Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  Elstar paused for a brief Wind-Ride. No one I can see. Still, they might be hiding.

  Search, then. Do your best, daughter, Anieron’s mind-voice said.

  Nothing. But there are trees not far away. They could—oh, the sun flashes in the trees! They are there.

  This, then, is what we do. I go first and run north, drawing them off. When you see they’re after me, run south. As quickly as you can.

  Da, no! They want you most of all!

  And that is why they shall have me. If I get away, I will circle around to the south and meet up with you all.

  Dudod reached out and gripped Anieron’s arm. He shook his head. No, brother. Let me do it.

  No. Your task is to get the others to safety. Do you remember whom we have here? We have the Ardewin, the next Master Bard, and the four Great Ones of the next generation. Sinend, who will be Archdruid, and Cariadas, the Dreamer. Llywelyn, who will be the Ardewin, and Cynfar, the Master Bard. They must be protected at all costs. I am old. I have done much. Their chance has not yet come.

  Anieron—

  Dudod, I have decided. Let me go.

  Slowly, oh, so slowly, Dudod released his grip on his brother’s arm. Anieron straightened, shedding his pack. He reached out and cradled Elstar’s tear-streaked face in his hand, kissing his daughter one last time. He grasped Elidyr’s shoulders, pulling his son-in-law and nephew to him for a last embrace. He fixed his wise, green eyes on Sinend, on Cariadas, on Llywelyn, on Cynfar. “You four,” he said quietly, “will be the Great Ones of the High King, one day. I will not say his name, not even to you. But this will be so. Remember that. And be worthy of it.”

  At last, Anieron turned to his brother. He smiled crookedly. So I will go to Gwlad Yr Haf first, brother, and greet the dead. As always, I will be ahead of you.

  Dudod nodded his attempt at a smile, almost a grimace. Always you were first.

  And always I will be. And with that, Anieron slipped away.

  THEY WATCHED, WAITING for their chance, almost unable to see it when it came because of tear-blinded eyes. Anieron ran like the wind, like Taran’s Wind, away from the caves, away from the trees that hid such bitter fruit, down the sparkling sands.

  And the Coranians poured from the trees, haring after the Master Bard, shouting and laughing, knowing their prey was caught. Knowing, already, who and what he was.

  And as the enemy ran, intent on their quarry, a desperate band slipped from the caves, threaded their way through the rocks, and were gone, leaving their hearts behind.

  Gwaithdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—late afternoon

  “ALMOST THERE, CHILD. Almost there.”

  Cariadas lifted her head, more because of the gentleness in Dudod’s voice than because she understood his words. She followed his gaze to the smudge of emerald green, glimpsed in the distance over the low hills.

  Overhead, the sun had begun to sink toward that cool green, staining the sky. She thought of how it would feel to come out of these brown, dead hills, to walk under the shadowy silence of the distant forest. She thought of how it would feel to be safe and to walk without terror of what was hiding ahead or lurking behind.

  At last, after more than two weeks of running, of hiding; of traveling night after night under the light of the moon, and sleeping lightly by day; of grieving, over and over and over again for Anieron, lost to them now, maybe lost to them forever; their destination was in sight—Coed Coch, the westernmost forest in Rheged.

  And so few, so pitifully few of the Y Dawnus would make it to this place. Hundreds of Dewin and Bards—men, women, and little children just beginning to feel their powers—had been captured. And then, oh, and then, the enemy had marched them in long, chained lines across Rheged. Drugged, denied food, beaten mercilessly, the weak—the very young, the very old—fell to their knees. If they did not rise, they were murdered, speared and gutted, and left to rot on the blameless earth.

  Later, much later, after the ragged, starving Dewin and Bards lurched by, driven by the shouts and curses and blows of the enemy, the people of Kymru—denied the right to help those still alive—crept out to help the dead. Bodies, some so very, very small, were washed with care. Rents in tattered clothing were repaired, hair was combed and braided, blossoms of hawthorn and marigold tucked into dead hands. Fires were lit to consume and cleanse the bodies. Chants were offered to Taran, the god of the Bards, and to Nantsovelta, the goddess of the Dewin, songs to speed the dead on their way to Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer.

  Cariadas knew it all, for she had seen it on the Wind-Ride during those first few horrible days, until the distance had grown too great. She did not mind not being able to see any more. She had only watched because she knew she would need the memory in the years to come. She knew she would need it for those days when the weariness of the struggle would overwhelm her. She knew she would need the memory, the rage, and the grief to keep her strong.

  She trudged now behind Dudod, her head bowed, struggling to put one foot before the other. Since the new-moon phase, they had begun to travel late in the afternoon. The nights were too dark, now, for making good time. Today, knowing Coed Coch was at last so near, they had traveled since sunrise. Elstar, Llywelyn, and Cariadas took turns Wind-Riding, scouting ahead and behind for signs of the enemy. But there had been nothing.

  She walked slowly, daydreaming of how it would be in Coed Coch. They would find King Owein’s band of warriors. They would be taken to the camp deep in the forest. They would be warmed by the fire, be given hot food and warm blankets on which to sleep. They would hear the warriors of Owein sing gallant songs of victory, their proud heads lifted to the starry sky.

  More daydreams followed. Anieron had escaped—the Master Bard had always been so clever. He would already be there in Coed Coch, waiting to welcome them. And her da, who would have heard of the taking of Allt Llwyd, would come to Coed Coch, abandoning his plans, abandoning everything just to comfort her and keep her safe.

  “Stop.” Llywelyn’s voice, so stern, cut through her daydreams.

  “What did you see?” Dudod asked, for it had been Llywelyn’s turn to Wind-Ride.

  “A glint of something. Behind us.”

  “How far?”

  “Just over that last hill.”

  “Coed Coch is only a league away. Could it be Owein’s men?”

  “What would they wear to flash in the sun? I think it must be—”

  A shout behind them made Cariadas jump.

  “Elstar,” Dudod said hurriedly. “Ride.”

  Elstar, her pale face smudged with dirt, her brown hair tangled and dusty, gave a nod, then was off. She stood still, her eyes closed, supported by her husband and youngest son. Then her eyelids fluttered as she returned to herself.

  “A group of twenty warriors,” she said tightly, “just behind that last hill. They have seen us! And more are on either side of us!”

  Dudod, his eyes cutting to the hill behind them, then to the forest ahead of them, made a decision. “We run for it, then. There’s no cover here. Run as if the hounds of the Lord of Chaos himself are after you! Run!”

  He grabbed Cariadas and flung her forward, forcing her to lead. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Sinend following, then Cynfar. Elidyr grabbed his wife’s hand and ran. Llywelyn hesitated, waiting for Dudod. He shouted something, pointing behind them. The hill was crested with the boar’s-head helmets of the enemy. The warriors yelled gleefully and poured over the hill, laughing and shouting as they prepared to run their prey to the earth.

  And they would, she understood suddenly, for there was no cover here. And the warriors came on so fast. Worse, they came pouring down from the surrounding hills, too. There were over fifty of them, rushing toward her from either side, preparing to kill her and hers—eventually. When they were done having their fun. If she were lucky, they would kill her now.

  She ran, but the forest seemed no nearer than before. She risked another glance behind her. They were all there running with her, but the
warriors were gaining, gaining. They’d never make it. Never.

  Something flashed out of the corner of her eye, something whistled close to her ear, then flew past. Sinend, just behind her, stumbled. Cynfar grabbed for her, but missed. Sinend went down, clutching her arm where a bright red rose had blossomed. Blood poured from the wound. The spear that had grazed her buried itself in the earth, but Dudod leapt over it in the nick of time and kept to his feet. Llywelyn and Dudod picked Sinend up, hardly missing a beat, and dragged her along.

  The warriors shouted, laughing, cursing. More spears flew in the air, flashing in the bloodred light of the setting sun. Ahead of her, ten warriors waited to cut them off. They were surrounded. It was over. Over.

  She halted, unwilling to run to meet her death, meaning to make them come to her. That one small victory she would have. The others pressed around her, ringed by the grinning warriors.

  Her short life was over. She had never even had a dream.

  With a rush of wind, fire leapt up, crackling hungrily, as though sprung from the earth itself. The blue-tinged fire ringed the little band, rushing outward to hold off the ring of warriors.

  Druid’s Fire. How? Who?

  “Sinend?” she asked, her voice shaking. But Sinend, her head drooping, held up only by the strong arms of Llywelyn and Dudod, did not reply.

  “Not her, girl,” Dudod said, panting. “Not her. But whom?”

  Then men and women dressed in tunics of green and brown, arrows at the ready, knives gleaming, rose up from the surrounding hills. As one, arrows were loosened, cutting through the air, speeding into the backs of the Coranian warriors, shearing through the metal links of byrnies, sending the Coranians deathward.

  A man with a torque around his throat of opals and gold led the Kymric warriors in their race down the hill, his short sword gleaming in his sinewy brown hand. With a wild cry, he swung the blade, severing the head of a Coranian warrior who had survived the first volley. The Kymri poured down the hills, screaming defiance, butchering the enemy as the fire raged, still ringing the little band, keeping them safe from harm.

  CARIADAS SQUINTED, TRYING to see through the flames. At last the fire quieted, burned low, then was gone. Before them stood a woman with hair as black as a raven’s wing, her eyes the color of a summer sky.

  “Do not be afraid,” the woman said kindly. “You are safe now.”

  “Sabrina? Sabrina ur Dadweir?” Dudod asked.

  “Yes. And I know you, Dudod ap Cyvarnion.”

  “One thing I’ve been curious about,” Dudod said smoothly, as though they had all the time in the world to chat together. “That day in Llwynarth, when I was there to find out about Princess Enid, I saw you in the marketplace with Bledri. Did you see me?”

  “Of course, I did.” She smiled. “I must say, I was surprised. You used to be better than that.”

  Suddenly, Dudod laughed. “Try me, Sabrina. I’ll show you how good I still am.”

  “Dudod, for the gods’ sake,” a man said irritably, “act your age.” The man had dark brown hair, and his green eyes flashed with annoyance. He lightly laid his hand on Sabrina’s arm, then quickly removed his hand and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

  “Trystan,” Dudod said, nodding coolly. “Still no sense of humor, I see. Tell me, how is Esyllt?”

  Sabrina’s face tightened, and her eyes flickered. But she said nothing.

  “Esyllt is well,” Trystan said evenly.

  “A shame,” Dudod said, grinning at Sabrina.

  The man who had led the warriors down the hills strode up, the gold and opals of his torque flickering in the setting sun. His sword was bloody, and his face was fierce, harsh with the echoes of blood-lust momentarily stilled, lined with a pain that never slept.

  “Dudod,” the man said, bowing slightly. “You are all welcome in Coed Coch.”

  “You must not bow to me,” Dudod said. “It is I who should bow to you, King Owein.”

  “I am King of nothing, Dudod,” Owein said, his voice bitter. “However that may be, we are glad to see you alive. We were not sure of your fate. The chain of Y Dawnus is broken, and news is scanty, at best.”

  “Are there—are there any others who have made it here?” Cariadas asked, her voice small.

  Owein turned to her. “Some,” he said softly. “There are some. Not many.”

  “Know, then, who has come to you this day, King Owein,” Dudod said formally. “This is Cariadas ur Gwydion, the heir to the Dreamer. And the Ardewin, Elstar ur Anieron, and Elidyr, my son, Anieron’s heir. And here are Llywelyn and Cynfar, their sons. And this,” he said, taking Sinend tenderly into this arms from Llywelyn and Cynfar’s hold, “is Sinend ur Aergol, heir to the Archdruid’s heir. And she is hurt.”

  “She will be tended,” Owein said, walking forward to examine the wound. “It is not deep, and will heal well, I think. Of course, the Dewin could say better.”

  Elstar went to Sinend and put her hand lightly over the wound. She closed her eyes briefly as she did the Life-Reading, then opened them and turned to Owein. “You are right, Owein. We will make a doctor of you yet, I think.”

  Owein smiled his bitter smile. “My experiences these past years have taught me much of wounds.”

  A woman, fierce for all her petite size, strode up to them. “All dead, Owein,” she said crisply. “Of us, only young Gwyr was wounded, and that was his own fault. We have already scavenged their rations. Enough to eat well tonight. We must go.”

  “Thank you, Teleri. Come, my guests. We shall not reach the main camp until tomorrow. But tonight you shall sleep safely in Coed Coch, guarded by my warriors. Come.”

  THE FIRE CRACKLED cheerfully, and Cariadas gratefully held out her dirty hands to the blaze. Sabrina pressed a cup of warm wine into her hands. Cariadas sipped, willing the tremors to ease off. The shakes had surprised her, coming on so suddenly, just a few moments ago when they stopped for the night beneath the spreading branches of Coed Coch.

  “Drink, child,” Sabrina said softly.

  Cariadas drank. The brew was warm, burning like fire down her throat. She choked slightly, then, urged by Sabrina, drank some more. A warm lassitude came over her. The cup felt so heavy. Sabrina took the cup from her tired hands and set it on the ground. The Druid laid a blanket across Cariadas’s shoulders. Cariadas risked a glance at the others, shamed that she had come undone. But the faces around the fire were sympathetic. Owein’s warriors, alert and grave, spaced around the perimeter of the clearing, did not laugh. Dudod, Elidyr, and Cynfar gave her brief, warm smiles. Llywelyn even reached out and patted her hand. And Sinend—

  “Where’s Sinend?” Cariadas cried, nearly panicked. The last few moments when they had halted to camp had been a blur.

  “Sinend’s fine, child,” Sabrina said, her voice soothing. “She’s sleeping. Right over there, see?”

  Cariadas strained her eyes, catching sight of Sinend bundled in blankets. Elstar’s arm was around the girl’s shoulders to lift her up and give her something to drink. With a tired sigh, Sinend drank. Elstar tenderly laid Sinend down, tucking the blankets around her. Elstar rose, then came to her husband, settling down next to him. He put his arm around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder.

  “We have some Dewin here in our forest,” Owein said quietly. “Others have passed on to them what they saw.”

  “The death-march,” Dudod said, his voice harsh. “We saw the beginning. Before we got too far away. Did it go on?”

  “It did. All the way across Rheged they marched the Y Dawnus they had caught.”

  “How many dead?” Elstar asked, with a shaking voice.

  “Almost half. They took over two hundred people in that raid. And at least eighty of them died before reaching their destination. Lucky them.”

  “Where did they take them?”

  “Eiodel.”

  At the sound of that name, Cariadas went cold. Eiodel. That black fortress built by Havgan, the Destroyer. Eiodel, the fortress of shadows that
faced Cadair Idris. Eiodel, Havgan’s defiance against the mountain of Idris.

  “The next day they marched them to Llyn Mwygil and ferried them on to Afalon.”

  “And my da?” Elstar asked hesitantly. “Is he alive?” Her tone was uncertain, as though not knowing what to really hope for.

  “Anieron was alive by the time they got to Eiodel. I do not know if he still is. He was not among those taken to Afalon. Of that we are sure.”

  Slowly Cynfar, tears spilling down his young face, pulled something from his tunic. It glittered in his hands like a piece of sky and moonlight come to earth.

  “The Master Bard’s torque,” Cariadas said in awe. “How did you get that?”

  “Granda gave it to me,” the boy said, his voice shaking. “He took it from his neck and handed it to me, as we were going down the tunnel at Allt Llwyd. He Wind-Spoke to me alone and said I should give this to my da. He said da was the Master Bard now.” Cynfar held the torque out to his father. But Elidyr did not move to take it.

  “No,” Elidyr whispered. “It is not for me. Not yet. Anieron may be alive. We don’t know.”

  “Alive or not,” Dudod said harshly, “he cannot be the Master Bard anymore. He is not free. Take it, my son. You are the heir.”

  “No,” Elidyr said stubbornly. “No.”

  “Husband,” Elstar said her voice soft. “The task has passed on. Our network is broken, scattered. The children, our hope for the future, have been taken. You and I, the Master Bard and the Ardewin, we must rebuild what has been lost. Dudod is right. My da is no longer the Master Bard. You are.”

  Cariadas, tears spilling down her face, wept helplessly and soundlessly. Wept for Anieron, and all that had been lost with him. Wept, even more, for the look on Elidyr’s face. Wept to see Elidyr’s hand reach out, shaking, to touch the necklace, then hesitantly take it from his son. Wept to see Elidyr clasp it around his neck, and finger the torque as tears streamed down his drawn face.

  Wept to see Dudod close his eyes and look away.