by Holly Taylor
A man dressed all in black and blood-red rubies stepped forward to greet Aesc. He wore a golden helmet shaped like a snarling boar with ruby eyes. He smiled at Aesc and hugged him, pounding him on the back. His cruel, pale face showed signs of dissipation, but the smile in his cold, blue eyes was genuine. Sigerric knew that this was Prince Athelric, Aesc’s next oldest brother, the Warleader of the Empire.
And then he looked at the young woman who stood on the dais between the two golden thrones and his heart was lost in an instant. Princess Aelfwyn, daughter and only child of the Emperor and Empress, was only thirteen, but her beauty was already manifest. Her skin was perfect, pearl-like and glowing. Her hair, which flowed down her slender, graceful back, was light blond, like a shimmering river of sun-warmed diamonds. Her eyes were green and as cool and contained as her mother’s, but Sigerric thought they could be warm, though he did not dare to think they would ever look with warmth upon him.
He glanced over at Havgan, who was staring up at Aelfwyn with the hunger still in his eyes. But Sigerric knew he was not seeing—indeed, would probably never see—the girl herself, but only what she stood for, only the power that would come to the hands of the man who became her husband.
“Brother,” the Emperor said softly.
Aesc mounted the dais and knelt at Athelred’s feet, kissing his brother’s ring. “My Emperor,” Aesc answered.
“Glad we are to see you with us again,” the Emperor went on. He glanced at his wife, as though for approval.
At that the Empress rose and went to Aesc, bidding him rise also. “I echo my husband’s joy,” she said, but her smile did not reach her cold eyes, “that you are returned to us, safe and sound. I have been given to understand that this is due to your companions.”
“It is,” Aesc replied as he perfunctorily kissed the Empress’s alabaster cheek. He carelessly reached out a hand and flicked the cheek of his niece. She smiled back at her uncle and almost giggled, but catching her mother’s eye, her smile faded and she formally curtsied to him.
“Let me make my companions known to you—though most of them will already be familiar names,” Aesc said to his brother and sister-in-law. “This is Sigerric of Corania, son of the Alder of Apuldre. Baldred of Dere, son of the Eorl of Tarbin. Talorcan of Dere, son of the Eorl of Bernice. Catha of Mierce, brother of the Eorl of Pecsaetan, and Penda of Mierce, son of the Eorl of Lindisfarne.”
They each bowed low to the royal family when introduced, and the Emperor nodded his head in acknowledgement.
“And this man is the one to whom I owe the most, for he led the others in my rescue. He laid about him with such fury that, when he was done, all of the bandits lay dead. He killed the leader with sword and spear and deadly grace. His name is Havgan, son of Hengist, and to him, most of all, I owe my life.”
Havgan, his golden hair and amber eyes glowing in the bright chamber, produced a graceful bow. Sigerric would always remember that quiet, brief moment when Havgan and the royal family with whom he would become inextricably bound first met. The Emperor smiled kindly, but the Empress studied him carefully, sensing, perhaps, that she had met a formidable player in the game of power. Young Aelfwyn’s green eyes widened somewhat as she looked at him in all his raw intensity. Prince Athelric’s eyes narrowed, as though he, too, sensed a rival.
But it was Princess Aesthryth whose eyes showed the most surprise when she locked gazes with Havgan. Something, some current, some sense of recognition passed between them, and Aesthryth’s blue eyes flickered briefly with fear and astonishment. Sigerric could not be sure, but he thought she sensed, somehow, the latent power in Havgan, that dark thing that even Havgan would not openly acknowledge.
And Sigerric wondered when the dark thing would come out next, and at whom it would strike, as he stood quietly in Gulden Hul, knowing that nothing for the royal family would ever be the same again.
Chapter 4
Athelin, Marc of Ivelas &
Angelesford, Marc of Cantware
Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire
Logmonath, 495
Gewinnan Daeg Eve
Sigerric gratefully breathed in the fresh air of the countryside outside of Athelin. He was glad to be outside the city, weary though he was from the day’s strenuous events.
Havgan rode next to him, preoccupied and silent. The fading sunlight brightened his hair into a golden nimbus, but his amber eyes were hooded and still. His hair was still sweaty and tangled from wearing his helmet and fighting beneath the glare of the hot sun. He wore a cloak of ruby-red, clasped at his shoulders with massive, golden brooches. He had a golden armband on his muscular, tanned right arm, and a huge, ruby earring dangled from his left ear.
Havgan had done quite well for himself in the last seven years, having gained much wealth and having formed his own warband, the nucleus made up of his five, longtime friends who rode behind him now, following him blindly as they had done from the beginning.
Indeed, Havgan had done well by all of them, Sigerric thought, as he glanced down at his own rich clothing of tawny amber, and at his companions—Penda in blue and Talorcan in green; Baldred in red and Catha in orange. They all had brooches and armbands of gold and silver, and jeweled helms. Their swords were bright and sharp, the hilts intricately carved and chased with gems. Their horses were strong and bright, and their light canter did not reflect the hard work they had done today in the games.
They had all done well today in the tournament—they had always done well throughout the past seven years. In fact, they had tied at the last with the warband of Ethelwald, the Eorl of Ivelas. Tomorrow Havgan would fight Cenberht, the Eorl’s champion. And if Havgan won—as he had won all the tournaments in the past seven years—he would again be crowned the Gewinnan Daeg King. And crowned by the hands of Princess Aelfwyn herself, an honor that Sigerric coveted, and one that Havgan coveted himself, though for different reasons. Sigerric had lost his heart long ago to the Princess of Corania, but Havgan had not, for to him Aelfwyn was merely a final stepping stone to the power he craved.
Just how Havgan thought he would ever be able to marry the princess, Sigerric did not know. For all his wealth and prowess, Havgan was still the son of a fisherman, a man who would never be seen as a fit mate for the heir of the Empire. Yet Sigerric was sure that Havgan had a plan. Exactly what that was, was not yet clear. It would not be clear, Sigerric thought wryly, until Havgan was ready to reveal it, for his friend had always kept his own counsel.
For example, none of them knew, even now, why Havgan was leading them out of the city. He had only said to come, and they had gone. They would, Sigerric thought, always do just that.
They had passed field after field filled with golden wheat glistening in the sun and groves of trees whose shining green leaves bent and waved in the light breeze. At last Havgan turned his horse off the dusty road and they followed him to a grove of oak trees that loomed silently over a tiny clearing. A small brook splashed through the clearing, the water sparkling like tiny diamonds. Sunlight dappled the forest floor, turning it into a carpet of green and gold.
Following Havgan’s lead, they tethered their horses just outside the clearing. Havgan reached into his saddlebags and took out a gleaming dagger, a wineskin, and a small, golden cup chased with rubies.
At Havgan’s gesture they formed a circle in the center of the clearing. None of them spoke as they waited for Havgan’s next words. Sigerric felt his throat close and his heart beat faster. He wasn’t sure what was coming next, but it was something important, he could tell. Something that had a touch of doom to it—but for good or for ill, he wasn’t sure. Not then.
At last Havgan spoke. “For many years we have been together,” he said softly as he looked at each one of them. “We have been through much. And you must know that we will be through much more. For God himself spoke to me years ago, on Gewinnan Daeg. He commanded me to cleanse Kymru. Everything I have done from that moment has been toward that end.”
Havgan fell sil
ent, and Sigerric noticed that the forest itself seemed to hold its breath. No birds nested in the branches above them, no small animals rustled in the undergrowth, even the splashing of the brook seemed hushed.
“In everything I have done, you have been with me. You have been faithful to me and to our God. Momentous things are in store for us all. And so, my brothers—for that is how I feel for you in my heart—you shall truly become my brothers today.”
They all stirred at Havgan’s words, for now his meaning was clear. He had brought them here to take part in the Brotherhood Ritual, one of the most sacred ceremonies in the Empire. Once having taken part in it, it would be impossible to ever break the ties that were forged. A man who broke faith with his blood brother would be outcast, denied even the simplest necessities, denied even the smallest of rights under the law.
Knowing what Havgan was offering him, knowing even at that moment that he would not refuse, though he had a dim understanding of the fate that awaited him, Sigerric did not move. He felt the dry taste of ashes in his throat. He knew the words he would speak would come with difficulty. But he knew he would say them. He knew. With Havgan, somehow he had not had a choice. Not even, he thought confusedly, in the beginning all those years ago.
The others were taking in this news in their own way. Catha’s handsome, cruel face lit up at Havgan’s words, and Baldred’s dark eyes shone with glee at the offer, his heavy face bright. Those two would blithely take the oath and never think twice.
But Penda swallowed hard. His dark eyes were unreadable, but he did not protest or demur. Talorcan paled considerably, and his green eyes in his too thin face held the look of a man suddenly realizing that he had made a bad bargain long ago, a bargain already regretted but too late to walk away from.
But Havgan was going on, and there was no more time for thought. “Will you, then, my brothers, truly become my brothers today?”
They all nodded—some hesitantly and some eagerly, but they all gave their consent. In that silence the world felt heavy and still, as though the earth itself sagged beneath the weight of their assent.
At Havgan’s gesture they all turned east. Havgan lifted his hands, then spoke in a powerful voice, “O place of air, write our words before the wind.” At his words a slight breeze did indeed swoop through the clearing and then was gone.
Without comment, Havgan then faced south. “O place of fire, burn our words in the sun.” The sunlight that dappled the clearing glowed brighter, burnished gold on the breast of the earth like precious coins.
“O place of water,” Havgan continued, facing west, “write our words upon the sea.” And the smell of tangy saltwater, the cry of a gull, the rushing of the surf came faintly to them.
Lastly, Havgan turned to the north. “O place of earth, chisel our words in stone.” And they heard the faint sound of tools scraping against rock, hollow and huge, but from a long, long way away.
Havgan bent to the brook and filled the cup with water. He poured the water on the ground and sank his foot into the wet earth, forming a footprint. Sigerric stepped forward first and placed his foot within Havgan’s print. Then Catha, then Penda, then Baldred, and lastly, Talorcan set their footprints over Havgan’s.
Havgan took the gleaming dagger and sliced his thumb. As the rich, red blood welled up from the wound, he held it over the footprint, dribbling blood into the muddy hollow. Each man then pulled his dagger from his belt and cut his thumb, all of them dripping their own blood on the earth to mingle with Havgan’s.
Havgan placed his hand above the bloody ground, and Sigerric placed his palm on top of Havgan’s bleeding hand. Then Penda laid his hand over Sigerric’s. Catha laid his hand over Penda’s, and Baldred laid his over Catha’s. Lastly, Talorcan laid his hand on top of Baldred’s.
They spoke in unison, their voices mingling in the quiet clearing.
“So long as there is breath in my body,
I pledge true friendship.
So long as there is blood in my veins,
I will shed it in your defense.
So long as you call, I shall answer.
So long as you ride, I shall follow.”
Havgan then stepped back and picked up the wineskin. He took a hearty draught, then passed it to Sigerric, who drank and passed it to Penda. One by one they each drank the blood-red wine.
At last they faced east and said solemnly together, “Air has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” They turned south. “Fire has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” They turned west. “Water has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” At last they turned north. “Earth has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”
When they were finished, Sigerric could clearly feel the heaviness, the finality of what they had done. Then he heard one other thing. Somewhere, far, far in the distance, he heard the sound of a hunting horn and knew it for what it was.
The Wild Hunt had heard this vow today.
And Havgan’s doom, whatever it may be, had come still closer, reaching out to encompass them all.
THEY RETURNED TO the city as dusk was falling. The streets were still crowded with revelers celebrating Gewinnan Daeg Eve. When they passed the open doors of public taverns, bright lights and noise spilled out onto the streets; the sounds of people singing, shouting, drinking, and laughing tangled in doorways and passed out into the night.
As they traveled north up Lindstrat toward Havgan’s house, they passed Byrnwiga, the black stone fortress belonging to the Warleader of the Empire. The building loomed ominously. Narrow windows with iron shutters pierced the dark walls at irregular intervals. Torches burned in brackets across the blank face of the building, faintly illuminating the roof that glittered with tiny jet-black stones. Carved boars’ heads with ruby eyes sat among the eaves, dangerous and challenging.
The windows glowed with light, and the sounds of men celebrating came clearly to their ears. Prince Athelric seemed to be fully engulfed in his own celebrations, having evidently turned down the invitation to attend his brother’s festivities at Cynerice Scima this evening. Not that Sigerric blamed the Prince for that—he understood that celebrations at the Emperor’s palace were far too tame for a man of Prince Athelric’s jaded tastes. Faintly he thought he heard the sound of women screaming through the noise.
“The Bana is celebrating Gewinnan Daeg Eve, I see,” Sigerric said to Havgan.
Havgan’s lip curled in contempt. “He brings shame on the title of Bana. The Warleader ought to at least be one who is skilled at arms.”
“Havgan …” Sigerric began, startled by a sudden thought, jolted by the contempt in Havgan’s tone.
“Yes?”
“You can’t possibly think to be made Bana. Prince Athelric holds that title and will do so until the Emperor declares Aelfwyn’s husband-to-be. And that man will be Warleader until he takes the throne at the Emperor’s death.”
“I am aware of that, Sigerric,” Havgan said, his tone amused.
“The only way you could become Warleader is if the Emperor declares an open tournament and you win. And that he would only do if something happened to Athelric. If Prince Athelric dies while the Emperor still lives, the position can only be filled by a tournament.”
“Again, I am fully aware of all this,” Havgan replied smoothly.
“You can’t think to—”
“To what?”
“To harm Prince Athelric?”
“Sigerric, even if I wanted to, how could I do this? He is guarded day and night. I would never be able to harm him.”
“But you would, if you could.”
Havgan halted his horse and turned to Sigerric. “Put your mind at ease, Sigerric, for surely you know that God himself is with me. Should something happen to Athelric, you could be sure that it was the will of Lytir.”
Havgan turned away, leaving Sigerric unable to move from the sickening feeling in
his stomach. It was not the first time he wondered if Havgan had confused his own will with the will of God. And it would not be the last.
WHEN HAVGAN RETURNED to his house, he was greeted with the news that he had a visitor. His steward informed him that he had put the man—a Master-wyrce-jaga, no less—to wait in Havgan’s private chambers and had seen to it that he was well fed.
“His name?” Havgan asked as he dismounted his horse, giving no hint that the presence of a wyrce-jaga filled him with unnamable fear.
“Sledda of Cantware. He says he is known to you—that he is the nephew of your former lord, Eorl Wiglaf.”
“Ah,” Havgan said. “Yes, I know of him. Very well, take me to him.”
Havgan’s three-storied house was richly appointed. The sloping timber roof glittered in the light of the torches that lined the central courtyard. Inside the house, the walls were whitewashed and covered with fine tapestries. Costly rugs adorned the smooth, wood floors throughout. At last the steward stood before the door to Havgan’s chambers and opened it.
Havgan’s room was large and airy. Huge windows set into the north wall looked out over the city that now glittered with firelight and moonlight. A large four-poster bed was set against the west wall and was dressed with a fine wool spread. The highly polished floor was covered with soft rugs of dark blue. A large fireplace and hearth took up the east wall. Tapestries of battle scenes depicted in red and amber and fantastic forests of gold and green studded the walls except for the south wall, which was covered with a huge map of Kymru. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, with two golden goblets and a flagon chased with rubies resting upon it.
At Havgan’s entrance, Sledda rose from the table, setting down his goblet carefully. The wyrce-jaga looked much as Havgan had remembered him from years ago. His tonsured blond hair was, perhaps, a little scantier. His features were sharp, giving him the look of a cunning weasel. His pale, gray eyes were heavily lidded, shutters over the windows of a soul most had no desire to explore further. He wore the customary black robe of the wyrce-jaga. He had a green tabard over the robe, proclaiming him to be a Master-wyrce-jaga now. Havgan’s brow rose at that.
