Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  Havgan’s fists clenched in rage as he gazed with hungry eyes at the still-closed Doors to the mountain.

  The jewels of the Doors winked slyly at him in the morning sun. The fiery opals of Mabon of the Sun, the cool sapphires of Taran of the Winds, the gleaming emeralds of Modron the Mother, the luminous pearls of Nantsovelta of the Waters all mocked him in their splendor, in his inability to destroy them.

  The onyx of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, the bloodstone of Aertan, the Weaver of Fate, seemed to laugh at him. The diamonds for Sirona of the Stars, the garnets for Grannos the Healer, the bloodred rubies for the Warrior Twins shimmered and danced before his predatory gaze.

  And it was then that the topaz of the Master of the Hunt and the amethyst of the Lady of the Wood blazed up fiercely, blinding him with their light. It was then that the many-colored hues of Arderydd, the High Eagle, seemed to shriek at him in defiance.

  Havgan did not step back as the light bored into his eyes. He stood his ground before the Doors and vowed that the Shining Ones of Kymru would not mock him much longer.

  What was left of them, that is. For they were dying. The god and goddess in his dream of a few nights ago, the two that led the Wild Hunt, glimpsed for one brief moment, had been bereft of power. Wan and pale and—almost—lifeless. He would defeat them.

  With a mocking bow to show he was unafraid, he turned from the Doors to gaze upon Eiodel, the black fortress he had built less than a league away. Eiodel, built in defiance of Cadair Idris, in pride, in mockery, gleamed darkly, its shadowy stones rearing proudly to the sky.

  One day he would bring Gwydion to Eiodel. He would cast the Dreamer into its deep dungeons. And he would smile at the sound of Gwydion’s screams.

  But there was much to be done, he thought, as he walked down the broken steps of Cadair Idris. The steps were twined with the brown stems of dead rockrose and alyssum. The low moan of the wind whistled past him, ruffling the golden cloak he wore. The sunlight blazed on his golden helmet. His amber eyes, keen and fierce, flashed with contempt at the sight of the man who was waiting at the bottom of the steps.

  “Lord Havgan.” The black-robed figure bowed. “I have been looking for you.”

  “How difficult that must be with only one eye,” Havgan replied pleasantly.

  Sledda, the Arch-wyrce-jaga of Kymru, supreme witch hunter, flushed an ugly red. The empty socket where his right eye had once rested was stiff and seamed with scars. His remaining eye, pale and colorless, shined with malevolence as Sledda bowed his head in what Havgan knew to be mock humility.

  “One day, Lord Havgan, I will find that eagle. And I will kill it.”

  “You would do better, Sledda, to find and kill the witches who have escaped you. Two years I have been waiting for you to do so.”

  “The witches are clever,” Sledda hissed.

  “And you are not. The Master Bard and the Ardewin still elude you. And, worse, yet, you have not brought me the Dreamer or his whore, Rhiannon.”

  Sledda’s one eye gleamed at the mention of Rhiannon’s name. “One day I will, Lord. And you will give the whore to me.”

  “Most probably. After I am finished. Just what is it you want, Sledda? Assuming you have come for some other purpose than to tell me all the things you will do—but have not yet done.”

  “I come to tell you that they are all here and waiting. It is time.”

  Sledda’s words echoed within him, as he remembered the words of the dying goddess from his dream.

  “Yes, Sledda,” he said. “It is time.”

  THE CHAMBER IN the castle of Eiodel was stark. The stone floor was polished to a deadly sheen, its smooth darkness unrelieved by rugs. The walls, pierced here and there with narrow windows, were bare. Torches flickered in their wall sockets, but they could not fully illuminate the shadows that clung to this room.

  A fire roared in the huge fireplace set into the south wall. Six high-backed chairs were arrayed in a semicircle before the fire. All but two of the chairs were occupied when Havgan walked into the room, Sledda behind him like a malevolent shadow.

  The first man Havgan greeted was Sigerric, now the Over-general of Kymru. The face of Havgan’s oldest friend had changed steadily over the years. The joy of life, which had once danced in Sigerric’s dark eyes, was gone. His too-thin face was stern, and lines of despair bracketed his once-laughing mouth.

  The blue robes of Eadwig, the Archbyshop of Kymru, shimmered in the firelight, straining against his broad, muscular shoulders. His large hands were scarred from the thousands of battles he had fought to claim the life and blood of the bulls in the weekly sacrifices to Lytir. The Archbyshop’s blue eyes were peaceful, despite the fact that the Kymri eluded the grasp of the One God. Havgan envied the inner peace in the man’s eyes, the peace of a man who knew himself and his place in the world.

  Far to the right of the circle sat two of the Kymri, both dressed in brown robes trimmed in green. The hair of the Archdruid had turned even whiter in the past few years, but Cathbad’s dark eyes still gleamed with cunning and—on occasion—madness. At his feet was a leather bag, which he touched occasionally as though it held something very precious.

  The saturnine features of Aergol, the Archdruid’s heir, were unreadable as always. Even his eyes were opaque, giving no hint of his thoughts. If he disapproved of Cathbad’s support of the enemy, he did not show it. If he approved, he did not show it. He rarely showed anything, including concern for his family. For Aergol’s mother, Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer, was still alive, hiding somewhere. His daughter, Sinend, had run away from Caer Duir two years ago and had not been heard from since. Havgan rarely saw Aergol’s son, Menw, whose mother was one of the teachers at Caer Duir. The boy never seemed to be around when the Coranians were there. Aergol never spoke of him. In fact, Aergol rarely spoke at all.

  Havgan took his place. The firelight flickered off his golden helmet. His amber eyes shimmered with an inner fire, as he began.

  “A few years ago I won the position of Warleader of the Empire, killing my rival, claiming the hand of Princess Aelfwyn. I claimed the power to direct the might of the empire for one reason—to complete the task that God had set for me many years before, the task to conquer the Kymri, to retake this land and cleanse it of the unholy taint of the witches who ruled it. I came to Kymru to bring the might of my God before the people, to reclaim them from their evil ways. To that end I brought with me the preosts of Lytir, as represented by the good Archbyshop.” Havgan paused to nod at Eadwig.

  “And to that end I brought the wyrce-jaga, our witch-hunters,” Havgan continued, nodding at Sledda, who bowed in return. “And to that end I brought with me the finest warrior I have ever known.” The bitter lines around Sigerric’s mouth deepened as he acknowledged Havgan’s praise.

  “And when my armies came to Kymru, we were aided in our battles by the Druids, whose support has been invaluable. Of the loyalty of the Archdruid and his heir I have no doubts,” Havgan lied. Cathbad, his mad eyes sparkling, inclined his proud head, while Aergol remained impassive, as though Havgan had not spoken at all.

  “At first, for all intents and purposes, we had Kymru by the throat. In Ederynion, our forces, led by General Talorcan defeated and killed Queen Olwen. We captured her daughter and made her Queen, to do our bidding. In Rheged, King Urien, Queen Ellirri, and their son, Prince Elphin, all died at our hands. Morcant Whledig, one of Rheged’s lords, now sits on the throne, advised by General Baldred. In Prydyn, King Rhoram’s brother-in-law rules in the King’s stead, guided by General Penda. And in Gwynedd, King Uthyr was killed and his half brother, Madoc, now rules for us with the help of General Catha.”

  Havgan stood, walking over to stand before the fire. The flames at his back outlined his golden figure. “In Gwytheryn, the Dewin and Bards fled their fortresses. The preosts of Lytir now inhabit Y Ty Dewin, the wyrce-jaga now live at Neuadd Gorsedd.”

  The room was silent; the only sound was the crackling fire. Havgan walked to the narrow nor
th window, the one that faced Cadair Idris. His back to the room, he said softly, “But Cadair Idris remains closed to me. The Guardian of the Doors denies me entry, because I have not the Treasures.”

  He turned from the window, his face expressionless, his voice cold. “The Archdruid has explained to me what these Treasures are. They are the Stone of Water, the Spear of Fire, the Cauldron of Earth, and the Sword of Air. By these Treasures a man undergoes what the Kymri call the Tynged Mawr, which means Great Fate. If he survives this test, he becomes High King with command of powers beyond our comprehension. With these powers, the High King may command even wild beasts to do his bidding. He can spy upon the enemy from many leagues away. He can raise fog, call fire to burn an enemy camp, direct a battle by speaking to the minds of his warriors. Such powers would be invaluable.”

  Havgan circled the chairs, coming to a stop behind Cathbad’s. He rested his hand on the Archdruid’s shoulder. Cathbad’s face spasmed in pain at Havgan’s grip.

  “And the Archdruid also explained to me,” Havgan continued softly, “that somewhere in Kymru there is one who can claim to be High King. Who he is, where he is, the Archdruid cannot say. In fact, this is such a closely guarded secret that none can be found who can—or will—say.” Havgan at last released the Archdruid and stood in front of the fire once more. Cathbad closed his eyes briefly at his release.

  “In the last two years we have consolidated our hold on Kymru,” Havgan continued. “The Druids have journeyed throughout this land with the preosts of Lytir, proclaiming the triumph of our God. And yet, it is not enough. Our work remains incomplete. For though we have Queen Elen, her brother, Prince Lludd, eludes us. Though we have killed King Urien and Queen Ellirri and their oldest son, their second son, Owein, still lives. Though we have taken Prydyn, the former King, Rhoram, is alive somewhere. Though King Uthyr is dead, his daughter, Queen Morrigan, continues to escape our grasp. Cadair Idris remains closed. The Treasures are hidden. I am not High King. But I will be. For I have seen in a dream that the time has come to change this unhappy state of affairs.”

  Havgan, who had been watching Aergol closely without seeming to, saw the first expression he had ever seen on the man’s face—surprise. But why? What did Aergol think it meant that Havgan had dreamed?

  He returned to his chair, his words cool and clipped. “Each of you has been given a task. To you, Eadwig, the task of bringing the Kymri to the worship of Lytir. To you, Sledda, the task of finding the Y Dawnus, the witches, who have escaped us. To you, Sigerric, the task of wiping out the warrior bands that continue to defy us. To you, Cathbad and Aergol, the task of finding a way to control the witches. You will tell me now, each of you, the progress you have made. Archbyshop, you may begin.”

  “As you know,” Eadwig said quietly, “one of the first things we did was to burn their sacred groves and build temples to Lytir in their place. Every Soldaeg—or, as the Kymri say, every Suldydd—we call the people to worship.”

  “And they come,” Cathbad said smugly.

  “Yes,” Eadwig replied hesitantly. “They come.”

  “You think this strange?” Sledda asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “They go to the services because they must,” Sigerric shrugged. “This is not so hard to understand.”

  “I do not think that is why they go,” Eadwig said.

  “No?” Havgan asked sharply, for he did not think so, either.

  “No. I think they go because it amuses them. I think they are laughing at us.”

  “Laughing!” Sledda exclaimed, shocked.

  “Laughing,” Eadwig said firmly.

  “They are not,” Cathbad snapped. “They know it is hopeless to resist. They go because they must, because their Druids tell them to.”

  At the Archdruid’s words, Aergol stirred slightly. As subdued as the movement was, Havgan caught it. “You know better, don’t you, Archdruid’s heir? Even if Cathbad does not. Tell us, Aergol, what do you think they are doing?”

  For a moment Aergol did not answer. Then he said quietly, “They are waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?” Sigerric asked.

  “For the High King to return to Cadair Idris. Then they will drive you from this land into the sea.”

  “You dare to say such things?” Sledda began, rising from his chair.

  “Be quiet, wyrce-jaga,” Havgan hissed. Sledda shrank back into his chair. “Go on, Eadwig.”

  “There is little more to say, my Lord. As you also know, the temples that we build are often burned. These fires are, no doubt, set by the Cerddorian.”

  “Which brings us to Sigerric,” Havgan said.

  Sigerric, not meeting Havgan’s eyes, began. “The Cerddorian, which, I am given to understand by Aergol, means ‘The Sons of Cerridwen,’ seem to be everywhere. They are said to be blessed in their efforts to drive us from the land by the goddess Cerridwen herself, the Queen of the Wood, she who leads the Wild Hunt. Bands of Cerddorian burn the temples of Lytir. They attack tribute caravans and small groups of Coranian warriors. Their efforts are not confined to any one area—but we have managed to confirm that their orders are given through the network of witches set up by the Master Bard and his daughter, the Ardewin. Orders are filtered through this network of Bards and Dewin to the chief band in each kingdom. Their headquarters are unknown, yet we have managed to pinpoint their general areas. For example, the band led by Prince Lludd, in Ederynion, is somewhere in the cantref of Arystli—probably in the great forest of Coed Ddu.”

  “If you know where they are, why can’t you find them?” Sledda sneered.

  “Have you ever, wyrce-jaga, attempted to find people in a forest that stretches for over ten leagues in each direction? Ever hunted for Bards who could call a warning from mind to mind without a sound? Ever hunted for people who had Dewin who could ‘see’ you coming from leagues away? But, of course, I am forgetting. You have hunted for such. For two years. And managed to find nothing.”

  Sledda shot Sigerric a venomous look with his one eye, but said nothing.

  “The chief band in Rheged,” Sigerric continued, “led by Owein PenMarch, appears to be centered quite close to the capital of Llwynarth, probably somewhere in Coed Addien. The band led by King Rhoram in Prydyn seems to be somewhere off the coast of cantref Aeron. The last band in Gwynedd, led by Queen Morrigan, is probably deep in the mountains of Eyri.”

  “But,” Eadwig asked, puzzled, “surely at one time or another you have caught members of these bands and questioned them. Someone must have told you something.”

  “We have caught some Cerddorian, Archbyshop. But it has yielded us nothing. Not one man or woman we have captured has spoken one word—not even their names. And not even under the kind of tortures the wyrce-jaga can devise.”

  “And yet, General, the attacks of these bands are mere pinpricks. The villages, the towns, the cities—all are in our hands,” Cathbad pointed out. “These attacks will die down, surely, as my people become reconciled to their lot.”

  Havgan noticed that something like a bitter smile was tugging at the corners of Aergol’s mouth in response to the Archdruid’s confident words.

  “You know these people, Archdruid,” Havgan said. “You know Prince Lludd and his Captain, Angharad. You know Owein and his Captain, Trystan. You know King Rhoram and his Captain, Achren. You know Queen Morrigan and her Captain, Cai. Through you, I know them also. And yet you say they will give up? They will not. Sigerric has done well to—as you say—hold the villages, the towns, and the cities. Done well to even be able to guess where the chiefs of these bands are hiding. Yet they cannot be found and killed. Not as long as the network set by the Master Bard and the Ardewin still functions.”

  “And that,” Sledda interrupted eagerly, “will not be for much longer.”

  “Which, Sledda, brings us to you. For two years I have heard you say this. And talk is all I have gotten from you.”

  “My Lord, the time we have been waiting for has come. I have cap
tured a Bard. A Bard who is willing to tell all he knows!”

  “Why?” Aergol cut in curiously.

  “Because,” Sledda replied, his one eye gleaming with cruel satisfaction, “I hold his wife and baby daughter. And he will do anything to have them freed.”

  “Ah,” said Sigerric, the bitter lines around his mouth deepening. “And will you have them freed?”

  “Most unfortunately, General, I cannot. For his wife died of injuries sustained when she fought too strongly for her virtue.”

  “Against you.”

  Sledda smiled. “Against me.”

  “What woman wouldn’t?”

  Sledda’s smile faded. “Simply because you have failed in your task to locate the Cerddorian, Sigerric, there is no need to insult me.”

  “Oh, Sledda, there is always need—and so much cause—to insult you. And the baby girl? What did you do to her?”

  Sledda shrugged. “I did not have the means to care for the child after her mother died. I ordered her killed.”

  “The supreme cruelty. To make a man betray his people to save the lives of those already dead.”

  “A piece of information that, I trust, you will not share with the Bard? I fear Lord Havgan would be highly displeased.”

  “Havgan,” Sigerric began in a pleading tone.

  “Be quiet, Sigerric,” Havgan said coolly. “I will use who and what I must to get what I need. Don’t be a fool.” Havgan gestured to Sledda. “You have the Bard here?”

  “I do, Lord Havgan.”

  “Then bring him in.”

  Sledda left the room. Havgan said, “Sigerric, I wish that you would leave me be to do the things I must do.”

  Sigerric smiled bitterly. “And that is something I will never do. As long as you demean yourself with unworthy deeds, so I will speak against it.”

  “So you will,” Havgan agreed equably. “And so I will continue.”

  “Never have any poor words of mine changed your course. Why should now be any different?