Glain grew concerned. “Is everything alright?”
“The Sovereign left orders that she not be disturbed except by you,” he said. “I believe she is resting.”
“Wait here a moment,” Glain said to Nerys.
She rapped twice and then let herself in, closing the door behind her. Alwen was sitting in an overstuffed armchair adjacent to the hearth, staring absently into the flames. Glain approached carefully, not wanting to startle her out of her meditation.
“Sovereign?”
Alwen looked up with woeful eyes and an expression of grim resolve. She was too pale, as though her life were draining from her. “What else did you find?”
“Verica is still missing.” Glain was reluctant to say more. She didn’t want any of it to be true, and Alwen looked so frail. “Nerys is waiting in the hallway. Shall I bring her in or send her back to her room?”
“We can hardly punish Nerys for poor judgment, now can we,” Alwen snapped. “Not when we are so egregiously guilty of it ourselves.”
The words stung, but no more than she deserved. “The veil is repaired.”
“Well, that is something at least,” Alwen said. The anger faded quickly, as though she were too weak to hold onto it. “And for what it is worth, you were not wrong about Ariane. She is insipid and deluded by visions of her own greatness, but not treasonous. Euday, however, is a bitter disappointment.”
It did not escape Glain’s attention that Alwen had avoided mentioning Ynyr, for which she was profoundly grateful. Then she noticed that Alwen was clenching and unclenching her blighted fingers. “Are you in pain, Sovereign?”
“What?” Alwen looked at Glain as if she hadn’t understood what she’d said, and then glanced at her fingers. “It’s nothing. I am fine.”
Glain was not convinced, but it was clearly not a good time to argue.
“Go,” Alwen waved at her. “Bring Nerys. There is nothing left to hide, not any longer. And then pour the aleberry. I’m sure we are all in need of it.”
Glain retrieved a tentative and almost intimidated Nerys and then poured a healthy dose of the mulled ale for each of them. It took Alwen’s insistence to coax Nerys to sit on the divan and take a cup. Glain chose the soothing warmth of the hearthstone, partly for the comfort of it and partly for the vantage point. She was concerned for Alwen.
The Sovereign listened intently while they recounted the events of the evening, nodding now and then in acknowledgment, but otherwise impassive. If Glain had held any hope that speaking about the events in the woods would ease her agony, there was none left by the time they had finished. Said aloud it all seemed even more devastating.
“It is likely Verica fled the compound through the breach in the veil after Ynyr was killed,” Alwen said. “Aside from Euday, no one else was complicit in her wickedness, at least as far as my interrogations have revealed. To be sure, I attempted a spirit-faring and consulted the scrying stone, to no avail.”
Nerys was brave enough to ask. “What have you done with him?”
Alwen let out a bitter, scoffing huff. “Sent him to rot in the dungeons, though I admit even that is better than he deserves.”
“What did he tell you?” Glain wondered.
“No more than he told you,” said Alwen. “Though I searched his mind to be sure we had the truth, as he knows it. My probing yielded only his terror and his motivations, which were of no interest to me.”
Glain was mildly encouraged. “At least we now know who our enemies are.”
“So we do,” Alwen agreed. “Nerys, dear child, I believe it is time we are done with secrets, once and for all.”
Glain was struck through with guilty panic. Just what secrets did Alwen mean to reveal? The Sovereign stood with considerable effort and walked to the altar table in the receptory. She returned with the black velvet bag that held the bloodstone amulet and held it out to Nerys.
When Nerys hesitated, Alwen placed the bundle in her lap. “This belongs to you now.”
“I don’t understand,” said Glain, thinking as she spoke that there were far too many things she did not fully grasp.
Alwen returned to the overstuffed armchair. “Among the many intriguing bits of information I learned while studying Madoc’s papers was the link between the Guardians of the Realms and their lineage. Those of us originally named to the Stewards’ Council are each a descendant of one of the founding bloodlines. I am a daughter of the House of Eniad. Cerrigwen is of the Uir legacy, Branwen of Caelestis, and Tanwen a daughter of Morthwyl.”
Glain was even more confused. “How does this concern Nerys?”
“Though we have the amulet, Bledig is returning without Tanwen, and time is running out on us. Barring some other sign of her or her escort, I am afraid I must entertain the possibility that Tanwen is lost to us,” Alwen said gravely. “And just as I intend to do my best to encourage Ffion to become her mother’s replacement, I intend to name a new representative for Tanwen. As Nerys is the last of the Morthwyl line, the privilege falls to her.”
Glain could not stop staring at Nerys. “What are you saying?”
“Nerys is Tanwen’s sister,” Alwen said, “by the same mother, which entitles Nerys to claim the same legacy. The only person who can succeed a Guardian of the Realms is her child. As Tanwen inherited her right through her mother, so does Nerys.”
Glain was not sure how to receive this knowledge or respond to it in an appropriate way. It was good news for the Stewardry, for the prophecy, but Glain wondered if it was good news for Nerys. The fair-skinned Nerys had gone unnaturally pale, and though this was apparently not the first time she had heard this information, she was clearly not anywhere near comfortable with it.
Alwen addressed Nerys. “The amulet is safest around your neck. You can protect it far better than I until Tanwen returns or you take her place.”
Glain was tempted to ask aloud why Nerys had Alwen’s trust. She presumed that Nerys had submitted to Alwen’s psychic probing during the investigation surrounding the discovery of the scroll, but Glain was unwilling to leave anything to presumption, not anymore. Still, the only person she knew for certain was still deserving of her faith was Alwen. “If you trust her, Sovereign, so shall I.”
Alwen seemed to understand Glain’s inference. “If there was ever deceit in her thoughts or her intentions, I could not find it. And I did try.”
Glain was satisfied. Alwen’s ability to know another person’s heart and mind was the only reliable test of truth left to them now. And Nerys was the only ally left—aside from Ariane, but that thought gave Glain a headache.
Though she was reluctant to bring it up, Glain knew there was no avoiding the last remaining task Alwen had entrusted to her. “If Nerys is willing,” she said, “I would welcome her help in the search for Madoc’s testament.”
“A fine idea.” Alwen’s expression brightened as she looked to Nerys.
Nerys smiled, though she never actually accepted or refused the invitation. Glain decided to take her lack of objection as agreement. Perhaps the only person in the Fane more betrayed than she was Nerys, and Glain was not about to press her for loyalty that had not yet been earned.
“Before I send you both out so that I can rest,” Alwen continued, “I have more news. Some good, some less so. First the good.”
She sipped from her cup. “Hywel’s men have cleared the rubble from the labyrinth as far as the opening to the cavern. I am hopeful they will be able to open the cavern itself within a few days, and we will be ready when the others return.”
Glain glanced at Nerys. “Does she know of the Well of Tears?”
“She does now,” Alwen smiled. “There are a great many things she will need to learn in very short order, and I will rely on your help.
“However,” she said, sipping again at the aleberry, “I’m afraid I am not so sure of Emrys, not anymore. I
sensed something disturbing when I entered his thoughts, though just what it was I could not decide. I have asked Finn to keep a close watch on him, and I suggest both of you deal with him cautiously. If you are uncertain about any man of the Cad Nawdd, take your concerns to Finn, or Pedr when he is able.”
Glain did not think she could stand to hear another disheartening word. Her eyes ached to close and her dress was still damp. “Sovereign, I believe we could all use some rest.”
“Of course, you’re right,” Alwen said, obviously far from her best as well. “But let’s none of us rest too long—evil doubles its efforts while we sleep.”
Eldrith was a coward. In fact, he had come to the realization nearly too late that his cowardice exceeded his arrogance, which he expected would surprise no one but him. Yes, Eldrith was a coward, and a loathsome one at that. If he weren’t, he would have done something, anything, to save Martin Trevanion from his horrible fate and warned Thorne Edwall away from Banraven rather than invite him into the demon’s lair. If he weren’t a coward, Eldrith would have slit his own throat when the page had awakened him earlier with word that the dark mage wished to interrogate him next. Instead, he had dressed and sat at his desk, watching the sunrise while sipping at the insidious tea he had brewed from water hemlock leaves and sweetened with heather honey. This death would be slower, and more painful, but it was a civilized end that required much less of him.
His rectory was a fitting last refuge. Eldrith could die here, happily outfitted in the regalia of his office and surrounded by the extravagances to which he had entitled himself during his tenure. For all he knew, he might well be the last master of this Order. A legacy for which the noblest moment would most likely be the last, or so he now hoped. The best Eldrith could ask was to be remembered for his final sacrifice, not his final failing.
The tea was surprisingly mellow, though he had begun to wonder if he had made it too weak. The cup was more than half empty, and he noticed only a mild tingling in his toes. This was troubling. Too weak and he would linger overlong; too strong and the effects, though quick, would be excruciating.
No, Eldrith thought, I measured the poison generously. Likely it was his leisurely sipping that was prolonging the end. He gulped half the remaining contents of his cup and settled himself as comfortably as he could in his chair.
He loved this chair and all that it represented. To his own mind, he had been a fair and well-intentioned leader. Even his most foolhardy decision had been motivated by virtue, though it had been guided by arrogance, as Algernon had rightly called out to him.
The tingle in his feet had spread to his lower legs, rendering them useless. He swallowed the last of the tea while he still could and relaxed against the chair back. Soon the paralysis would spread up his body and seize his breathing, then his heart. Eldrith feared the violent convulsions that would overcome him in the final throes of death, imagining his last moments in pain. Pray they are brief, he thought, suddenly aware that while he could not move a single muscle below his waist, he could feel every nerve spasm like fire.
Footsteps echoed in the hall outside the door—too soon. Eldrith panicked. Just a little more time for the hemlock to take him so that Machreth could not tear the secrets from him he knew he was too weak to keep. He could feel the crippling heat creep higher, past his groin, to his gut.
The door flung open and Machreth strode over the threshold. Had Eldrith not been so keenly acquainted with the cold-blooded evil that resided beneath those tawny good looks, he might have mistaken Machreth for a nobleman of warmth and benevolence. He’d outfitted himself well in fine leathers and linen tunics confiscated from belongings left behind by members of the Brotherhood, and he kept himself impeccably groomed. The dark mage was tall and lithe and carried himself with the same arrogant charm that overlords possessed, the kind of charismatic confidence that drew support whether it was deserved or not. But his eyes inspired fear, if one dared to look directly into them.
“I hope I’ve timed this well,” he said, smug and superior. He took the cup from Eldrith’s palsied fingers and sniffed at the dregs. “You can still speak, yes?”
Eldrith was sure that he could, though not for long. It was becoming difficult to breathe. His lungs felt weighted down, and the pain from his limbs and innards writhing increased with every lumbering beat of his heart. Perhaps Machreth would believe he was too far gone. But how had he known?
“Water hemlock,” Machreth said. He set the cup on the desk and bent close to sneer at Eldrith, who could no longer turn his head. “Effective, but slow, and more painful than people expect. Isn’t that so, Eldrith?”
It was far worse than he had believed. The spasms were so violent, he thought his bones might break, and the burning was beyond unbearable. Eldrith silently begged the Gods for his heart to stop, but he would not speak to Machreth.
“You see,” Machreth drawled, perching on the edge of the desk so that he could engage Eldrith comfortably, “it isn’t a difficult death you should fear. Death itself isn’t difficult at all, really—rather like expelling a breath. And in many cases, as I imagine you are contemplating this very moment, a welcome relief from a state of, well, frankly, misery.”
Eldrith thought he had planned it all so carefully. Machreth was amusing himself, like a cat toying with a spider by plucking its legs out one by one. But it would be over soon. He could feel his life leaving.
Machreth smiled. “You’re thinking you have beaten me to the endgame. I can see it in your eyes, that expectation of deliverance all men of faith cling to. It is near, Eldrith, your death. I can smell it.”
He knew he was weeping, tears blinding him and spittle spilling from his mouth, but he could control none of it, not even his bowels. And yet, his heart was still pulsing and his lungs drawing air in shallow, rattling breaths—upon which the faintest of whimpers escaped. Terror filled Eldrith as Machreth’s smile widened.
“You need only tell me what I want to know, and I will let the hemlock run its course. If not, I will hold you in this pendent wretchedness until one of us tires of the game.”
Machreth waved one hand left to right, and Eldrith felt his existence suspended, no longer progressing toward death or ebbing away from it. He watched, horrified, as Machreth slowly curled his fingers into a clench. Eldrith’s body responded as though it were being crushed. He shrieked.
“I knew you would find your voice.”
Machreth spoke as though he were coaxing a mule to stable. He relaxed his hand, and Eldrith’s agony eased, ever so slightly. Again he prayed for deliverance.
“I still do not understand your resistance, Eldrith. You hardly seem the sort of man to martyr himself for principle, but perhaps I have underestimated you.” Machreth glanced around the rectory. “You are Ruagaire, after all—or at least you were before you contented yourself with the trappings of title and the belly-softening monotony of administration. ‘Those who can no longer practice are consigned to preach,’ or some such banality.”
Machreth clenched his fist again, sending Eldrith to new depths of anguish. He felt his ribs splinter and cried out, but he did not ask for mercy. In this awful, bleak moment he knew triumph and honor. He had lost his way, but not his soul.
“You are stronger than I expected, Eldrith,” Machreth said, releasing his grip. “But Trevanion lasted three days and still never spoke. I doubt the same shall be said for you.”
“Why?” Eldrith gasped. If nothing else, he would die knowing.
“Ah,” Machreth said, cocking one eyebrow in mild surprise. “Are you bargaining with your conscience now? Perhaps you are hoping my intentions are less despicable than you believe them to be.”
Machreth pulled a cavalier shrug. “If knowing why I seek Elder Keep will help you see your way to submission, then so be it. All the better for both of us, if it puts an early end to this tediousness.”
Breath came in labored pants a
nd his mind was befuddled by pain, but Eldrith wanted to hear. He had convinced himself that knowing mattered, if only to make sense of all that had happened to him these last weeks. It was then that Eldrith realized he did not want to die.
“I must confess,” Machreth began. “I had no knowledge of Elder Keep until Madoc began to plan his succession. When he named me his heir he began to reveal his secrets. Little by little as I gained his trust, and then as necessity forced his hand.”
Machreth folded his arms loosely over his chest and crossed his legs at his ankles, as if he were having a casual conversation with a friend. “The Stewardry and the Well of Tears are inaccessible to me, at least for now. My only recourse is to keep the Fane from regaining its strength and its leadership until I can find a way to reclaim it or time snuffs it out altogether.”
“You see,”—he looked pointedly at Eldrith—“I had thought to unite the mages in a new purpose, to make us powerful again by taking back that which was rightfully ours all along. But I have learned these last weeks, as I have traveled among plain folk, that there is no hope of that. The age of the sorcerer has all but passed. I see that now. But neither would Madoc’s way have brought us to any better place. He was wrong to put his faith in the kings of men. They will no sooner share their power with mages than with each other. The prophecy was a lie all along.”
He shrugged. “But there is still something to be salvaged in all of this, a legacy to build by other means. The future of magic is through the likes of me, sorcerers who will find their destiny in the world by sitting on their own seats of power. It is simple, really. If I cannot lead mages, then I will lead men. And I will do it from Elder Keep.”
Eldrith was almost relieved. Perhaps Machreth did not know the whole truth of Elder Keep, all that it was. Still, if ever he found his way there, he would soon enough discover it.
The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Page 23
