Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  Jonas glanced up quickly, his pale eyes gleaming, then swiftly looked down.

  “They have need of you there,” Anieron went on. “Will you go?”

  It would be some time before Anieron fully understood why the smile Jonas had given then had been so bitter.

  Addiendydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—midmorning

  DUDOD AP CYVARNION was only slightly disconcerted. A man less used to getting out of tight spots might well have been horrified. But Dudod was not such a man. He recognized, of course, that this might be the end of a long and satisfying life, for he knew very well that he could not afford to be taken alive.

  Up to this moment, his trip had been relatively uneventful. He had spent many days in Llwynarth, trying to discover the Coranians’ plan for poor Princess Enid. But he had not been able to find out, and had at last given up. In a lifetime of trusting his feelings, he simply knew that he could not afford to stay in Llwynarth one more day.

  The day before he left Llwynarth, he had seen Sabrina, King Morcant’s Druid, in the company of Bledri. They had come to the marketplace on an errand that Dudod had not been able to determine, due to the fact that he had melted away as quickly as possible. Yet he was sure that before he could do so, Sabrina had seen and recognized him. The interesting thing was that as soon as his eyes had met hers, she had turned away, gabbling at Bledri to see the jeweled comb she wanted, distracting the Dewin from looking over in Dudod’s direction.

  He had shadowed the couple for as long as he had dared, hoping for a chance to talk to her. She of all people would surely know what the plans for Enid were. But there had been no opportunity to talk. After the marketplace, they had gone straight to the temple of Lytir, which stood in what was once the sacred grove of Mabon, Lord of the Sun.

  He didn’t think he would ever forget the expression on her face when she emerged from the temple after having assisted the preosts in the worship services. She had returned to Caer Erias and ridden out of the gates of Llwynarth a few hours later. She was unaccompanied and clearly expected—the Coranian guards at the gate let her pass without comment.

  Whatever her errand, Dudod had not liked the look on her face. His attempts to find out where she was going had been useless. So he had left Llwynarth soon after and traveled east, as far as Peris, the last city on the way to Allt Llwyd. Invoking the law of hospitality, he had gone to one of the houses in the city and simply knocked on the door.

  They had let him in, fed him, and sheltered him for the night. He had not been asked his name, nor had he given it, but just after dinner the master of the house had silently handed Dudod a harp. And Dudod had taken it and begun to play. He would never forget the bright smile of the little girl who had sat at his feet, listening with all her might to the music he made. Nor would he forget the face of the lady of the house, the mix of joy and fear that passed across her face like sunshine and shadow.

  If only he could get word to Anieron! His brother must know what Dudod had just now discovered, here on this road outside of Peris. But Dudod was too far away to Wind-Speak to Allt Llwyd. Only another five leagues or so, and he would be close enough. If he could escape this trap just long enough to send a message, the Coranians could find his corpse for all he cared. For what he had seen here was part of the answer to the questions that had troubled them all since the meeting in Eiodel.

  Patiently, as though he had nothing particular on his mind, he waited with the rest of the eastbound travelers for his turn to be questioned. No doubt the pack on his horse would be opened and examined, but that was no problem. He was posing as a peddler, and the pack contained nothing that should not be there. He wore a simple tunic and trousers of brown leather; his green cloak was threadbare and clasped at the neck with a plain bronze brooch. His tanned skin was stretched tightly over his high cheekbones. He did not wear a cap, for he was vain of his sun-streaked brown hair, which was just now beginning to gray (the fact that Anieron’s hair was almost completely silver gave him much satisfaction). His green eyes were sharp and clever, but that was in character for a peddler who must make a living. All was as it should be and he could get through this—unless, as he suspected, they knew who they were looking for.

  Apparently he had been seen in the marketplace after all.

  Well, just in case he got out of this one, he used the time to examine as closely as he dared the collar that the black-robed wyrce-jaga held.

  He had recognized its purpose the moment he saw it. It was an enaid-dal, a soulcatcher, and the sight of it made his blood run cold, as nothing else had ever done. As a Bard he knew there had been times in the history of Lyonesse when it had been necessary to subdue a recalcitrant Y Dawnus. But the collars made to do that were few, and very old. But this one was recently made. This was the reason for Cathbad’s smile after the meeting in Eiodel. This was the reason for the disappearance of the Master Smiths and their families.

  A distraction was all Dudod needed. Carefully, he began a soft call, Far-Sensing to determine what animals might be within reach of his telepathic communication. The forests nearby were sparse and the wolves few there. Not good enough. Horses would do, but Coranians did not ride them often, and he would need quite a few. There was the horse he was riding, of course, but he would need the animal to get away.

  Far-Sensing as hard as he could, he did not notice at first that the travelers behind him were moving up quietly ahead of him, crowding him out of his place in line, screening him from the sight of the wyrce-jaga and the guards. A slight jostle on his elbow as one man moved ahead of him dropped him out of his light trance. The man, a farmer by the look of his strong arms and leathery face, said nothing, but looked at him sharply for a brief moment before turning away and planting his body squarely in front of Dudod.

  Dudod looked around to see that he was now the last man in the line. A brief respite, but one that might make all the difference. Silently he blessed these travelers in the name of Taran of the Winds. Then he Far-Sensed again.

  Ah, at last. A flock of ravens heading this way in response to his call. How very appropriate, he thought, almost grinning. How absolutely perfect.

  He moved forward a few steps. There were only three men ahead of him on the road now. The women had been barely questioned and were now standing to one side, waiting for their menfolk, talking quietly among themselves. The man who had jostled Dudod was now being questioned.

  “Name?” the wyrce-jaga asked officiously.

  “None of your business,” the farmer replied in a belligerent tone.

  The wyrce-jaga, apparently not used to such answers, gaped at the farmer for a moment. The men and women who had been questioned already but who, for some reason, had not yet departed, moved forward slightly, once again crowding Dudod out of the sight of the warriors.

  “You will tell me your name or you will die,” the wyrce-jaga threatened, recovering from his surprise. The black-robed man had meant for his voice to sound menacing, but it shook slightly. The three Coranian warriors were standing alert and ready, but the grins on their faces showed what they thought of the wyrce-jaga.

  “You tell me why you want to know, and I’ll tell you my name,” the farmer replied, his bluff, good-natured face now set in a scowl. “Fair is fair.”

  Once again, the people watching moved in even closer. One woman put her hand inside the covered basket she carried. Dudod thought he saw the gleam of metal there. Time was running out—he didn’t want these people to pay for his escape with their lives.

  At last they came. To the north the sky darkened just behind the guards. Then the flock of ravens dropped out of the air and began to feed. The screams of the guards and the wyrce-jaga echoed across the plain, the raucous caws of the birds mingling in a strange, horrifying harmony. The other travelers grimly stood their ground, watching the birds as they covered the Coranian bodies, ready and waiting to ensure that the work was done properly.

  “Hurry, man,” the farmer called. “Who knows how many other Coranians might be in the
area! Ride!”

  Dudod grasped the reins of his horse. “My thanks to you all,” Dudod said. “Oh, wait, I almost forgot.” At a silent word from him, the birds parted from the screaming wyrce-jaga just long enough for Dudod to wrench the collar from what was left of the man’s hands. Then the birds closed in again, continuing their dreadful feeding.

  With distaste, Dudod stowed the object in his pack. “The blessings of Taran of the Winds on you all. And a good Alban Awyr!” Dudod called as he mounted his horse and shot away to the east, riding like the wind.

  As ANIERON PASSED the cavern where the daily lessons for the young Dewin and Bards were taking place, he paused a moment to listen, hovering in the shadows. If the children realized he was there, they might be nervous.

  One group of hopeful Bards sat nearest the cave mouth in a ring, reciting the Triads at the prompting of their teacher. “What are the three birthrights of every Kymri?” the teacher asked.

  Answering in unison, the children replied, “The right to go where he pleases, the right to protection by his ruler, the right of equal privileges and equal restrictions.”

  Anieron smiled. Some of the younger ones had trouble with the words privileges and restrictions.

  “For three things a Kymri is pronounced a traitor and forfeits his rights. What are these three things?”

  “Leaving Kymru, aiding the enemy, surrendering himself and living under the enemy.” At this one of the boys raised his hand.

  “Yes, Olan?” the teacher prompted.

  “How can that be? We are all living under the enemy. Are we all traitors?”

  “We do not live under the enemy, Olan. We wait.”

  “Ah,” the boy said, and subsided, satisfied.

  Anieron turned his attention to another group nearby who were learning the history of the Kymru. “And these were the Great Ones of the fifth generation,” the teacher said. “Bran the Dreamer, Taliesin the Master Bard, Mannawyddan the Ardewin, and Arywen the Archdruid. And these four served High King Lleu Lawrient. When Lleu was killed at the hands of his wife and her lover, these Great Ones hid the Four Treasures at the direction of Bran, saying that, when the need was greatest, they would again be found.”

  Well, the gods knew that the need was greatest now. He could only hope with all his heart that Gwydion ap Awst knew what he was doing.

  Over in the far corner, a group of children were sitting upright in a light trance state, their short legs extended and their tiny hands resting on their thighs, as the teacher recited softly. “And now the crown of your head is filled with light. You are a vessel of light, lifted by the Wind of Taran. You are weightless, floating in the air. Now, Wind-Speak to me. Tell me your names.”

  With a bell-like rush, Anieron heard their names ringing in his mind. Tears came to his eyes as each child named themselves in wonder and awe, listening to the sound of their name reverberating from mind to mind. Their bright laughter, their joy, sounded in his head. Clearly he remembered the day—oh, so long ago—when he had first Wind-Spoken his own name for the Bards to hear.

  He had used that gift in joy, in delight, all his life. These little ones would have the same chance he had, he swore to himself. One day they would not have to hide away in this cave. One day they would emerge into the sunlight and proudly Wind-Speak their names to all of Kymru. He would see to it.

  He would have liked to stay, but he had lingered long enough already. Elstar and Elidyr would be waiting for him. He slipped away, making his way to the meeting room. As he lifted the curtain that marked the entrance to the cave, he saw his daughter, Elstar, and his nephew, Elidyr, spring apart.

  “You don’t have to stop for me,” he said genially.

  “I didn’t see you coming,” Elstar said, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed.

  “Some Dewin you are. I grant you, however, that you were distracted.”

  “I’d certainly like to think so,” Elidyr replied with a grin.

  “You two are married, you know. No need to be coy.”

  “Elstar’s shy. Even after all these years and two children, she doesn’t want anyone to think she likes me.”

  “Elidyr, cariad, that’s not true!” Elstar protested. The twinkle in Elidyr’s light brown eyes stopped her. She lightly swatted his arm.

  “You see?” Elidyr asked. “You see how she treats me?”

  “As your own father would say, Elidyr, no doubt you deserved it.”

  “And speaking of my da,” Elidyr began.

  Anieron shook his head. “No word from Dudod yet. But I don’t think that’s cause for alarm. He was given orders to stay in Llwynarth for as long as it took.”

  “Yes, but you know that sometimes he cuts things a little too close. I’d just feel better if we heard from him, that’s all.”

  “I would, too, lad. But I learned a long time ago that it was futile to worry about Dudod. He’s fine, I’m sure. Now, down to business.”

  For the next few hours, they talked and planned. All the reports from yesterday were sorted and noted. When necessary, they marked the large map that hung on one rough wall with the latest dispositions of the Coranians, their tribute caravans, new temples to Lytir, and the movements of the wyrce-jaga. They planned the raids for the next week and composed messages to be passed from mind to mind to the Dewin and Bards who waited to pass on the orders to the Cerddorian.

  “So, still nothing about the Master Smiths,” Elstar said, frowning.

  “Not a word,” Elidyr replied, running a hand through his sandy blond hair.

  “Hmm,” Elstar said, absently scanning the map. “Well, we’ll just have to hope for more information. In the meantime, let’s think about how in the world we are going to get Owein to move his people out of Coed Addien. Now that the Coranians have Enid, it won’t be long before she talks.”

  “Owein will come to his senses soon, Elstar,” Anieron said. “I am sure of it.” He felt oddly distracted. Strangely tense. Something was coming. Something was badly wrong. He rubbed the back of his neck and briefly closed his eyes.

  “Da?” he heard Elstar say, as though from a great distance. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know. I—”

  The frantic message came crashing into his skull. Dudod did not, apparently, have time for subtleties. Brother! Hear me!

  Dudod! What is it? What’s happened?

  Listen to me. The Coranians have an enaid-dal.

  An enaid-dal. A soul-catcher. Oh, gods, no.

  Cathbad rediscovered how to make them.

  Dudod! That is why they have taken the Master Smiths.

  To make more of these things. Yes. But, Anieron, think of this. What good does it do them to have these collars unless they know whom to put them on? They need a way to determine who is of the Y Dawnus.

  They would need—

  A testing device. As many as they could find.

  And that is why Ellywen left Arberth, why Iago left Dinmael.

  Yes. And why Sabrina left Llwynarth a few days ago.

  They are looking for the Bards. They need the testing devices.

  Dudod, come back as quickly as you can. Cut off all communication with me unless you want your head to be blasted apart.

  Anieron, don’t try it! You—

  But it was too late. He cut off his brother, and, turning to Elstar and Elidyr, he ordered them to shield their minds, saying he would answer questions later. At the look in his eyes, they did not question him, but did as they were bid.

  Anieron gathered every bit of his considerable mind-strength. The message must go, and go now. With a silent prayer to Taran of the Winds, he crafted the Mind-Shout, the Shout that was used so rarely that few could do it. Books and scrolls had written that it could not be done. But it could. And he would prove it. Now.

  The Shout shot away from him clear and clean, riding the winds, making nothing of the hundreds of leagues between the Master Bard and his people. The four Bards, scattered throughout Kymru, heard the call as
though Anieron were right beside them.

  Esyllt, Talhearn, Susanna, Cian! Turn back now! The enemy comes!

  Chapter 7

  Kymru

  Bedwen Mis, 499

  Addiendydd, Tywyllu Wythnos

  Coed Addien, Kingdom of Rheged

  Tight-lipped and uncommunicative, Trystan trudged through the forest of Coed Addien. He had not wanted to come on the Plentyn Prawf, but Owein had insisted, and Trystan had obeyed.

  His eyes were on Esyllt’s slim back as she walked ahead of him. Unwillingly, he remembered all those times he had run his hands down that elegant spine, had kissed that lovely, long neck and those delicate white shoulders, had—

  He forced his thoughts away from those memories. He almost winced when he thought of how many years he had been Esyllt’s dupe. Eight years? Nine? How in the name of all the gods had she been able to fool him for that long? Stupid question, really. He knew the answer to that.

  She had been able to fool him because he had wanted her to.

  All those years, she had managed to keep him on a string, promising to divorce her husband. But she had never delivered on those promises. March had been captured at the last battle of Llwynarth and had not been seen since. If she was concerned over his fate, she concealed it well. In the past two years, no one had heard her so much as speak her husband’s name.

  Why only now, after all this time, had he realized the truth about her?

  Another question to which he knew the answer. For the last two years had been sheer torment to him, and Esyllt had not been willing, or perhaps had simply not been able, to comfort him. For the first time since he had known her, he had turned to her for help, for guidance out of his anguish. But she had not even tried to understand the nature of the wound that was slowly killing him—the wound he suffered because he had been the Captain of King Urien’s teulu, and his King had died. Yet Trystan had not.

  Grimly he hung on to the memory that sustained him these last two years—the memory of Arderydd, the eagle, whom he had seen in the forest the day he had determined to take his own life. The contempt in the eagle’s eyes—for there was no mistaking that—had stopped his blade that day. And the memory of it had stopped him many days since.