by Holly Taylor
Suddenly it occurred to her that if this Gytha was really a witch, if she was truly gifted, she might sense something from Gwydion or herself. And she might betray them. At that thought Rhiannon hardly dared to breathe.
“You, Gytha, will read the wyrd-galdra for me. Now.”
“Lord, I cannot. I have no cards.”
“Ah, but I do.” Havgan moved to his four-poster bed and reached under the mattress, pulling out a pack of cards bound together with a wisp of red silk. He brought the pack to Gytha, unwrapping them as he did so. “For the past week, I have slept with them under my pillow every night. They are attuned to me. Now, read them.”
With trembling hands, Gytha reached up and took the cards. Havgan sat down at the table, clearing an empty space on its surface.
Gytha took a deep breath, “Ask your question, lord.”
“Will I defeat the Kymri?”
Gytha fanned out the brightly colored pack of twenty-two cards, her gnarled hands shaking. She presented the blank sides to Havgan. “Choose a card.”
Havgan chose and laid the card face up on the table. It was a painting of a man with tawny hair, walking happily on the edge of a cliff. At his heels a little dog nipped and yapped. The golden sun shone brightly. He carried a stick on his shoulders, a leather bag attached to the end of it.
“This Covers Him,” Gytha said formally. “This is the card that influences your question. This card is you. It is called The Fool.”
“And it means what?”
Gytha licked her lips nervously and hesitated. Havgan reached across the table and yanked Gytha to him, gripping her by her hair. Havgan’s eyes shone fiercely as he glared at the old woman. “Make it a true reading, witch. Hold nothing back. Understood?”
Gytha nodded frantically. Slowly Havgan released her, and the old woman sat back, breathing harshly. After a moment, Gytha went on, “The card that you have chosen is a symbol of the mystic who seeks to find his way. A symbol of one who has certain gifts, gifts given to him by the Old Gods.”
“What kind of gifts?” Havgan growled.
“The gifts of the Wiccan. Gifts such as Soul-Speech, such as Fire-Bringing, such as Fate-Telling, such as Wandering the Sky.” Gytha closed her eyes tightly, waiting for the blow. But it did not come. Gytha cautiously opened her eyes.
Havgan’s face seemed to be carved from stone. Only his eyes were alive—alive with knowledge of something dark and dangerous that stalked him, that could not be escaped, twist and turn as he might. The eyes of a trapped man.
“Lord?” Gytha asked nervously. “Should I go on?”
“Yes,” Havgan said quietly. “Go on.”
Quickly, Gytha laid out nine cards, face down. One she laid crosswise over The Fool. She placed four around the two center cards making a square, and four more in a vertical line to the right of the square. Gytha cleared her throat, and then tapped the back of the card that lay on top of The Fool.
“This Crosses Him,” she intoned. “This is the card that represents the force that opposes your will.” Gytha turned the card over slowly. It was a painting of a man in a white robe, with a cloak of red fastened to his shoulders. Above his head was a figure eight, the sign for Annwyn, the Kymric Lord of Chaos. A vine of red roses bound the man’s brow, a snake curled around his waist. On a table in front of him was a clod of dirt, a flaming torch, a cup of water, and a feather. “This is The Magician. Before him are the elements—earth, fire, water, air. He is the opposing force, the force that seeks to stop you.”
“A Magician? You mean one of the Wiccan?”
“No, lord. This is a symbol of the Kymri.”
“So,” Havgan said slowly, “you are a true witch, after all.”
Gytha bowed her head, but said nothing.
“How do the Kymri seek to stop me?”
Rhiannon tensed and she felt Gwydion do the same. “I cannot say, lord,” Gytha replied. But did her eyes flicker over to them briefly? Rhiannon thought they did. “The cards will answer one question only, and you have asked it already.”
“Very well,” Havgan replied. “Go on.”
“This Is Beneath Him,” Gytha said, pointing to the card just below the crossed Fool and Magician cards. “This card stands for your past, for that which is a part of you.” Gytha flipped over the card. “The High Priestess. This is Holda, the Goddess of Water.” The Goddess stood on a rocky shore, the sea streaming out behind her, the folds of her gown pooling at her feet. Havgan jumped as though he had been stung. “My dream,” he breathed, stunned. “The Woman on the Rocks.”
“Lord?”
“Nothing. Go on.” With an effort, Havgan got control of himself, but his face was pale. “What does it mean?”
“It is a symbol for the hidden influences at work within you. For that which you feel, but cannot grasp. Holda is the keeper of those truths we hide even from ourselves.”
“Go on.”
Gytha tapped the card to the left of the Fool and Magician cards. “This Is Behind Him. It is the card for the influences in your life that are just passing away.” She turned the card over. A man with a flowing gray beard hung upside down by one foot from the branch of a mighty tree, his hands bound behind him, his face sad and wise. “The Hanged Man. This is Wuotan. It is he who has influenced you, who has gotten you to where you are now.”
“Wuotan?” Havgan said sharply.
“Yes. The … the God of Magic.” The silence was heavy. Sledda gave Havgan a sharp look with his pale, glittering eyes, but did not move.
“And it is he who has influenced me?”
“Oh, decisively. Without him, you would not be here in this place.”
“Yes, I understand.”
Rhiannon saw from Havgan’s face that he probably did, indeed, and wished with all his soul that he did not. She could almost see him push this away from him, push it away far inside and lock the door against it.
“Go on,” Havgan said.
Gytha tapped the card at the top of the square. “This Crowns Him,” she said. “This card shows your future.” Havgan leaned forward, intent. Gytha turned the card slowly. A warrior, with accoutrements of gold stood tall and proud within a wooden chariot. Two golden lions were hitched to the vehicle. In the warrior’s strong hand was a sword of silver. “The Chariot,” Gytha smiled. “Oh, very auspicious, my lord. The figure is Tiw, the great God of War. The card means victory and success.”
“Success? I will defeat the Kymri?”
“Oh, most probably. But remember, this is just one card. The final card, the tenth card, will tell you truly.”
“All right. Continue.”
Gytha tapped the card to the right of the crossed Fool and Magician cards. “This Is Before Him. This will tell you something important that will happen in the near future, or that is already happening, though you may not know it.” Gytha turned it over and frowned. “This is not so good,” she muttered. The painting showed a full, silvery moon, shining brightly down on two towers. At the foot of the towers, two wolves howled. “It is Mani, The Moon. And it means peril and deception. Someone close to you will betray you in some way. Sometime soon, if he or she has not done so already.”
Gwydion stiffened slightly beside her. Havgan did not even look their way. Even Sledda did not. Havgan stared down at the card, thinking deeply. “Do you know who?”
“I cannot tell,” Gytha replied easily. But Rhiannon, who was watching her closely, thought she saw a gleam in her eyes. For one split second, Gythas’s eyes met hers, then skittered away.
“Shall I continue?” Gytha asked, breaking Havgan’s train of thought.
“Hm? Oh, yes. Go on.”
Gytha tapped the back of the seventh card, the lowest on the row to the right of the square. “This Is to Come to Him. It is the card to show of a great happening in your life that awaits you.” Gytha turned over the card. A naked man and woman stood before a winged goddess. The goddess’s face was kind and gentle, and the rays of the sun shone in her wise eyes. In her h
ands she held two golden apples. “The Lovers,” Gytha said. “They stand before the Goddess Erce, the gentle mother, as she blesses them.”
“This is my great happening? A love affair?” Havgan said sarcastically.
“Not at all,” Gytha replied promptly. “It is not a love affair. It is a symbol that shows unity, a union of you with you, harmony with both the inner and the outer aspects. Although,” Gytha frowned, “there seems to be something more intended.”
“What makes you say that?” Havgan said sharply.
“I don’t know. A feeling. I think…” Gytha paused, not in fear this time, but in deep thought. “I think, my lord, that somewhere…in Kymru itself, perhaps…there is someone waiting for you. A woman, perhaps. Just a feeling, you understand. Nothing definite.”
“Yes,” Havgan said absently. “I understand. Go on.”
Gytha tapped the eighth card. “This Is What He Fears,” she intoned. She turned the card over. It showed a man, cloaked and hooded, carrying a flame in his hand. The man stood on top of a snowy peak, peering down. “Ah, it is Fal, the God of Light. Here he means the guide for one who seeks what is deep inside. You fear him, and you will not look. This is a danger for you—”
Gytha broke off as Havgan raked her with one burning look from his hawk’s eyes. “No moralizing, Gytha,” Havgan said softly. ‘Just read the cards.”
Gytha swallowed nervously. “Yes. Yes, lord.” With a shaking finger she pointed to the ninth card. “This Can Change All,” she said in an unsteady voice. “This is the card that symbolizes another path you could take, one that in your deepest self you desire, but do not know it.” Gytha turned the card over. A skeletal figure, cloaked in black, rode through the sky on a gray steed. The steed had eight legs and shone with a silvery light.
“Oh,” Gytha said, in a small voice. “It is Narve. The God of Death.”
Havgan barked bitter laughter. “Yes. I suppose my death would change things greatly. And this is what I seek but do not know it?”
“You do not understand. Death is the ultimate change. It is renewal, becoming something else entirely, transformation into something wholly different than you are now.”
“Transformation? Into what?”
“I cannot say,” Gytha spoke slowly, her eyes studying the cards. All but the last card had been turned up, and the brightly colored figures seemed to dance before their eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. “I cannot say.”
“Witch,” Havgan said, gesturing to the last card, “finish this.”
Gytha nodded and pointed to the card. “This shows the final outcome, the ultimate answer to your question. We saw with Tiw, the God of War, that you will defeat them. The last card will show what will happen after.”
“Then show me. I am weary of this game.”
Gytha again pointed to the last card. “The Final Outcome,” she said, and flipped it over. It was a picture of a mighty, silver tower, jutting up from a mountain peak. In the upper right corner of the card, a huge hand wielded a hammer. The hammer was shooting a bolt of lightning at the tower. The tower was in flames, and a man and woman were falling to their deaths from the crumbling tower. Gytha swallowed hard, then spoke with resignation. “The Tower. This is the card for Donar, wielder of the mighty hammer, Molnir, which destroys evil, burning it away.”
“The Tower is evil?”
“The Tower is the tower of ambition built on false grounds. The card means catastrophe for you. An overthrow of all your notions of life. A disruption that may bring true knowledge of yourself in its place…if you live long enough.”
“What do you mean?”
Gytha took a deep breath, then said quietly and with dignity, “I mean that it will all come to nothing. You will defeat them, yes. But later you will be destroyed by what you find there. You will be destroyed because you will not understand. You will not see the truth. Not until it is too late.”
Sledda jumped up and grabbed Gytha by her thin shoulders, hauling her to her feet, then spoke in a deadly quiet tone, “You are a dead woman, Gytha.”
Quietly, the old woman said, “I was dead the moment I took the cards. Did you really think I didn’t know that?”
Sledda turned desperately to Havgan. “This woman is a fake. I’m sure of it. Don’t pay any attention—”
Havgan raised his hand and Sledda fell silent. He stared at the cards laid out before him. Then, without even looking up, he said, “Kill her.”
Sledda smiled cruelly and pushed Gytha toward the door, calling for the guards. Just before she was hauled from the room, Gytha turned around one last time. Havgan did not look up, but the old woman was not looking at Havgan. Instead, she was looking directly at Gwydion and Rhiannon. Her eyes flickered to the card of The Moon, the card of deception, then back to them again. She smiled.
Nardaeg, Sol 21—early afternoon
RHIANNON STOOD WITH Gwydion and Sigerric at the rail of the gently swaying ship, gazing at the eastern shore as it slowly floated by. The day was warm, with a hint of summer coming. Fields of growing wheat dotted the countryside. Occasionally they passed by tiny villages, nestled on the banks of the river.
They had embarked on this ship two days after the doomed Gytha had read the wyrd-galdra. If Sigerric knew anything about that night, he had given no sign. He stood now at the railing, his tanned face joyful in the warm sun.
They had been five days now on the River Saefern, making their way down to Mierce, one of the tributary countries of the Empire. The ship was over sixty feet long. The deck and the huge mast were made of pine, giving off a sharp aroma. The sail was rectangular, made of strips of red and white cloth. It filled now with the breeze, billowing out as the ship caught the wind, pushing them swiftly down the river.
“Where are we now?” Gwydion asked Sigerric as they passed a town on the bank. Gwydion was still pale and hollow-eyed. The night after Gytha had been killed, he had woken up screaming from a nightmare, jabbering that the cards were soaked in blood.
“That’s Camlan,” Sigerric replied, “in the shire of Liodis, which is one of the three shires that make up the marc of Gillingas. Never been down this way, eh?”
Gwydion shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“You haven’t missed much. To tell the truth, it’s a good place to stay away from.”
“Why?” Rhiannon asked curiously.
“The folk of Gillingas never really took to the religion of Lytir. There are many, many Heiden in this marc. And you know what that means.”
“No,” Gwydion answered. “What?”
“Don’t you know what they do? Why, they take the babies of the True Believers, and they sacrifice them and drink their blood. They put the curse of Sceadu, the Great Shadow, on those they hate. They do unspeakable acts. Unspeakable.”
She heard footsteps behind them and turned quickly. Havgan and Sledda walked up to them. Havgan put his arms on the rail, while Sledda stood stiffly next to him.
Down the river, far off but steadily drawing closer, a dark smudge on the bank caught her eye. She could not yet make out the details, but the patch of land was bare and black as though a great fire had burned it, a fire that had been so deadly that no living thing could grow in its wake.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing south.
Sledda hissed between his teeth, and Sigerric answered quietly, “It is Ealh Galdra, the place where the Maeder-Godias, the High Priestesses of the Old Religion, used to live. Here, at the outskirts of Camlan.”
“Really? Why here?”
“Legend has it that it is the place where the Asbrubridge touches the earth. That is the bridge between Middle-Earth and the realm of the Old Gods. The ground there is—or was—sacred. It hasn’t been used now for hundreds of years.”
“Since the last Maeder-Godia of Coran died?” she asked.
“Yes, though she did not die there. She was burned at the stake in Athelin,” Sledda said, obvious satisfaction in his cold voice.
&n
bsp; “Yes,” Havgan mused. “She did not die there. But she left us something to remember her by, just the same.”
“What was that?” Gwydion asked.
“A prophecy. As she was burning, she spoke of Ragnorak, the day of doom. And this is what she said:
“Brothers shall fight and fell each other,
And sisters’ sons shall kinship stain;
Hard is it on earth, with mighty whoredom;
Ax-time, sword-time, shields are sundered,
Wind-time, wolf-time, ere the world falls;
Nor ever shall men each other spare.
“The stars turn black, earth sinks in the sea,
The hot stars down from heaven are whirled;
Fierce flows the steam and the life-feeding flame,
Till fire leaps high about heaven itself.”
At his words a shiver ran down Rhiannon’s spine. A cloud passed over the sun, leaving them all in its cold shadow. Havgan’s hands gripped the rail tighter. When the shadow passed, bathing them in the sun once more, Havgan’s hands did not relax. He fixed his gaze on the black shadow that rushed toward them.
They were close enough now to make out some of the details. Crumbling pillars stood exposed to the blue sky. Blackened stones were scattered about in the long grasses. Portions of the walls still stood here and there. A huge, blackened, T-shaped stone squatted malignantly on the bare ground. All around the stone were fire-blackened urns. Runes were carved in the stone by the score.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It is Asbru Hlaew, the Rainbow Mound, where the Maeder-Godias were burned after they died. It is fashioned in the shape of Donar’s hammer. Their ashes were placed in the urns,” Sigerric replied.
“But … but all the urns are still there! Surely someone must have tried to—”
“Yes, they did try,” Havgan broke in. “They did try to take them and destroy the place. But they could not.”
“The place is haunted,” Sigerric said, not taking his eyes from the stone as they sailed slowly by. “They couldn’t even set foot on the ground without being stricken by sickness. So the urns stay where they are.”
