Three Wells of the Sea Series Box Set: Three Wells of the Sea and The Salamander's Smile

by Terry Madden

  Gwylym made the sign against evil, saying, “You dishonor him.”

  “I did what I must to show you the truth, Gwylym. Lyleth cut his warrior’s braid, there in the barrow. Hair of the dead to work her conjuring. Look at his hair.”

  Leading him closer, the candlelight revealed the truth.

  “The man you saw in the mountains was no man. Lyleth will do anything to stop me from ruling this land. Here is your king, Gwylym. Here. Dead and reeking of it.”

  He fell to his knees before the corpse, his fingers trembling as he inspected the brooch at the king’s chest. He tugged at the oilcloth and touched Nechtan’s wrist, the king’s mark.

  Ava stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “If Lyleth had raised him from the dead, would he be rotting here on this floor?”

  She felt Gwylym’s turmoil and ran her hands down his chest, pressed her belly to the back of his head, then sank down beside him.

  “You were always with me, even when he was not. In my despair, it was you who stood beside me, Gwylym. When I lost my babes… I was a fool to hope my king would love a girl he traded for peace. It turns a woman to stone under the touch of her lord when her lord wants another. I should have seen you then as I see you now.”

  She pressed her breasts to the cold brass of his armlet and felt his muscles soften. She tested his lips, brushing them with her own. She was prepared for a longer contest of will, but he surprised her, crushing her in his embrace. He tasted of meat and ale and his big hands fumbled at the laces of her gown. She almost laughed at him, this man who had served Nechtan’s father, had sworn his life to Nechtan, couldn’t unlace his britches fast enough to fuck his lord’s wife.

  She’d been a maid when her father sent her to Nechtan’s bed. She’d braced herself for the hurt all maids must endure, but he coaxed her into wanting that pain. He gave her time and touches until she wanted nothing else but him. Now, she realized with revulsion how much her body missed his. But she’d never been more to him than a chit that had been traded for peace.

  Blinking away the sting of tears, she opened herself to Gwylym’s rough thrusts. Looking at the shell of flesh that had been Nechtan, she vowed silently, I will find you and kill you myself, my love.

  Chapter 21

  High on a bluff above the Lost Hammer River, Lyleth took one last look at the snaking shoreline where she’d left Nechtan, just visible by the light of the setting moon. According to Dylan, a tow barge waited to take them across the river to the cover of the woods beyond, and Lyleth prayed the boy was right. She could only lead their pursuers off the scent for so long.

  She hadn’t gone far when Dylan rode up beside her. “My lord told me to come with ye.”

  “Elowen is with me,” Lyleth said. “You’ll stay with Nechtan and you’ll not let him look back. Never. Do you understand me?”

  “Aye, lady.”

  “And you’ll not stop until he finds Marchlew.”

  Taking the bow and quiver from her shoulder, she pressed them into Dylan’s hands.

  “You’d best learn to shoot fast, lad. And when you’re across that river, you’ll cut the tow line, do you understand me?”

  “Aye. I understand… everything.” Even in the strange light of the shepherd’s lamp, she could see a steadfast allegiance in the lad’s eyes.

  “Now, go.”

  Nechtan and Dylan would cross the river and vanish into the dense greenwood of Pendynas while Lyleth led Fiach’s scouts in the opposite direction. This was how it was to end. Nechtan would do what she’d asked of him, she had no doubt. They had spoken their last words to one another in this world, but Lyleth had so much more to say. A rush of regret filled the hollows of her heart.

  The torches were closing in.

  She took the lantern from Elowen, set her heels to her horse, and led the way down the bluff. With no time to cover her tracks, she hoped the scouts would follow, for if Fiach’s men saw two tracks, they would surely send men after Nechtan.

  A clearing opened, and she trotted her horse in furious circles, plowing up the turf and confusing the tracks as best she could. Then, she waited.

  Elowen scowled at her from her perch on the back of the plow horse, Nechtan’s harp strapped to her back. Fiach’s men mustn’t see it.

  “They’re gettin’ close,” Elowen whispered. “We should go.”

  “I’ve got to be sure they see the lantern first.”

  Voices colored with the lilt of the southern tribes made it clear they were, indeed, men from Emlyn.

  “If we wait any longer, they’ll think we’re chasing them,” Elowen said.

  Lyleth raised the lantern higher overhead.

  “We are. Come. We’ve got to move fast now.”

  “We shoulda been moving fast all along.”

  Lyleth pushed westward through a stand of gorse, making as much noise as possible. She paused to be certain the men followed. It wouldn’t be long now till Nechtan was across the river.

  When they’d gone half a league, Lyleth halted, her horse blowing hard.

  “What are you doing?” Elowen asked.

  “Waiting.”

  “For them to take you?”

  “You go on.”

  “Dylan says there’s an ol’ bridge a few more leagues to the west.”

  “Aye,” Lyleth said, “and I don’t want the men behind us to find it. There’s a fine chance they know nothing of the river crossings here.”

  She slipped from her horse to the soft ground. “Go, lass,” Lyleth said. “You owe me nothing.”

  Elowen circled her on the big plow horse. “Stars and stones watch over you, druí.”

  “And you.”

  And the girl was gone.

  Lyleth cut a willow branch and brushed out the girl’s tracks until they vanished into a streambed. Then she returned to the clearing and waited. She sat cross-legged with her horse’s reins in hand, the lantern beside her. The weakness left by her injuries washed over her and the clearing grew small and distant. Hanging her head between her knees, she resolved not to faint.

  They came at last, sounding like boars scuffling through the brush to surround her. They’d put out their torches some distance back, doubtless thinking to creep up.

  Lyleth held out her arms, palms up, and spoke to the bushes. “I surrender to Fiach, lord of Emlyn, and to Fiach alone.”

  With weapons drawn, five men stepped from the willows.

  “Where is Nechtan?” one asked. So, the rumor of Nechtan’s return had spread as she knew it would, from the innkeep, perhaps, or the local men who’d watched Nechtan kill Fiach’s scouts two days before.

  One warrior was clearly a member of Fiach’s retainers by the barley sheaves bossed on his helm. He edged closer until his sword point rested at her throat. The noseguard of his helm was overly long and partially covered his mouth, making his small eyes seem crossed.

  “I said that I’d speak to Fiach alone,” she said. “Take me to him.”

  The warrior’s sword pressed deeper, slicing her skin.

  “You’ll tell me where the ghost of the king has gone, or I’ll relieve you of your head, sister greenleaf.”

  “If he’s a ghost, why do you give chase?”

  “He’s a demon, wearing borrowed skin. This we know.”

  “You know? Tell me, sir, how is it you know the workings of the gods?” She swallowed against the blade and it cut deeper. “He’s your king, living and breathing, and he’ll be taking your head soon, traitor, and with it, your soul.”

  She let her eyes wander to the willows at the man’s back, as if to signal someone there.

  The warrior spun toward the trees. “Come out!” he called to the night, then to his men, “Go look for him.”

  Before they made move to obey, from the darkness came a faint strain of harp strings, playing a ghostly aire. The men huddled closer, their eyes searching the willows, their hands flying to make the warding sign against evil.

  Elowen should have been long gone by
now. Lyleth couldn’t let the girl be taken, too.

  “Take me to Fiach,” she said again. “I have a message from his king.”

  This time, they were only too happy to bind her wrists and lift her to her horse’s back.

  It was almost dawn when they reached what could only be an appointed meeting place. Here, Fiach’s men were joined by others, and from the talk, it wouldn’t be long before the hosting from Caer Ys reached them. They tied Lyleth to an old hawthorn tree and left one man to guard her.

  “Your king lives,” she said to her guard. He was young, and she could feel that he feared her.

  He held a waterskin to her lips, his eyes flitting to her bound hands as if she might magically untie them and strangle him.

  “You serve Nechtan’s murderer,” she said, “this ‘she-king’ as Ava names herself.”

  “Men don’t die and live again, druí,” he replied. “I follow my lord Fiach, none other. Just as ye should.”

  He took a long drink from the skin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, all the while looking her up and down as if measuring what Fiach might have found desirable in her. It was no secret, even beyond Nechtan’s court, that Lyleth had shared her bed with the chieftain from Emlyn, and it had become the subject of endless rumor. Some even claimed that Fiach had a hand in Nechtan’s death. However, the most popular rumor was that Lyleth had defended her honor when Nechtan tried to take her, and he had died of shame, though in some stories, Lyleth had cursed him. But Lyleth shared much of his shame, for in those months after Nechtan’s death, she had come to understand that whatever she’d felt for Fiach, and it was much, it was far from love.

  The thought of seeing him again filled her with a deep disquiet. Nechtan had held him at sword point when last she saw him. How could she possibly hope he would understand why she had called him back?

  Night was falling when the banners of Emlyn and IsAeron led a black snake of horsemen and foot soldiers onto the plain. Fiach’s camp grew up around Lyleth and her hawthorn tree, and soldiers eyed her warily and spat on her as they passed.

  Finally, one of Fiach’s clan guards came for her.

  Weaving through a tangle of supply wagons, she saw tents stretched out to the west as far as she could see, and cook fires like golden beads of light. Lyleth hadn’t seen such a hosting since Nechtan had fought the Bear at Fitful Head.

  The guard took her to a tent marked with the sigil of Emlyn, but Fiach was not there. Beside his cot lay the bow she’d always admired, ringed with bands of Finian silver and inlaid with glass, and his boar hide quiver marked with runes stitched in gold thread. He was more superstitious than a greenman. She glanced at the little table beside his cot and saw his blackthorn whistle. A pang of loss welled in her. She had thought she could love this man; at least, her body had led her to believe it.

  The guard bid her sit on a low stool, where he bound her hand and foot once again. It wasn’t long before Fiach burst into the tent and stood frozen in the candlelight. He dismissed the guard with a nod.

  Before her stood the shadow of the man whose laughter she once yearned to drown in; golden haired and golden tongued. Part of her wanted to hold him again, to unravel the hurt she’d inflicted. But he was little more than a warrior courting death now.

  “Tell me the truth, Lyleth,” he said. “Where is this man you claim to be Nechtan?”

  “Tell me the truth, Fiach. How can you serve a woman who’s murdered your king?”

  “I waited!”

  His rage colored the air between them. He took another stool, his knees to hers, his face so close, she inhaled the fragrance of the man she’d known so completely and it stirred her.

  “When Nechtan banished you,” he said, “I knew you’d come to me. That our life together could really begin. I waited. And you vanished into the greenwood—”

  “If I had gone to you, this land would have been divided—”

  “This land is divided! And it’s not my doing, Lyleth. Nor is it yours. It’s Nechtan’s alone.”

  “Your king was poisoned.”

  She tried to take his hands, but the rope went taut.

  “Take the pouch from my belt, Fiach. You’ll find my proof.”

  He searched her eyes, and she knew what he looked for. He drew so near, his palms cradling her face, his mouth almost touching hers, but not quite. She understood. He wanted her to beg him with her body, to pretend nothing had changed between them. She broke the hold of his eyes and looked down at the trampled sod.

  “I have wronged you, Fiach, but rending this land in two is not—”

  “I was there the day you came to Caer Ys, eight years ago,” he said. “The day Nechtan bound you as his solás.”

  He held her face in his hands again, and forced her to meet his eyes.

  “I saw it then,” he whispered. “You walked into the revel hall and stood before him, this boy you’d loved on the Isle of Glass was now a man, a king, and you a servant of the green gods.

  “I saw it in his eyes. And I saw it in yours. No law would let him have you, unless he bound you to him as his solás.”

  “He didn’t force my duty on me.”

  “No? What did he tell you, Lyleth? Did he tell you he would be a wastrel without you? That he needed someone stronger than he to lead this land?”

  She wanted to slap him. She remembered exactly what Nechtan had said to her that day. I don’t know who I am anymore, Lyl. The only choice I have left in this life is you.

  “Neither of you knew what kind of prison you were building for yourselves,” Fiach said.

  His breath warmed her skin, and his fingers dug into her jaw, forcing her to look into his eyes. But hers were clouded with tears.

  Whispering, so close she felt his words strike her face, he said, “I would have poisoned him myself, love, if I had had the chance.”

  After a long, desperate look, he released her, stood, and strode away.

  “You’re a man of honor!” she said to his back.

  He stopped, dusk showing pink in the sky outside.

  “I swear on the love I once shared with you,” she said, “the man I summoned is Nechtan.”

  He turned at last, an amused look in his eyes. “Swear on your love for Nechtan.”

  She swallowed hard. “I swear to you, on my love for Nechtan, that when the Bear comes, Nechtan will need you, Fiach, to stand beside him and hold this land for the Ildana.”

  Fiach chewed his lip and paced, then called to a guard outside, “Take her to her king.”

  The guard untied her and dragged her to her feet. Fiach wouldn’t meet her eyes as she brushed by him and out into the night.

  The guard led her to what appeared to be a small supply tent. He lifted the flap and pushed her into the darkness. Her hands still tied behind her, she stumbled on what felt like a grain sack. But the air in the tent reeked of death.

  A second guard followed the first with a rushlight and Lyleth saw she had fallen, not on a sack, but on the swollen corpse of her lord king, his warrior’s braid severed where she’d made the cut.

  “Your lord has missed ye,” the guard laughed.

  When he untied her hands, she made a swift lunge for the dagger at his belt, but he caught her wrists easily. She kicked and thrashed and screamed until the other guard held her. He threw her down on Nechtan’s corpse and pinned her there while the other worked the rope.

  They left her, hands tied around the corpse’s neck like a noose. Her eyes adjusted to the dim firelight that seeped through the oilskin, and she saw Nechtan’s purpled flesh. It felt waxy-cold, and his organs swelled his abdomen with the gases of decay so that his mail was stretched tight as a drum. The pale jelly of his eyes had sunk beneath shriveled lids.

  “The flesh is but a cloak.” She turned away, and vomited.

  Chapter 22

  Nechtan was almost hungry enough to shoot the goose himself.

  “Keep the bow square, don’t lock your elbow, and just open your fingers,” he wh
ispered to Dylan. They were almost close enough to wrestle the thing.

  It was the boy’s fifth try and it would be the last. Lyl’s bow was light, but Dylan’s arm still trembled with the strain of drawing it. He needed some muscle.

  Two rabbits, a swan and a duck had been his target practice. Time was precious. The sack of food from the inn had been tied to the plow horse, which Elowen had ridden off with. Wasting time to hunt just slowed them, but even dead men must eat.

  The bowstring sang, and Dylan’s grin spread the width of his narrow face.

  “Will ya looka that!” Whooping, he ran into the pond to scoop up the goose.

  “Hunger always improves your aim,” Nechtan told him. “A goose is one thing. A mounted man is another.”

  Nechtan decided a fire would be safe enough in the dense cover of this greenwood. He and Dylan had crossed the Lost Hammer River on a small ferry that nearly scuttled with the weight of two men and their horses. From the northern shore, he’d watched the light from Lyl’s lantern until it vanished beyond a bend in the river.

  He’d lost her again, and she’d left him with but one task that could right this crooked path he’d cut through this world. There was nothing that could stop him now, for Caer Cedewain was but a few days away.

  With one fall of his axe, he’d cut the towline and sent the ferry downriver to be shredded by rapids. Then the greenwood had swallowed him and the boy. They followed a wide stream for a good distance to cover their tracks, then a game trail took them north through the rugged mountains of the Pendynas. It was good to travel by day again.

  Nechtan had to remind the boy that singing was as good as sounding a war trumpet. So, Dylan sang to himself, quietly, and asked questions until Nechtan refused to answer any longer. But the questions kept his thoughts from Lyl.

  “You must remember something of the Fair Lands,” Dylan was saying.