Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

Within the dark forest

  In the land of honey

  The hill of oak stands.

  Within the storm lies the blaze

  Opals and gold gleaming.

  The Knowledgable One went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Erias.”

  “Caer Erias—the King’s fortress in Rheged,” Rhiannon mused. “Rheged, the land of honey—the land that belongs to Mabon of the Sun. So this must be about the Spear—Erias Yr Gwydd—Blaze of Knowledge.”

  “‘Within the dark forest,’“ Anieron quoted. “Which one?”

  Gwydion shrugged. “No idea—yet.”

  “And, ‘Fast was the trap of the woman in Caer Erias,’“ Anieron continued. “Poor Princess Enid is held there now. And doomed to marry Morcant.”

  “Don’t pity her too much,” Gwydion said with some asperity. “She has set us a hard task. She had the ring when she so foolishly went to Llwynarth with her pathetic plea to Bledri. And that’s the ring we must somehow retrieve, the opal given to the House of PenMarch.”

  “So, somehow we have to get the ring back from Morcant,” Rhiannon said.

  “Yes. Won’t that be fun?” Gwydion asked sourly.

  “Do you think we have come such a long way, you and I, to be turned back by such a little problem?” Rhiannon said flippantly. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. It’s really your job, isn’t it, Gwydion—oh, ‘Knowledgable One’?”

  “Somehow I knew you would think that was funny.”

  “Children, children,” Anieron said. “No squabbling. Dudod, next verse, please.”

  “Sorrowful was the exile of the King from Caer Tir.

  Down the cavern’s twilight road

  In the land of wine

  The maze of blood awaits.

  Within the center lies the circle

  A ridge about its edge and emeralds.

  The White One went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Tir.”

  “CAER TIR—RHORAM’S fortress in Prydyn. And Prydyn is the land of Modron the Great Mother. So this is about the Cauldron—Buarth Y Greu,” Rhiannon said.

  “The Circle of Blood,” Gwydion said. “And Prydyn is the land of wine. And the ring given to the House of PenBlaid is in Rhoram’s hands—’the exile of the King from Caer Tir.’”

  “‘A ‘maze of blood,’—I don’t much like the sound of that,” Rhiannon said.

  “But that won’t be your job,” Gwydion pointed out.

  “Who’s the White One?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I haven’t the advantage of your dreams, Gwydion.”

  “Gwenhwyfar. Your daughter.”

  “Gwen? But she hates me. She won’t go!”

  “She will,” Gwydion said firmly. “The four of us will go on this quest, and find these Treasures. ‘Except for four, none returned.’“

  “What four? You and I, and Gwen, and—who?”

  “Ah, for that we shall need to learn the next verse. Dudod?”

  “Many were the girl’s tears for the dead of Caer Gwynt.

  Down the dark path

  In the land of mountains

  The black stone looms.

  Beneath the seeker lies the guardian

  Sapphire of sky and silver of storm.

  The Great Bear went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Gwynt.”

  “CAER GWYNT, THE fortress in Tegeingl in the ‘land of mountains;—Gwynedd,” Anieron began.

  “Yes, Caer Gwynt, what was once Uthyr’s fortress.” Gwydion’s face was tight with pain, but his voice was controlled. “And he gave the sapphire ring of the House of PenHebog to his daughter, Morrigan, when he sent her away to safety before the invasion.”

  “‘Many were the girl’s tears’—poor Morrigan,” Rhiannon said softly.

  “And Gwynedd is the land of Taran of the Winds. And he is the god of the Sword. Meirig Yr Llech—Guardian of the Stone.”

  “‘Beneath the seeker lies the guardian’—another mystery.”

  “For the moment,” Gwydion said. “And the Great Bear—”

  “Is Arthur. Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine of Gwynedd,” Anieron said.

  For a moment everyone was silent. At last, Gwydion spoke. “So you knew. Both you and your brother.”

  “We knew,” Anieron said quietly. “We have known for many years that Arthur did not die as a child, and neither did Myrrdin die. We knew that they both live in Dinas Emrys, waiting in safe obscurity for the day to reclaim Kymru.”

  “And who else knows this?” Gwydion asked tightly.

  “Why, besides us, just those who were at Tegeingl the day you came to take him away—Ygraine, Susanna, Duach, and Cai.”

  “How did you know?” Gwydion asked.

  “We put together the pieces throughout the years. I do not think anyone else could have followed the trail you left.”

  “And you never said.”

  “We never said. It was so obvious, Gwydion, that you didn’t want us to know. It would have disappointed you so,” Anieron said genially, but his eyes gleamed.

  Gwydion shocked Rhiannon by actually grinning. “How kind of you.”

  “Arthur hates you,” Rhiannon said to Gwydion after a moment. “Almost as much as Gwen hates me. What fun this will be.”

  “No one said it would be easy,” Dudod quipped.

  “And speaking of easy, you must sing that song again and again until Gwydion and I have it by heart.”

  “And sing it now—all night, if necessary,” Gwydion said. “For tomorrow I leave to fetch Arthur from Dinas Emrys. And Rhiannon must get Gwen, in Haford Bryn.”

  “Gwen won’t want to come,” Rhiannon warned.

  “Neither will Arthur,” Gwydion said shortly. “But they will come with us all the same. We will meet in Sycharth five weeks from now. That should put us all there by the beginning of disglair wythnos in Gwernan Mis. Rhiannon, travel very carefully. Havgan and his men have your description.”

  “And yours, Gwydion. He wants you even more than he wants me.”

  “You always did have a way with people, Dreamer.” Dudod grinned.

  “Funny,” Gwydion said flatly. “Just sing the song, will you?”

  Anieron stood. “I must go and bid Jonas farewell.”

  “Jonas?” Rhiannon asked. “Oh, the Bard whom you’re sending to Morrigan in Gwynedd. The poor man whose wife and baby daughter were killed by the wyrce-jaga.”

  “Anieron,” Gwydion said suddenly. “There’s something about Jonas that bothers me.”

  “Something you dreamed?”

  “No. I only wish I had.”

  “Then what makes you think—”

  “Just a feeling. There’s something very wrong with him.”

  “His wife and child are dead. What do you think could be wrong with him?”

  “It’s more than that. I know it. You must keep a close eye on him. You must keep him here.”

  “I must? Gwydion, may I remind you that I am the Master Bard—and you are not. Jonas is my concern, not yours.”

  “I see,” Gwydion said stiffly. “Well, then, there’s nothing more to be said.”

  RHIANNON HELD THE bridle of her horse as she waited on the rough sands for Gwydion to finish taking leave of his daughter. Rhiannon had already said her good-byes to Anieron and Dudod. There were tears in Cariadas’s eyes, and even Gwydion’s cold gray eyes glittered as he gently held his daughter in his strong arms.

  At last, the farewells said, Anieron, Dudod and Cariadas waved one last time, then reentered the cave and were swallowed up by the shadows.

  “Well,” Rhiannon said as she turned to mount her horse. “Have a safe trip, Gwydion. I will see you in Sycharth.” The words were cold, but she didn’t know what else to say. She did not think he would appreciate any show of emotion.

  Gwydion’s arms went around her, and he lifted her onto the horse’s back, settling her in the saddle. But he did not draw away. He stood be
side the horse, not loosening the grip of his hands on her waist.

  “Take care, Rhiannon,” he said softly. “A safe journey to you.”

  “And a safe journey to you, Gwydion,” she said evenly, though she was startled at his nearness, and her heart seemed to be beating a little too fast.

  He seemed about to say something more, but then he released her abruptly and mounted his horse. Without another word, he rode north.

  Turning her horse to the west, Rhiannon rode away. She did not look back. And so she did not see that Gwydion halted, looking after her, until the curve of the earth shut her away from his sight.

  Chapter 10

  Allt Llwyd and Coed Coch

  Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru

  Eiddew Mis, 499

  Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—early morning

  Cariadas followed the Master Bard closely, her quill at the ready, poised over the parchment. She liked to be busy, to be thinking of something other than how much she missed her da, even though he had been gone for only one week.

  She sighed to herself. Would there ever come a time when he would not go away? Would there ever be a time again when she did not fear for his life? She remembered the days when she was a child at Caer Dathyl, when her da played with her, helped her to pick flowers, and showed her how to weave them into a necklace. He had laughed with her then, picking her up in his strong arms, holding her close and telling her story after story. But that was long ago, before she was sent to Gwytheryn to learn to use her gifts, before her da went to Corania. If the Warleader ever caught her da …

  Next to her, Sinend, silent as a ghost, waited for the Master Bard’s measured phrases. It was Cariadas’s task to note the news spoken on the wind that filtered through the minds of the Bards in the chain stretched across Kymru. But it was Sinend’s job to note down the phrases that might come to the Master Bard—snippets of songs, bits of poems, such as they occurred to him.

  “Cariadas,” Anieron spoke, “the Bard in Margam says that the temple to Lytir has risen again from the ashes of the old. Make a special note—I want Atlantas’s folk to burn it down no more than two days from now.”

  Then the Master Bard continued. “Sinend—pale emeralds flash fire in your eyes.” Sinend noted the phrase, another line in a song he was composing about Modron, the Great Mother. Modron, Anieron claimed, had been deserted by her children, the Druids, and needed special attention if Kymru was ever going to be fruitful again.

  Anieron paused in his walk down the beach, head tilted, listening. Some of the wind-speech filtered through to Cariadas.

  Master Bard, I have still heard nothing from our Bard in Maenor Deilo. The Dewin, too, passes on no information. And today there is no word from Peris.

  Cariadas frowned. The message from Cenrith, the Bard of Mabudryd, stationed no more than five leagues to the west, troubled her. This was the third day in a row there had been no word from the northeast cantref in Rheged. And now there was no word from Peris. What could be happening? She knew that Anieron was as troubled as she, but his mind-voice was cool and calm.

  Very well, Cenrith. I have noted it. Tell—

  Oh, gods! Anieron! They’re here! The Coranians slipped by me in the night. Oh, gods, they know where you are!

  Cenrith! Where are they?

  Run, Anieron. Run—

  The message was cut off abruptly, in a way that made Cariadas shiver.

  Dudod! Elidyr! Elstar! They are coming! We evacuate the caves, now!

  Even as Anieron sent this thought, he was running back to the caves, his silver hair streaming behind him, hurrying to get his people out before their death came for them.

  Sinend, not hearing any of what had passed, stared after Anieron, stricken. “Come on!” Cariadas screamed, grabbing Sinend’s cold hands, forcing her to run.

  As they ran, Sinend panted, “Cariadas, what is it? What’s happening?”

  “The Coranians. Less than five leagues away! They got Cenrith.”

  “But how? How could they sneak up on us like this?”

  “Traveling at night, hiding in forests, going in small groups. There aren’t enough of us to watch everything. And the Coranians are coming here! They know where we are!”

  “How could they know?” Sinend cried, her face blanched and shocked. “Who could have told them?”

  “I don’t know,” Cariadas said. More to herself than to her friend, she continued, “But when I find out, I’ll kill him.”

  THEY BURST INTO the cave, momentarily blinded by the shadows. Scurrying forms, the sound of booted feet slapping the rocks, the smell of fear assaulted their senses. A hand shot out from the darkness, grasping Cariadas’s arm in a vise grip.

  “Cariadas! Sinend! Come on. You two are in our group.”

  She turned to face Llywelyn, Elstar and Elidyr’s eighteen-year-old son. “Who goes with us?” she asked.

  “Anieron, and Dudod. My da and mam. And Cynfar. Come on.”

  She and Sinend followed Llywelyn down the dark tunnels filled with hurrying people. Many carried armfuls of books and scrolls. Some carried packs of food and water. They burst into Anieron’s chambers. Cynfar, Llywelyn’s younger brother, was bundling Anieron’s cloak of feathers into a woolen sack.

  “We can’t take that!” Llywelyn cried. “We’re taking too much as it is!”

  Cynfar, his usually sunny sixteen-year-old face now set in stubborn lines, continued to stuff the cloak into the sack. “We will take it,” the boy said fiercely. “It’s granda’s. One day it will be da’s, and one day it will be mine.”

  Llywelyn opened his mouth to argue, but Cariadas understood. “Here, then, Cynfar, put this in, too.” She snatched up the golden branch with its tinkling bells. The bells shifted, ringing with jeweled undertones in the stone chamber.

  “You fool!” Llywelyn cried, snatching at the branch but missing it. “The sound will give us away!”

  “Not if we wrap it up tightly,” Cariadas said grimly, bundling the branch into the sack and tying it shut. “There, Cynfar. Now, hoist it up and try it.”

  Cynfar lifted the sack, wrapping the ties around his shoulders. He purposely shifted it, and it did not make a noise.

  “See?” Cariadas said. Llywelyn was always so bossy, always thought he knew best, always looking at her as though she would never measure up to anyone’s expectations.

  The Ardewin hurried into the chamber. Her light brown hair was unbraided, cascading down her back. Her face was calm, but her hands were clenched tightly on the scrolls she carried.

  “Mam!” Llywelyn exclaimed. “Cynfar here is trying to take the cloak and the branch. It is too much! We’ll be caught before we move one step.”

  “Better they should be destroyed, perhaps, than to fall into the Coranians’ hands,” Elstar said as she bundled the scrolls into another sack. “Here, Cynfar, give them to me.”

  “No, mam,” Cynfar said stubbornly.

  “Cynfar,” Elstar began, straightening up, her hands on her hips. “Leave them be.”

  “Let him try, cariad,” her husband said as he entered the chamber. Elidyr’s voice was mild, as it always was, but his wife and oldest son did not argue. Elstar said nothing, only looked away and continued her work. Llywelyn muttered that it was foolish—but he was not speaking loud enough for any but Cariadas to hear.

  Elidyr picked up a sack and motioned for Cariadas to turn around. He tied the sack to her back. The weight was light, easy for her to handle. They would save the books, the scrolls, the poems, and the histories of her people. Save them for a time when Kymru belonged to them again. Then they would sing these songs, chant these poems, tell these stories under the light of the sun, the breeze playing around them as they stood on green earth, with water sparkling and playing at their feet.

  “Here, Llywelyn,” Elidyr said, “take some of the food.” Elidyr tied the sack to his son’s back, then briefly ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, boyo. Anieron, your mother and I have planned many, many nights for just such a h
appening. Already small groups are slipping out of Allt Llwyd, carrying our treasures, guarding our children. We make for Coed Coch, and there we will begin again.”

  Anieron entered, followed by Dudod. “Is everyone ready?” he asked gravely.

  “Anieron,” Cariadas said, her voice hushed and small. “Do you think—do you think my da made it out in time? And Rhiannon?”

  “They left over a week ago, child. I am sure they are well.”

  “But Rhiannon went west.”

  “Rhiannon will be fine,” Elstar said sharply, her eyes cutting to her husband, then darting away again. “She is one who can take care of herself.”

  “Her journey would not take her near Maenor Deilo,” Anieron said smoothly, as though Elstar had not spoken, “nor near Gwytheryn—from where these Coranians surely came. And your da has gone through Ederynion, to cut across to Gwynedd. No, they are both far from harm, child.”

  “Which is more,” Elstar said, her blue eyes flashing, “than I can say for us. Are we to go now?”

  “Yes, daughter,” Anieron said quietly. “Now we go. All the others are already on their way.”

  “And the enemy is at the cave mouth now,” Elstar said, her head cocked to one side. “I see them in my mind’s eye.”

  “Then we go,” Dudod said, stuffing his harp into a half-empty sack, then swinging the burden onto his back. “Come.”

  THEY WALKED THE tunnels silently, their footfalls making no sound. From far off they heard the rumor of death—harsh voices, the faintest wisp of smoke. The warriors had found the library. Some books had been left behind, and now they were burning.

  Elstar’s mind-voice spoke. I see them. They have surrounded the caves. They have captured so many of us. They knew the ways out!

  How many have gotten through?

  No more than five groups—maybe fifty of us, all told. But there are hundreds already in enemy hands. The Coranians are forcing the captives to drink something—hawthorn, I think—to make them sleepy, useless. They will never be able to rescue themselves! And there are not enough free ones to rescue them.

  Look ahead, my girl. What about our exit? Guarded?

  I see no one here. But that does not mean—

  I know.

  Cariadas shivered. They slowed as a dim light winked at the end of the tunnel. Silent as ghosts, they crept nearer and nearer.