by Holly Taylor
She shook her head, for these thoughts were useless, and began to climb the stairs. She had some business with her husband. She wanted to ensure that he fully understood that the game was almost up, that Kymru continued to slip through his hands, that it always would.
For the Dreamer had been rescued. Queen Elen of Ederynion had been freed from her captivity, and Talorcan, one of Havgan’s most trusted generals had gone with her. Queen Enid of Rheged had been freed and General Baldred had been killed. General Penda in Prydyn had captured a Dewin and a Druid, and had, inexplicably, let them both slip through his fingers. And King Madoc of Gwynedd had died at the hands of his own father.
And just a few short weeks ago, the Druids had turned from him, giving their allegiance to High King Arthur. The Druids had put the Archdruid to death in a pitiless manner. She had heard that Cathbad had screamed from his barrow beneath the earth for three days and had lingered for some days more before finally dying.
Arthur had been able to seal the island, ensuring that no word could come to Corania that Havgan needed additional troops. Arthur was nearing the endgame, nearing the time when the two men would face each other on the field of battle. And that was a day that Aelfwyn longed for, because surely, in such a contest, Arthur would win and Havgan would die.
She neared the top of the stairs and rounded the last corner, and came to a sudden stop. For there, blocking her way, was Sigerric.
Sigerric stood stolidly, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore tunic and trousers of dark brown, and gold glittered at his throat, his wrists, and his ears. He had a golden dagger at his belt and the hilts of two more daggers glittered from the turned-down cuffs of his high boots.
“General,” she said, inclining her head as he bowed to her. He straightened, then again crossed his arms over his chest. She stepped forward, knowing he would step aside for her. But she sprang back at the last moment to avoid running into him, for he did not move out of her way.
“Sigerric,” she said firmly. “Step aside.”
“I regret to inform you that I cannot, Princess,” Sigerric replied.
“I wish to speak to my husband.”
“Then you must wait,” he said firmly.
He had never taken this tone with her before, and she was at a loss on how to proceed. “He is my husband and I will speak to him when I please.”
Sigerric sighed. “He is busy, Princess. But he will return to the hall shortly. I would be happy to tell him that you wish to see him then.”
“But I wish to see him now,” she said sharply.
“Princess, it pains me to deny you anything, but I must.”
“What is he so busy doing?” she asked. “Staring out at that mountain?”
Sigerric shrugged, but she knew better.
“Is he alone?”
“Princess—”
“Why must you call me that all the time?” she asked irritably. “I have a name.”
He swallowed. “I would not dare to use it, Princess.”
“Am I so frightening then?” she asked. “Such a figure of horror that you must be so formal?”
“I think you know what you are to me,” he said quietly.
She raised her eyes to look into his. They stood face to face like that, not moving, for a very long moment. And in that moment she became aware that her heart was beating faster, that her pulse was racing, that she wanted him to speak of the things she saw in his eyes.
But the hard side of her, the side that belonged to her mother, came uppermost then. She put aside her longing and reached instead for a tool to use to bring down the man she hated. She would speak to Sigerric of Havgan and all that he had done to her. And Sigerric would kill Havgan for her. He would. He must.
“My husband—” she began.
“Will have my loyalty until the day he dies.”
“And me?” she asked bitterly, her hopes dashed. “What will I have?”
“My heart. Forever and ever and ever.”
“Then free me,” she cried.
“I cannot,” he replied, his voice low and sad. “I am what I am. And cannot be anything else.”
Movement behind Sigerric caught her eye and she saw Arianrod, her husband’s whore, his Kymric witch, coming towards them. Her gown was awry and her hair was loosened and disheveled. There were love bites on her neck and her lips were slightly swollen. She moved slowly, awkward from her pregnancy, but her movements were dreamy, and she smiled to herself the smile of a woman who loved and was loved in return.
That was a smile Aelfwyn had never felt on her own face. And the sight of it enraged her. “So this is what you would keep me from interrupting, Sigerric?” she said harshly. “The sight of my husband rutting with his whore?”
Arianrod smiled, as though Aelfwyn’s rage amused her. “Ah, the barren wife. Come to seek out the husband who despises her.”
“You speak to the Princess of Corania, Arianrod,” Sigerric said softly. “And will show her the respect she deserves.”
“Oh, but I do,” Arianrod replied. “I give her all the respect she does indeed deserve.”
Arianrod grinned, her amber eyes alight, her honey-blond hair tumbling around her shoulders in the flickering torchlight. And, for some reason, Sigerric stiffened, drawing his breath in sharply.
“What is it?” Aelfwyn asked.
But Sigerric shook his head and refused to answer.
WHEN SIGERRIC HAD gazed down at Aelfwyn it had taken all that he had to keep from framing her flawless face with his hands and kissing her. He ached to do it, but he could not. For she was Princess of Corania, daughter to the Emperor. She was the wife of his blood brother. That Havgan did not love her did not matter—Sigerric was simply not capable of betraying his brother like that, no matter how much he longed to do so.
And he did. Oh, he did. More than anyone could ever know, he wished with all his heart that he could take the woman he had loved so dearly for so long into his arms.
But it could not be. It could never be, unless Havgan chose to let Aelfwyn go. But that was something he would never do. For it was only through marriage to Aelfwyn that Havgan would rule Corania. And Havgan would not give up that dream—for anyone or anybody.
And why should he? For he could have both his wife and the throne that came with her as well as his mistress, the woman he loved, the woman who would bear his son.
That was the woman he turned to face when Aelfwyn spoke. And that was when Sigerric saw what he should have seen long ago.
It was, he realized, what Cynan Ardewin had seen. It was what Anieron Master Bard had seen. It was what Dinaswyn, the Dreamer had seen. It was the real reason why those three were dead—dead before they could speak the truth.
Because when Sigerric had looked at Arianrod in the fiery light—she with her amber eyes like Havgan’s and her honey-blond hair like Havgan’s, she with the same lazy smile he sometimes saw on Havgan’s face—he had seen the truth.
Havgan and Arianrod. Two halves of the same whole.
Brother and sister.
Which meant, in turn, that Havgan and Gwydion were cousins, for Sigerric knew full well the story of Arianrod’s parents and how they were related to the Dreamer. He saw for the first time how alike Gwydion and Havgan were. But he had been blinded, as had so many, by their differences. Yet Gwydion—black and silver as the moon in the night sky—and Havgan—red and gold as the morning sun—were merely two sides of the same coin.
Havgan was one of the hated witches of Kymru. He was that very thing that he had been trying to destroy.
Horror flooded him as the truth washed over him. But he would never speak of this to Havgan or to anyone else. He could not. Never would he be able to speak such words past the dark revulsion and horrified pity he felt.
For what was the child that Arianrod carried beneath her heart? What kind of child would brother and sister witches produce to the ruin of them all?
Mandeag, Sol 30—noon
BY THE TIME HE reached Athe
lin he was weak and dizzy from adequate lack of food and rest, but he did not pause for either. His clothes were filthy, salt-encrusted rags. His beard had grown out in tangled, dirty locks. He was thin, almost skeletal. But he did not stop. He could not.
He staggered from the docks, down Lindstrat, ignoring the offers of food, companionship, and easy money—all the lures that were thrown his way as he left the waterfront and entered the city proper.
People strode by him in a hurry, intent on their own business. Lindstrat was dim, crowded on either side by houses whose upper stories hung over the street, cutting off the sun. It was spring and the air was crisp but warming slightly. He passed the house where Havgan had lived before winning the hand of the Princess, but he kept going, for there was nothing for him there.
He crossed Flanstrat and beheld Byrnwiga, the great, dark fortress that belonged to the Warleaders of the Empire. But he did not halt there, either, for the man he sought would not be there.
He turned west, headed toward the place where the man he had been sent to find would surely be. The four great towers of Cynerice Scima soared up to the sky as though attempting to pierce it and wrest it to the earth. The Emperor’s palace flashed golden and white in the noonday sun. The building, which rested on an island in the center of the city, seemed to float on the River Saefern, like a vision of heaven come to earth. Downstream to his left he could see the shadow of Waelraest Hlaew, where the bodies of the former Emperors and Empresses of the empire came to rest.
He crossed the bridge to the great east gate of Cynerice Scima and waited his turn to enter. Carts full of victuals, men dressed in fine clothes, soldiers in gleaming silver byrnies, all crowded in and out of the palace. After weeks of having only the sound of the sea for company, he felt disoriented and cowed by the din. But he had a job to do. He had promised.
When he reached the guards they took one look at him and rolled their eyes. The captain gestured sharply for one of the guards to help him on his way out with a foot on his backside. But he was prepared for this. Without a word he fished out the ring he had been given.
The great ruby glittered under the sun like a fistful of blood. The captain froze, taking in the gem, then looked up. “What do you do here, with such a fortune, thief?”
“I am not a thief,” he said, with what dignity he could muster.
“What are you then?”
“A messenger.”
He gave the name of the man he had been sent to see. For a moment he thought he would still not be let in. But the captain finally nodded to two guards, detailing them to take the old sailor where he wished to go.
“But know this, old man,” the captain said, his cold blue eyes pitiless, “if this is a mistake, I will see that you pay for it, not I.”
“No mistake,” he said. “None at all.”
“Go then.”
He followed the soldiers into the palace. He hardly dared to breathe once inside, for all the richness of the place took his breath away. Great tapestries, spun in rich colors of green and red, of amber and gold, of blue and purple covered the fine, marble walls.
One showed Wuffa, founder of the Wufmaegth, the second dynasty, killing his wife’s brothers as they attempted to rescue their sister from his hated embrace. Another showed Sigger of the Sigmaegth conquering the kingdom of Mierce, killing King Centwine, spitting the king’s baby son on a spear, and forcing Queen Cyneburga to become his queen. A third showed Emperor Aelle, founder of the present dynasty, the Aelmaegth, defeating the Dereans, killing King Ingild and watching as Queen Hildelinda threw herself off the tower rather than fall into Coranian hands.
But all that was as nothing to the most beautiful room he had ever seen—the Gulden Hul of the Emperors of Corania. The great, golden roof was held up by eight pillars, carved in the likeness of mighty trees and sheathed in gleaming gold. The floor was covered with tiles of gold and the walls were covered with sheets of beaten gold. Candles filled the hall, making it gleam softly. In the center a huge tree of gold stood, spreading its jewel-covered branches up to the roof. Mechanical, jeweled birds nested in its branches, occasionally singing with the sounds of tinkling bells.
Two golden thrones stood at the north end of the hall on a dais covered with cloth of gold. The Flyflot, the banner of the Emperor, hung on the wall behind the thrones, worked in amethysts and gold.
The Emperor himself was surprisingly small and pale, his fine blond hair falling lankly to his narrow shoulders. His head seemed bent by the weight of the golden diadem, Cyst Eorcanstan, and the huge jewels of amber, emerald, and sapphire that adorned it.
The Empress, by contrast, seemed vitally alive. Athelflead sat on the smaller throne and her rich, brown hair, still untouched by frost, was curled and braided, spilling down her alabaster shoulders.
But at this moment he did not really have eyes for either of them. He was only interested in the man who stood at the bottom of the dais. Prince Aesc, the Emperor’s brother, seemed to have all the vitality that his older brother lacked. His powerful shoulders strained against the cloth of his amber tunic. His blond beard was rich and full and his bright, blue eyes glittered with intelligence in his tanned, leathery face.
The guards made their way through the crowd in the hall and he followed. At last they stood before Aesc. The prince raised his brow and looked inquiringly.
Torgar, sailor for Corania for years beyond counting, gave an awkward bow and held out Havgan’s ruby ring to the prince.
Aesc took it and it glittered in his palm with a light of its own. “He is well?” the prince asked anxiously.
“He was well when I last saw him. I am Torgar, and he has sent me with a message to you.” “What is his need?”
“Soldiers. In Kymru before the month is out.” “Then,” Aesc said, simply, “it shall be done.”
Chapter
* * *
Fifteen
Arberth
Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 500
Llundydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early morning
At Rhoram’s signal Achren extinguished the torch. Velvety darkness descended, so thick here in the heart of the caves that honeycombed the cliffs beneath Caer Tir that Rhoram thought he could almost taste it. He put out his hand and lightly touched Achren’s arm. He reached out with his other hand and touched the cave just where the rough wall gave way to smooth stone. He moved forward with one hand on the wall to guide him and the other hand in Achren’s to guide her.
After a few feet in the palpable darkness, he halted. He could tell by the feel of the air on his face that the hidden door was just in front of him. He pressed one ear against the almost imperceptible place where the stone door joined the stone wall and listened.
The faintest wisp of sound through the stone told him what he had expected—that the chamber on the other side of the door was not empty. He guessed that there were not many guards there—possibly only one in the makeshift prison General Penda had created on the first floor of Caer Tir’s northwest watchtower.
He reached out and lightly touched the spring that would release the catch on the door. He could tell by touch that the catch was still in working order. General Penda had indeed destroyed the secret passage that he had discovered when Ellywen was captured less than a month ago. But he had not looked hard enough—if at all—for yet another door. Rhoram smiled in the darkness, for he had been quite sure that the second door had fooled them all.
He briefly squeezed Achren’s hand to indicate she should be ready. Achren released his hand. The faintest steely rasp told him she had drawn her sword.
“Now,” he breathed to her then pressed the catch. The door sprang open and he and Achren leapt through.
A lone guard whirled toward them, his axe raised. Quick as thought Achren darted forward, ducking low to let the axe swing pass harmlessly over her and thrusting upward with her blade, burying it in the guard’s belly. Rhoram sprang behind the man and put his hand over the dying guard’s mouth. The gu
ard sank to the floor without a sound.
A few torches lit the chamber, illuminating the stone walls and empty cells. Achren rose and went to the wooden door leading out into the courtyard. She silently opened the door a crack and looked out. After a few moments she turned back to him.
“No movement in the courtyard,” Achren said softly. “And the watch won’t change for another hour at least. Time for you to do what you have to do before dawn.”
Rhoram silently laid the dead man down full length on the stone floor. He glanced up at her and there was something about this moment, about what they had come here to do, about what awaited the city at dawning, that made him want speak the truth.
Her dark hair was braided tightly to her scalp. She wore a close-fitting tunic of dark green and trousers of black leather as well as worn, black leather boots from which two daggers protruded. As she looked down at him her dark eyes sparkled and her generous mouth grinned at the thought of what this day’s work would mean.
And, to him, she was beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. More beautiful to him, truth be told, than Rhiannon had been—and she had been his measure of beauty since he had lost her so many years ago. It had seemed so strange at first, when he realized that he had fallen in love with Achren ur Canhustyr, the woman who had been his captain for so many years. Strange because he had known her for so long. He had fought battles with her, had hunted game with her, had fought the Coranians with her at his side. Had, at the last, fallen in love with her. Or, perhaps, had always been, but only recently realized it.
He had spoken of his feelings for her only once, and she had stopped him then, refusing to take him seriously. So he had bided his time, knowing that she would one day come to believe him. That day was today.
“Do you think to crouch here all day?” she asked acidly when he did not immediately rise.
“I love you,” he said simply.
Her eyes widened in surprise as he rose to his feet. “What in the world—” she began to sputter.
