Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

“So,” Owein said quietly. “Anieron is in Eiodel, in the hands of the Warleader. How long, think you, before he talks?”

  “Never,” Cariadas said fiercely. “Never.”

  “I mean no insult. But my own sister, a lady of pride and courage, at last gave the enemy the words they longed to hear. In the end, they always do.”

  “My brother will never speak,” Dudod said wearily.

  “How can you be so sure?” Elstar asked in a voice full of tears.

  “Didn’t you see what he did as he ran?”

  “What do you mean?” Cariadas asked fearfully. She had not seen. She hadn’t been able to bear to watch as they captured him.

  Dudod shook his head. “He will never speak. Never. Never sing, never tell another story, never lead another Alban Awyr, and never praise Taran with his honeyed words. Never again.”

  “Oh, gods, no! Dudod, he didn’t! He couldn’t have!” Elstar’s horror spilled from her, snaking through the hearts of those who sat there, twining through their souls, leaving cold terror behind.

  “He did. He cut his tongue out as he ran. He will never speak. Unless he Speaks to us on the Wind.”

  The night waited in silence, broken only by the sounds of the crackling fire and Elstar’s sobs. Cariadas, too stunned to cry, sat still as a stone, barely breathing. Anieron had done that to himself. He had sacrificed his beautiful voice, his chanted poems, his songs, his very being. Sacrificed it all so that they would live.

  He must have known what was coming. He must have sensed it, somehow. Why else would he have given his torque to Cynfar before leaving Allt Llwyd? Anieron’s last song had been sung. His voice was now stilled. How could he bear it? How could she? What would become of them all now?

  NO!

  The cry rang through the clearing, shattering the night, darting through the sky over Kymru, splintering the cold stars overhead.

  NO!

  They leapt to their feet, all of them, the warriors with their weapons ready, looking around wildly for the source of that hopeless cry.

  “Who—” Cariadas began.

  “Anieron. His Mind-Shout.” Of them all, Dudod had not risen. “Oh, my brother,” he whispered. “What are they doing to you?”

  NO! NO! N—

  Then all was silent.

  Chapter 11

  Eiodel, Gwytheryn and Caer Siddi,

  Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru

  Eiddew Mis, 499

  Gwaithdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—evening

  He woke up reluctantly, fighting to stay within his last attempt to forget.

  Something was pulling him away from his dreams, forcing him to wake. But the dreams! They were so sweet, so pure. In them he was unfettered, running free beneath the sun, the wind blowing in his silvery hair, water playing and laughing as it wandered through the meadow, the earth at his feet sprouting rich colors. He darted through the fields as the breeze drew gentle patterns in the tall grass. And at last, at long last, he understood the meaning of those shapes born of air. He knew—at last, he knew.

  Until he woke to darkness. And the knowledge was lost to him, slipping away from him along with the dream’s sweetness.

  “Anieron, Anieron, is it you?” That voice, remembered from some distant time, from some distant life, pulled at him until he truly woke and knew where he was—trapped in this dank, dark cell in the very bowels of Eiodel, the dark fortress of the Golden Man.

  He wanted to call out to the owner of that voice. To tell the man something, anything that would help ease the fear he heard in the other’s tone. But he could not speak. For he had cut his tongue out to save the others, to prevent himself from breaking. And to taunt the Golden Man with the useless prize gained.

  Memories of the death-march crowded over him, overwhelming him with grief as the tears ran down his face. So many had died just in those two weeks of marching here to Gwytheryn. So many little children there had been, now dead. So many of the teachers, men and women he had known for years, some of whom had even guided his first steps.

  There had been so many guards—too many for the Bards and Dewin to attempt escape, even if they hadn’t been drugged with hawthorn. And the guards had been too many to allow the Cerddorian to rescue them. They would only have lost their lives, too.

  The marchers had been given only drugged water, and even that in small supply. At night they had lain on the rough ground, and the nights were cold. Weakened by hunger, by exposure, the very old and the very young had died.

  The Kymri had tried to help. Crowds of villagers tried to feed and soothe the captives marching by. But the guards had threatened and—in a few cases—killed those who offered aid. And so, after the first few times, the Y Dawnus had warned them off, telling their would-be rescuers to leave them to their fate, telling them not to lose their lives for this, but to save their lives for a greater task. And the people had obeyed.

  “Anieron, is that you? Speak to me!”

  He had it now. That was Cian’s voice. Cian, Bard to King Rhoram, had been captured along with one of the testing devices. He Wind-Spoke, the only means of communication left to him now.

  Cian, boyo, are you all right?

  No answer. Worse still, the thought that had arrowed toward Cian seemed to bounce off again, unheard. It was like trying to speak to a foreigner in a language never learned.

  He dragged himself up from the filthy straw. Blinking in the dim light of the few torches set outside the bars, he squatted on all fours, waiting out the dizziness that movement brought. A clanking sound followed his movement. Surprised, he looked down, only to discover that his hands and feet were chained.

  What, he thought incoherently, was the point of that? He could not get out of here, chains or no chains. Then he understood. It was a symbol, something meant to shame him, meant to make him understand how hopeless the situation was.

  But they hadn’t needed to do that. He had known it already. Somehow, he had known long ago that he would not be able to see this thing through. He had known he would never see Arthur ap Uthyr sit on the High King’s throne in Cadair Idris. He had known that he would never see the Coranians flung back into the sea.

  Yet he had never doubted these things would happen. And he did not doubt it now.

  “Anieron!” Cian’s voice was terrified. His words were slurred and raspy. Why didn’t the man just Wind-Speak?

  Anieron shuffled on all fours to the bars of his cell, looking toward the source of that voice. Cian’s cell was just across a narrow hallway. The Bard was huddled against the bars, reaching through them as though to try to touch his master. His once-plentiful brown hair was scanty and lifeless. The patches of skin that showed through the dirt and sores were a dead white. He was thin, almost skeletal.

  As Anieron looked at his friend, he understood why Cian had not Wind-Spoken. The Bard wore a dull gray collar around his thin neck—an enaid-dal, a soul-catcher. Cian’s birthright, the gift of telepathy, had been stolen. His very soul had been chained.

  And though Anieron’s tongue was gone and he could not speak, he could still laugh. And so he did, a rusty, mournful sound. He laughed because the joke was so perfect. Because he, Anieron, could not speak mundane, ordinary words. And Cian could not hear Wind-Speech. They could share nothing with each other here in the pit of shadows and hopelessness. They could not comfort each other, reach out to one another in any way. And so he laughed. Because he knew the Warleader had expected despair. Even that, Anieron would not give to Havgan.

  “Anieron?” Cian whispered doubtfully. “Won’t you speak to me? They took it away—they took the gift. I cannot Wind-Speak to you. Won’t you even talk to me?”

  Anieron stopped laughing, opened his mouth, and showed Cian that his tongue had been cut out.

  “They did that to you?” Cian cried.

  Anieron shook his head, then pointed to himself.

  “You did it to yourself? Why?”

  Anieron looked at Cian. And the look said it all.

  “So you could n
ot talk, if they broke you,” Cian whispered.

  Anieron nodded his head. He pointed to the cell around him, to himself, and lifted his brows in question.

  “How long have you been here? They only brought you in last night.”

  He pointed to Cian’s cell, to Cian himself.

  “After they captured me, they brought me straight here to Havgan. He questioned me, but I told him nothing. They asked and asked and asked where Rhoram and his people had gone. But I would not tell. But—but it was so strange, Anieron. Though I don’t expect you to believe this, they never asked me the one question I was so sure they would ask. They never asked me where the headquarters of the Dewin and the Bards were. Never asked where the Master Bard and the Ardewin could be found. I’ve thought so much about that. I think I know why.”

  Anieron nodded. He thought he knew why now, too.

  “Because they already knew,” Cian whispered. “Someone had already told them. I swear to you, Anieron, it was not I. They already knew. Believe me, please.”

  Anieron nodded, to show Cian that he was believed. And he was. Because now Anieron knew who had told them. And he wished with all his soul that he had listened to Gwydion when the Dreamer had spoken of Jonas ap Morgan. But he had been proud. Stubborn. And so many, oh, so many had paid for that. He didn’t mind that he was suffering for it—it was only right. But that others had, that was on his head.

  But now he understood something that must be told. The Y Dawnus who were still free must be warned about Jonas. Terrified, he now remembered where Jonas had been sent. The traitorous Bard had gone to Gwynedd, to the headquarters of the Cerddorian there. He had been sent to Cai and Morrigan, to Mynydd Tawel, to betray his people again.

  He must, he must get word out somehow. If only there was a Bard close enough to hear, then there was a chance. He closed his eyes, searching, but the clang of a heavy door opening and closing distracted him. He opened his eyes, squinting in the sudden flood of torchlight.

  “Set the torches and leave us be,” said a voice as soft as honey, as strong as iron, a voice that barely masked the scent of blood and darkness and tears.

  The light glittered off the man’s golden hair, lit his amber eyes, and picked out the bloodred rubies scattered across his golden tunic. Anieron knew him. Havgan. The Warleader. The Destroyer. The Golden Man. The Slayer of Kymru.

  The Warleader gestured, and one of the guards opened Anieron’s cell. Anieron stood. He would not meet the Warleader on his knees. There was something about the Golden Man that was so familiar. Something in the amber eyes. Something in the line of the neck, in the set of the jaw. A memory stirred, then subsided. What was it?

  A second man followed Havgan into the cell. Anieron knew him instantly by the man’s black robe; by his pale, white face; by the scar that twisted away from his empty eye socket. He held a sheaf of parchment and a quill in his ivory hands.

  Oh, if only Anieron still had his tongue! What he wouldn’t say to the wyrce-jaga. But he could still do some things. So he pointed to Sledda’s eye socket and grinned. Sledda’s face went tight and still. His remaining pale eye was full of malevolence.

  “Ah,” Havgan said smoothly. “You find that amusing? In truth, so do I. Your eagle did that—your Arderydd. They tell me that your people seem to think that it is a sign of our final defeat.”

  Anieron nodded.

  “Now, Master Bard, you must listen to me. We can do this hard, or we can do this easy, but we will do this. I understand that you have cut your tongue out. A gesture of defiance, I believe. But that will gain you nothing. You will simply write down for us what we want to know. One way or another, you will do this.”

  Anieron shook his head.

  “Of course, you do not believe me. But you really should. Now, here is what I want to know. First, where is Gwydion ap Awst? Second, where are the Four Treasures? And last, who is your upstart High King, and where is he hidden?”

  Sledda thrust the parchment and quill into Anieron’s shackled hands.

  “Master Bard, you must understand. We will know these things from you,” the Golden Man said. “We will. And so I ask you again, and you will write your answer.”

  Anieron’s eyes darted from Sledda to Havgan, from black to gold, from wyrce-jaga to Warleader. At last he scratched something on the parchment and held it up for the men to read.

  “‘I will tell you nothing,’“ Havgan read aloud. “But you will,” he went on, smiling. “Because here is what will happen if you don’t. We have taken the rest of your people to the island of Afalon, not five leagues from here. There they wait to know their fate. And I can assure you, their fate will go hard if you do not answer.”

  Slowly Anieron shook his head. He couldn’t. Not even to save his people could he answer those questions.

  “If you do not answer, they will die, one by one, speared through the belly, watching as their blood runs out onto the sands. Believe me in this, Master Bard.”

  Anieron shook his head again. He did believe the Warleader. But there was nothing he could do.

  “I expected this, of course, from a man such as you. For the last two years, Anieron, Master Bard, you and your people have defied me. You and the network you created with your daughter, the Ardewin, have caused me much trouble. You and your clever orders to the Cerddorian have cost the lives of many of my men, and the possession of many riches. But now all that is over. And now you will tell us what we want to know. Because if you do, I will not put this thing onto your neck,” Havgan said, pulling something out of his tunic and dangling it in the air.

  All color drained from Anieron’s face. It was an enaid-dal. If they put that on him, how could he live? How could he bear it?

  But how could he do what they asked of him?

  He bent his head over the parchment, scribbled a few words, and held it up for Havgan to see.

  “‘I will tell you nothing,’“ Havgan read. “And I, Master Bard, will take everything.”

  Quick as a snake, Sledda darted behind Anieron, grasping his arms, tightening the chains so that Anieron could barely move. And Havgan was coming toward him, the enaid-dal clutched in his hands.

  NO!

  Anieron’s Mind-Shout rang throughout Kymru. In Coed Coch, King Owein and his men sprang to their feet. King Rhoram and his folk in Haford Bryn and Prince Lludd and his people in Coed Ddu cried out. Queen Elen in her captivity in Dinmael began to weep. In the mountains of Eyri, Queen Morrigan leapt up, her heart in her throat. NO!

  In Rheged, Rhiannon, with her daughter, Gwen, reluctantly following, stopped short, her face drained of color, tears springing to her eyes. On the fringes of Eyri in Gwynedd, Gwydion halted and bowed his head in grief.

  In Dinas Emrys, Myrrdin reached out as though to plead with the young boy who heard the cry with an unmoving countenance.

  And in Coed Coch, Dudod whispered, “Oh, my brother, what are they doing to you?”

  NO! NO! N—

  And then it was over.

  Anieron fell to his knees. The silence, oh, the silence in his mind! Gone, everything he was had gone. His soul had been stolen. Who was he now? Across the dark hallway he heard Cian weeping. Anieron looked up, shaking his matted hair from his eyes. The Warleader was smiling.

  “So, witch, your powers are gone. You can have them back anytime you wish. Anytime. Just tell me what I want to know.”

  Hands shaking, Anieron reached out for the parchment and quill. Havgan smiled wider. “You see, Sledda? It’s just a matter of applying the right pressure.”

  Anieron slowly scratched words into the parchment. As he offered the paper to the Warleader, he smiled. He smiled even wider as Havgan read it aloud in a voice full of rage.

  “‘I will tell you nothing.’“

  Meirigdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—midmorning

  SIGERRIC PACED THE ramparts of the fortress. Back and forth, back and forth he walked, willing himself not to think of the torment that Sledda and Havgan between them would bring to the Master Bard
, who continued to defy them.

  Yesterday the old man had written one thing only: “I will tell you nothing.” Today he had written the same, with hands swollen and bloody, with broken fingers. “I will tell you nothing.”

  But Sigerric could not think of that. He would not. He willed himself not to think of the torment Havgan had already brought to Kymru; this land once so rich and fair, now so muted and barren, as though the gods of the Kymri wept and grieved over the loss.

  But that was no way to think. There was only One God, only Lytir, who had blessed their efforts here. For many of the Y Dawnus had been captured, their hiding places betrayed. The network that the Master Bard and the Ardewin had created was broken and shattered. Surely they could never rebuild it.

  And the Master Smiths and their families had been dispatched to Caer Siddi. So cleverly had it been done that Sigerric was sure the enemy did not know where the Smiths were held. And they would stay in Caer Siddi to mine the lead there, to make hundreds and hundreds of those collars. The Archdruid had said they were called enaid-dals, soul-catchers. The name alone was enough to send a shudder up Sigerric’s spine.

  But he would not think of that, either. If he did, his heart would surely break with pity for these Kymric witches, those he should hate and despise.

  He shook himself, turning to stare at Cadair Idris across the plain. The jewels on the Doors flashed defiantly in the sun, glittering whole and unharmed. For despite all that Havgan could do the Doors remained closed. And Sigerric, if he ever truly had, no longer believed that they would open.

  A cloud of dust across the plain snared his attention. The sun flashed on bright pennants, on metal byrnies. He squinted, trying to make out the bright banner being carried before the group of riders. It was a banner of royal purple background, with three curved lines radiating from a golden center. One line was of amber, one was of emerald and one was of sapphire, glowing richly in the sun.

  The Flyflot, Sigerric thought, the device of the Emperor of Corania! Had the Emperor himself come to Kymru? Surely not! Could it be Aesc, the Emperor’s brother, one of Havgan’s staunchest supporters? Or perhaps it was Aescwine, the Empress’s brother, one of Havgan’s deadliest enemies. What was happening in Corania that one of the royal family should come here?