Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  Gwen quickened her pace behind him to walk alongside. “How much longer, do you think?” she asked in a low voice.

  “To get to the camp?” Arthur asked.

  “No, until they start speaking to each other again.”

  Arthur shrugged. “However long it takes for Rhiannon to understand.”

  “Don’t you mean, however long it takes for Gwydion to stop being a fool?”

  “Oh, so at last my uncle does something you don’t approve of. That’s a change.”

  “At last, you see my mother is not perfect. That’s a change, too.”

  There was no one else, Arthur thought, who could irritate him like Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram. “You don’t understand,” he said loftily. “I don’t think you ever will.”

  “Oh, I understand all right. I understand them, and I understand you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Yes, what about you? My thoughts exactly. You come on this journey with us, against your will, to help retrieve the Treasures. But never, not even once, have you said you will be High King. So, what are you doing here?”

  “I am here,” he said, raising his voice, “because the Lord and Lady of the Hunt gave me no choice. For Kymru I will help find the Treasures. But as for being High King, that I tell you I will not do. Let them find another. All I wish is to be left alone!”

  “Then Kymru dies,” Gwydion said as he halted and turned to face Arthur.

  “Kymru will still have you to fight for her,” Arthur retorted. “That is enough.”

  “It is not enough,” Gwydion said quietly, “and you know it. Do you hate me so much that you will see Kymru beaten forever just to spite me? Is that why you will not take your true place at the Wheel? Or are you just a coward?”

  Before Arthur could answer, a rustle in the underbrush heralded the arrival of Owein and his people. As Arthur expected, the first person he saw was Cariadas, Gwydion’s daughter. She came running up to her father, but stopped at the sight of Gwydion’s bandaged hands.

  “Oh, Da,” she whispered. “You are hurt.”

  “I am better now,” Gwydion said as he gently took his daughter in his arms, careful not to use his hands, “just at the sight of you.”

  The forest now seemed full of people. There was King Owein, looking tired and grim. Captain Trystan and Sabrina the Druid carefully supported March, who had recently been freed from Llwynarth. March’s bardic wife, Esyllt, stood a little off to one side, her face cold. Elidyr and Elstar, the Master Bard and the Ardewin, were there, as was Sinend, the Archdruid’s heir, and Dudod, Rhiannon’s uncle.

  “Did you get it?” Cariadas asked, with tears in her eyes, nodding toward the pack across Gwydion’s shoulders. “Did you get the Spear? Is that why your hands are burned?”

  “Yes, we have the Spear of Fire,” Gwydion answered. “And, yes, that is how my hands were burned.”

  “Rhiannon,” Dudod said, as he came up to his niece. “You are hurt.”

  “It is much better than it was,” she replied. “In a few more days, I will hardly notice it anymore.”

  “How were you wounded?”

  “Interfering,” Gwydion snapped.

  “She was saving the Dreamer’s life,” Gwen said coldly, coming up to stand by her mother. “I suppose that could be called interfering, now that I think of it.”

  They all seemed to freeze for a moment. Then Dudod slowly walked up to Gwydion, his face impassive. “My niece risked her life for you? And was wounded because of that? And all you can think to say about it is that she was interfering? Have I got that right?”

  “You have got it right,” Gwydion agreed, turning away to greet Elidyr and Elstar.

  “Dudod, no!” Cariadas cried, as Dudod cocked his fist back to swing.

  Gwydion spun around to face Dudod. For a moment the two men looked at one another. Then Dudod seemed to see something. The same thing, Arthur thought, that he himself had seen.

  “Fool,” Dudod said quietly, dropping his arm.

  “Yes,” Gwydion agreed. “But I have no choice.”

  “Fool again. Because you do.”

  Owein crossed over to Gwydion. “Trystan has told me all that happened in Llwynarth. We thank you for bringing March back to us.”

  Gwydion faced the King. Owein’s face was drawn, his eyes filled with anguish. “Believe me, Owein, I wish I could have brought her out, too.”

  “I don’t believe you, Dreamer. But then, you did not think I would.”

  “No, I did not. There are many things that people don’t believe about me. But here is one thing you will believe.” He gestured to where Arthur stood. “This is my nephew, Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, the Prince of Gwynedd.”

  “Arthur?” Owein asked, astonished. “The Prince we all thought dead years ago?”

  “The same,” Gwydion answered. “The man who will be our High King.”

  Instantly Owein was on his knees. Every last one of them there followed suit. Arthur stared at them as they knelt. They should not do that, he thought incoherently. They must not.

  “I will not be High King,” Arthur rasped. “Do not kneel to me. I am not the one who will save you.”

  “If not you,” Dudod asked quietly, “then who?”

  “Get up!” Arthur shouted in frustration and anger. “Get up! I am not the one.”

  “You mean, you will not be the one,” Dudod went on. “A shame. When I first saw you, I saw Uthyr and Ygraine in you. But there are not enough of them inside you after all. You must be more like your Uncle Madoc, the traitor.”

  For a moment Arthur could not speak. The contempt in Dudod’s eyes hit him like a blow. To be compared to Madoc! To be likened to the man who had betrayed Arthur’s father! It was not to be borne.

  “Get up,” Arthur said once again, his voice cold and distant. “Find another man to save you. It will not be me.”

  ALL THIS TIME, Cariadas thought, as she knelt down next to Gwydion, all this time, all her life, she had known what her father was. And it was only now that she was angry, only now, when she truly saw what he was capable of.

  The tent Owein had given the Dreamer and Arthur was small and snug. Gwydion sat on his bedroll as Cariadas unbandaged his hands. She did not look at him.

  “Where are Prince Rhiwallon and Lieutenant Teleri?” Gwydion asked.

  “Owein put them in charge of a raid in Clwyd. Rhiwallon could not bear to be doing nothing while Enid was—was getting married.”

  “Do you believe that I would not save Enid? Or do you believe that I could not?”

  “I believe that you could not, Da.”

  “Then, what is wrong?”

  She shook her head and gently smeared the salve onto his hands. He was silent while she bandaged them. Done at last, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him.

  “What is it?” he asked again.

  “I despise you,” she said quietly, her eyes full of tears.

  “Cariadas—”

  “No. Not for Enid. For Rhiannon. For what you are doing to her—after what she did for you.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do. And let me tell you something, Da.” She rose to her feet. “You are worse than a fool. You are cruel. And you say I don’t understand and you know I do. How could you do this to her? How could you turn love away like that? Do you think it is so cheap? So easily had that you could throw it away?”

  “Cariadas—”

  “I love you, Da. But I can’t watch you do this and say nothing. All my life I have loved you. And I know you have loved me. And nothing is ever going to change that. Not even this. Not even what you have become. But, Da, you are wrong to run from love. You can give any reason you want why you do that. Duty, you say, no doubt. But you are only afraid.”

  “Daughter—”

  “Only afraid. And that is all.”

  ANIERON, ONE-TIME Master Bard of Kymru, stirred in his bed of filthy straw. He slept often now, for when he was sleeping, he dreamed. And when he d
reamed, he did not know that he lay in the dungeon of Eiodel, Havgan’s fortress. He did not see the slimy walls, hear the rats, feel the cold. He did not remember what they had done to him.

  In his dreams he was young and free again. In his dreams he spent busy days in the Bards’ college of Neuadd Gorsedd, surrounded by fellow Bards, singing songs, chanting poetry. In his dreams he walked the fields of Gwytheryn, and the wind flew down to make patterns in the grass, patterns he could almost understand. In his dreams the air was fresh and clean and Taran of the Winds was at his back. In his dreams he Wind-Spoke to his brother, to his colleagues, to his daughter, to his grandsons.

  But then, as was happening now, he would wake. And he would remember that he was not free, that he could no longer Wind-Speak, that he, since he had cut out his own tongue, could no longer speak or sing at all.

  And he would remember that he no longer had fingers left to pluck a harp string, to play the pipe, to make music. For they had cut them off, one by one, when he would not tell them what they wanted to know.

  The same questions over and over as they cut him. Who was the man the Kymri believed to be the High King? Where had the Ardewin and her husband gone? What did he know of the Treasures?

  But that was why Anieron had cut out his tongue—so he could not answer their questions. They gave him paper and ink and told him to hold the pen between his palms and write the answer.

  But he had not. He had only screamed.

  And when they left him alone, he had his dreams. And his hope of death.

  But now something had awakened him. He painfully drew himself up from the straw as far as he could. It was not far, for they had shackled his wrists to the wall and the best he could do was rise to his knees.

  “Anieron?” whispered Cian, his fellow Bard. His fellow prisoner. “Did you hear it? Someone’s coming.”

  Anieron could not answer, so he grunted.

  “So you are awake,” Cian said. Anieron heard a rustle in the cell across from him. There was no light, but he could tell from the sounds that Cian was rising to his feet.

  “They come again,” Cian said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Why don’t they just kill us? You will not answer their questions, and I have no answers. Why do they keep doing this?”

  Anieron knew why. When Sledda would come to question him, Havgan would come, too. In the light of the torches, Havgan would sit before Anieron, gleaming in gold and rubies. His handsome face would betray nothing—no anger, no joy. He would simply look at Anieron as the Master Bard screamed.

  Only one time had Havgan showed anything. That was the time when Anieron had finally recognized him. Anieron would never forget that moment. Sledda had been bending over him like a night crow, cutting off Anieron’s forefinger. And he had cried out, and turned his gaze to Havgan. And he had seen what he should have seen long ago.

  He had seen that, except for his honey-blond hair, except for his amber eyes, Havgan was enough like Gwydion to be his twin. And Anieron had known then, who Havgan was: the brother of Arianrod; the son of Arianllyn, Rhiannon’s aunt; the son of Brychan, Gwydion’s uncle; the son of a Bard and a Dewin who had been sent to Corania years ago as a result of a dream. And this was what had come of that dream—a nightmare. A nightmare for Kymru.

  Havgan had risen, for he had seen the recognition in Anieron’s eyes. He had stood before Anieron, gleaming golden in the torchlight.

  “The Ardewin at Y Ty Dewin had such a look in his eyes when he saw me,” Havgan said gently. “I killed him, before he could speak. But you cannot speak. And to kill you would be a boon to you. And so I will not. You will live here in Eiodel a long, long time. And I will bring you a gift, Master Bard. A gift to help you while away the hours.” Havgan had turned and opened the cell door. “Cut off all his fingers,” he had said carelessly to Sledda. “He will never write anything for us.”

  That had been two nights ago. The thought of a gift from Havgan made Anieron’s heart pound with dread.

  Someone was coming down the steps. The growing light of a torch made him blink as his eyes burned from the light.

  It was Sledda, along with a band of soldiers. The Master-wyrce-jaga’s sharp features wavered in the light as he gestured to the guards to open Cian’s cell.

  “Where are you taking me?” Cian demanded weakly as they hauled him out into the corridor.

  “To join your friends,” Sledda answered with a cruel smile. His remaining gray eye gleamed. The empty socket, twisted with scar tissue, was like a pit of darkness in his pale face. “To join the Y Dawnus on the isle of Afalon.”

  “Why?”

  “Their fate has been decided since the Master Bard will not give us the information we seek. They are to be collared.”

  “Why don’t you just kill them now?” Cian asked.

  “Ah, that would be too easy a death. This will be much worse. We have noticed that those who are collared sicken, but take a very, very long time to die. The children seem to go first.”

  Anieron closed his eyes briefly. The children. Oh, the children.

  “You needn’t act as though you care, Master Bard,” Sledda hissed. “If you did, you would have saved them. You would have told us what we want to know.”

  Anieron looked back at Sledda, his gaze steady, full of contempt. The warriors began to march Cian away.

  “Anieron!” Cian called as they hauled him up the steps. “I will tell them of your bravery. We will live as long as we can, to honor you. We will live for that day when we will be freed. Anieron! Anieron, may Taran be with you!”

  The door clanged shut. Anieron knew he would never see Cian again. He would die alone in this cell, with no friend to comfort him.

  Sledda, now alone, unlocked Anieron’s cell and entered. He carried a bag, which he set down in the straw. “I have your gift from Havgan.” Sledda smiled as he lifted the thing from the bag.

  Anieron’s breath caught in his throat at what he saw.

  His harp. His harp, brought here from the sack of Allt Llwyd. The harp gleamed in the torchlight. The wooden frame was carved in the likeness of Queen Ethyllt of Rheged, the mother of Anieron’s child. Her beautiful smile sent a barb of grief into his heart. The frame was inlaid with silver, and the sapphires scattered across it glowed. He had made that harp in memory of the woman he had loved so long ago. The strings shimmered softly as Sledda placed it at Anieron’s feet.

  “I have put it where you can play it when you like,” Sledda mocked. “Or, perhaps I should say that you could, if you only had fingers. What a pity you don’t. I will leave the torch so you may see and truly appreciate Havgan’s magnificent gift.” Sledda smiled again and left the cell. The clang of the upper door convinced Anieron that he was alone.

  He strained forward to take the harp in his bloody palms. He ran the back of his hand over the strings, but the jangle of chords made him wince. He laid his head on the frame and wept, as he had not done since coming to Eiodel. He could not sing with his tongue cut out. He could not play with his fingers gone. He could not Wind-Speak with the collar around his neck.

  It was all gone. Everything he had. Everything he was. Everything he had hoped to be. Now he waited only for death, a death it seemed would never come. Oh, if only he could have one boon, one gift from Taran before he died. If he could have that, death would be so sweet. He would ask for the harp to play. He would sing one last song—a song to be heard by all those in Kymru, Kymri and Coranian alike, a song like no other, a song of freedom and hope.

  Taran, King of the Winds, he began in his mind, I beg—but there here stopped. He could not ask for such a thing. Who was he to have such a gift? No, he could only wait for that blessed moment when his spirit would leave this world for Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer. And there he would meet the friends who had gone before. And there he would wait his chance to be reborn. And maybe, while he waited for rebirth, he could play his harp and sing. He could never do those things now.

  The touch of a cool breeze on his f
ace made him raise his head in bewilderment. A breeze in the dungeons of Eiodel? That was not possible. But it was true.

  The breeze caught the straw, sending it floating gently. The torch sputtered, then burned brighter still. And, oh, the wind brought with it the scents of Kymru. He smelled the cool mountain air of Gwynedd and the fresh clean lakes and rivers of Ederynion. He breathed in the scent of the sun-baked wheat fields of Rheged and the rich vineyards of Prydyn. He even knew the scent of the meadows and plains of Gwytheryn and a hint of the mountain of Cadair Idris that reached from the meadows to the sky.

  His collar dropped off into the straw. His mind drew in the breath of Taran, and his Wind-Speech returned. The shackles around his wrists fell away. Most wondrous of all, the harp began to play the melody that he had crafted night after pain-filled night in this cell. His heart bursting with joy, he began to sing the words in his mind.

  And I am manacled

  In the earthen house,

  An iron chain

  Over my two legs;

  Yet of magic and bravery,

  And the Kymri,

  I, Anieron, will sing.

  Shall there not be a song of freedom

  Before the dawn of the fair day?

  Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?

  You of Corania

  After your joyful cry,

  Silence will be your portion.

  And you will taste death

  Far from your native home.

  Shall there not be a song of freedom

  Before the dawn of the fair day?

  Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?

  And as he sang, he knew that everyone who was in the land of Kymru could hear him. Every man, woman, and child was listening to his song of hope.

  He sang, and he knew a joy like no other he had ever known.

  GWYDION TURNED TO Rhiannon as they sat by the great campfire in Owein’s hidden camp. They were all there—Arthur and Gwen, Elstar and Elidyr, Owein and Trystan and Sabrina, Cariadas and Sinend, Dudod and Esyllt and March. In front of them all he would beg Rhiannon’s pardon for his treatment of her.