by Holly Taylor
She nodded wearily. “Even that.”
“And the valla? Did she know who you were?”
“If she did, she gave no sign at all. And I’m not sure that she did. She didn’t look at me once the whole time.”
“Did he … did he kill her?”
“Amazingly enough, no. He thanked her and left.”
“I would have thought—”
“I would have, too. But, apparently, she is very famous. The Empress herself has been to see her. Secretly, of course. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did. Just where you said it would be. There’s a cupboard behind the tapestry. But it can only by opened by Shape-Moving.”
She whistled. “So he thinks they must be very, very safe.”
Gwydion nodded. “Believe me, he won’t have any idea that they have been seen. I was very careful. But Talorcan came in before I was finished.”
“Oh, gods! What did you do?”
“Threw the plans under the table and waited until he left.”
“Do you think he knew?”
Gwydion shook his head. “I’m not sure. All I can say is, be ready to run.”
Chapter 13
Athelin, Marc of Ivelas
Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire
Ostmonath, 496
Gewinnan Daeg, Sol 1—late afternoon
Rhiannon sat next to Gwydion as they waited for the final battle of the tournament to begin. She was tired, for they had been watching the fighting since early that morning and the day had been hot and close. She sighed longingly, thinking of home. If all went as planned, they would leave Athelin tomorrow—assuming that Gwydion came to his senses and agreed they could indeed leave. Though he had seen the invasion plans, he was still anxious to discover when the invasion was due to take place.
Rhiannon had argued with Gwydion most of the night about that. It was far more important to get out of Corania alive and return with the information they had. “Just think a moment, if it won’t hurt too much,” she had said. “How do you plan to find that out? We could stay here for months and never discover it in time.”
“Maybe, maybe not. If I had time, I could perhaps get the date. It’s worth a try.”
“No, it’s not. And if you were thinking straight, you’d know that.”
“Look,” he had said pointedly, “I have a song to write here, thanks to you. Can we continue this discussion another time?” Gwydion had then suggested she was a coward, and the conversation had gone downhill after that. Since then, they had been icily polite to each other, but they were both still furious. The usual state of affairs.
One of the first battles of the day had been between Havgan and his men—Sigerric, Penda, Catha, Baldred, and Talorcan—against Aescwine, the Empress’s brother, and five of his warriors. Havgan’s band had won that battle and killed two of Aescwine’s men in the process. For the rest of the day, the fighting between warbands had gone on—with the winners of one battle fighting the winners of the next. Havgan’s band had now fought over seven battles, and won every time. Baldred had received one cut to his sword arm, but it was shallow. And Penda had a slight cut on his leg. The rest of them had been relatively unscathed. Aelbald’s men, too, had won every battle. And now the chieftains of those unbeaten bands—Havgan and Aelbald—would fight for mastery, for the position of Warleader, and for the hand of Princess Aelfwyn.
The crowd was hushed as Havgan and Aelbald took their places in the center of the huge outer courtyard of Byrnwiga, the Warleader’s fortress. The building, carved of black stone, loomed ominously over them. The winner of today’s final battle would live here from now on. And the loser would be dead.
A tremendous crowd of people ringed the outer courtyard, packed in tightly to view the coming spectacle. A pavilion of white had been erected on one side of the yard for the royal family to view the proceedings in comfort. The Emperor and Empress were sitting there now, both sipping from goblets of wine. The Empress managed to look as though the outcome of the battle was of no concern to her. But the Emperor showed his agitation in his quick, nervous movements and occasional shrill laughter. Between them sat the Princess. Like her mother, she maintained a calm facade, and only if one looked closely could one see that her hands were clasped tightly together—so tight that the knuckles were white.
The Emperor’s sister, Princess Aesthryth, sat very still. Though her face was impassive, her cornflower blue eyes kept Havgan in her sight, even when he was not fighting. What she was looking for, Rhiannon did not know. But she was surely watching for something.
Next to the Emperor’s pavilion stood Havgan’s pavilion of red and gold. Gwydion and Rhiannon sat there now, with Sigerric, Penda, Baldred, Talorcan, and Catha. Sledda stood stiffly, his eyes narrowed as he waited for the contest to begin.
“You worry too much, Master-wyrce-jaga,” said Catha breezily. “Nothing can stop him now.” He gestured to the two men as they waited to do battle. Each man gripped his broadsword by the hilt, his elbow bent, letting the sword trail over his right shoulder in the warrior’s fighting stance, waiting for the signal to begin.
Havgan’s byrnie of interwoven metal was chased with gold, and covered his body down to mid-thigh. Beneath it he wore a tunic of gold and trousers of bright red. His plain helm was like any other warrior’s—fashioned of metal with the tiny figure of a boar at the top. His shield had no device, but the outer rim was edged with gold.
Aelbald’s byrnie was chased with silver, and he wore a tunic and trousers beneath it of pure white. Around his arm was Aelfwyn’s token, a silver scarf. His shield contained the Emperor’s device of the Flyflot, four bars radiating outward.
Aelbald grinned unpleasantly at Havgan as they waited. “So, fisherman’s son,” he said loudly, “we have our final meeting.”
Havgan nodded, smiling in his turn. “Our last meeting on this earth, Aelbald.”
At last, at a signal from the Emperor, Prince Aesc stepped forward and drew his sword, lifting it high. “Now do these two champions meet,” he bellowed. “These champions will fight until one is dead. Havgan, son of Hengist, and Aelbald, son of Aescwine, you fight today for the position of Bana of the Empire and for the hand of the Princess Aelfwyn. Do either of you wish to yield?”
“I will not yield to this fisherman’s son!” Aelbald shouted.
“I do not yield,” Havgan replied calmly.
“Then,” Aesc declared, “let the battle begin.”
Havgan and Aelbald began to circle each other, looking for their chance. Suddenly, Havgan feinted left, and as Aelbald’s shield moved a fraction to counter, Havgan’s sword slipped under the shield, catching Aelbald in the ribs with the flat of the blade.
Aelbald leapt back, knocking the blade away with the edge of his shield, then swiftly leapt forward, swinging his sword low, whistling just an inch away from Havgan’s leg. Immediately, Havgan pulled back, and the two men circled each other again.
“I will remember you, Aelbald, on my wedding night. And I am sure that Aelfwyn will be remembering you, too,” Havgan taunted.
Aelbald’s face went white, his eyes flat with rage. He leapt forward, hammering with shield and sword, driving Havgan back with the fury of his onslaught.
Which was just what Havgan wanted. As Aelbald overreached his sword blow, Havgan moved even closer into the swing and caught Aelbald’s shield with the edge of his own. Pulling with all his might, he flipped the shield up and away from Aelbald’s body. Even as he did so, his sword was coming down at an arc, again grazing Aelbald’s ribs.
Aelbald stepped back, but Havgan was upon him, shields clashing and swords ringing as Aelbald sought desperately to parry Havgan’s blows. Back, back, he drove Aelbald, until they stood just in front of the pavilion. A blow from Havgan knocked Aelbald’s sword from his hand, sending it spinning. Aelbald stood swaying, gazing in horror at his weapon, which now lay far beyond his reach.
“Aelbald!” Aelfwyn screamed from the pavilion. A flash of silver arc
ed through the air as a dagger left Aelfwyn’s hand, speeding directly toward Havgan.
But then inexplicably the knife turned from its course toward Havgan’s heart and flew to Havgan’s hand instead. He dropped his sword to catch it. He turned swiftly to the Princess and grinned. “Why, thank you, sweetheart,” he said. Then, quick as lightning, he turned to Aelbald and buried the blade in his throat.
Havgan’s men leapt to their feet, running from the pavilion to surround their leader. Gwydion and Rhiannon followed more slowly. Aescwine, Aelbald’s father, leapt onto the field to cradle the body of his dead son. Aelfwyn was right behind him, and she fell to the ground, stroking Aelbald’s bloody face, tears running down her cheeks.
Princess Aesthryth was on her feet, staring at Havgan with what Rhiannon thought might be recognition—recognition of what Havgan had done; recognition of what Havgan truly was. Rhiannon noted that the Princess did not seem surprised.
The crowd cheered wildly, and Sigerric and the rest lifted Havgan to their shoulders, carrying him before the Emperor and Empress, who had remained frozen in their chairs. The men set Havgan on his feet and waited expectantly.
But the Emperor did not move, and the crowd began to mutter, pressing closer to the pavilion. Aesc plucked at the Emperor’s sleeve, speaking urgently. But the Emperor could not take his eyes from his daughter as she mourned the death of Aelbald. The muttering grew louder, and Aesc abandoned the Emperor to speak to the Empress. He muttered in her ear, then she nodded. Rising, she stepped onto the field and walked stiffly to Aelbald’s body. She stooped down and whispered into Aelfwyn’s ear. But Aelfwyn shook her head. Fury spread over the Empress’s cold face, and she grasped Aelfwyn’s arm and hauled her up roughly. Aelfwyn cried out, but the Empress grimly pulled her toward the pavilion, almost flinging the Princess back into her chair.
Aelfwyn tried to rise, but the Empress gripped her arm tightly, holding her to the chair. At last, the Empress raised her stern face, and Aesc signaled the crowd to be silent.
Trembling, the Emperor came to stand before Havgan. Before he could speak, Havgan said, in ringing tones, “I thank your daughter for her timely aid. May we thus stand together against all our enemies, until death does part us!”
Aelfwyn raised her pale, tear-streaked face in astonishment. Yet, heartbroken as she was, she was not the kind of woman to ignore a way out. She stood up slowly and walked, as though in a dream, to stand beside her father in front of Havgan.
The Emperor cleared his throat. “People of the Empire, I present to you now the Bana, he who will command the warriors of the Empire! He who will wed my daughter, the fair Princess Aelfwyn, and become your next Emperor!”
The crowd cheered, and Havgan grinned. He smiled mockingly at Aelfwyn and she averted her eyes.
“To you, Lord Havgan, I give the Warleader’s helm.” The Emperor gestured, and Aesc came forward, holding a large box of intricately carved wood chased with gold and amber. The Emperor opened the box and took out a helm made of gold, fashioned like a boar’s head. The tusks were of ivory, and the ruby eyes glittered balefully.
Beside her, Rhiannon heard Gwydion’s swift intake of breath. “What?” she hissed.
“Something I saw in a dream,” he muttered, “about crossroads, long ago.”
The Emperor placed the helm in Havgan’s waiting hands. Havgan raised the helm above his head, then proudly put it on. The crowd went wild, screaming and cheering.
The Emperor gestured again, and Aesc placed a huge sword in his brother’s hands. As the Emperor held it up, the sun flashed on the figures of three boars etched into its blade. Rubies glimmered on the golden hilt like fresh blood. “I give to you now Gram, the Bana’s sword,” the Emperor proclaimed. “Draw it in defense of the Empire.”
Havgan took the blade and raised it high. He bowed to the Emperor and held out his empty hand to Aelfwyn. Trembling, she put her hand in his—a hand still covered with Aelbald’s blood. Aelfwyn closed her eyes briefly in despair.
“One of my brothers, O great lords—and ladies—has prepared a song for this day. Let us hear it now,” Havgan said.
Gwydion grabbed his harp and stepped forward. Without further preamble, he began to sing.
“By sun and moon I journeyed long
To bring this tune For Havgan’s song.
Your praise my task, My song his fame,
If you but ask I’ll sound his name.
“My praises ring Of a lord so dear
And I shall sing If you will hear:
Of one who blazed A trail of blood
Till Lytir gazed Upon the flood.
“The Bana weaves His web of fear,
Each man receives His fated share.
“As edges swing, Blades cut men down.
Havgan next King Earns his renown.
Break not the spell But silent be:
To you I’ll tell His bravery.
“Scream of swords The clash of shields,
These are true words On battlefield:
A blood-red sun’s The warriors shield,
The Bana scans The battle field.
“The air is torn By flying spears,
His sword is drawn Wolves prick their ears.
The harsh blade shrills The edges bite,
The Bana wills His men to fight.
“On his gold arm The bright shield brings
To his foes, harm; To his friends, rings;
His fame’s a feast Of glorious war,
His name sounds best From shore to shore.
“And now, my lords, You’ve listened long
As word on word I built this song:
From poet’s breast These words took wing
Which all the rest Must learn to sing.”
Then Gwydion was done. He bowed and stepped back to stand next to Rhiannon. She turned to him. “Think they’ll learn to sing his tune?”
He grimaced. “Aelfwyn will, at any rate.”
RHIANNON PACED BACK and forth in her new chamber at Byrnwiga, the Bana’s palace. She was nervous, irritable, and could not sit still.
After the church celebrations in the late afternoon, all of Havgan’s household had removed to this grim, dark fortress. Rhiannon was awed by the sheer magnificence of the dwelling. It was four stories high and built completely of black stone. Narrow windows with iron shutters pierced the walls at intervals. The roof glittered with tiny stones of jet. The eaves were carved with boar’s heads, each one bearing eyes of ruby red.
The room that had been assigned to Gwydion and Rhiannon was on the second story and was a great improvement over their last one. A huge feather bed stood against one wall, with a coverlet of emerald green fringed with gold. Tapestries of forest scenes covered the black walls. Rugs woven with strips of green and black fabric dotted the floor. There were two chairs with green cushions resting before the hearth, where a fire blazed.
Poor Sigerric had been pale and withdrawn all evening. Just now, she knew, Talorcan and Penda were with him, helping him to get drunk. That was for the best right now, although the resultant hangover would make tomorrow a double agony for the poor man. Catha and Baldred were also in the process of getting roaring drunk, roistering with the rest of Havgan’s warriors in the banquet hall.
As for Havgan, Sledda, and Gwydion, they had left a few hours ago to spend the night on the island of Waelraest Hlaew, the Dead Mounds. It was here on this island, just downriver from the Emperor’s palace, where the dead rulers of Corania were laid to rest in ships with their prized possessions. The ships were buried in groups, forming mounds that belonged to each successive royal house. Five mounds stood there now.
Rhiannon continued to pace. She felt uneasy, and she wasn’t sure why. Part of it was that she wanted to leave so badly. And something could go very wrong this night. But that wasn’t all of it. A part of her felt that something already had gone wrong, and she was at a loss to know what it was.
She bit her lip, casting her eyes to the closed door. She wondered if she
dared go look for herself, to assure herself that Gwydion was unharmed. It was foolish and dangerous. Havgan always sensed something amiss. And if anyone came in … On the other hand, she could bar the door. And no one was likely to come look for her.
Swiftly she bolted the door, then settled herself into the empty chair before the fire. She closed her eyes, willing her pulse to slow, willing her breath to shallowness, willing her awareness to spring free from her physical body, willing the Wind-Ride.
SHE HOVERED OVER Byrnwiga. The building was alight with torches, filled with the shouts of drunken warriors. It was after midnight and the waning moon had risen, cold and lonely as it rode the night sky. Her awareness sped over the rooftops and streets of the city, making for the river. Ahead she saw the white towers of Cynerice Scima. She rushed over the palace and saw the tiny island downstream. Here and there torches burned in the night, guiding her to where Gwydion must be.
She spiraled down carefully and came to rest on the flat top of a mound next to where Havgan and Gwydion sat. Havgan’s legs were drawn up, and he was resting his chin on his knees. Gwydion sat crosslegged next to him, his arms crossed over his chest. Havgan was speaking seriously. “And then, when all is finally ready, I sail to Kymru, as the One God has commanded me.”
“Oh, that it might be soon! Then I could write song after song of your glory,” Gwydion said enthusiastically.
“It will be soon. And that is all I will say, even to you.”
Gwydion bowed his head. “I am sorry, lord,” he said humbly. “I did not mean to offend.”
“You did not offend, my brother,” Havgan said.
At that moment, Gwydion sensed her presence. His silvery eyes flickered to the place where her spirit hovered. Gwydion’s mouth tightened in anger as Havgan rubbed his forehead.
The next moment, she heard the splash of a boat being moored on the shore of the island. Soon Sledda was climbing the mound, and a woman was following him.
She was gray-haired, and her dress was a garish blend of purple and red. Around her head she wore a scarf of gold cloth. She was fairly dripping with jewelry—her hands were loaded with rings, and numerous strings of amber, garnet, and jet hung around her wrinkled throat. Rhiannon had seen her before. This was the famous valla that she, Havgan, and Sledda had visited the night before. Rhiannon had sensed some talent in the woman last night, but she did not think it was enough to enable the valla to sense her presence. Nonetheless, she was prepared for instant flight, should it become necessary.
