The Well of Tears

by Trahan, Roberta

  What I want is to know what I want. Her son’s words were both revealing and perceptive. For him, at the onset of his own life’s journey, it was as she had said — a delicious dilemma. For her, it was more complicated. The prophecy was the purpose for which she had been born, and Alwen accepted this role. The fate of the world rested with the Stewardry, and for now, the fate of the Stewardry depended upon her. As did the safety of her family, she reasoned. Perhaps she could serve both duties at once. Perhaps what Madoc had to offer would help her ferret out the truth behind the curse that afflicted Eirlys and allow her to bring vengeance to bear upon those responsible.

  “I have made my choice,” Alwen affirmed. “I am prepared to serve it.”

  “Knowing full well that there will be unforeseen costs,” he pressed her. “That there will be consequences.”

  “Yes, Madoc.” Alwen was committed. “Knowing full well.

  “Very well then,” he said. “But don’t lose sight of that cup. You may soon find yourself badly in want of its remedies.”

  He leaned heavily against the chair back and leveled a sorrowful look at her. “With Machreth and Cerrigwen in league against us, I find I must impart to you knowledge you are not truly prepared to receive. But, someone must hear my secrets before I die.”

  Despite the chilling shudder that wracked her, Alwen held her poise. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt and reached for the drink. The cup shook in her hands, but she managed to empty its entire mind-numbing contents into her mouth and swallow her heart back into her chest. “Confidences will be spoken between us tonight, Alwen, sacred trusts that cannot pass beyond you. What I am about to share with you is for your knowledge alone. You may not tell anyone.”

  She felt buoyed enough by the wine to speak with some conviction. “You have my unwavering loyalty, Madoc. Let there be no question.”

  “There is no question,” he answered firmly. “If there were, you would not be sitting before me now. Though I have disavowed Machreth, I have not yet declared a new heir. Should it happen that I do not live to see to the succession myself, the duty will fall to you. You must be prepared to stand in my stead until the new Ard Druidh ascends.”

  “Have you another ascendant in mind?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “A blood heir. But that is a name I will not yet speak. For all our sakes, most especially hers.”

  Hers. Madoc intended to seat a woman in his place. This, too, was unheard of. Good grace. She could only hope she possessed what he would require of her.

  Madoc had begun to drum his fingers lightly on the tabletop. He stared beyond her for a minute or two, as though considering how best to express his next thoughts. At long last, he cleared his throat.

  “No woman has ever before held the seat of the Ard Druidh, not even as proxy, and with good reason. The secrets of the Stewardry safeguard the lives of entire populations, of entire generations. Their unwitting revelation could unmake the world. But perhaps even more perilous is the danger having care of these secrets poses to the poor soul who is indentured to do so.”

  Despite his concerns, it did not seem so unbearable to her. She had the training, the skill, and the desire. “I am ready.”

  “So you say now,” he challenged. “But I must be sure you can bear the full weight of what you are about to undertake. As my proxy, times may come that you find yourself called upon to make difficult choices, Alwen. The most difficult choices you can imagine. You must be prepared to put the Stewardry before all else — before yourself, before even your family. Few women of true heart could find the will to make such sacrifices. But if ever there was such a woman,” he said slowly, “I have to hope it is you.”

  Madoc left his words hanging in the silence, and Alwen was grateful for his deliberate pause. The deeper truths had very nearly slipped past her — and with them, the dire consequence. As far as she could see, though, the odds were with them both.

  “This pledge is not so simple a task as you might have thought,” he said finally. “But I have no doubts, if you are willing.” Madoc sat straight. “So what say you, Alwen of Pwll, high sorceress of the Stewardry and guardian of the realms? Do you accept? Will you sit my throne and hold it in safekeeping, until the rightful sovereign comes forward? I must have your answer now.”

  “Yes, Madoc.” The clear, calm voice that Alwen heard could not have been hers. The voice of her mind was still conflicted, confused, and uncertain. But it was she who had spoken. “I accept.”

  Somehow, in that moment, Alwen understood the full depth of her own strength, the full measure of her ability, just as plainly as she knew the full weight of her decision. This was the destiny she had waited for her entire life, and she would respond with every ounce of her soul, with every strength and skill at her hand.

  “So be it.” Madoc nodded with satisfaction. It was the answer he had been expecting, the answer he had already known she would give. He shoved back his chair and pulled to a stand. “Come with me.”

  Madoc led her down the east annex corridor, past her rooms, and all the way to the farthest end, to a doorway hidden in a recess behind the service stairs. He pointed to a torch leaning in the corner. “We’ll need the light.”

  Alwen lit the torch with the flame from the oil lamp on the wall and followed Madoc’s beckon to descend the dark, curving stone steps that led deep below. “How far do we go?”

  “All the way to the bottom,” he huffed. “Three flights to the castle main, and then two more.”

  It seemed they were descending into the very bowels of the earth. The air was stale and thick with dust. Alwen wondered how Madoc could withstand it. She was barely able to breathe it herself.

  She took the stairs slowly, with Madoc’s hand on her shoulder to brace him. When her foot finally felt the earthen floor, she whispered her thanks to the gods. Alwen held the torch out in front of her. “Now where?”

  “That way.” Madoc took the torch and pointed into the black mouth of yet another corridor. “I will lead from here. Watch your footing, and make careful note of the trail I take. Commit every turn, every passage to memory, Alwen, or you will never find your way through the labyrinth again.”

  Alwen followed him through an unending series of winding, writhing conduits that seemed to lead nowhere, and everywhere. Memory niggled at the edges of her mind. Alwen recalled the dank, musty air of a secret subterranean escape, and a powerful fear of the dark. She had been through this maze before, once, but so long ago the path was no longer known to her. So she took heed of Madoc’s instruction, memorizing every break in the stone or crack in the walls that might mark the course.

  “There is only one way in,” he puffed. “And one way back. And then, there is the way out.” His chuckle choked to a hacking cough that nearly dropped him to his knees.

  “Sovereign?” Alwen took his elbow.

  Madoc waved her off. “I’m all right, Alwen. Old, maybe, but not altogether feeble.”

  He pointed to an opening just to his left. “This one. This leads under the grounds and lets out in the forest on the other side of the veil. Guard its location well, Alwen. It is a most convenient means of escape,” he warned. “But also a point of breach.”

  “I have been here before.”

  “So you have,” he nodded. “This far, at least.”

  With that, he moved ahead. A few paces farther, the passage widened. Beyond the widening was a chamber so dark the flame barely pierced the shroud of blackness. But something caught the glimmer of the torchlight.

  Madoc reached back for her hand and pulled her through the entrance alongside of him. He stepped forward to light two torches staked opposite each other a half dozen feet in front of them and then slid the one he held into an iron brace on the wall next to the entrance.

  The fragile glow flickered and waned, casting shadowy specters on the hand-hewn walls. A faint shimmer attracted her eye. The light reflected eerily on the dark waters of an underground tarn. Madoc moved forward to kneel beside the pool
and beckoned that she should join him.

  “Yours are the only eyes other than mine to have seen this place,” he said quietly. “Come closer, Alwen. Behold, the Well of Tears.”

  Alwen could not bring herself to move. Her toes curled at the thought. She stood at the altar of the Ancients, glimpsing evidence of the existence of the legacy she served.

  “The well is so old its origin has faded beyond memory. It is said that the stream beneath the pool is sourced so deep in the earth it could only have been sprung by the tears of the gods themselves,” Madoc explained. “Since the beginning, these waters have been fed with the wisdom of the ages. Herein is stored the knowledge of every Ard Druidh to rule Fane Gramarye for more than nine generations.”

  “Madoc,” she asked quietly, “I do not understand how it is that water can contain a man’s essence. How is the knowledge passed?”

  “It is not such a difficult thing, in the magical sense, though it surely defies the laws of nature.” Madoc trailed his hand in the pool. “As each Ard Druidh reaches the end of his reign, his experience is poured into the well through a ritual shedding of tears. Thus, the waters are salted with the memories and insights of a lifetime. Some good and some bad, but all of it useful.” He turned to smile at her. “It is the most valuable legacy we can bestow upon the generations to come. What better gift than the lessons already learned?”

  Madoc then held out his hands to her. “Come. Sit.”

  He waited for her to find the courage to take her place beside him. Alwen was afraid to even disturb the dirt on the floor of such a sacred place, but she did as she was bid. With great care and reverence, she crept three steps forward, took his hands, and knelt gingerly at the water’s edge.

  “Here.” Madoc held her hands out over the pool and turned her palms up. “Cup your hands.”

  Alwen complied as best she could. Her hands were shaking too hard to hold them in place. She watched in disbelief as Madoc scooped water from the well with his own hands and let it fall into hers.

  “There. You see? It’s only water,” he joked.

  It drained in droplets through her fingers, cold and wet, just as water would. And yet, whether it was just wishful thinking or some spiritual sentience, Alwen would have sworn that she felt the forces within it. As her hands slowly emptied, she watched each dribble ripple the placid stillness. She asked herself what amazing truths could lie below.

  “When the time comes, you will drink from the well. And as you partake of the well, you will partake of me. What I know, you will know.”

  “But I am not the Ard Druidh,” she answered. “Nor will I ever be.”

  “This is true, in the strictest sense, but these are unusual circumstances.” Madoc looked on her kindly. “I cede you my rights to the well, Alwen, in safekeeping for my heir.”

  Madoc was placing his confidence in her. “How can it be that I am worthy of this?” she whispered.

  “If you are not already,” he said, “then you will become so.”

  “How can you know such a thing?”

  “Faith.” He gave a faint smile. “I have faith, my dear.”

  There could be no greater honor than this, and she silently vowed to herself that she would never fail him. Not ever.

  When Alwen finally found her voice again, she asked. “How will I know when the time has come?”

  “You will know. Until then, you will have my living guidance. And when I have gone, you will rely on the well. But there is one other secret to these waters. Perhaps the greatest magic of all.”

  Madoc smiled at her with a sort of wistful longing that tugged at her heart. “In the days when the world was young, the Stewards were sent to shepherd the mortal flocks. Upon the Stewards was bestowed the dream-speak, the ancient tongue of the gods through which their wisdom and guidance could be carried between the world of mortals and the realm of the spirit.”

  He scooped water into the air and let it splash back to the surface. “The language of the dream is a potent tool. Any sorcerer entrusted with this power can navigate the misty fields between the conscious and the unconscious, and plant the seed of thought in the mind of any soul he chooses, while they sleep. The dreamspeak can be used to alter the fates of man, which is why the gift is so sparingly given. Imagine such power in the hands of evil.”

  “It could unmake the world,” she said.

  Madoc sighed. “Indeed. And to think I nearly gave it to Machreth.”

  “But you didn’t,” she offered.

  “No,” he nodded. “Fortunately for us all, I did not.”

  Madoc continued his litany. “The secret is revealed to only one man in every generation — the one man who will wield it with wisdom and reverence. Like the knowledge of the elders, the dream-speak is intended for the Ard Druidh alone. But for the first time in our history, someone other than the sovereign will know that the dream-speak exists. You, Alwen, are the first daughter of the Stewardry to share this legacy.”

  “The more I hear, the more frightened I become, Madoc.” “You should be frightened,” he said. “It is an incredible burden, and I confess to taking more than a little relief in sharing the load.” “We are going to lose the light soon,” she noticed. The torches were dimming.

  Madoc glanced around the cavern. “There is one more thing I will tell you before we leave this place. There is privacy here I cannot count on elsewhere in the temple, even in my own chambers.”

  He extended a knobby forefinger to tap the amulet on her chest. “This is a sacred thing, an unearthly thing. The talismans belonging to you and your sisters are the channels to the elements. They are keys. Each unlocks its own realm — the spiritual, the natural, the celestial, and the physical. Once all four talismans, all four guardians are together, it will fall to you to join the Circle. But beware false charms, Alwen. Beware false friends. You will know a true guardian only by the amulet, and you will know the true amulet only by my mark.”

  Alwen’s hand instinctively reached for the pendant as she remembered the tiny engraving of a bearded wizard encircled by a wreath of oak leaves. It matched the image on the signet ring Madoc wore on the little finger of his left hand. The ring was his seal, the one true symbol of his power.

  She remembered also that last night with Madoc, so long ago, when he had endowed Alwen with the lapis she wore. To Cerrigwen, he had bestowed the moss agate; to Branwen, the moonstone; and to Tanwen, the bloodstone. The shaman, the healer, the oracle, and the sentinel — each of them a balancing force to the others, representatives of the elements that preserved the natural order. And each of them an essential piece in the workings of the universe.

  “Yes.” Madoc knew her thoughts and nodded approvingly. “The true legacy of the Stewardry rests with you and the others. It is the council that will save us from extinction, but it must be complete. Each of you is formidable on your own, but when the arcs are joined, they forge a ring of immeasurable strength. Somehow Cerrigwen must be brought back to her duty, Alwen. I leave it to you to bring the Circle together. And so it follows that you must also know where to seek the others, should Aslak fail.” He struggled to a stand and held out his hand. “But I will tell you while we walk. We must go.”

  * * *

  It was late, nigh on midnight. But had Glain not been hovering anxiously near the tiny dormer window on the second floor landing of the service stairs, just to be close to Alwen’s rooms in case she could help, she would never have known. No one would, and that was just the sort of providence that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

  Footfalls echoed in the distance. The sound came from above, somewhere beyond the stairway upon which she stood. The service stairs were at the very end of the annex, built against the outer buttress. To most anyone else, it would have seemed as if the echoes came from within the stone itself. Impossible, of course, except in Fane Gramarye. The temple was an architectural conundrum, filled with hidden rooms, caverns, and a secret passageway or two.

  Glain was curious, but
it was too dark to see from where she stood. Just as she started up the half flight from the landing to the third floor to investigate, a familiar robed shape emerged. The furtive figure scurried past the staircase on her way down the hall. Even in the shadows, Glain knew to whom that mantle belonged, and her curiosity turned to unease. Machreth’s consort was lurking about. Her hackles bristled and her protective instincts took hold. Glain had spied a spy.

  It took only an instant or two for her to decide to follow, but her quarry was already disappearing into the shadows ahead. Glain scurried along the corridor in pursuit, trying not to gain too quickly nor lag too far behind. Her heart raced, urging her feet to keep pace. The tallow oil in the wall sconces had all but burned out, and she was forced to hunt nearly blind. Glain’s thoughts leapt ahead, envisioning the twists and turns her prey might be taking. But by the time she’d reached the juncture where the east annex met the main stairs, there was no one to be seen.

  Glain slowed to a stop outside the door to Madoc’s rooms and listened for footsteps or the sound of a door closing in the distance. Nothing. She could hear nothing but deep-sleeping stillness and her own haggard breathing.

  “Blast it all,” she muttered to the silence. She was disheartened at her lack of stealth, but not completely daunted yet. The spy could have gone only one of two ways. The main stairs were too conspicuous. More likely, she’d have taken the clandestine route. Farther along the third-floor hallway, in the west annex, were the docent’s quarters and another set of service stairs that eventually let out in the kitchens.

  Glain huffed in frustration. It was no use. She’d lost the trail. No knowing now which way to go. The best she could do was to go back to meet Madoc and tell him what little she did know.

  And then she heard voices, muffled whispers from below. A tiny, niggling suspicion tugged her toward the main steps. Glain crept down the stairs, hugging the wall so that the shadows might shield her from view. As she drew nearer to the second-floor landing, the niggling suspicion flared into full panic. From where she stood, Glain could see Machreth in close conversation with his consort. As he turned to lead his companion into his chambers, Glain caught one brief but completely unobstructed glimpse of her face.