig shrugged, appearing more interested in his food than the conversation. “Oh, they dare, though none have ever lived to regret it.”
Whether it was his casual tone or the nonchalance of his phrasing, Machreth regarded Bledig with keener interest. The Wolf King was a pragmatic beast who considered killing a practical solution to threat. He was unfettered by moral compunction, and yet it was evident he held true to his own code of honor. This was a far more complex man than Machreth had initially assessed.
Cerrigwen redoubled her efforts to engage him directly, but once again, he conferred his attention on his plate. “And where do you and your people call home? Are you also from the North?”
The captain, Domagoj, answered while Bledig drank his wine. “The Obotrite confederate inhabits many of the Slavic republics, though we have no true kingdom of our own.”
“The Wolf Tribe is kin to the Drevani, though we are more than three generations removed from our native Wendlands.” Bledig tipped his cup to Alwen. “We have made the Frisian islets our home these past twenty years.”
“We are fortunate, Bledig Rhi, that you and your fine brethren have come all this way in aid of our cause,” Madoc said. “I bid you most welcome here, as long as you will stay.”
Bledig then raised his cup to Madoc and offered him a grin. “I thank you for your hospitality, Sire, but I must confess I have come all this way for Alwen, and for her alone. That your cause is also hers is where your luck lies.”
“He makes light in sport, Sovereign, but you may count on his support as if it were mine.” Alwen spoke with pride and passion. “You have my word.”
“So be it, then.” A broad grin broke across Bledig’s face. “It seems we are conscripted to your service.”
The glance of solidarity that passed between Alwen and Bledig told Machreth all he needed to know. Their bond was strong, but only as strong as their belief in one another. Alwen had revealed herself in the courtyard when Bledig and his horsemen had arrived. She needed him. If Machreth could not openly thwart Alwen, he could, perhaps, undermine her with doubt. For this, he would need Cerrigwen’s help.
Machreth set his gaze on Cerrigwen and waited for her to notice and acknowledge him. It took some time, as she had become the center of several conversations. She was quite beautiful, especially when she smiled. Once he had her attention, Machreth nodded toward the door and excused himself from the festivities. Several minutes later, Cerrigwen followed him into the hall. The affected pleasantry was replaced by her natural bitterness and cynicism.
“She is stronger than ever now,” Cerrigwen hissed. “With the barbarian king and his men at her call? Even the Cad Nawdd is under her control. Madoc adores her, and Fergus would never betray her.”
“True,” Machreth acknowledged. “She is lifted by the strength of others. But one’s greatest strengths can also be our greatest weaknesses.”
“How so?” Cerrigwen was frustrated.”
“Woman to man, mother to child, friend to friend,” he mused. “Even the tightest of bonds can be broken, or at least strained.”
“You are devious, Machreth.”
“So I’ve been told.” He smiled. “But then, so are you.”
Sixteen
“There are many days and many ways a man might be asked to eat mutton,” Bledig said with a belch. “But that, well…” He scuttled sideways across the ground to lean against a nearby birch tree, stretching out his legs to ease the strain on his gut. The fresh air and clear skies outside the barracks was a welcome respite to the formality of the temple. “That was the sort of meal that would send a man glad to his grave.”
He sucked greedily from the wineskin and offered it to Rhys. “I’ve missed that girl’s cooking almost as much as I’ve missed your mother’s…Ah, well, never you mind about that.”
Bledig peered at his son over the flames of the small campfire near the tents that housed his men, surprised by Rhys’s silence and rueful excuse for a smile. He’d expected a wink or a jeer. “What bothers you, boy?”
Rhys shrugged as he swilled from the skin. “Nothing much worth mentioning.”
“Nothing much, you say, with your nose stuck in the bag,” Bledig chided. “I’d say you’re feeling the weight of the world tonight.”
Rhys looked up finally. “It shows, does it?”
“Only to a man who knows what it looks like.”
“In the blink of an eye, I found myself conscripted into the service of a grand campaign to save the world. I never imagined myself on such a journey.” Rhys stared hard at Bledig, his
conflicted loyalties showing in his eyes. “But given the choice to go another way now, I don’t think I would.”
“Your mother’s calling is an uncommon thing. She belongs to a destiny that is grander and greater than any one of us, than all of us.” Bledig eyed his son. “I’d wager that you have found the adventure intriguing.”
“On many counts,” Rhys admitted. “And I have come to believe what she stands for is a cause worth serving. It is a duty I have taken to heart.”
“So.” Bledig nodded. “You’ve taken the damned blood oath.”
Rhys looked askance at his father. “Are you disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” Bledig frowned. He was, some, but not about to let Rhys know it. Every man envisioned his son as his legacy. “You’re old enough to choose your path. Besides, a man can owe more than one allegiance in his lifetime. You have blood ties to two proud clans, Rhys. You will never dishonor one by serving the other, so long as you never deny either. I suppose I am proof enough of that,” he conceded. “Your mother needs you now. She serves a prophecy that affects us all.”
“She needs us now,” Rhys pointed out.
“So she does.” Bledig grinned and reached for the wine. “Woman is a gentle, gracious mistress, as long as she gets what she wants. It’s a cruel trick nature plays on men, my boy. Her favor is so sweet an elixir a man will do anything for the promise of another sip.”
“So that’s what keeps you tied to my mother all these years?” Rhys joked.
“I confess.” Bledig gave a sly nod and a wink. “She has me spellbound.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard many a man claim enchantment as the culprit when he’s fallen for a woman’s wiles.”
Rhys didn’t know the half of his mother’s allure. Bledig had wanted her the moment he saw her. She’d roused a part of him that lay so deep and dormant he hadn’t quite recognized it at first. Her delicate, wistful beauty had stirred his mother’s pixie blood and rattled him clear to the core. Elf shot, he was. His entire being had been struck to a dead stop by the unfathomable depth of spirit in Alwen’s eyes.
“Well,” Bledig said soberly, “whatever charms she may avail upon my desires, she has my heart. I love your mother, boy. Let there never be mistake about that.”
“Have you regrets?” Rhys asked.
Bledig gave pause. It was an honest question, and one that deserved an honest answer. “I would say that from time to time I’ve found myself tried beyond my tolerance, but the truth is that loving your mother is easy. It’s everything else that’s a damned difficult struggle. Sooner or later every man must decide for himself what price he’s willing to pay for love. I admit that some days it’s harder than others to come up with the purse, but no, I have no regrets.”
Rhys smiled. “Such sentiment from a barbarian.”
“Ha,” Bledig snorted. “Keep it to yourself, else you’ll ruin me.”
“Your reputation for bloodlust and butchery will be safe with me, but I’d be a lucky man to find a woman who moves me as much as my mother does you.”
“A lucky man, indeed.” Bledig did in fact think himself very fortunate. “Love is a treasure, a rare and elusive jewel. Not every man will find one so bright and precious as she, but luck has a way of finding a man just about the time he’s given up looking for it. If it hasn’t found you yet, I’d say it’s about to, as lovelorn and woebegone as you show yourself to me now.”
“It’s not really as bad as all that. I haven’t given up.” Rhys stared thoughtfully into the fire. “I’ve only just begun to look.”
“Good.” Bledig was pleased that Rhys still felt hopeful. A man should feel useful and potent, and a cause would give him that. But more than anything, he should have passion about something, or someone.
“Well then.” Bledig loosened a small camlet cloth pouch that hung from his belt and unknotted the drawstring. When he upended the bag over his open palm, a small ring made of two twining golden vines tumbled onto his palm and Bledig held it out to Rhys. “I say it’s about time you had this.”
Rhys gingerly lifted the ring and held it up to the firelight. “This looks like a joining band.”
“It could be. It was my mother’s. I’ve held on to it in remembrance of her, but I expect you’ll put it to better use. Though rituals and joining bands don’t make a marriage, mind you.”
“It isn’t the ceremonial vow that matters, but rather the one you make in your heart,” Rhys grinned as he carefully placed the ring back into its sack and tucked it into his boot. “Isn’t that what you say?”
“Wise words, my boy, well worth heeding,” Bledig counseled. “It might take more time than you’d like, but you’ll find a worthy woman. Now tell me something more of Odwain. Something I can’t see for myself.”
“Well,” Rhys began slowly, “I have to say I find Odwain more like you than I would have ever guessed, at least where Eirlys is concerned.”
“How is that?” Suddenly this young man was more interesting.
“When Aslak arrived with the call to duty, I believe Odwain was ready to forsake his uncle and his father for her.”
“Not an easy thing, to stand against your family.”
“No,” Rhys said. “But I believe he would, if it came to that. As you say, every man must decide what price he’s willing to pay for love. And for Eirlys, Odwain would pay dearly.”
Bledig was impressed. Odwain was a man of grit, praise be. No doubt about that, though he had seemed overly grim and dour when Eirlys had presented him at supper.
“Would you also say that he has as much kindness in his nature as he does courage?”
“I would.”
Bledig sighed, as much with relief as with reluctance. It seemed there’d be no finding fault with his daughter’s suitor. He hadn’t really hoped to disapprove, but acceptance hadn’t a much better feel to it.
“All right, then. Unless you can give me some reason otherwise, I suppose I’ll give the boy my consent provided he has the stones to seek it.”
“That’s it?” Rhys was appalled. “That’s all the test you’ll put him to?”
“What else would you have me do, Rhys?” Bledig laughed. “Dare the man to take her from me? Hell, I’d say he’s already done that.”
“Bledig.” Fergus appeared from nowhere, grim and wraithlike in the white light of the fire. “You’d better come. Now.”
Bledig dragged to his feet, surprised by Fergus’s grave tone. “Trouble, eh?”
“Just come along,” he said curtly, turning back toward the barracks at a brisk clip.
Rhys stumbled up alongside, a bit too well oiled by the wine. “What is it, Fergus?”
Though Fergus offered nothing else but his worried scowl, it was all clear enough to Bledig long before they reached the stable yard. In front of the barracks buildings that housed the temple guards were his tribesmen, skulking and pacing like a wolf pack spoiling for the kill. Behind them hovered the men of the Cad Nawdd, though none of them seemed to be involved.
Bledig wanted time to assess the situation before intruding and led Fergus and Rhys along the tree line behind the barracks to avoid being seen. His were trusty men, but ruled by a feral code. He could smell the menace on them. His own hackles quivered to the scent of threat and Bledig tensed. Any one of them might spring on instinct and strike with merciless intent at the slightest provocation, even at their chieftain. Especially when they’d been drinking.
“Domagoj.” Bledig’s lieutenant stepped from the shadows near the buildings where he’d been watching and waiting for the Wolf King. “What is this?”
“That Bretland helldog has taken Sobol down over an insult,” he said. “And now he asks your leave to kill him.” Domagoj grinned. “He has the heart of a volchok.”
“Volchok, is it?” Bledig nodded approvingly. Already Odwain had earned the respect of the cagey Domagoj. Wolf cub was a proud title and an unusual bequest to someone not born to the tribe. It was especially rare tribute from Bledig
’s suspicious friend. Domagoj was slow to the praise of any man. “What say the others?”
Domagoj shrugged. “He is a foreigner, and Sobol is family, but it’s what you say that matters. Once you hear the offense, I can guess what you’ll decide.”
Bledig was curious, but apprehensive. He would not have been called to intervene in the dispute unless it was particularly foul. “All right then. Let’s settle this.”
He approached the ring of bystanders and shouldered his way into the center of the crowd, with Rhys and Domagoj at his heels. Fergus stood with the others, who had stepped back a bit in deference and respect. Bledig nearly laughed aloud, so surprised was he at the sight that greeted him.
Sobol, a large and lumbering lad some years elder and far more experienced than Bledig had adjudged Odwain to be, lay flat on his back with Odwain’s heel jammed against his larynx. From the looks of it, Sobol had been fighting to breathe for quite some time. Odwain, on the other hand, appeared none the worse for wear save the strain of malevolence on his face. He’d rested his sword tip on Sobol’s breastbone, with both hands clenched firmly around the hilt.
“Well, Sobol,” Bledig said, “I must say I’m disappointed to find you at the lethal end of this boy’s pig sticker. Whatever the devil you’ve done, it must be serious.”
Sobol struggled to rise, but Odwain shifted his weight, pinning him hard and fast to the ground. “It began as a point of honor,” Odwain answered. “And it shall end at the point of my blade.”
“Sobol has taken exception to Odwain’s claim on your daughter,” Domagoj explained. “And Odwain has taken exception to Sobol’s exception. It might have all ended with a good brawl if Sobol hadn’t tried to drag the girl off by her hair.” Domagoj shrugged at Bledig. “She is a beauty.”
“She is my daughter,” Bledig snarled. “If I’d seen him lay hands on her, he’d be dead already.” He glanced around for Eirlys. “Where is she?”
“Gone to her mother.” Domogoj snorted at Sobol with disgust. “So. Do we let the volchok here have his justice?”
The Well of Tears Page 12
