“Gods of mercy,” she whispered, horrified and confused. It was Cerrigwen.
Twenty-Three
“It has been three days, Alwen.” Bledig meant to prod gently, but frustration sharpened his point. “She can take no food or drink. She barely breathes.” He sighed. “If we wait any longer there won’t be anything left of her to save.”
Alwen paced the floor between her bed and the hearth in stubborn silence, clutching at herself and frowning in deeply troubled thought. Bledig knew her to be angst ridden, just as he was, and he was not without compassion for her pain. But Alwen was no nearer whatever answer she hoped to find, and all the while their daughter languished.
“Alwen, please.” Bledig’s heart ached every time he looked upon Eirlys. Her stillness put him in mind of the dead.
She shook her head, dismissing him yet again. “I need more time.”
“If not tonight, then maybe never.” Bledig paused, hoping for reason to surface. She remained silent.
He was determined. “I have decided to speak to Odwain. It will break his heart, but he will see the sense of it. Rhys has already agreed.”
“You have decided?” She looked daggers at him over the back of the divan.
“Am I not the girl’s father?” he said. “If there is any situation in this damnable place where my say is at least equal to yours, it is this. And if you cannot find your way to reason, I will act on my own. For our daughter’s sake.”
“You won’t.” She stopped cold as she realized his intent. “You mustn’t.”
“I must.” Bledig was as firm in his tone as he felt in his conviction. He meant to give Eirlys over to the faerie realm this very night. “I will, Alwen. It is what needs to be done.”
She gave her head a terse shake. “It has not come to that. Not yet. You will wait until I am sure there is nothing else to be done for her.”
“I would wait an eternity if I could, Alwen. But even Madoc admits he has no cure.” And it would take eternity, he knew, for her to reconcile her heart to this. “I cannot give you more time, but I can give it to Eirlys.”
“But you would have her exist in a world beyond my grasp,” she whispered through tears. “A place in which only she can walk. She is lost to me there.”
For a moment, Alwen’s mournful face shook his resolve. She feared nothing in the world more than failing her children, but Bledig could not allow himself to be dissuaded.
“Eirlys is lost to you anyway,” he sighed. “The faerie realm is a happy existence. There she can live without pain or grief.”
“But she will live alone,” Alwen lamented. “At least she will live.”
“You must give me the chance to set it right, while she still clings to the mortal world. You must promise me, Bledig. One more day.”
Alwen looked to him so desperately it tore at his heart. Bledig sorrowed for her. Alwen could no longer see anything but her own judgment and was too frightened to recognize it. He could hardly fault her for it, but he had come to realize that he might well be forced to save Eirlys from her mother.
“We do not have one more day,” he insisted, still hoping that gentle persuasion would turn her around. “Tonight we have the full moon. Tomorrow will be too late.”
Alwen folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, refusing his counsel.
Bledig had had enough. He could no longer restrain his frustration. “Have you completely lost all your senses? How can you allow your own daughter to languish?”
She remained silent, standing rigid before the hearth with her arms wrapped around her middle as if she were trying to hold herself together. Bledig regretted every word he had uttered, every word he was about to say. But he meant them all.
“Alwen, it is my duty to Eirlys to do what is best for her no matter how difficult it may be. I came here hoping you would come to see reason but I will not argue the matter any longer.”
Bledig pulled to his full height and most foreboding bearing. “Hear me on this, Alwen. Make your peace with Eirlys before dusk tonight. I will do what I must, with or without your consent.”
* * *
Alwen went rigid with the chill of his words. She blinked back tears as Bledig left, pulling the chamber door closed behind him. She began to pace, more determined than ever to help her daughter. The knowledge she needed, however, would not be found within the confines of her rooms.
After asking Glain to sit with Eirlys, Alwen went to the scriptorium to continue her search for a counter curse or a healing spell. She settled onto the bench at the broad wooden work table against the one wall of Madoc’s private library that wasn’t faced floor to ceiling by towering oak bookshelves. Every shelf in the room was filled, an inestimable collection of sacred works, most of them centuries old. Alwen had begun a methodical working to the arcane.
“Have you found what you seek?”
Alwen had recently begun to hear Madoc’s words in her mind a split second before he actually spoke. It was a dizzying reverberation she was slowly learning to anticipate.
“Not yet.” Despite the endless hours of poring through the tomes, she was no closer to finding a way to help Eirlys than she had been when she started. “But soon.”
“Hmm,” Madoc mused. “Perhaps you already have the answer.”
Alwen placed her finger between the pages of the book to hold her place and swiveled on the bench to puzzle at him. She sensed he had come to make a point. “What do you mean?”
“I understand Bledig has proposed a solution.”
Alwen was surprised that Madoc had an opinion on the matter. “And you agree?”
Madoc lowered himself into the overstuffed armchair beneath the window. “It is sensible, don’t you think?”
“There is another way,” she insisted. “It’s only a matter of time until I find it.”
“Time is something you do not have.” Madoc offered her words that were both kind and knowing, but she was not so sure she wanted to hear them. “Eventually we all find ourselves faced with a crossroads, forced to choose between what we want and what is right or best. Maybe this is best, Alwen. Even if it is not what you want.”
“But it is not for Bledig to say.” Alwen expected his agreement on this. “I am her mother.”
“So you are.” Madoc folded his hands in his lap, a gesture that Alwen interpreted as the patient resolve a parent would present to a stubborn child. “But perhaps you recall my counsel a few nights ago. Sometimes we are given no choice but to have faith in something or someone other than ourselves.”
“Yes, I remember.” Alwen was beside herself. She could not believe what she was hearing. “But you can’t mean I should abandon my daughter altogether. That cannot be right, Madoc.”
“Neither is it right for others to suffer for your limitations,” he counseled. “In the end, isn’t that what will happen? Bledig is her father, after all. He has her best interests at heart. For the sake of the child, perhaps you should give this over to him. Beyond this place, he has known the respect owed a chieftain, even a great king. He has had command of an army, and provided for his tribe and his family. Surely after all these years he has earned the right to your trust.”
Madoc paused to allow the weight of his words to be felt. Alwen was uncomfortable with his line of reasoning. It rang of a truth she was unwilling to entertain.
“To become who you must be you must let go of who you were. And to do that, you must be willing to entrust some obligations to others.” Madoc pulled himself to his feet. “But, I’ll leave you to sort this all out for yourself.”
With that, Madoc shuffled back across the thunderstone floor and through the scriptorium doors. Alwen was so stunned she had no final words, though every ounce of her wanted to argue. She had full confidence in her own mind. She was Mistress of the Realm, Madoc’s appointed proxy, and wife and mother. Surely she would find a way to save Eirlys. Alwen returned to the stacks, more determined than ever to prove it.
* * *
�
�You have done well. The girl’s malady has given us just the diversion we need.” Machreth pulled Cerrigwen deeper into the shadowed recess underneath the main stairs. “Even Madoc has taken her plight to heart. As we speak, he is in the scriptorium helping to search for a cure.”
“No magic of mine caused the girl to fall ill. I wrought the spell just as you gave it to me, Machreth. A binding, you said, to keep Madoc and the others contained when the time came.” Cerrigwen looked closely at him. “And yet Eirlys is dying.”
Machreth took careful note of the suspicion in her voice. She was not easily duped. If he could have seen her face clearly, would he have glimpsed accusation in her eye? He would have to watch her.
“I am as perplexed as anyone by her reaction to the thorns,” he said carefully.
“It is regrettable. But fortuitous, nonetheless.” “Your indifference amazes even me,” she snapped. “Though there be no love between Alwen and me, I have no quarrel with Eirlys. She is but a child, not so much younger than my own daughter, and an innocent.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly found your conscience.” He chuckled. “A bit late for that, I’m afraid.”
Her form went rigid, and Machreth resolved to go more cautiously. He could ill afford to lose her loyalty now. “Distasteful as it may be, Cerrigwen, we must take whatever advantage we are offered.
“Now then.” He clasped her by both shoulders. “My forces stand ready to strike. I trust you have seen to the rest?”
Machreth waited with bated breath while Cerrigwen considered her response. Her part in this was crucial to his success. She must come to it willingly now, so that he could be sure she would not waver when it mattered most.
His plan was to bring down the veil that shrouded the temple. It had taken him years, but he had finally found a hex that could pierce the magical defense. It would require time to work such a complicated spell. The sentry men on the wall would have to be distracted — so distracted, in fact, that they would abandon their posts. And despite his considerable talent, even Machreth could not be in two places at once. Not this time, at least.
“I have prepared,” she said finally. “But before I give you what you want, I will have something from you in return.”
“Anything,” he cajoled. “Of course.”
“An oath, then, Machreth,” Cerrigwen demanded. “Sworn from your own lips. Even the likes of you would hesitate to break his vow. In the end your promise is all I will ever have to bind you.”
Machreth considered himself an honorable man. His word was his law. Whatever she asked would have to be granted. “Name your wish.”
“I will hear you speak the words,” Cerrigwen challenged, “for whatever they may be worth. Swear to me that once you have the temple throne, you will give me command of the council. It shall be my voice that whispers your wishes in the ear of the high king.”
“I swear it, Cerrigwen. No one but you shall ever lead the council.”
Twenty-Four
“I cannot fight what I can neither see nor understand, but the time for vengeance will come, I swear it. For now, this is all I can do for her.” Dread thickened the air, and the room grew too quiet. Bledig raked his hands through his hair and leveled his somber gaze on Odwain. It was difficult to meet the pain in the boy’s eyes. “A decision had to be made.”
Bledig found it hard to look upon Eirlys, but found it even harder to tear his gaze away. Every moment was a precious treasure stolen from the hands of fate. She seemed so small and frail, almost withered. He noticed a pallid hue to her face and a grayish tinge about her mouth. Bledig breathed deep and swallowed the retch of emotion as he rose slowly from the stool by the fire. He wished to see her smile, to hear her chatter and prattle and laugh. And oh, how he missed those dancing eyes.
“What does Alwen say?” Odwain asked quietly from her bedside.
Bledig was reluctant to answer. She would be devastated beyond grief and angered beyond fury, possibly beyond forgiveness. “Alwen still hopes to find a way to counter this. I know it feels wrong to go against her, but if we wait for her to come around it will be too late.”
Odwain cast a desperate glance at the footboard. “Rhys?”
“She belongs to you, more than any of us.” Rhys spoke from the shadows. “What comes next is for you to decide.”
Odwain nodded, though he looked pale and frightened. Bledig laid his hands on Odwain’s shoulders, swallowing twice to regain his voice. He wasn’t sure he’d have the will to hold his own heart together. But he would fight with his last breath to face this all with dignity and find solace alone with the wineskin later.
Odwain still held her limp hand as he sat in vigil, knowing just as Bledig did that Eirlys would never wake. “She left me before I knew that it was time to say good-bye.”
Bledig blew a heavy, tormented sigh and dug his fingers deeper into Odwain’s shoulders. Odwain collapsed against him, wracked by silent sobs so deep it felt as though they were shattering him from the inside out. A man’s tears were the blood of his soul, and Odwain was bowed before him, mortally wounded.
Bledig pulled him close, knowing no way to comfort Odwain save to hold him up against the weight of his grief. They clung to each other, bonded by sorrow and pain and the love of the same sweet girl. No promise or wise word or offer of affection could salve this hurt nor appease the aching in his heart. It would never heal. What had been taken from Odwain could not be replaced. She would always be mourned. Even time in infinite measure would only allow a man to learn to live with the loss.
If borrowed strength would get him through this, then Bledig vowed to lend what he had left. A burden shared might be easier to shoulder, but it must still be borne the full distance. Bledig was first to find the fortitude to set aside his pain. Perhaps it was his greater years or just the experience of a chieftain and father who lived all his life with the constant obligation of caring for others.
He pulled Odwain to his feet. Forcing him to stand under his own weight might help him find his footing, but Bledig held on a bit, just to bolster him. “Follow your heart, Odwain. It’s the best that any man can do.”
Odwain released a shaky sigh and nodded. “What must I do?”
“You’ll find a faerie ring in the field beyond the garden. That meadow is a thin place, a place where the seen and the unseen walk so closely alongside one another that the veil between them can be pierced. Take her there. Tonight, under the light of the moon.”
“And then?” he whispered.
“And then you wait,” Bledig said gently. “The fey will come for her.”
Bledig bent to leave a last kiss on his daughter’s cheek and then beckoned Rhys from the shadows. “Say your good-byes, Rhys, and then we’ll leave Odwain to his own.”
He’d thought Odwain’s pain unbearable, but it paled beside the agony Bledig felt for his son. Rhys had lived nearly all his life with Eirlys. They shared a unique heritage, a unique understanding. Bledig could not begin to imagine what it was for Rhys to be torn from his sister.
Rhys stepped forward, haltingly, as if every pace took all the grit he had. Bledig was struck by the calm on his son’s face. The boy had the look of his mother, stoic and constrained. Her strengths just might see Rhys through this, Bledig thought with relief. For the gods only knew how he would survive it himself.
Bledig turned away as Rhys bent to whisper words of parting. He could not bear to watch, nor could he stand to see Odwain’s stricken face much longer. The urge to rage and wail was suffocating him.
Finally, Rhys straightened and turned to Odwain. “We’ll be waiting for you at the barracks. Take as long as you need.”
* * *
Bledig stood with Rhys at the edge of the courtyard, long enough to watch Odwain disappear into the garden with Eirlys in his arms. He was glad for the shadows that camouflaged the tears. It was hard enough just to hide his own anguish, and then he saw Rhys shudder. The boy made no sound, but Bledig did not need to hear the sobs to know hi
s son was weeping.
“Rhys.”
Bledig reached out to take his son’s shoulders, but Rhys pulled back, trying to turn away. Bledig held hard. He forced Rhys to face him, and waited.
Rhys dropped his head. Bledig understood every one of the reasons why his son would resist comfort. The codes of honor and manhood were unforgiving of weakness. Rhys was fully possessed of manly honor and proud of his emotional fortitude. Still, even the strongest man would have cause in his life to unburden his heart, and Bledig was determined that Rhys should know this. He was also determined that his son should not grieve alone.
Bledig gripped his son’s arms and tugged at him, gently but firmly. “Let it go, son,” he whispered. “The harder you try to hold it back the worse it will be. Let the grief go, and make room for anger.”
Another shudder rippled through Rhys’s body as Bledig felt his son struggle against his need. Finally, he fell forward against Bledig’s chest and allowed his father to hold him. And then the tears came — both the son’s, and the father’s.
Bledig clasped Rhys close and held tight. Rhys clung to him, wracked and heaving with agony. It hurt to share his son’s sorrow, more than he thought possible. If he could do nothing else, Bledig was grateful for the chance to be a source of strength for Rhys, to be relied upon in dark hours and vulnerable moments. Bledig had also found that offering comfort was often comfort itself.
At last, he could feel the waves of misery in Rhys begin to subside. Bledig loosened his hold and slung one arm around his son’s shoulders. “There’s a good store of stiff spirits back at the barracks,” he suggested. “I’m thinking we might as well get a good start.”
Rhys nodded. He glanced up at his father with what Bledig supposed was meant to be a confident smile. All Bledig saw was the tear-streaked face and sad eyes — a lost and half-frightened look he hadn’t seen since Rhys was a small boy. Bledig had to choke back a groan. He squeezed Rhys’s shoulders a little tighter, and hoped there was enough wine to drown them both.
The Well of Tears Page 19
