by Holly Taylor
As they passed directly opposite the mute, blackened stone, Rhiannon reached out and gripped Gwydion’s hand. There was something about this place. She could feel it in every bone of her body. An anger. Heavy, oppressive, not yet honed to a killing force.
She glanced at Gwydion. His hand was cold, and he was surely feeling that anger, too. Sigerric apparently felt nothing, nor did Sledda. But Havgan did. He shuddered briefly and closed his amber eyes against the sight of the black stone.
As they sailed by, the color seemed to seep out of the day, like life’s blood from a mortal wound, leaving the afternoon dry and lifeless, as the harsh cry of an eagle sounded out overhead. But then the stone flowed away from them as they rounded a bend in the river, shutting out the sight. The colors returned, and so did the warmth of the sun.
Havgan took a deep breath of pine-scented air and turned to Sigerric. “Come, my friend, how about a throw or two of the dice?”
Sigerric laughed. “I don’t know, Havgan. Your dice aren’t too lucky for others. That’s what the sailors say.”
“Oh, they’re just sore losers,” Havgan said, laughing in his turn. But the laughter seemed forced and his face was a little pale.
Sigerric and Havgan went off, with Sledda trailing behind. Rhiannon and Gwydion were alone at the rail. She spoke in a low tone. “Did you feel it?”
“Oh, yes,” he whispered.
“It feels ready to explode.”
“It will. Soon, I think. I give it another twenty years or so. Then …”
“Then what?”
“Ragnorak. The day of doom. The day when the gods return in anger and battle to their deaths.”
She said nothing for a time as they stood at the rail. She looked at Gwydion and did not like what she saw. She saw the face of a man who had poison eating at his vitals.
And the pity that she had refused to feel flooded into her.
What was she? What was she that she could for one moment have stood unmoved before such sorrow and pain as Gwydion’s? If she were a stunted, twisted, barren thing, that was something she had done to herself. That was her handiwork and none other. No one else had done that. Only she.
But if that were true, if she were responsible for what she had become, there was a certain freedom and power in that, wasn’t there? Enough power to turn herself around, perhaps. A struggle, yes. But wasn’t everything?
And what of what Gwydion had done for her, the time he had come to her cave and found her suffering? Why, he had fed her, washed her, stayed with her, enduring even her anger. And what had she done for him in return? Nothing.
Was there really time to change? Could she do it?
She didn’t know, but she could at least try.
So she reached over and gripped Gwydion’s hand on the rail, closing her own hand over his clenched one. And she began to speak the words she should have said weeks ago.
“Gwydion, you must stop. You must stop doing this to yourself.”
Gwydion looked at her, then up at the towering mast, his eyes unfocused. “It’s ships like this that he’s building, isn’t it? That’s what you said.”
“Forget about what I said before! Listen to me now.” She reached out and turned his face to hers, her hands gently resting on his hollow, sunken cheeks. “You did what you had to do. Maybe even what you were born to do. You saved his life.”
Gwydion winced and tried to turn away.
“No!” she said urgently, drawing his face back to hers. “Listen to me. I believe that you had to do it, that you were meant to do it. It’s one of the reasons we’re here in the first place—maybe the only reason. You can’t see to the end. No one can. You don’t know that what you did was wrong. It may have been right.”
“Uthyr … so many others,” Gwydion rasped.
“Yes. But who is going to kill them? Not you. It is their fate for this turn of the Wheel. You did not begin this. And you can’t end it that easily. The death that is coming for them is not on your head.”
“It is,” he whispered.
“No and no and no.” Then, she had an inspiration. “You told me once that you had a dream, a dream of the Protectors, of the Wild Hunt. And Cerridwen and Cerrunnos came to you. Remember?”
“I remember,” he said tonelessly.
“And in that dream they told you your tasks. Your task was to keep Arthur safe, to find the sword of the High Kings. At no time did they say to you, ‘Oh, and by the way, kill the Golden Man.’ Isn’t that so?”
“Yes.” His tone was stronger, but still tentative.
“So, he wasn’t meant to die now, and you weren’t meant to let it happen.”
“But you have been angry at what I did. And you were right to be.”
“I was wrong,” she said evenly. “The invasion cannot be turned aside. I was wrong to blame you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” he asked in baffled astonishment. “I saved the life of our most bitter enemy, and you’re sorry that you were angry? You had every right—”
“No,” she cut in. “I didn’t. It happened. And I think that was how it was meant to be. You just remember something, Gwydion. And I can assure you that if you forget, I’ll be right at your shoulder nagging you to remember.”
“Nagging?” Gwydion asked, with the ghost of a smile.
“Yes, nagging. It’s what I do best, after all.”
“And what will you be nagging me to remember?”
“That it’s not your fault. It was not your task. There was nothing—is nothing—you can do to turn the dream aside. The dream is and cannot be unmade.”
“Rhiannon,” he said hoarsely, a gleam of hope in his tired eyes, “do you really believe that?”
She looked into his tortured face and answered firmly. “I do. And you must. Kymru needs you. She needs you to come back to her and work to save her from her coming captivity. And you will.”
“You think so? Truly?”
“I know so. Truly.”
He straightened up a little, his defeated posture gone. He gazed out at the countryside, his eyes firm with purpose again. And Rhiannon felt that at last, for once in her life, she had done the right thing. She had reached out and comforted a suffering soul, forgetting herself for a few moments. And who could say what might come of the effort? Who could say what rich, beautiful thing might grow from such a seed? Gwydion was back among the living again. Ready to do what he could to make the Golden Man’s coming victory short-lived and bitter.
And she was ready, too.
Chapter 10
Tamworth, Marc of Masensaetan &
Beranburg, Marc of Lindisfarne
Weal of Mierce, Coranian Empire
Dagmonath, 496
Nardaeg, Sol 7—evening
Gwydion sat at the edge of the bed in his room at the inn, trying to follow the advice Uthyr had given him years ago. Uthyr had said that, in a situation like this, it was best not to think too much. You could plan, but you had to be flexible—because plans had a way of changing. You could never tell for certain what unpremeditated action a man might take when he knew himself to be at the edge of death.
Gwydion wasn’t afraid for himself. He was afraid of what would happen to Rhiannon if he failed. So he tried to follow Uthyr’s advice, because his brother had much more experience in this kind of thing.
Gwydion would certainly do his best, but he had never been a proficient murderer.
The room Gwydion shared with Rhiannon was comfortable and cheery. A fire burned merrily on the hearth, casting a warm glow over the oak-beamed room. A coverlet of blue and white covered the soft feather bed where Gwydion now brooded.
He was alone, Rhiannon having gone to the baths. He had declined the luxury, saying he would bathe later. If successful tonight, he would surely need it. Unless he was careful, he would be covered with blood.
He replayed in his memory the conversation from yesterday that had begun this horror, a horror that would end, one way or another, before the sun rose in the morning.
&nb
sp; SEVENTEEN DAYS AGO they had disembarked at Windlesora, a small town in northeastern Mierce, then hired horses and ridden to Tamworth, arriving yesterday. Once there, Havgan had been greeted coldly by Aescwine, the Empress’s brother—and the father of Havgan’s chief rival, Aelbald. Aescwine had tried to insist that they all stay at his palace, but Havgan had graciously declined. Instead, they had taken rooms at the best inn in Tamworth.
Gwydion had been in Havgan’s room, playing the harp for him, when Sigerric had burst in, agitated.
“Why do we stay here?” Sigerric had demanded. “Do you want to die so badly?”
Havgan had given Sigerric a bland look, “What in the world do you mean?”
“You know what I mean! I mean that Aescwine will have your head if he can.”
“Well, he can’t have it,” Havgan replied, “I need it.”
“Havgan,” Sigerric had said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “You are too reckless. There was no need for us to come here in the first place, and there is no need to stay.”
“There was a reason to come here. I explained it to you. I wanted to know if I had the full support of the Miercean Archwyrce-jaga and the Archbyshop.”
“You didn’t have to come here for that!” Sigerric had accused. “You came here just to irritate Aescwine. And you have. I tell you, your life is in danger.”
“I think not,” Havgan had said in silken tones, looking at Gwydion. “I have my minstrel to protect me.”
“Your minstrel! What’s he supposed to do—sing someone to death?”
“My minstrel, Sigerric, was very quick that night of the feast. So quick that anyone would think he had known something was going to happen.”
At this, Gwydion’s blood had run cold, his fingers frozen on his harp.
“You see, Sigerric,” Havgan had gone on, “a good minstrel always has his ear to the ground. A good minstrel can find out anything.”
“Guido, forgive me,” Sigerric had said, “but I must point out something to Havgan here. Havgan, minstrels can be bought. Anyone can.”
“So they can,” Havgan agreed. “Why, I myself have recently been warned to watch for treachery. But I believe that it is in this minstrel’s best interests to keep me in good health.”
“Why? Because he’d be out of a job?” Sigerric had inquired sarcastically.
“Because, my dear Sigerric,” Havgan had said, watching Gwydion closely, “if something happened to me, you can be sure that Rhea would not enjoy good health and a happy life for long. Sledda might very well decide that he has a place for her in his household. And I couldn’t very well gainsay him if I were dead, now could I?”
Sigerric had looked at Havgan, looked at Gwydion’s white face, then back to Havgan. “Well,” he had said after a long, long silence, his mouth twisted and bitter. “You do know how to get people to do their best, don’t you?”
Yes, Gwydion thought now as he waited, Havgan did know how to do that.
Gwydion had carefully “watched” Aescwine whenever he could for the rest of yesterday and all of this morning. He had been careful not to be near Havgan when he did so, knowing that Havgan could sense Wind-Riding if he was in the vicinity. Rhiannon had been curious so he had picked a fight with her—never very difficult—and she had left him alone.
He had not felt right about that. In fact, if he had room in his heart for anything but fear for her, it would have grieved him to be so cruel. After what she had done on the ship to help him, he had pushed her away. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t tell her of Sledda’s plans for her should Havgan die. And, in spite of what she had said on the boat, he could never tell her that he was planning on saving Havgan’s life—again.
For this morning, as he was Wind-Riding, he had seen Aescwine in conversation with two of his soldiers. These men were to wear plain, shabby clothes and station themselves in the narrow alleyway between the inn and the stables. Havgan and his party were due to leave Tamworth early the next morning. In the confusion of the preparations for departure, the two men were to shoot Havgan full of arrows and run.
So, tonight, Gwydion was waiting for the men to arrive and take up their stations. Waiting to kill them, if he could.
Rhiannon entered the room, her hair wet from her bath. She wore her emerald cloak over a shift of cream-colored linen. She glanced at Gwydion, gauging his mood, then looked away. Tight-lipped, she sat down on a stool by the fire and began to comb out her hair.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” she said after a long silence.
“No, I’m not sleepy.”
Another long pause. She stopped combing her hair and looked at him. “Gwydion, what is the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You mean nothing you’re willing to tell me about.”
“Yes,” he said shortly, “that’s what I mean.”
She looked away and gazed into the fire. But not before Gwydion saw the hurt in her eyes. He stretched out his hand to touch her, but slowly drew it back. “Rhiannon,” he said hesitantly.
“Yes?” she answered, without turning around.
“I …” He what? What was he to say? “Go to bed.” It came out harshly, because it wasn’t what he had meant to say at all. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
At that she did turn around, her face cold and hard. “Fine,” she said in a clipped tone. “Get off the bed.”
Soldaeg, Sol 8—morning
THE NEXT MORNING Havgan was in a hurry to be off. The bustle and confusion in the courtyard was tremendous. Gwydion saddled his horse, and Rhiannon’s, also. She was barely civil, but he did not blame her and did not take offense.
It was Sigerric who saw the blood spilling from the alley. He gave a shout and Havgan came running. Rhiannon was immediately behind him, while Gwydion followed much more slowly.
Two men lay dead, their throats cut. Sigerric knelt down beside one man to examine the wound. “Look,” he said, “do you see this? Blood coming out of their ears, too, in addition to the throat wound.” He frowned. “I wonder why.”
Sledda said impatiently, “Perhaps whoever did this knocked them out first, and then cut their throats.”
“But their skulls are not broken, not even cracked. Just blood coming from the ears.”
Rhiannon swiftly looked at Gwydion, and then just as swiftly looked away. He had known she would understand as soon as she saw the bodies.
“Any identification?” Havgan asked. “Badges, marks, anything?”
“No,” Sigerric replied. “Do you think you need it to know who sent them?”
“Innkeeper!” Havgan bellowed, and the poor man came running.
“Lord?” the little man inquired breathlessly. His eyes widened as he took in the two dead bodies.
“There is some filth in the alley that must be cleaned,” Havgan said, casually kicking one dead man with his foot. “Send a messenger to Lord Aescwine. Tell him to clean up his mess.”
With that, Havgan swung himself into the saddle, and the rest of the company followed suit. He fixed Gwydion with a sharp eye. “You see, Sigerric,” he said, not taking his eyes off Gwydion, “the minstrel is a good-luck charm. I told you as much.” And then he turned his horse and made for the gates of the city, riding away as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Rhiannon raked Gwydion with her hot gaze. But she said nothing and followed Havgan.
Gwydion, following more slowly as their horses made their way through the winding streets of the city, wondered if she would forgive him for the manner of the deaths that he had caused. For Gwydion had killed them in a way that, in Kymru, was forbidden. A mighty shout to the unsuspecting, unshielded mind, directed to a single bright thrust with all the force of one who was supremely gifted in telepathy, could rupture the brain itself, leaving blood leaking from the ears of stunned, unconscious men. Leaving them vulnerable to further attack.
A forbidden act in Kymru, punishable by permanent exile.
Perhaps when this was done and they returned to Kymru, he would be exiled
for this act. Perhaps Rhiannon would see to it. But at least she would be alive to do so. And that was all that really mattered.
Wynlic Daeg—mid-morning
TWO WEEKS LATER they reached the town of Beranburg at the foot of Mount Badon. Gwydion was intrigued by the mountain and the many tales he had heard of it.
Before the Coranians had taken the country of Mierce in battle, the land had been devoted to the Old Religion. The King of Coran, using the Miercean refusal to embrace the New Religion, began a holy war, invading Mierce and putting thousands of Old Believers to the sword. Mierce was destroyed as a separate country and became an appendage to Coran, creating the Coranian Empire.
In the old days, before that invasion, Mount Badon was a holy place. It was from this mountain, so legend said, that Wuotan, the God of Magic, and Holda, the Goddess of Water, led the Wild Hunt.
Havgan had come here to meet up with Penda, the son of the Eorl of Lindisfarne, who ruled this marc. Penda was a prominent member of Havgan’s warband and had been a close friend of Havgan for many years. Gwydion understood that Penda’s young wife had died in childbirth six years ago and their son lived here with Penda’s father. Penda and Catha, the brother of the Eorl of Pecsaetan, had come to Mierce some months ago to gather support in Havgan’s bid for power. They were to meet both men here at Beranburg. Then Catha and Penda would join their party and they would all go on to Dere, the other tributary country of the Empire.
Gwydion glanced up at Mount Badon, which seemed to loom over Beranburg. The mountain was heavily forested with tall pine growing almost all the way up to its jagged tip.
He rode behind Rhiannon’s horse, trailing behind as he had been doing now for the last two weeks. For two weeks they had not exchanged a single word. Not one. Rhiannon’s silence had hung over Gwydion like a pall.
The dirt-packed streets of the town were deserted. It was Wynlic Daeg, the day the New Believers celebrated in remembrance of the beginning of Lytir’s rule over Coran, many, many hundreds of years ago. No doubt the town’s inhabitants were in the church now, celebrating. Gwydion idly wondered how many of those in church this moment would steal up to the mountain later in the dark of the night and secretly celebrate Deore Necht, the festival of the Old Believers, the outlawed Heiden.
