Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  “No, Da,” she whispered. And she laid her head on her father’s broad shoulders, tears streaming down her white face.

  “Da, perhaps the Cerddorian will come for us, will rescue us,” she said, faint hope in her voice.

  “Child, they do not know where we are.”

  “You can’t know that!”

  “I do know that. Or didn’t you understand why we traveled at night and in small groups? Didn’t you understand that we were hidden from our friends’ eyes? There will be no rescue. Not for us. And so we must make these soul-catchers, and only beg the gods for an easier death on the next turn of the Wheel.”

  Rhodri, who had first thought to speak to Greid, drew back silently. No need to take that risk now. He knew all he needed to know.

  Silently he made his sure-footed way back to his cave. He knew whom he must find now—his old Bard, Dudod. He knew it would not be easy. Even in happier times, Dudod had always been on the move. But Rhodri would find him. He would find him and tell him where the Smiths were held, and how they waited for rescue.

  Even more importantly, Rhodri knew he had another task concerning Madoc, his son. It was a father’s duty to correct a child who had gone wrong.

  As he thought this, he drew his knife and examined it, as it lay gleaming in his palm. It was a father’s duty, indeed.

  Chapter 12

  Haford Bryn, Kingdom of Prydyn, and Dinas Emrys

  Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru

  Eiddew Mis, 499

  Meirigdydd Tywyllu Wythnos—morning

  The hills of Haford Bryn were brown and lifeless. Even the waters of the River Fryn, which wound slowly through the hills, were dull and gray. Rhiannon halted her mount, stooping slightly in the saddle, scanning the ground. No, there was nothing. She had not expected tracks—Rhoram and Achren were too good for that. But she scanned the ground nonetheless. If she found some sign of Rhoram’s Cerddorian, it would at least be good for an opening gambit in the upcoming conversation—a conversation she suspected would be one of the most difficult of her life.

  The real question was, which way would Rhoram jump? Would he support her request or stand neutral? Would he openly oppose her? Or, worse still, make a counteroffer that she must, oh, she must, refuse?

  After all, she thought hesitantly, almost unwilling to even acknowledge these thoughts, after all, Rhoram’s wife had deserted him. In the eyes of the Kymri, he was now unmarried. What would he do now? More to the point, what would she do?

  Unbidden, Gwydion’s face rose in her mind, the way he had been at the Alban Awyr celebration over two weeks ago: his silvery eyes, alight with the laughter she seldom saw, his stern mouth relaxed in a smile that had caught her unaware, his strong arms supporting her in dance after dance.

  She shrugged irritably. What did it matter? What did either of these men—Rhoram and Gwydion, the two who had a hold on her heart—matter? She knew what she must do. She herself had seen the Wild Hunt, had endured the amethyst gaze of the goddess Cerridwen, the topaz stare of the god Cerrunnos, and had heard them name her one of those entrusted with the task of seeking the Treasures. The Stone of Water would be her Treasure to find. And it was her duty now to take her daughter, Gwenhwyfar, away from Haford Bryn and set the girl to her chosen task—to find the Cauldron of Earth. For that was what had been sung in the Song of the Caers. And that was what must be.

  With Rhoram’s help or without it, she would take her daughter from here and go. It would, of course, be so much easier if he helped. But she would not count on it. It had been many years since she had counted on a man to do anything. Once again she scanned the ground for tracks and examined the sky for telltale signs of smoke. She knew they were around here somewhere. She knew it.

  “There’s nothing for you to see.”

  The voice, long expected, did not startle her. She straightened in the saddle and turned to face the speaker with a smile. “I know,” she said. “But I had to look. To be sure.”

  “Be sure,” Achren, Rhoram’s Captain, said, grinning, as she jumped from the boughs of the tree to the ground. “When I’m in charge, things are done right.” Achren was dressed in black riding leathers. Her hair was braided and bound closely to her head. Her dark eyes brimmed with the welcome Rhiannon had hoped for.

  Rhiannon jumped from her horse and embraced Achren. “How are they all? It is well here?”

  “As well as can be expected. We lost no one in the move from Ogaf Greu. The enemy does not know where we are. But there are other things that are very ill, indeed.”

  “I know,” Rhiannon said quietly, turning to take the reins of her horse. “Allt Llwyd was taken. The Y Dawnus are even now being death-marched across Rheged. They die. And we cannot stop it.”

  “No,” Achren agreed soberly. “We cannot stop it. Not today. But soon, perhaps?”

  Rhiannon turned, responding to Achren’s underlying question. “Yes. Our vengeance begins now.”

  “How?”

  “Gwen is to come with me. We will meet the Dreamer and one other in Ederynion. And the four of us go to claim the Treasures.” She stopped and searched her friend’s face. “You are pale, Achren. Are you well?”

  “Well?” Achren repeated as she fell in step beside Rhiannon, motioning the way forward. Achren shrugged. “Well enough. Considering what I did to Cian.”

  “What you did?” Rhiannon exclaimed, shocked. “You mean what the Druid, Ellywen, did. What the enemy did. You are not to blame.”

  “He was in my charge,” Achren said quietly. “And he was captured, and taken to Eiodel. He was my responsibility. Nothing can change that.”

  “Achren—”

  “Of course, when I returned to Haford Bryn, I told Rhoram that I resigned my post. And he—so clever—he said that he would accept the resignation only if the Master Bard agreed, since Cian belonged to him. And the Master Bard …”

  “Of course, Anieron would never have condemned you for what happened.”

  “The Master Bard said that I was, indeed, condemned—to continue to serve Rhoram.” Achren’s lips quirked slightly. “He said it was a fate almost worse than death, to serve such a foolish master. And Rhoram played up his outrage to the hilt. And so they all laughed, and treated it as forgotten. But I do not and never will.”

  “There is nothing for it, really, than to set yourself the task to hunt down Ellywen,” Rhiannon said, “for her part in the betrayal of Cian.”

  “Yes. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Come, then. The others are waiting.”

  THEY FOLLOWED THE river for some leagues, as the land became wilder, the hills sharpening into cliffs, shale crunching beneath their leather boots. Scrubby bush grew on the banks, offering an occasional handhold. The way was not difficult at first, and Rhiannon’s horse followed easily. Then Achren stopped, gesturing to a shadow in the rocks.

  “Leave the horse here. He cannot follow from this point.” Achren gave a shrill whistle, and a warrior came into sight, seeming to spring from the very stones. Achren handed the reins to the man, who took the animal, leading him over the banks and out of sight.

  “We keep all the horses here. From here on in, we climb.”

  Rhiannon nodded, searching the surrounding cliffs. Another whistle from Achren, and a rope ladder clattered down the face of the cliff. “Hard to get into, I see,” Rhiannon said briefly. “Harder still to get out?”

  “Not at all,” Achren replied. “There are many other trails. Rhoram would never have us hole up in a place difficult to get out of. But this is the quickest way. You first. Stop at the first ledge.”

  Rhiannon began to climb. As she came to the first ledge, she stepped off the ladder. Turning around, she saw the valley they had come through, her gaze following the river that twined through it. Her eyes, sharp as they were, could detect no sign of movement from the way they came.

  “Very good, Achren. I see no one.”

  Achren grinned. “But they are there, jus
t the same, guarding.”

  “I believe you.”

  They set off down the narrow ledge until they came to a passageway bound on either side by heavy boulders. “Welcome, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, to Haford Bryn,” Achren said, gesturing her to go first.

  Rhiannon slipped between the rocks, then almost gasped. Here, in this hidden place, was a small, narrow canyon, carpeted with rich moss and grass, nestled between the forbidding cliffs. Hundreds of warriors gathered here, some drilling with bow and arrow, some practicing with dagger and spear. Snug shelters built of wood and stone were huddled against the cliff faces. Children kept close watch on herds of sheep and cows that nibbled at the scrub brush that studded the sides of the valley.

  People began to turn, eyeing them as they stood at the entrance to the canyon. A warrior in the midst of those practicing with spears kept her back to the two women after one quick glance, ignoring their presence. Rhiannon had spotted her right away. She would always know her own daughter.

  “Come,” Achren said. “Rhoram is waiting for you.”

  She followed Achren down the path into the camp. One warrior, shooting arrows at a target, looked up at them, then crowed in delight. He threw down his bow and bounded up to them, catching Rhiannon up in an exuberant embrace.

  “Geriant!” Rhiannon laughed. “Put me down!”

  Prince Geriant, Rhoram’s son, grinned down at her, setting her gently on the ground. “You are most welcome here! You are well?”

  “I was,” she said dryly, straightening her tunic, pretending to glare at him. “Is this how you always greet your elders?”

  “And my betters,” he laughed.

  Before she could reply, a young woman hurled herself into Rhiannon’s arms. “Sanon,” Rhiannon said gently, holding the girl tightly. “Sanon.”

  Rhoram’s daughter clung to her. Gently Rhiannon stepped back, cradling Sanon’s face in her hands. So thin! And so pale. Her face, once so sweetly smooth, was sharpened into harsh angles by grief and loss. Her dark eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness. Sanon’s golden hair, which spilled down her back, was the only part of her that seemed to have life.

  “Sanon, my dear,” she began, not knowing quite what to say.

  “I know,” Sanon said, trying to smile. “I don’t look well.”

  Rhiannon knew that Sanon had been grief-stricken over the death of her betrothed, Elphin of Rheged, two years ago. But she had not, until this moment, truly understood what Elphin’s death had done to the Princess of Prydyn. And, knowing this, Rhiannon’s need for vengeance on the enemy grew ever hotter.

  “I’m so sorry, Sanon,” she said quietly, knowing it should be spoken of, acknowledged. “You loved Elphin very much, didn’t you?”

  “More than life,” Sanon whispered. “And don’t you tell me that the wound will heal. I think now it never will.”

  “Not if you don’t wish it to,” Rhiannon said firmly. “And before you get angry, remember that I know all about nursing old wounds.”

  Before Sanon could reply, the glint of golden hair caught Rhiannon’s eye. She turned to face Rhoram.

  The King of Prydyn had changed in the past few years since his wounding in the invasion. Rhoram’s face was sharper, scored with lines of pain. But his sapphire blue eyes were the same. And his smile was just as warm. And Rhiannon, listening to the beat of her own heart as she gazed at him, understood that what had been between them was gone now. Gone, to be replaced by tender memories, by the warmth of friendship. When had that happened? she wondered briefly. At what point in the past four years had she truly, finally, let him go? And how was it she had not even known until this moment?

  She reached out her arms and hugged him close, no longer afraid to touch him, knowing that the fire between them was gone, finding comfort in that. As he hugged her back, she felt his body relax, the tension gone from him, also. She released him and grinned up at him, to find him smiling.

  “Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” Rhoram said laughter in his voice. “So kind of you to drop by.”

  “So it is,” she agreed, smiling. “Have you some time to talk to me? The matter is urgent.”

  “I’ll try to squeeze you in somehow.”

  “Gwen?”

  “She is well. But she’s—”

  “Refusing to talk to me,” Rhiannon finished. “I saw her. May I talk to you privately? Unfortunately, I haven’t much time.”

  “You must leave today?”

  “Yes. And not alone.”

  “Ah.” He gestured for Geriant and Sanon to withdraw. She hugged them both and promised to speak to them again before she left. As Achren turned to go, Rhiannon grabbed her arm.

  “No. I must speak with you, also.” The three of them moved to one side of the canyon. At Rhoram’s gesture, she sat on one of the nearby rocks and began. “The Dreamer has had the dream at last.”

  “It begins, then, our vengeance,” Rhoram said eagerly.

  “It does. We have found the clues to the Treasures. And we know the four who are destined to search for them. Gwydion, myself, one other whom I may not name—”

  “The High King?” Achren guessed.

  “Yes. If we can make him so. And Gwen.”

  “Mmm,” Rhoram said, musing. “So you have come for her.”

  “I have. And we must be gone from here within the hour. We go to Ederynion, to begin the search.”

  “Then Gwen must go,” Rhoram said firmly.

  Rhiannon nodded. “I know she will not want to—”

  “That is an understatement. But go, she will. You have come for her. And so she is no longer welcome here. Achren?”

  It was when Rhoram turned to Achren that Rhiannon saw the truth. It was there in the way he looked at his Captain, there in the glitter in the depths of his sapphire eyes, there for anyone to see. Anyone, Rhiannon thought, except Achren herself, who appeared to see nothing.

  At Rhoram’s question, Achren rose and strode purposefully toward a group of warriors who had resumed their practicing with spear and shield.

  After Achren was out of earshot, Rhiannon turned to Rhoram, her brows raised.

  Rhoram returned her look, not even bothering to pretend that he didn’t understand. “She has no idea, of course,” he said ruefully. “And even if she did, she would, no doubt, not believe me.”

  “Is that what stops you?”

  “That and the thought that she may very well carve my guts out and wear them for garters.”

  “Chicken,” she said, grinning, as her eyes followed Achren’s movements.

  At Achren’s sharp command, the warriors had halted their practice. Another command, and Gwen stepped up to Achren, standing stiffly at attention. Achren gestured over to Rhoram and Rhiannon, and Gwen shook her head. But no warrior ever successfully defied Achren. She snapped another command, then turned to go. Gwen hesitated briefly, then followed.

  As Gwen came up to her, Rhiannon’s eyes gazed hungrily at her daughter. It had been four years since she had last seen Gwen. Her daughter had grown, and they were almost of a height, now. Gwen’s long, golden hair was braided and wound about her head, held in place by a band of blue. Her tunic, trousers, and boots were scuffed brown leather. Her blue eyes glittered above high cheekbones. She was beautiful. For the first time, Rhiannon wondered what young Arthur ap Uthyr would think of her daughter.

  Gwen had not moved, had not even acknowledged Rhiannon’s presence. But Rhiannon had been prepared for this. She rose to her feet, facing Gwen squarely.

  “Hello, daughter,” she said quietly, unsmiling.

  Gwen’s frosty blue eyes flickered over to her, hardened, looked away.

  “Greet your mam,” Rhoram said sharply, rising to his feet.

  Gwen turned away, then found her way blocked by Achren. She turned back. “Greetings, Mam,” Gwen said quickly, but without inflection.

  “You are to come with me,” Rhiannon said. No use in trying to be gentle and persuasive with this stubborn child.

  “I will not!”


  “You will. You have been named by the Dreamer, named by a song of Taliesin, named by the Wild Hunt itself. You have been named as one who will join in the task to find the Treasures, to stand at the Doors of Cadair Idris and enter there, to witness the making of a High King, and to drive the enemy from this land.”

  “I will not go.”

  “You have been named. You will.”

  “Da,” Gwen pleaded, turning to Rhoram.

  “One way or another, Gwenhwyfar, you leave here today,” he said sternly. “You will either leave with your mam, or go your own way.”

  “Da!” Gwen cried. “You would leave me? You also?”

  “You are named, child. There are no bargains to be made with that.”

  “Then I will go,” Gwen said, turning to Rhiannon, her eyes flashing. “But not with you!”

  “Your hatred makes you foolish,” Achren said, her tone cold and hard. “Your place on the Wheel must be taken. Or we will all die as captives.”

  A cry from above made them all look up. Overhead, an eagle circled, screaming with defiance. It swooped over the camp, and the warriors ducked, not one even reaching for their weapons. For they knew what this was that had come to them.

  Arderydd, the High Eagle, the sign of the High King to come, lighted on the rocks in front of Gwen. He fixed the girl with cold, gray eyes. Once again, he shrieked, spanning his wings and arching his proud neck as though to dart at Gwen. Gwen flinched, and turned to run. But Achren held her, forcing her to face the eagle.

  Then, from far away, the sound of a hunting horn came to their ears. A flicker of movement at the top of the canyon caught everyone’s gaze. Two riders were there on the rim. One rode a horse of pure white, and antlers gleamed from his forehead. The other rode a horse of jet-black, her shadowy hair streaming out behind her. The rider of the white horse brought a horn to his lips and blew. At the sound, the eagle shrieked again, never taking his cold eyes off of Gwen.

  “Answer, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram,” Rhiannon said quietly. “And know truly whom you answer to.”

  Gwen’s eyes, wide and shocked, flickered from the riders to the eagle.