by Janzen, Tara
And a few, like the one heading straight for them, the undulations of its young body propelling it up the shaft, to make their way out to the open sea.
Dain swore, scrambling to his feet and dragging her up with him. She cast one last glance at the giant creature closing in on the weir—its featureless face into the wind, the single-mindedness of its purpose like a shield before it—then with a sweep of her arm, she parted the mists and turned into the opening with Dain at her side, bringing them both back to the cavern of the scrying pool.
Moriath was there, reaching for her as the steamy clouds sank back into the pool.
“You have done well, little one,” the older woman whispered, and gave her a serenely pleased smile.
Rhuddlan echoed the sentiment with his cool, gray gaze and a slight nod that implied both gratitude and dismissal.
Exhausted—and aye, she could feel Dain trembling at her side—they were taken to a part of the cave far from the pool and made to rest on soft piles of rugs, where Aedyth and Moira tended to them and brought them honeymead and seedcakes to refresh their spirits and bodies.
Chapter 27
Caradoc stormed into Balor’s keep, the pain in his leg and his limping gait adding to his rage. His captain, Dyfn, flanked him on his left, keeping a goodly distance between himself and his master’s sword, but by the gods, even at a distance, Caradoc could cut him down before the man could dodge. The only thing that stayed his hand was the battle they faced.
The first sortie had been lost. The pit guards had been found dead, one of them with his throat cut and two others pin-stuck with black-feathered arrows. Dyfn had taken thirty men into the boar’s maze to rout Dain and his companions, but all they’d found was Old Groaner with his head cut off and tracks heading into a wall of rubble. ’Twas beyond the rubble that the true depth of their dilemma had become clear. The caves, deserted for all these years, were overrun by an army the likes of which Caradoc had not seen since he’d fought by his father’s side for Carn Merioneth, an invisible army made up of men hiding in the dark, their presence marked by flashes of cold steel and strange blue light. “The wild ones,” his father had called them, and as they’d been defeated before, Caradoc swore he would defeat them again.
He stepped up onto the dais at the end of the hall, then reached down with both hands to lift his injured leg. The little bitch had nearly castrated him with her bolt, and for that she would pay.
“Bring me the hairless leech,” he gritted from between his teeth, limping to his great chair. Dain Lavrans had chosen his side badly in this fight. Years ago, Gwrnach had allowed the survivors of the battle for Merioneth to escape. Caradoc was not so softhearted as his father. He would lead the full force of Balor into the caves and crush every living soul who dared to trespass beneath his keep—except for one, Ceridwen ab Arawn. He would kill her separately, with Helebore at his side to catch her blood.
~ ~ ~
With the ending of the ceremony, those of the Quicken-tree who could fight had gone into the tunnels of the Light Caves with the Liosalfar to help man the defenses. Scouts had reported a marshaling of the forces in Balor after Rhuddlan’s first rout, and another attack was expected.
For himself, Dain had decided to make for the surface. He’d gotten what he’d come for; Rhuddlan could fight his own battles.
“Moira is sending over seedcakes for our journey,” Ceridwen said, coming up beside him where he knelt by their supply packs. The dogs were with her and began sniffing around, seeing what was what. “And two thick rugs for our pallet, a pot of rasca, four gourds of something she called catkin dew—though it’s hard to imagine collecting dew off catkins—and seven ells, a small fortune, in Quicken-tree cloth. She said Rhuddlan got far more than his hour of magic.”
“’Tis true,” he said, tying down a strap with a quick jerk. He could not be gone soon enough. Unlike the Quicken-tree, who were contentedly overjoyed at the prospect of winning back Carn Merioneth in mortal combat, he had no desire to fight again. Lady Rhiannon deserved avenging; he felt that need down to his core. But just as surely as he felt it, he knew another would come to do the deed. A remnant of the weir sight, mayhaps, or his own gift, it did not matter. Caradoc’s death was not to be his.
And the worms. The pryf. Was he the only one concerned that the creatures were free and making their way into the Canolbarth and could soon be at the great cavern itself? Rhuddlan had assured him that ’twas not the season for the pryf to rise above the midland caves; but given the speed Dain had seen, he feared the pryf would rise whether the season be right or nay.
The Quicken-tree leader had promised them a guide, a Liosalfar well versed in the ways of worms and skilled in their handling. Dain had scoffed. The creatures he’d seen were far too large to be handled by even a skilled man. They made elephants look no more than rats, and he’d thought to never see anything bigger than an elephant, not on land.
“And Moriath gives you these,” Ceridwen said, holding out a pair of leather pouches.
He glanced at them before continuing with the packing of their supplies.
“Don’t you want them?”
“No.” God only knew what was inside.
“But you don’t even know what they are.”
His point exactly. The witch had seen him on his knees, the worst of his needs stripped bare. He wanted no gift from her.
“This one is from Edmee.” The larger of the two pouches dangled into his line of sight, extended from Ceri’s fingers.
His hands stilled in mid-tie, and his gaze lifted to her face.
She was looking down at him with a challenging tilt to her head, her brows arched in curiosity. He had not forgotten that she’d seen Edmee on her knees, with her sweet needs bared. Nor, it seemed, had she forgotten.
He rose to his feet and took the pouch. He did not hesitate in opening it, but shook the contents directly into his hand. There were six linen packets, each one small though not all the same size, and each one embroidered with fine green thread worked into the leaves of a plant: valerian, chamomile, dill, hawthorn, balm, mistletoe.
A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’s a practical girl.”
“A pharmacopoeia?”
“A receipt for headaches. We had talked of adding hawthorn and balm to the infusion. The mistletoe is her own touch. She must fear that you are going to be hard on me.” He glanced at Ceridwen. “A bit of prescience, mayhaps?”
“She but cares for you”—Ceridwen’s brows arched a fraction higher—“in her own way.”
“In her own way,” he agreed, his grin broadening, “though not as much as it may have appeared.”
“It appeared to be a substantial amount.”
He could not argue the point. Neither was the time right for explaining it, though he tried.
“When Edmee chooses to love, she will give of herself far more completely than she ever gave to me, Ceri.”
“Then I wish her love,” she said, her smile growing mischievous as she offered him the other pouch. “This is Moriath’s gift. Dare you open it?”
Moriath. Madron. She had saved his life. He had watched her father die.
“You,” he said, coward that he was. He nodded at the pouch she held, while he repacked Edmee’s herbals.
She did as he asked, loosening the drawstring and pouring what was inside out into her hand. “It’s a rock,” she said, nonplussed.
A rock? He looked over at the small stone in her palm and felt his heartbeat quicken. No mere rock, this. ’Twas red, as all the writings had said the Philosopher’s Stone would be, but not the red of cinnabar. Its color was clearer, yet ’twas no crystal like ruby or garnet. There was a transparency to it, though, for below the surface he could see crackling striations of a deep saffron color.
“Or glass,” she said upon closer inspection. “Mayhaps it’s another charm like Brochan’s.”
“No Ceri. ’Tis Nemeton’s Stone.” The bard had known the secret. Dain reached for th
e long-sought magisterium medicine, worker of wonders, healer of souls, and took it in his hand. No bolt of lightning struck him down, no sudden realization came to him. ’Twas not heavy nor light, not hot nor cold, but moderation itself. Yet he knew the gift for what it was.
He looked up, searching the cavern for Moriath and finding her by the pool speaking with Aedyth. She turned when his gaze fell upon her, and for an instant they were back at the weir gate, with her eyes shining green and fierce, full of power and knowledge beyond his ken, her hair flaming in auburn tendrils about her face. ’Twas what had saved him, her fierceness, and with the look she took due credit for his life.
Pretty thing, she thought, and he heard. She lowered her gaze to the Stone in his hand, then looked back up at him. Use it as you may, or use it nay, mage. It matters not.
He closed his fingers around the Stone, holding it dear, and a smile crossed her mouth. With that, she turned away.
Quicken-tree and Ebiurrane laughed nearby, their lilting voices sounding like clear water tumbling over rocks and down hillsides.
“Elves,” Ceridwen said, looking to where the fair, wild folk sat around their fire, sharpening their daggers and filling their quivers.
“Aye. Elves.” But not Moriath. His glance strayed back to the witch. She was as human as he, mayhaps more so.
He and Ceri had finished capping their last water gourd when a commotion from above drew their attention and sent a hush rippling through the cavern. Dain’s first thought was that pryf had been sighted, and he made to grab Ceri and run—he would not face those beasts unleashed, Quicken-tree or no Quicken-tree—but ’twasn’t a cry of pryf that echoed off the cave walls. ’Twas a cry of Balor.
He swore. The Quicken-tree line had not held. Those who had been in the Light Caves came pouring out of the upper tunnels. Dain drew his sword and told Ceridwen to ready her Damascene.
“Cut quick—”
“And deep,” she finished for him.
“And stay here,” he ordered, then looked to the hounds and gestured for them to do the same.
The Quicken-tree were taking up arms and rushing to their comrades’ aid, some to archers’ positions high up on the walls. Dain knew his height and weight would better serve on the floor of the cavern. The foreign elves were not as tall as Rhuddlan’s Quicken-tree, and the Deri elves had not his weight. Morgan and his band had realized the same, for even the youngest, Rhys, was bigger than the wild ones. The Welshmen fanned out, adding their strength all along the line.
Hand-to-hand combat resounded throughout the great cave, the clash and scrape of metal mixing with the cries of men. With the influx of fresh fighters, the Quicken-tree rallied long enough to halt Balor’s crushing advance.
“To the Canolbarth! To the Canolbarth!” The command went out, and Dain immediately understood. Within the dark, winding shafts, the advantage of Balor’s numbers could be overcome.
He finished his last Balor guard with a quick cut above the man’s hauberk and raced back to Ceridwen.
Rhuddlan was with her, giving orders. “Go with Llynya. If she can get you out to the mountains, she will. If not, she will fight by your side.”
It would be fight, Dain thought, wiping the sweat from his face.
“What of the Liosalfar guide?” he asked.
“The Liosalfar are soldiers first. I need every one to fight in the Canolbarth, enough to lure Caradoc into the maze, and enough to trap him from behind.”
A good plan for the Quicken-tree, Dain thought; mayhaps not so good for him and Ceri. He looked at the sprite making her way toward them through the confusion of the retreat. Morgan was at her side. The Welsh prince was always an asset in battle, but Llynya was no Liosalfar, and Dain doubted if she knew a damned thing about handling pryf.
~ ~ ~
“Where is she, leech?” Caradoc demanded, holding Helebore by his throat next to a bubbling, steaming pool in the torchlit cavern they had won. Throbbing pains shot from his wounded thigh up into his groin even as a fresh stream of blood ran down. The whole lot of the enemy had bolted into the tunnels honeycombing the far end of the cave like rats down a hole. But which one held Ceridwen ab Arawn?
The leech gurgled a reply, scratching at the Boar’s ever-tightening hands.
Caradoc released him with a curse and a command. “Speak up, man.”
“The middle caves,” Helebore rasped. “I have been there, and if you had but let me have her blood, I could find her.”
“And without her blood, you cannot?” When next he had the chit, he’d gut her himself to get her blood.
“Aye. I can.”
“Then show me the way.” He turned to his captain. “I’ll take eight men down the hole of the leech’s choosing. Take the rest into the other shafts and fight to the end of it. Slaughter all of those who dared to trespass in my domain.”
Dyfn nodded and lifted his sword for Balor’s men to follow.
Caradoc turned back to the medicus. “Find the maid, Helebore, or find your grave.”
~ ~ ~
What had begun as a mass exodus of Quicken-tree quickly deteriorated into small bands of refugees making their escape through the maze. The Canolbarth was a true labyrinth, full of twists and turns, with levels both up and down linked one to the other by smaller holes bored through the rock. Where it all led was a mystery Dain did not like.
He and Morgan had started out by following Ceridwen and the sprite, the better to protect them, but the first Balormen they’d come up against had been ahead of them, proving the capricious nature of the Canolbarth. Llynya had dispatched the scout with an alacritous blade, surprising Dain and allaying any doubts he’d had about her fighting ability. He and Morgan had made short work of the others. As for Ceridwen, he would have given her one of the Balor swords, but he knew from the times he’d held her that she had not the kind of muscle Llynya exhibited, convents being far less strenuous places to grow up than forests. She could never wield a sword with killing force and was better off with the Damascene. None of their pursuers would attack her outright anyway. Caradoc wanted her taken alive.
When they continued they arrayed themselves with Llynya leading, then Morgan, Ceridwen, and Dain, with the dogs bringing up the rear. The light from his and Llynya’s dreamstone blades cast a bluish glow before them as they worked themselves deeper, through dry caves and galleries, and ofttimes through pools of water and narrow passages slick with mud. Other lights flickered at each tunnel juncture, and both up and down the smaller holes, and where the walls had worn through, proving them not alone. All of Quicken-tree was in the maze, all of Balor was behind them, and in between the two were the Liosalfar, picking off the garrison one by one, leading Caradoc’s men into ambush and the natural traps of the Canolbarth. Twice Llynya warned them of sinkholes, and more than twice, the sounds of running feet were interrupted by the clash of swords and men’s death cries. For themselves, they met no other of the enemy, with Llynya leading them at a light run down every chamber and shaft she chose.
After what seemed like hours, a gradual widening of the passage they were following warned Dain of a broader chamber up ahead. Still, he was unprepared for the sheer immensity of the cavern they entered—and he called it cavern only because they were deep in the earth and reason dictated that no matter how large, the place had to have enclosed dimensions. It had to have ends.
“Abyss,” Morgan said. They had all halted at the edge of the tunnel, stopped in their tracks by the vast sheet of darkness before them.
“Nay,” Ceridwen whispered. “The abyss is not so dark.”
Nothing could be seen—the dreamstone light was swallowed up a mere arm’s length from their faces—but the emptiness could be felt. Heavy. Overwhelming.
“We must go on,” Llynya said, unhooking her last full gourd from her pack. She sipped and passed the gourd to Morgan, who took a drink and grimaced. She grinned.
“What is it?” he asked, giving the gourd to Ceri.
“Catkins. It’s good
for journeying. Here.” She ate a bite of seedcake, then passed the rest around. “We can get fresh water below. Others will be coming soon, and it won’t be so dark.”
Llynya spoke true, Ceridwen soon saw, for lights began appearing all across the face of the cavern wall. Blue specks of life heralding other bands of Quicken-tree and the Welshmen with them.
She watched more and more lights appear as from out of nowhere and hang in the darkness, showing where other passages ended. Blue shadows moved within each stationary glow, as if everyone had decided to rest and drink before making their descent.
“Look,” Llynya said, a note of excitement in her voice, and Ceridwen turned back toward the cavern.
Her breath caught in her throat, for ’twas pure majesty she saw where there had been only darkness. Pillars of stone hundreds of feet tall rose in front of them, and huge rock icicles hung down from a ceiling they could not see, their tips catching the dreamstone light. Other rock formations jutted up from the floor, some as big as cottages, their gnarled, globular shapes reminding her of sand castles washed over by waves, and of much-burned candles whose wax had dripped and run and hardened, then warmed and dripped again.
A flow of stone covered one whole side of the cave, its opalescent surface like a gigantic frozen waterfall; and scattered throughout, showing in places on the floor and in long, irregular patches on the walls, were multifaceted sections of heliotrope quartz. They soaked up the dreamstone light and reflected it throughout the cavern, transforming the vast darkness into a fantasy realm.
“Rhuddlan holds court here,” Llynya said. “See the thrones in the water off to the left, the place surrounded by the Sentinel rocks?”
“Rhuddlan is king?” Ceridwen asked, confused. She looked to where the sprite pointed and saw a still pool studded with candlelike formations. The water reflected the amethystine light and made the dais holding the massive chairs appear to float above the rest of the cave floor. A broad section around the pool was filled with pillars, some appearing no higher than a man, others twice that.
