by Holly Taylor
Alun Cilcoed, who had led the forces in the northern quarter, hailed them. He appeared to be unwounded and still had a good number of warriors with him. Prince Lludd, too, appeared just then from the east, for he had led a great many of the townsfolk to push the Coranians from the docks and into the sea. His arm was bandaged, but his grin and jaunty salute convinced Angharad that his wound was not serious.
It was Rhiwallon’s arrival that caused Angharad the most amusement, for, when the Prince of Rheged, who had led his forces through the western quarter, caught sight of Elen, he threw whatever discretion he had (and it was never very much) to the winds and rushed to the queen. Without so much as a by your leave he picked her up in his strong arms and swung her around, whooping exuberantly.
To no one’s surprise—except, perhaps, to Elen’s—Elen did not reprimand Rhiwallon. She simply demanded to be put down. But her tone was not as commanding as usual and there appeared to be a smile in it. Lludd caught Angharad’s eye and grinned.
Then the swans gathered in the sky above and hovered over the citadel, their fierce cries cutting through the rising smoke. Elen eyed the closed gate of Caer Dwfr. The silver gate shimmered so that the image of the swan, outlined in pearls with emerald eyes, seemed to shiver as though anxious to launch itself into the sky to join the others.
“Madryn,” Elen called, and the Druid appeared instantly at Elen’s elbow.
“What is your will, Queen Elen?” the Druid asked, as the other four Druids Madryn had brought with her crowded around.
“That you should open the gate of Caer Dwfr,” Elen replied, “so that the last of the men who killed my mother shall die.”
Madryn bowed her head. “It shall be done, then.” The five Druids lifted their faces to the gate and closed their eyes. The gate began to shiver slightly, and then to groan as the will of the Druids focused on it. The outstretched wings of the incised swan almost seemed to spread even wider, as though straining to break the bods that kept it from the firmament.
It almost seemed to Angharad as though the swan itself cried out fiercely in triumph as the gate burst open. At Elen’s battle cry the Cerddorian poured into the stronghold, calling out fiercely to the enemy to fight. Overhead the swans folded in their tremendous wings and dove, arrowing into the courtyard and attacking the Coranian warriors who had taken shelter there.
The fighting in the courtyard was the fiercest Angharad had ever known. For the Coranians were cornered, and losing. And they knew it. They fought like madmen, to kill as many Kymri they could until they, themselves, were killed. Fighting was hand to hand, for the quarters were too close for bowmen to do any good.
It was when Angharad had plunged her sword into what seemed like the hundredth Coranian that it happened. Elen was to her right and somewhat ahead. Angharad never knew what impelled Elen to look back at that moment, but something did.
“Angharad!” Elen cried. “Look out!”
Angharad whirled. Yet as she turned she knew, somehow, that she would be too late.
And she was.
But she did not die that day. For Emrys was on time.
He leapt forward, using his body as a living shield between Angharad and the blade that the Coranian warrior had thrust at her back. The sword plunged into Emrys and he stiffened as his chest parted beneath the gleaming blade. The Coranian withdrew his weapon and blood poured from both Emrys’ wound and his mouth as he went down.
Angharad screamed in rage and raised her sword, leaping forward over Emrys prone body and plunging the blade into the Coranians’ guts. Hot blood poured over her hand as she twisted the blade, making sure the Coranian suffered the maximum of agony before he died. He slumped down and she contemptuously pulled the weapon out and let him fall.
She whirled around again and knelt down beside Emrys, taking his dying body in her arms. She sensed Lludd behind her, guarding her back. And she saw Elen kneel on Emrys’ other side. The queen laid a suddenly gentle hand on Emrys’ brow, stroking his hair back from his face. Elen gestured for one of the Dewin to attend to Emrys. The Dewin knelt down beside him and laid her hands on the wound. She closed her eyes and Life-Read. After a brief moment she opened her eyes and looked at Elen. The Dewin shook her head.
“Go, then,” Elen said quietly, “to those who need your services.” The Dewin bowed and left.
Emrys looked up at them and tried to speak. But Angharad hushed him. “Hush,” she murmured, as she cradled his head against her breast. “Hush, you mustn’t try to talk. Save your strength.”
But Emrys knew—of course he did—that he did not need to save his strength. And she knew it, too.
“Angharad,” he whispered, raising one bloody hand to touch her tear-streamed face. “Did I not tell you what would happen today? Did I not say?”
“You told me,” she agreed. “You said. Oh, Emrys, I am sorry I didn’t believe you. Sorry that I became your death.”
“You who were always my life could never be my death. It was not you who killed me, but the Coranian.”
Her tears fell on his upturned face, but she made no move to wipe them away. Blood flowed from his mouth, but his dark eyes were clear and steady as he gazed up at her.
“Emrys ap Naw, I owe you a kiss,” she said steadily. “And I always pay my debts.” She bent down and kissed his bloody mouth, slowly, lingering, knowing somehow that he had always dreamed of it that way. When she at last released his lips from hers she drew back and looked down at him again. His eyes were beginning to cloud, but his mouth smiled up at her. With a small sigh he was gone.
Angharad stroked his hair then gently laid his head on the ground. She rose, gripping her sword, and Elen rose with her, standing on Emrys’ other side. Angharad knew her mouth was bloody but she did not wipe the blood away. It belonged to Emrys. She had sent him to his death, no matter what anyone else said. She would not wipe away the proof of what she had done.
Elen’s blue eyes were rimed with tears, but her face was stern and set. She looked at Angharad and did not say anything about the blood lining her captain’s mouth. And Angharad saw that Elen fully understood and would not cheapen this moment by protesting.
Angharad looked at Lludd, and the Prince’s brown eyes gazed steadily back. He, too, said nothing, but his eyes said he understood it all.
Then the three of them turned away as one from Emrys’ body, and began to kill. They did not shout war cries, but killed silently, implacably, with deadly earnest. Their blades rose and fell, rose and fell again as they cut through the remaining Coranian warriors, showing no mercy as they finished taking back what had once been theirs.
And that was how they mourned for their friend in the only way open to them on that long, bloody day.
ELEN SAT ON THE GREAT, canopied chair of silver and pearl that had been her mother’s, surveying the Cerddorian packed before her in the Great Hall. Her swan helm was still on her head, her auburn hair braided and tucked under the helmet. Her white tunic and trousers were stained with blood and smoke, but she had refused to change them yet, knowing in her heart that it was too soon to wash away the blood from this day. The ornate pearl-studded silver torque of Ederynion hung around her slender neck, gleaming softly.
When she had last seen this hall the red and gold boar banner of the Warleader had hung over the dais. But that banner had been pulled down and burned. The white banner of the swan, outlined in silver and pearls with emerald eyes, once again hung on the wall.
The Bards had already shared the greatest of this day’s news with her—Ederynion was free. In the four northern cantrefs, the Cerddorian under Drwst Iron-Fist had been victorious, freeing the cantref of Dinan. Mechain had been freed under the leadership of Sima, Emrys’ sister. Cilyddas, the Lady of Rhwny, had led the forces that took back her cantref. Meilwen, the Lady of Cydewain, had escaped and retaken her cantref. The cantref of Penllyn was freed under the leadership of Llawra of Cynllaith, sister of Susanna, Queen Morrigan’s Bard. In Arystli, Angharad’s sister Eiodar had led
her forces to victory.
All that the Coranians had taken was returned to them. Elen thought that, perhaps, her mother was watching this day. Watching with pride and a smile on her lovely face. Watching with pride not only in Elen, but also in her son, Lludd, whom she had not valued. But Elen did, and always had, from the very beginning. And Lludd had returned that loyalty tenfold, continuing to fight on against the enemy even when she had been captured, then coming for her and setting her free.
Now Lludd stood on her right and his tunic and trousers of sea green were stained and blood splattered. His left arm was in a sling, but he had so far refused medical attention, saying his hurt was not great. Elen made a mental note to ensure a Dewin gave him a Life-Reading before the day was done.
Rhiwallon, King Owein’s younger brother, stood on her left. She had not invited him to, he had simply done it, mounting the dais and standing by her chair as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It should have made Elen uneasy to recognize that it did, indeed, feel natural. But she simply accepted his presence and let herself be warmed by it.
Her captain, Angharad, stood at the bottom of the dais, her sword drawn, the point resting on the stone floor. Angharad’s mouth was still faintly stained with Emrys’ blood. Much as she wished to, Elen would not order Angharad to wash off that blood.
Talhearn stood at Angharad’s elbow, his quiet presence doing more for Angharad than any words.
Elen nodded to Angharad, and Angharad nodded to a Kymric warrior who stood just beside the entrance to the Great Hall. The warrior called out, and a prisoner was brought in.
The Byshop’s robe was torn and bloodstained, and his hands were tied behind his back. His graying blond hair was matted with sweat. He had belted a sword around his waist, but the scabbard was now empty. It had been Cuthwine who had rallied the Coranians to fight, for he had been the only one with authority left in the citadel. For General Talorcan had thrown in his lot with the Kymri when Elen had been rescued. And Guthlac, the Master-wyrce-jaga, had been killed that same night. That had happened little less than a month ago, and Havgan had not had the opportunity to put someone else in command.
The two warriors that escorted Cuthwine through the hall and to the bottom of the dais now stepped back at Angharad’s gesture. Elen’s captain quietly told Cuthwine to sink to his knees before Elen, and the Byshop did. He inclined his head briefly to her, then remained kneeling. His blue eyes gazed up at her stoically as he waited to hear his fate.
Elen knew Cuthwine of Cyncacestir very well from her years of captivity. The Byshop had been neither a particularly bad man, nor a particularly good one. He was simply a Coranian, who believed that, in bringing the word of his God, Lytir, he was doing what his God required of him. And he had not been overly squeamish about how he had attempted to convert the Kymri, for he had been sure that, for the good of their souls, he should be harsh when necessary. Yet he had been polite to Elen, giving her a certain amount of deference as nominal ruler of Ederynion. And he had never overtly threatened her Dewin, Regan, although he had certainly thought of her as one of the witches that needed to be carefully watched and controlled.
Yet for all that, he had not been cruel, only misguided, and she almost did not want to have him put to death.
Then don’t.
The voice in her head startled her, even as she recognized it. Intellectually she knew that the High King had that kind of power to Mind-Speak from such a tremendous distance. But it was another thing altogether to hear him so clearly.
“What would you have me do, High King?” she asked.
He is to take a message to Havgan for me. This message I believe you know.
Elen nodded, for she did, indeed, know the message. She rose to stand at the top of the stairs of the dais. She looked briefly down at her victorious warriors gathered in the Great Hall. Her heart felt full to overflowing as they gazed steadily back at her, as her hall once again housed the warriors of Ederynion, not of Corania.
Her gaze came to rest on the Byshop who still knelt at the bottom of the stairs. “Cuthwine of Cyncacestir, I had thought to kill you today. But High King Arthur has a task for you.”
“I regret I cannot do his bidding, Queen Elen,” Cuthwine said softly. “For my loyalty is to my church. And to the Warleader.”
“This task does not conflict with that loyalty, Cuthwine,” Elen said.
“Then tell me.”
“High King Arthur wishes you to go to the Warleader. You are to say to Havgan the Golden that he must leave Kymru. He must leave Kymru, or die. This is the message the High King wishes you to give your Bana. Will you do so?”
“I will do so, Queen of Ederynion,” Cuthwine said. “But I will do so in an attempt to spare my Warleader’s life, rather than because your High King wills it.”
“It does not matter why you do so, as long as you do it,” Elen said crisply. “But I do understand that you are a man who is loyal to what he believes in. It is an admirable trait. But one that does not, I fear, bring you much joy.”
“Joy is for another world, Elen,” Cuthwine said, his tone almost regretful.
“It is for this one, Byshop,” Elen said. “And for all of them. Did you not know?”
Cuthwine shook his head in disbelief. “I will not bandy words with you. But I must warn you, Elen. Havgan is not defeated. Today you have turned him out of Dinmael, but you have not beaten him.”
“Oh, but we have,” Elen said softly. “For not only is Dinmael freed, but all of Ederynion. And not only Ederynion, but Prydyn also, for Arberth was retaken yesterday. General Penda is even now on his way to Havgan with the same message you will carry.”
“Does your High King really think to persuade Havgan to run away?”
“He does not. He only hopes.”
“Then he will be doomed to disappointment, I fear. For Havgan will never run.”
“Then he will die,” Elen said.
“We shall see, Queen of Ederynion.”
At her nod a warrior led the Byshop from the hall and began preparations for his journey.
Elen rose and stood at the edge of the dais, looking out onto the sea of faces gathered in the hall. Lludd and Rhiwallon stepped forward with her, flanking her.
“Today,” she said, lifting her arms, “Ederynion is free!”
The warriors cheered until she gestured for silence. “Tomorrow we begin to muster for another great battle—the last one in this long game. We will go to join the High King on the fields of Gwytheryn.”
She gestured to Alun Cilcoed, who stood at the foot of the dais. Surprised, the Lord of Arystli came to stand before her. “Alun Cilcoed, loyal and true, I appoint you ruler here in Dinmael until I return.”
“Elen,” he gasped.
“I know I ask a great deal of you, my friend,” she said quietly. “I know you want to join us. But I must have someone my people trust to guide them. Will you say yes?”
“I will do as you will, my Queen,” Alun replied, bowing his head. “You will return to a Dinmael that will have been cleansed of the Coranian taint.”
Elen smiled. “Of course,” she said. “For now we are free.”
Chapter
* * *
Seventeen
Tegeingl
Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 500
Meirgdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early morning
Arday ur Medyr, mistress to General Catha of Corania and one-time mistress to the now dead King Madoc of Gwynedd, opened her dark eyes, instantly awake when she heard the call.
Arday.
She sat up in bed cautiously, careful not to wake Catha. He slept with his back to her, his breathing even. The hawk worked in silver threads and brown silk on the coverlet of dark blue seemed to flutter in the dull light of the glowing embers on the hearth. She had shared this bed many times before, but with King Madoc. But now Madoc was dead at the hands of his own father. And Catha, who had ruled Gwynedd in all but name for the last few yea
rs, had moved into Madoc’s room, the room that had once belonged to King Uthyr.
Arday.
She could not answer, for she was not a Bard. But she knew that Susanna would know that her call was heard.
It has begun.
Arday smiled and glanced out the window. Thick fog pressed against the glass. Silently she got out of bed, cautiously pulling her long, dark hair out of Catha’s sleeping grasp. She put on her robe, fastening the red, velvet garment around her waist. Not taking her eyes from Catha’s still form, she gently ran her hands beneath the feather-stuffed mattress and pulled out a long gleaming dagger.
For a moment she stood on the other side of the bed, eyeing Catha’s muscular back, contemplating. But, in the end, she decided to carry out her original plan. Family honor was more important than killing Catha just now. Catha’s turn would come. And come, no doubt, at the hands of Morrigan, King Uthyr’s daughter. A just punishment, she thought, for it had been Catha who had killed Uthyr. She would not steal that away from Morrigan, the queen whom Arday had worked in secret for so long to bring back.
She knew that Susanna had awakened her so that Arday could get to safety before the attack began. But she had business to take care of first. She felt that the gods were with her, for the man she must now see had come to Tegeingl just a few days ago. There would be no need for her to hunt him down, and no chance that another might steal her vengeance from her.
She crept from the room, noiselessly opening then closing the door behind her. She made her way silently down the dark corridor, halting at the door of the chamber she sought. Catha had allowed the man to stay in what had once been Queen Ygraine’s chamber, saying that he was an honored guest. Her lip had curled at that, but she was glad now, for that meant she had not had to go far to find him. She briefly closed her eyes as she steeled herself. She must do what she must do. And may the gods accept the sacrifice.
