by Holly Taylor
All that might be true, but how could he have done what he did tonight? He had saved the life of his greatest enemy. He had saved the life of the man who would bring death and destruction to Kymru. How? How could he have done that?
Still Rhiannon did not speak. She sat still as a statue and looked out the window at the night sky. The silence pooled between them, rising like a wall, slowly thickening, crowded with unsaid words. It went on and on until Gwydion felt he could not stand it another moment. Then, at last, she spoke.
Without turning her head, she said, “If you’re interested, I found out earlier today why Havgan is getting so many messages from Cantware.”
Gwydion, who had been holding his face in his hands, lifted his head in surprise. This wasn’t what he had expected at all. “Why? What is happening there?”
“He’s building ships.” She stopped, letting this sink in. Then she went on. “He’s building great, huge ships. To sail his army to Kymru with, and kill us all.”
That was all she said. But it was enough.
Chapter 9
Athelin, Marc of Ivelas & Camlan, Marc of Gillingas
Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire
Ermonath, 496
Fredaeg, Sol 13—late morning
Rhiannon was in the garden when the call came. Gwydion, she knew, was in their tiny room, probably staring at the floor as he had been doing for a week now, ever since he had saved Havgan’s life.
He had seemed to close up inside of himself since then, stricken with horror at what he had done. And Rhiannon had left him alone. She could not offer comfort because he didn’t deserve it. And she could not do anything to bring him out of his dark place because she was too angry, too bitter, to forgive.
Sitting now, with her face lifted to the late morning sun, she thought that the lack of forgiveness was a grim habit of hers. Hadn’t she done that to Rhoram for years and years? Well, if it was a habit, then so be it. If hers was not a forgiving nature, didn’t she have cause? Viciously she hoped with all her heart that Gwydion’s suffering would go on and on. He could not suffer enough for what he had done.
She heard someone making their hurried way down the path and stood quickly. The man, one of Havgan’s soldiers, caught sight of her and breathlessly told her that Lord Havgan wanted to see her in his chambers. At once. She nodded and turned to go back into the house, the soldier dogging her steps as though afraid she would run away.
If only she could.
THE DOOR TO Havgan’s chamber was open, and she hurried inside. The door shut firmly behind her, and she blinked with eyes still dazzled by the sunlight outside, trying to make out who was there in the sudden shadows.
“Ah, Rhea. Please, sit here,” Havgan said as he took her arm and guided her to a chair at the long table in the middle of the room. She didn’t like it when he touched her. He loomed over her, looking impossibly handsome, impossibly virile, and hideously alive. O gods, how she wished he was dead. She blinked again and realized that, thank the gods, they were not alone. Sigerric was there, looking slightly uncomfortable, as he always seemed to look these days.
A slight movement by the hearth caught her attention. It was Gwydion. He was haggard, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. Rhiannon, looking at him fully in the face for the first time in a week—for he had always turned his head away when they were alone—was shocked by his appearance.
Havgan caught her looking hard at Gwydion. Oh, he was always so quick. How much more of this man could she stand?
“I was just saying that Guido seems to be unwell. I see that you feel the same, my dear Rhea. You don’t seem to be taking good care of your lover.”
The word lover was almost a question. Did he think that they had quarreled? Did he hope for that? Or could he possibly suspect that Gwydion was regretting his action that saved Havgan’s life?
With a sharp tone in her voice, she replied, “A slight digestive problem. I’ve been trying to give him some potions to help, but he refuses to take them.”
“Yes,” Gwydion said with a ghost of a smile. “I keep telling her that the cure is worse than the illness.”
“Now, you must take care of yourself, minstrel,” Havgan said. “After what you have done for me, I insist.”
Rhiannon saw Gwydion’s fingers tighten together and knew that Havgan saw it, too. She hurried over and put an arm around his shoulders. “Another cramp, my love?” she asked gently.
Gwydion nodded. “I’ll be all right.” He straightened then, determined to act as if nothing very much was the matter. She sat down next to him on the hearth, her arm still around his shoulders.
“Perhaps we could get on with this,” Sigerric suggested in a mild tone.
“Of course, Sigerric. Rhea, you must perform a task for me.”
Rhiannon straightened. “Yes, lord?”
“You are to come with us to the palace where the Witan, the Emperor’s council, will be in session. You are to announce my formal challenge at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament for the position of Bana.”
“I am to announce that?” she asked in surprise.
“You are a minstrel. Presenting formal challenges are all part of a minstrel’s tasks.”
“Of course, but—”
“But what?” There was an edge to his tone, but his eyes were laughing at her.
“It is an insult,” she said slowly, “for a formal challenge to be spoken by a woman.”
“Is it?” Havgan said, his brows raised in mock surprise. “I hadn’t realized that.”
She sighed. “All right. When do we leave?”
“At noon.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
Havgan sighed. “That’s all you minstrels say to me. You will find a new gown in your chambers. Guido, I expect you to wear the clothes I provided for you last week. That is, if you feel up to going.”
“Oh, yes,” Gwydion said, as heartily as he could. “I shall go.”
“Good.” Havgan walked them to the door. “As you know, I will be leaving Athelin in four days. I have decided to take you both with me. I am beginning to find the services of minstrels to be very valuable.” He warmly clasped Gwydion’s shoulder and smiled. “Very valuable, indeed.”
After the door closed behind them, Gwydion winced, his face crumbling into a spasm of pain. Rhiannon saw it clearly, and, for a moment, thought of offering a bit of comfort to him, after all.
But as this thought passed through her mind, the image of Rhoram stopped her. Rhoram who, as King of Prydyn, would surely lead his warriors against the Coranians on that fateful day. And just as surely would die at their hands.
And it occurred to her then, for the first time, that perhaps it was the image of King Uthyr, Gwydion’s half-brother, leading his own warriors to their deaths, which brought the haunted look to his pale face.
For a moment she almost felt pity for him.
Almost.
THE CHAMBER WHERE the Witan met was high up within the Emperor’s Tower at the north end of the palace. Their party climbed up the stone steps single file, with Rhiannon in the lead. Havgan was just behind her, then Sigerric, with Gwydion following last.
Rhiannon walked with her head high, but she felt a little self-conscious in her new gown. It was of dark, green velvet, and fitted her breasts and hips like a glove. A girdle of gold embroidered cloth was doubled around her waist and then tied in front to lie low on her hips. Her dark hair was worn loose, held back from her face by a matching band of gold. It was a beautiful gown, but it was cut very low in front. She knew that she had Havgan to thank for that. It was times like these when she most wanted to kill him.
Finally, they reached the closed door of the chamber at the top of the tower. Two guards stood outside the door, their swords drawn. One guard said formally, “Why have you come here to the Witan?”
“To present a challenge,” Rhiannon answered.
The other guard sneered, after looking her up and down. “You are presenting a challenge?”
>
“As a minstrel of Turin, I have the right. Should you wish to contest that right, Lord Havgan himself would be happy to discuss it further with you.”
The guard, taking in Havgan’s silent presence behind her, swallowed nervously. “Uh, never mind. You may enter.” He opened the door quickly and stood aside.
Around a large table sat the Emperor, looking vague, as always; the Empress, who looked up coldly, her face tightening; Archpreost Whitgar, dazzling in his purple robe and golden medallion; Aesc, the King’s brother, the frown on his face lightening at their entrance; Sethwald, the Archbyshop of Coran in a robe of blue; and Ethbrand, the Arch-wyrce-jaga, his black robe trimmed in blue and his pale eyes like chips of ice.
Havgan bowed low to the Emperor and Empress, drew his sword, then stood stiffly, legs planted slightly apart, hands on his sword hilt, the point resting on the floor.
Rhiannon began, “Mighty Emperor and Empress, great lords, I greet you in the name of Havgan, son of Hengist. He is a warrior of great renown, eager to serve you to the utmost of his ability, a warrior proven as master in death skills. A warrior whose mind is keen and whose sword is sharp. He begs for a moment of your time.”
Smoothly, Archpreost Whitgar rose to his feet. He was a broad-shouldered bear of a man, his hands covered with scars from the years when he had been a warrior, before he had received his call from the One God to enter the church. He had a bushy, gray beard that spilled down the front of his rich robe. “You are welcome here, Havgan, son of Hengist. How may we—”
Whitgar broke off as a disheveled, breathless Aelbald sprinted into the council chamber. Aelbald skidded to a halt next to Havgan. It was an unfortunate place to stop, for the juxtaposition of the two men did not show Aelbald to his best advantage. Havgan, dressed magnificently in red and gold, seemed to glow in the small chamber. Aelbald, who was dressed in a casual woolen tunic and trousers of brown, looked insignificant beside his enemy.
“What’s going on here?” Aelbald demanded. “I hear Havgan has dared to disturb this council. I insist you tell me the meaning of this.”
Aesc replied shortly, “You are not a member of the Witan and, as such, are not owed an explanation of our business.”
Aelbald, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, cast a pleading glance at the Empress, who spoke in her firm, clear voice, “We do not yet know Havgan’s business, Aelbald. And though you are not a member of the Witan, my husband feels that you should stay, since we suspect his business concerns you also. You may be seated.” Aelbald spotted a chair in a corner and swiftly sat.
Now that the council room was quiet, Rhiannon began again. “The mighty Havgan—”
Aelbald jumped to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”
Rhiannon turned swiftly to him, her green eyes flashing. “That question has been asked already, Aelbald, son of Aescwine. And I will answer it just as soon as you shut up.”
Aelbald stiffened. Gwydion and Havgan hid smiles behind their hands. Sigerric coughed lightly. Aesc was openly grinning. Archpreost Whitgar, after a mighty internal battle, managed to keep a straight face. The Emperor did not seem to be paying the slightest attention. And the Empress looked at Rhiannon as though she were a new kind of insect.
“You insult this council by speaking here. You—a woman!” Aelbald continued.
Rhiannon looked at Aelbald, her brows raised. “It is my understanding that in the Coranian Empire, minstrels may pronounce challenges.”
“You are a woman! A woman has no right—” At the last moment, Aelbald remembered the Empress and broke off what he had been about to say. Rhiannon let the silence spin out long enough for Aelbald’s flush to brighten as much as it would.
“As I was saying,” she went on, “the mighty Havgan will test his prowess at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament. If there are any who will gainsay him the right to fight for the hand of Princess Aelfwyn, and for the office of Bana, let that person come forth now.”
Complete silence. Aelbald stirred, but the Empress shot him a venomous look that seemed to nail him to his chair.
At last, the Empress spoke. “We, the members of the Witan, acknowledge the right of Havgan, son of Hengist, to battle for the hand of Princess Aelfwyn and the office of Bana,” the Queen said formally.
Havgan bowed his head in acknowledgment that his challenge was accepted.
“Are there others in this room who also wish to register their challenge?” the Empress went on.
“Yes.” Aelbald stood and brushed past Rhiannon to stand in front of Havgan. It should have been a dramatic moment, but Rhiannon, as she stumbled, swiftly thrust out her foot, and Aelbald promptly went flying into Havgan’s arms. Gravely, Havgan hauled Aelbald upright and set the Prince back on his feet, but Havgan’s lips were twitching with amusement.
Aelbald turned to Rhiannon in a fury, “You—”
“Your pardon,” Rhiannon said, bending down to rub her ankle. “I slipped.”
Another choking sound from Sigerric greeted this statement. Gwydion had his head down so no one could see his face, but his shoulders were shaking. The rest maintained sober faces as best they could. The Empress sighed. She prompted Aelbald before he could say anything else. “Do you wish to challenge, nephew?”
“I do.” Aelbald turned to Havgan again, standing almost nose to nose. “I, too, will fight in that tournament. I will win the hand of Princess Aelfwyn and the office of Bana for myself. And I will leave your guts scattered across the field.”
“Well,” Havgan said softly, “you can always try.” He smiled, but with such menace that Aelbald actually stepped back a pace.
“Very well,” said the Empress. “The challenges are noted. You may all go.”
They left the room quickly, Aelbald trailing as far behind as he could. Havgan led the way, with Rhiannon behind him, followed by Gwydion and Sigerric. Halfway down the stairs, Havgan said to her, over his shoulder, “I slipped?”
“Well, I did,” she said defensively.
“I can’t believe that you told the great and mighty Aelbald to shut up,” Havgan grinned. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that before.”
“Wrong, my lord,” Rhiannon grinned in return. “The Empress tells him that all the time.”
Havgan laughed. His amber eyes sparkled, his handsome face lit with genuine amusement. And as they all began to laugh, Rhiannon saw what Gwydion had seen all along. As she heard her enemy laugh with her, he seemed to be a friend.
Soldaeg, Sol 15—late evening
TWO NIGHTS LATER, Gwydion and Rhiannon sat with Havgan in his chambers. It was very late, and most of the candles had burned down, tiny flames gleaming through mounds of hot, soft wax. Each time she or Gwydion finished a song or a story, she expected Havgan to dismiss them. But he did not. Instead, he paced. He paced as they sang, paced as they played their tunes, paced as they told story after story.
What was Havgan waiting for? Every moment tightened and stretched her nerves. They were ready to break, had been ready, would have broken by now, but for Gwydion’s calm voice, his steady hands on his harp, and his occasional light touch on her cold arm.
And then they heard the soft tap on the door.
Swiftly, Havgan crossed the room and opened it. Sledda, dressed in a nondescript tunic and trousers of brown wool, stepped into the room, followed by two soldiers who were dragging an old woman between them.
The old woman was clearly terrified. Her scant gray locks hung to her shoulders. She was pale and blinked constantly, as though even the dim light in Havgan’s room hurt her eyes. The eyes themselves were dark with fear and hopelessness as the soldiers tossed her into a chair, then left, closing the door.
“You are sure of her?” Havgan asked Sledda, gazing fixedly at the old woman, who huddled in the chair with her head bowed.
“Quite sure,” Sledda replied firmly.
“Where did you find her?”
“At Cirice Garth, in the Archpreost’s dungeons. She is to die tomorrow
.”
“What is your name?” Havgan spoke softly to the old woman.
“Gytha,” she replied, not raising her head.
“You have been condemned to die, Gytha, as one of the Wiccan, as a witch.”
“Yes,” the old woman said tonelessly. Then she raised her head and spoke in a nervous, desperate tone, “But I tell you, it’s a lie! I am a good daughter of the church. I believe in Lytir, the One God. I swear it.”
“Gytha,” Havgan said softly, “I will be so disappointed if what you say is true.”
Sledda came to stand by the old woman and cuffed her viciously. “You are insolent to the great Lord Havgan! Learn manners and he may let you live!”
Gytha flinched back, then raised her eyes to Havgan, a desperate light in them. “Is that true, lord? You will let me live?”
“I may,” Havgan replied, stressing the second word, “if you can do as I ask.”
“Anything, lord.” Gytha rose from the chair and sank to her knees. “Anything. Let me live,” she cried in a broken, shamed voice, tears streaming down her seamed face.
“Are you a witch?” Havgan pressed. “Can you see the future?”
Gytha tensed, looking up at Havgan as though he were Sceadu, the Great Shadow himself. The room was so silent that when the embers in the hearth shifted, Gytha cringed.
With anguish in her face, misery in every line of her body, Gytha finally replied, “Yes. Yes, sometimes I can see the future.” She bowed her old head, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. “I didn’t want to. I never wanted to,” she sobbed. “I would pray to God to stop it, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t.”
“Do you know how to read the wyrd-galdra?”
“Yes,” the old woman whispered, her voice full of terror. “Yes.”
Wyrd-galdra, Rhiannon thought. Fate-magic. The word for reading the cards of the Old Gods. Oh, Havgan was treading the brink here, indeed. The wyrd-galdra were pasteboard cards, painted with representations of the Old Gods themselves. And this was looked upon by the church as magic of the blackest kind.
