Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

“Why, indeed?”

  Sledda returned, followed by a small, lithe man, dressed in a worn tunic and trousers of nondescript brown. The man had sandy hair, pale green eyes, and small, sharp features. His face was tight, his hands clasped into fists, his shoulders tense.

  “You will bow to Lord Havgan, Bard,” Sledda commanded.

  The man hesitated, then bowed slightly.

  “What is your name?” Havgan asked.

  “I am called Jonas, Warleader,” he said softly. “Jonas ap Morgan.”

  “And you are a Bard.”

  “I am. Before the war I was the Bard to Diadwa ur Tryffin, Gwarda of Creuddyn, in Gwynedd. Lady Diadwa was killed in the Third Battle of Tegeingl.”

  “You were in the battles of Tegeingl? Surely, then, you know where Queen Morrigan and her mother, Ygraine, and the rest of her people fled.”

  “Most unfortunately, Lord, I do not. Before the battles began, the Master Bard called me back to meet with him at Neuadd Gorsedd.”

  “And then, I suppose, he took you to their hiding place?”

  “No, my Lord. He sent me to Rheged, to act as another link in the great chain he and the Ardewin were creating throughout Kymru.”

  “Then you know where the Master Bard and the Ardewin have gone. You know the final destination of your messages.”

  “Again, I must say no.”

  “You are lying.”

  “Lying,” the man said flatly. His fists clenched tighter, his knuckles white. “Lying. Don’t you think I would tell you all I knew to free my wife, my baby? I will do anything to have them freed! Anything. If I knew, I would tell you!”

  “Then I fail to see, Sledda, what use this man is to us, if he knows nothing,” Sigerric taunted.

  “Few of the Bards or Dewin know the location of the headquarters of the Master Bard and the Ardewin,” Sledda explained smoothly. “The Bards relay spoken messages, mind to mind. The Dewin relay the ‘pictures’ of what they have seen one to another. Each person knows only one link in that chain.”

  “Then the chain must be pursued! Capture the next Bard that Jonas knows of, and follow!” Cathbad said, his mad eyes gleaming.

  “And that is what we must not do, Archdruid,” Sledda said shortly. “The next Bard may not be so—ah, amenable—to sharing information with us. The Kymri might be alerted. I have a better plan. Explain, Jonas.”

  Jonas took a deep breath, his face pale and set. “No one but me knows that my wife and daughter are prisoners. I will send a message up the chain to Anieron that they were killed, and beg him to reassign me to another post where their memory will not haunt me. He will call me to him, and then I will know where he hides.”

  “Why should he call you to him?” Eadwig asked. “He could very well simply tell you where you must go next, without seeing you.”

  Suddenly, Aergol spoke. “Anieron will call Jonas to him because he will be concerned for the Bard’s state of mind. He will wish to see for himself that Jonas will recover from the supposed death of his family. And so Anieron’s compassion will be his undoing. Isn’t that so, Jonas?”

  Jonas, unable to meet Aergol’s dark eyes, stared at the floor, nodding slowly. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Very well,” Havgan said crisply. “Anieron calls Jonas to him. What then?”

  “Then,” Sledda went on, “he will receive his assignment. He will beg to be sent back to Gwynedd, to Rhos, which borders on Eyri, to a place where, for a time, he was happy. We believe that Anieron will send him to the place where Queen Morrigan and her people hide, which we know to be in Eyri. After he leaves Anieron, Jonas will contact us, leaving a message at a prearranged place, which will tell us where the Master Bard is hiding.”

  “A shade risky, don’t you think?” Sigerric pointed out. “Jonas may very well not contact you at all. Wouldn’t it be better to follow him to the hidden headquarters?”

  “Better, but inadvisable, as you yourself pointed out not long ago,” Sledda replied. “We must not give ourselves away too soon. We want Jonas to be well on his way to Morrigan’s camp before we move in on the Master Bard and the Ardewin. And you seem to forget that Jonas has a powerful reason to tell us what we want to know. His wife and daughter, remember.”

  Sigerric stirred uneasily in his chair, but said nothing. At this Jonas raised his head. “I need your promise, General Sigerric, that when this is done, my wife and daughter will be restored to me.”

  “My promise?” Sigerric asked in surprise. “Why mine?”

  “It is known throughout Kymru that you are a warrior of honor. So I must have your word.”

  “Lord Havgan’s word would, I think, be—”

  “No,” Jonas said firmly. “Your word.”

  Havgan waited calmly. The rest might be—and were—tense and uncertain, but Havgan knew what Sigerric would do.

  Slowly, Sigerric said, “I promise that, when your task is done, you will be with your wife and daughter.”

  Jonas bowed his head, and Sledda led him from the room, handing the Bard over to the guards at the door. Sledda returned to his seat, saying, “Well, Sigerric, I suppose I must thank you for that.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Sigerric said harshly.

  “Sigerric,” Havgan began, “my friend—”

  Suddenly, shockingly, Sigerric laughed. It was a bitter, dark sound.

  “Sigerric!” Havgan cried, gripping his friend’s arm, capturing Sigerric’s dark eyes with his own hawklike gaze. Slowly, Sigerric’s laughter tapered off.

  “Perhaps,” Eadwig said hesitantly, “it would be best if the General got some rest.”

  “Rest?” Sigerric asked softly. “Rest? Oh, no, I wouldn’t miss a moment of this. I must see every step my Lord takes into the arms of Sceadu, the Great Shadow. I’ve been watching since the beginning. Longer than any of you. Why stop now?”

  Havgan’s face darkened alarmingly, and his eyes flashed fire. But before he could speak, Eadwig said passionately, “Lord Sigerric, we do what we must do for the glory of the One God! Better for some to die than for all the Kymri to lose their souls. Lytir commands the death of the witches. Did he not speak so to Lord Havgan long ago?”

  “Something did,” Sigerric muttered. He laughed again, weaker this time. “Never mind about me. Let’s hear the end of our plots to bring the Y Dawnus down.”

  “Lord Havgan,” Sledda broke in. “I respectfully request that General Sigerric retire. Or do you think such a man—a man who laughs at you, who seeks to thwart Holy Lytir’s will—can be trusted?”

  Without even bothering to look at Sledda, without even taking his eyes from Sigerric’s tormented face, Havgan replied softly, “You will never again, wyrce-jaga, suggest to me that Sigerric cannot be trusted. Unless, of course, you wish to lose your other eye. General Sigerric stays.”

  Once again, the men were silent, waiting for Havgan’s commands. At last, Havgan turned to Cathbad. “Archdruid, it is time to hear from you. The bag at your feet means, I trust, that you have been successful in your task?”

  “It does, Lord Havgan,” Cathbad replied proudly, a smile in his mad eyes. “I have, at last, rediscovered the ancient way used to control Y Dawnus. It is a way found long ago, in Lyonesse, the land that sank beneath the sea.”

  Aergol raised one brow—a look that, for him, spoke volumes.

  “You are surprised, Aergol?” Havgan asked.

  “I have not confided my experiments to my heir before this moment. What I have to show you will, indeed, be a surprise to all,” Cathbad said.

  With that, he opened the leather bag. Reaching in, he carefully pulled out a collar of dull gray hue, holding it with the very tips of his fingers. “This,” he said proudly, “is what I have made. And with this, you shall have ultimate power.”

  Slowly he turned the collar over. Tiny spikes protruded from the inside. Delicately, he held it for all to see.

  “What’s it made of? How does it work?” Sledda asked eagerly.

  “It’s made of lead. W
hite lead, and quite common. Easily mined. You see these tiny spikes? When a Dewin or Bard is collared, these needles plunge into his or her neck. The victim begins to suffer the effects of lead poisoning. Headaches, nausea, the inability to focus attention. And, eventually, an unpleasant lingering death.”

  “Yes, yes, but how does that affect their magic?”

  “It’s a bit difficult to explain,” Cathbad said, arrogance in every word. “Druids are scientists, you know, and a layman may find it hard to understand—”

  “Try,” Havgan said between gritted teeth.

  “Well, you see, the brain must maintain a proper balance of fluids of a sort in order to work properly. The brain of a Dewin, or a Bard—”

  “Or a Druid,” Havgan said smoothly.

  “Oh, yes. Or of a Druid, must maintain the proper balance of a particular type of fluid, or the ability is lost. These spikes gouge heavily into a portion of the brain, centered here at the back of the neck, which controls that balance. And, instantly, the talent is lost. A Bard can no longer speak mind to mind. His ‘voice’ goes no farther than his own head. A Dewin can no longer Wind-Ride or Life-Read. Indeed, they cannot see anything outside the normal range of human vision.”

  “And a Druid cannot Shape-Move or Fire-Weave,” Havgan finished. “And all these abilities will cease the moment the collar is clasped on?”

  “They will,” Cathbad said in a lofty tone.

  “And how many of these collars have you made?”

  “Oh, no more than this one, so far. It has taken some time to rediscover how to make them, for their secret was lost a few hundred years ago. There are, indeed, only a very few of these collars in existence.”

  “Then this is what we will do. We will gather all the Master Smiths—and their families, too, just to keep them working hard. We will convey them to a place easily guarded. And they will turn out these collars by the cartload. Where, Sledda, would you suggest these Smiths do their work?”

  “Caer Siddi,” Sledda said promptly. “The little island off the coast of Prydyn. No one lives there, and it is easily defensible. Is such a place likely to have the lead you need, Archdruid?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Caer Siddi would be the perfect place,” Cathbad said, anxious to please.

  “Now,” Havgan continued, “that we have—at last—found a way to control the witches, we must have a foolproof way to identify them. And for that, we must get our hands on one of their testing devices—those things that the Kymri use to discover magical abilities in their children.”

  Both Sledda and Sigerric opened their mouths to speak, but Havgan cut them off with an imperious gesture. “No, do not bother to tell me that you have tried. This time there will be no failure. The four Bards who served the former rulers of Kymru must and will be found, for they alone have these devices in their possession. Cathbad, you will call on your Druids to help in this search. Many of these surely know these four Bards by sight. And, as you have explained to me, this is the month when the Bards traditionally begin their travels around each kingdom for what the Kymri call the Plentyn Prawf, the Child Test, where they use these devices to identify young Y Dawnus. The Bards will be on the roads soon.”

  “But might they not discontinue this practice at such a time?” Eadwig asked. “It is far too dangerous for them to travel. Suppose they do not go on the road? What then?”

  “Aergol?” Havgan asked coolly, already sure of the answer to that question.

  “They will not put away a tradition that is so important to them. For hundreds of years the children of Kymru have undergone the Plentyn Prawf. The Bards will go.”

  “As I thought. And these are whom we seek.” One by one, Havgan ticked the names off on his fingers. “Talhearn, who was Bard to Queen Olwen in Ederynion; Esyllt, who was Bard to King Urien in Rheged; Cian, Bard to King Rhoram in Prydyn; Susanna, who was the Bard to King Uthyr in Gwynedd. These four will be found, make no mistake. And, Sledda, I want that Dreamer. Gwydion and Rhiannon also take to the road now. They, too, must and will be found.”

  “But how do you know this, Lord? The Dreamer has been hiding for two years. How do you know he will come out now?”

  “Because,” Havgan said, “it is time.”

  CATHBAD HURRIED DOWN the steps of Eiodel to the horses. As he and Aergol mounted their horses, the Archdruid gazed north to Cadair Idris. His gaze was no less predatory than Havgan’s as he, too, studied the closed doors to the mountain.

  “The hunt for the Treasures begins, Aergol,” Cathbad said. “Is that not what Havgan has dreamed? Gwydion ap Awst will find them, you can be sure of that. And, when he does, Lord Havgan will take them. Soon Havgan will return to the mountain with the Treasures in his hands. And Drwys Idris will open to him. And you and I will be beside him when he enters Cadair Idris and walks the halls as no one has done for hundreds of years.”

  Aergol did not answer.

  “And the collars! Oh, these collars will give us the power that I have dreamed of. With these collars around their necks, the Dewin and the Bards—and the Dreamer—will be nothing! The Druids will be supreme, as we once were.”

  Again, Aergol did not answer.

  “You are, my heir, angry that I did not confide the nature of my experiments to you? Is that why you are silent?”

  The cold wind whipped the grasses of the plain, nipping at the Druids’ robes, moaning in their ears, making Cathbad shiver involuntarily as they rode by the mountain.

  At last Aergol spoke. “Archdruid, you are a fool.”

  “A fool! How dare you speak to me that way! A fool because I have found the way to make the Druids masters once again, as we were long ago in Lyonesse? For this you call me a fool?”

  “No, not for that.”

  “For what, then?”

  Aergol reached out and grasped the reins of Cathbad’s horse, forcing the animal to a stop. He turned in his saddle, facing Cathbad, his dark eyes filled with contempt. “How long do you think it will be, Archdruid, before they clasp a collar around your own neck?”

  “They wouldn’t—”

  “They would.”

  “I am the Archdruid of Kymru!”

  “No. You are a fool. And so am I.”

  Coed Addien and Llwynarth

  Chapter 2

  Kingdom of Rheged,

  Kymru Bedwen Mis, 499

  Llundydd, Lleihau Wythnos—afternoon

  Owein ap Urien, eldest living son of the murdered King and Queen of Rheged, gazed upon the dead Coranian warriors lying in the tall grasses by the side of the road. Plumes of smoke rose from the burning wagons to stain the clean, blue sky. The heat of the fire shimmered before his sunken, shadowed eyes, and sweat bathed his lean, tanned face. Still, he did not move. He wanted to savor the sight of the dead.

  They must leave soon. The smoke could be seen from many leagues away. Already that false king, Morcant Whledig, and his Coranian watchdog, General Baldred, would know that Owein and his people had struck again.

  Owein nodded at Trystan, and his Captain whistled piercingly, like the cry of a hawk in flight. The men and women of Owein’s teulu melted back into the forest, moving silently for all that they were heavily laden with the spoils they had won. Foodstuffs, cloth, wine and ale, rich jewelry, and golden vessels—tributes that had been bound for Llwynarth and Morcant Whledig’s greedy hands.

  But Owein still stood, savoring the burning, savoring the knowledge that he had taken back some of what Morcant had stolen. One day he would take back far more than this. He would wrench it all from Morcant. He would gut the man like a pig and bathe in the blood.

  He would do this. He had sworn it to himself when he had learned of the death of his brother. He had sworn it when he had listened to the death song for his parents, a song that had emptied his soul, leaving him to fill it with lust for the blood of his enemies. With each Coranian who died from his arrows, or with his dagger in their guts, his heaviness, his sorrow, his grief lessened.

  While his hate g
rew.

  Yet, no matter how much killing he did, no matter how much blood flowed from the enemy to soak the ground of Rheged, it was not enough to blot out the picture he carried in his mind’s eye. Not enough to blot out his mother’s face as General Baldred’s ax had crashed down upon her. Not enough to blot out his father’s cry as he had leapt to deflect the killing blade, and died with Morcant’s dagger through his heart. Not enough to blot out the way his father’s hand had reached out and clasped the hand of his dying Queen in their last moments of life.

  He had not seen these things himself, for he had not been in Llwynarth during that last, terrible battle. He had not been there because his mother had tricked him, sending him away in the company of Trystan. But Teleri, his Lieutenant, had been there and seen it all, and she repeated the story to him as often as he asked her to. And he asked often. For it was his hate that kept him strong.

  As often as he commanded that story, he commanded to hear another—the story of the night his older brother, Elphin, had died in a midnight raid on Morcant’s camp. It was a story he forced himself to hear, for he had both loved and envied his brother, the one passion just as strong as the other. Owein had loved Elphin for his strength, his kindness, his generous heart, and his laughter. And he had envied his brother for Elphin’s birthright. For Elphin would have been, should have been, King of Rheged. He would have, should have, married Princess Sanon of Prydyn, and begotten fine children with the woman whom Owein himself had loved from the first moment he had seen her.

  Not that such a thing would ever matter to her. For Sanon’s heart had been given to Elphin forever. A truth Owein had learned, to his grief, not so long ago.

  Only three months ago he and his sister, Enid, had journeyed secretly to Prydyn, to the caves of Ogaf Greu, and met with the fugitive King Rhoram and his band of Cerddorian. There, Owein had offered for the hand of Sanon, Rhoram’s daughter, and had been refused publicly by the woman herself. She had declared, in front of everyone, that her heart was dead with her betrothed, and she would never love another.

  Even now, as he looked upon the dead, the memory of that moment still filled him with shame. Sanon’s burning dark eyes and her golden hair flamed in his heart. For he saw then, or thought he saw, that Sanon knew of the envy he had felt for his brother. Knew it, and despised him for it.