by Holly Taylor
“As long as she does what she is told,” Lludd retorted.
“Which she will, as long as they have Regan under their control,” Talhearn said. “Your sister will not endanger her Dewin’s life. Which is the only reason Regan is still alive. They usually kill ‘witches.’“
“And yet, I think that Regan would rather be dead.”
Talhearn smiled. “Well, Regan was always a brave lass, but I’m not so sure about her wanting to be dead. I understand that General Talorcan takes good care that Regan is as safe and as comfortable as possible. He is an honorable man—for a Coranian.”
“General Talorcan is the man who killed my mother,” Lludd said harshly. “Just how honorable can he be?”
“I would have thought you would leave the black and white judgments to Elen,” Talhearn said mildly. “You know that life is more complicated than that, even though you are only nineteen.”
Lludd sighed. “When are you leaving to begin the testing?”
“In just a few days,” Talhearn said. “Emrys and I—”
“No,” Angharad said sharply. “I will go with you.”
“Why not Emrys? He’s competent—quite good, really.”
“But not as good as I am. Do I need to remind you what Anieron said about last week’s meeting at Eiodel? Havgan’s planning something, and you can be sure it will be nasty.”
“What about Llwyd Cilcoed?” Talhearn asked. “You’re supposed to watch him.”
“My sister can do it. Eiodar is as fond of Llwyd Cilcoed as I am. Just accept it, old man. I’m sticking to you like bark on a tree.”
“If you go to Dinmael, try to get a glimpse of Elen,” Lludd urged.
“Lludd,” Talhearn said gently, “we can’t go near Dinmael. We have to stay out of the settled areas and stick to the forests. The people will bring their children to us.”
Lludd was silent for a moment. “I know,” he said at last. “It’s just that—”
“We will free her one day.”
“Yes,” Lludd said in a grim tone. “We will.”
ELEN UR OLWEN, Queen of Ederynion, sat stiffly in the elaborate, canopied chair, her head held high. The pearls and silver thread that decorated the canopy gleamed faintly in the torchlight. Her auburn hair was held back from her face by a band of silver stitched with pearls. She wore a gown of pure white, and the silver and pearl torque of Ederynion. Her eyes went to the pearl ring on her hand, the ring her mother had given her the day before the final battle, when Olwen had died. The ring was to be guarded at all costs, for one day, in the fullness of time, it would be claimed in the name of the High King. Not that these fools knew anything about that.
Darkness pressed outside the windows, vying with the shadows of Iago’s dark brown robe, black hair, and jet-black, tormented eyes. The Druid’s forehead was beaded with sweat as he forged the psychokinetic bonds that kept Elen in her chair.
Regan, her Dewin, for whose sake she had sacrificed so much, stood across the room, her hands tied behind her, her brown hair loose and tangled. Regan’s face was a mask of contempt as the wyrce-jaga held the dagger to her throat. But there was nothing Elen could do. And so, for what seemed to be the hundredth time, she said, disdainfully, without a trace of the soul-chilling fear she kept locked inside, “I don’t know.”
“You do,” Guthlac, the Master-wyrce-jaga of Ederynion insisted coldly. “And you will tell us what we want to know or the witch dies.”
Elen did not even bother to look at Regan. She did not need to see in her friend’s eyes the longing to die and release Elen from this trap. For two years Elen had followed the dictates of the enemy in order to keep Regan alive. She could not give up now.
“I cannot give you information I do not have,” Elen said. She did not add that even if she knew, she would never tell—even if it did cost Regan her life. There were limits to everything. “I do not know where my brother and his Cerddorian are hiding. If you stopped just one moment to think—assuming the feat is not completely beyond you—you would know that I am telling the truth. How could I possibly find out such a thing? I was already captive when they slipped away after the last battle.”
“Iago,” Guthlac spat, turning to the Druid who had once served Queen Olwen and now served the enemy, “you know about the message we received today. You know how important this is. Make her talk.”
Iago, who had been wearily leaning against the wall, straightened up slowly.
“Yes, Iago,” Elen sneered. “Make me talk.”
“Guthlac,” Iago said in a pleading tone. “I—”
“Do it, Druid! Your Archdruid has ordered you to help in this matter any way you can. Do it!”
Iago’s tortured dark eyes seemed to plead with Elen to understand, to forgive. But this she would never do, and Iago knew it. She braced herself and waited.
“Iago!” Regan cried, struggling against her bonds. “Don’t! Don’t hurt her!”
“Do you think I would harm her?” Iago rasped. “Oh, no. Never.”
It was then that the hem of Regan’s dress began to smolder, then caught fire. Elen screamed, “No!” as she tried to rise from her chair. But Iago’s psychokinesis held her fast. Rescue came from another quarter.
The door burst open. General Talorcan did not hesitate. He leapt across the room, tearing off his cloak and wrapping Regan in the heavy wool, beating out the flames. When the fire was out, he helped Regan to a chair. His face tightened when he saw her bonds. He turned to Guthlac and snatched the man’s dagger from his hands. Talorcan then knelt by Regan’s chair and cut the rope that bound her, his face dangerous. He paused and briefly touched her face, then rose, turning to Guthlac and Iago.
Very, very quietly, he asked, “What in the name of Holy Lytir is going on here?”
Before the two men could answer, Elen answered for them. “They wished to know the location of the Cerddorian. I could not tell them. And so Iago set Regan’s dress on fire, to make me talk.”
Talorcan’s green eyes glittered as he looked at Iago.
“I did as the Master-wyrce-jaga bade me, General,” Iago said stiffly.
Talorcan transferred his stare to the wyrce-jaga. Guthlac licked his thick lips. His black robe with the green tabard was rucked up over his huge belly, and he straightened it with nervous hands. “General, it was necessary.”
“After two years, Guthlac, have you still not understood? Queen Elen does not know the answer to your question.”
“But, General, you know the messages we received from Lord Havgan today!”
“I repeat to you, she does not know. And you will never again seek to interrogate either one of these ladies. Understand this. I will not tell you again.”
“Lord Havgan would surely like to know we are doing all we can to fulfill his orders. He would be most interested in learning that you lack the boldness necessary.”
Talorcan laughed, the torchlight flickering off his dark blond hair and the stony lines of his thin, hard face. “Try it, wyrce-jaga,” he taunted. “But I think you will not be happy with the results, unless you are truly tired of living. Now get out.”
Bowing, Guthlac backed out of the room, hatred in his piglike eyes.
“Your coming was fortuitous, General,” Elen said coolly.
“I came to see if Regan would care to take a stroll on the battlements. Another time, perhaps.”
“But I would like to,” Regan said, as Elen had known she would. “More than ever, now. I need fresh air.”
“But you are burned!”
“I am not. You rescued me too speedily for that.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Talorcan offered his arm to the Dewin. He glanced at Elen, a rueful smile in his green eyes. As always, Elen got the feeling he knew full well what she and Regan had decided long ago—that they would take full advantage of Talorcan’s obvious attraction to the Dewin. Yes, he knew it and let them scheme for his own purpose. Elen often wondered what that was.
It was only now that Elen truly
understood.
REGAN UR CORFIL took a deep breath of the night air. It was crisp outside, for it was early spring and the nights were still cold. Overhead the stars glittered. Talorcan gestured at the sky.
“The constellation of Llyr,” he said, “the first Dreamer. And Llys Don, the court of the Lady Don, his mother.”
“Which in your land would be Fal, the god of light and fire. And Nerthus, the Mother.”
“And there is Tarw, the Bull.”
“Which in your land would be Bana. Named for the Warleader.”
“We have learned each other’s stars well, Regan,” Talorcan said, his smile sad. “But perhaps I should have named a different constellation.”
“That is true enough. I do not like to think of your Bana, your Havgan, the man to whom you sold your soul.”
“My soul belongs to me,” Talorcan said, his voice suddenly fierce.
“You lie, General. Or you would not be in Kymru.”
They stood together on the walls of the once-proud, once-beautiful city of Dinmael. Some portions of the broken walls were repaired, but the work was not yet complete, so great had been the initial destruction.
Regan turned away from Talorcan, her eyes scanning the city, so quiet at this time of night. So quiet, really, all the time now, for the Kymri who still dwelt there were silent and subdued. They fished the waters and sold their wares, as they had always done, but they did it without joy. The glassmakers still spun their fabulous shapes from the white sands, but they no longer sang at their work. Paper was still produced in abundance, for the preosts of Lytir needed the sheets to write the book of their god, but the paper workers moved without life, waiting for the living nightmare to end.
Her gaze moved to the east, to the sea. It glistened darkly as wave after wave washed up to the beach with a hiss, then withdrew.
Talorcan reached out and turned her face to his. His green eyes glittered in the cold light of the stars. “In my land,” he said evenly, “the brotherhood ritual is sacred. Once blood has been mingled, there can be no betrayal.”
“Have you not already been betrayed? Has Havgan not already betrayed you?”
“His dream is a bright one, Regan. He seeks to claim this land for our God.”
“And to kill people like me, to unleash the wyrce-jaga to torture us. To use the Druids to further the schemes of his god.”
“The Archdruid threw in his lot with us. He thinks to use us, as we use him.”
She said nothing, but turned from him and looked out over the water. Her heart ached at the beauty of the night. She longed to rise up from her body, to float among the stars, to see the beauty of Ederynion from on high. When they had first captured her, she had given her word that she would not Wind-Ride. If she were caught doing so, they said, Elen would die. And she had kept her word, partly for the safety of the Cerddorian who fought on still. For what Elen and she did not know, they could not tell. So she had remained blind, seeing nothing that was beyond her physical sight. And never had she thought to break that word.
Until tonight.
She was so tired of her prison, so tired of being bound to the land, unable to soar. So tired of the fear that any day might be her last. So tired of fighting what she now knew was a wholly divided heart. For she loved Elen and her country and her people and her goddess. And she loved Talorcan, the enemy, with a love just as fierce and true.
She was wounded and without hope, for surely the High King would never come. Surely she and her people would never be free. And if the High King did return, Talorcan would die, and her heart would die with him. And the star-spangled sky was so beautiful. She would fly so swiftly that Talorcan would never even know, until it was too late. She would never return to her body, but would let it die. Their hold over Elen would be broken. And Regan’s heart would not be called upon to make that terrible choice she knew was coming to her.
She leaned on the parapet and closed her eyes. She gathered her will, and her spirit began to rise, to float up and leave her body. Tonight she would Ride, and never return. It was time and past time to die.
With a jolt her spirit slammed back into her body. Talorcan loomed over her, his hands gripping her arms.
“None of that, Dewin. You have given your word. What were you intending to do? What word were you going to give to your Ardewin?”
“None!” she spat. “None at all. I was going to …” She trailed off, looking up at Talorcan in shock. “How …” she gasped. “How did you …”
He released her abruptly and turned away.
“How did you know? How did you stop me?” she asked, bewildered. “How could you possibly …” And then the answer came to her. After so long, at last she understood. It explained so much. “Oh. Oh, Talorcan, you are Dewin.”
“I am not!” he snarled, whipping around to face her.
“But you are,” she insisted. “They have such people in Corania. They are called Walkers. And you are one of them.”
“Enough!” He grabbed her and shook her, breathing hard, his hands tight on her arms. She struggled to pull free, and he let her go abruptly. She stumbled, fetching up against the wall. With a shaking hand, she smoothed back her tangled hair and faced him. They were silent, looking at each other for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Talorcan at last said, stiffly. “Are you hurt?”
“Not in a place that shows,” she said quietly.
He reached out and touched her face. The tenderness of the gesture brought tears to her eyes. She looked up at the face that had become so dear to her over the last two years, looked up into the face of the enemy.
Remember, she told herself fiercely, remember this is the man who killed Queen Olwen in battle. Remember this is the man who holds Elen captive. Remember, oh, remember, this man is the enemy. She turned her face away.
Slowly, he lowered his hand, then walked to the parapet, looking out over the water. “Across the sea is my home. There lies Dere, the land where I was born. Would that one day I could show it to you.”
“I think not,” she said harshly, more harshly than she had intended. But she was frightened of herself now. “I understand from you that the city of Elmete where you lived is not much to look at anymore. Not since the Coranians came and destroyed it. As they wish to do in Kymru.”
His voice low and sad, he said, “Ah, but once it was beautiful.” Softly, he sang:
“Oh, Elmete!
Here once many a man, mood-glad,
Goldbright, of gleams garnished,
Flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear,
Gazed on bright gemstones, on gold, on silver, On wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amber,
On the bright city of broad dominion.”
“It is,” he continued softly, “my mother’s favorite song. Once Gwydion and Rhiannon sang it for her. I will be sorry when they are dead.”
“You are so sure that Havgan will find them?”
“He does not give up. One day he will find them and kill them.”
“And you will watch?”
“It is my earnest prayer that I will not have to.”
“Perhaps they won’t be captured.”
“They will. For now they are on the move again, making the next bid to free Kymru. They seek the Treasures, to make a High King. Havgan seeks the Treasures, too. Their paths will cross. And Gwydion and Rhiannon will die. If they are lucky, they will die quickly. But I do not think Havgan plans a quick death.”
“Maybe they will surprise you.”
“Maybe they will.” He took a deep breath, then turned to her. “Regan, why did you try to Wind-Ride?”
She turned away, shrugging, her back to him. “I just felt like it.”
“Did you think I would not guess that you wouldn’t return? Why, Regan?”
She did not answer. There was nothing she could bring herself to say. Unbidden, tears began to rain down her face.
“So, you would rather die than be near me?” he rasped. “Do you hat
e me so much?”
She spun around to face him. “No! Oh, no!” she cried.
He cradled her face in his hands, and she let him. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, tasting the tears there. With mounting passion he kissed her lips. She moaned softly, and tried to pull away, but his grip was too tight. Just as she was on the verge of surrendering, of forgetting everything except his burning kisses, he stepped back, putting her away from him, his face tormented. “Go now, Regan,” he whispered, “for if I escorted you back to your room, I would not leave. Later your heart would break. And then mine would break for you.”
For a moment she hesitated. She wanted his arms around her, his lips on her skin, the feel of him down the length of her body. But she knew what would happen to her if she did not stop this thing now. So she gathered her skirts and began to descend the stairs. She did not look back.
AFTER REGAN AND Talorcan had gone, Elen remained in her chair, her knees too weak to allow her to rise. She stared at the wall, her thoughts chaotic. Regan had almost died tonight. And it was Talorcan who had saved her. Surely now Regan would realize the truth Elen herself had seen. These two loved each other. And they would destroy each other, whether they willed it or no. What would the truth do to her dearest friend, her only ally in this prison that had once been her home? How would Regan choose?
Someone put a wineglass in her hand. “Drink,” the voice said.
She blinked and looked up. Of course. Iago. He was still there, still watching her, as he always did.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She laughed a little wildly. “‘What’s the matter?’ How can you ask such a question?”
Iago flushed and withdrew to the door. “Good night, my Queen.”
“I am hardly that, Iago. To say I am your Queen implies you are loyal to me. And we all know to whom you are loyal.”
“The Archdruid is my master. He is to be obeyed, no matter the cost.”
“As I well know,” she said bitterly. “And as Regan knows, too.”
Iago said nothing, but neither did he go. He did not look at her with his tormented eyes, but leaned against the door, staring into the fire on the hearth.
