by Karen Myers
At the main crossroads on the north side by the river stood an inn. Its signboard displayed the top half of a man with the antlers of a stag. “That’s the Horned Man, where all the traders stay,” Rhian said, as they drew up there. Isolda stayed with the wagon while George hauled out the saddle and girth at Rhian’s direction and followed her into the inn, carrying them for her.
A lutin wearing an apron was cleaning up the room. Rhian asked him, “Where’s the guest who requested a saddle repair?”
“Seeing to his horse.”
Rhian thanked him and they went out a side door to a courtyard with an open roofed area for sheltering vehicles and a stable on the far side.
As they crossed the courtyard they saw another lutin inside the stable through the doorway, with a taller figure looming over him menacingly. George slowed down as he felt suddenly light-headed, his senses expanding, and his ears moving back on his scalp. Something screamed Alert! though he couldn’t identify what was so alarming.
He touched Rhian’s arm from behind, discreetly. “Danger,” he whispered. “Come away.”
She hesitated in her stride for just a moment as she listened but didn’t look back. As he watched, her face aged and altered. Everything about her appearance subtly changed, until she was an older plain servant in worn clothes. George felt gooseflesh rise, but he held his face still to mask his surprise and lowered his eyes as she led them directly into the stable and up to the groom.
“Here’s the gear you sent for repair. They told me to bring it straight over. This is the gentleman, is it?” Her voice was coarsened and unremarkable.
The lutin looked relieved at the interruption. “See, my lord, your saddle’s been repaired, as you required. The best harness makers are up at the manor, as I told you.”
A thin dark-haired man with an air of command straightened up at their entry. He was dressed in traveling clothes, leather breeches and sturdy coat, and looked ordinary, but George’s hair was still up on the back of his neck and he knew this man was not what he seemed. His appearance was at odds with the sense of menace he radiated, and he carried a small-sword at his side in a well-worn scabbard.
George slung the saddle onto a bench and laid the girth on top. He backed casually away from any furniture that might inhibit his ability to draw his sword, keeping his head down and doing his best imitation of a country bumpkin.
The traveler looked them over and dismissed them, telling the groom, “Pay them. I’ll settle with the innkeeper later.” He strode out of the stable toward the inn.
Rhian dropped her glamour and turned to the lutin. “It’s me, Maonirn. Who was that?”
“My lady, he arrived three days ago, by himself. He says he’s waiting for traveling companions and I hope they turn up soon because no one wants to serve him. I offered to repair his saddle for him when he asked, but he insisted it go up to the manor instead. He calls himself Scilti.”
“What does he do all day?”
“Stays in his room, mostly, coming out to glower at us from time to time.” He paused. “We were sorry to hear about Iolo, my lady.”
“Thank you. We’ll honor him this evening at dusk. Please spread the word.”
She resumed her glamour before leaving the stable and held it all the way back to the wagon. Isolda looked at her with alarm. “What’s happened?”
“A stranger at the inn’s not what he appears to be. What alerted you to him, kinsman?”
“I don’t really know. I felt like a deer who suddenly hears a branch break. Everything came alive for me, and I knew he was wrong in some way. Deadly.”
“He could be looking out of a window. I will keep the glamour until we are well out of sight, and resume it again when we come back.”
As they continued up the road, George asked her, “How do you change your appearance that way?”
“Almost everyone can do it, but I don’t know how to show you. You think yourself different. If you do it a lot, you get more expert at certain choices.”
“It changes your sight and sound. Does it change for real, or only in the mind of a beholder? If someone’s looking that you don’t know is there, is it changed for him, too?”
“I don’t know. A mirror reflects the glamoured form to the wearer.”
“Can you change your scent, too? Does this work on animals?”
“I’ve never thought of that. I don’t know anyone who’s tried it.”
“And if you can change your scent, does it change your scent trail for real, or only in the mind of an animal that’s present? And if it changes your scent trail, what happens when you drop the glamour? Does the scent trail change back? Surely not; it’s a physical trace of separate particles, after all.”
Isolda looked at him. “All good questions. Ceridwen should know the answers.”
George continued to chew at the problem in silence. I wonder if a camera or microphone captures the glamoured form or the original. If he was in a world with different possibilities, he wanted to understand their limits. The stranger had made him feel vulnerable, and he didn’t enjoy the sensation.
The last stop was some distance north of the inn, on the right side of the road. A good-sized cottage with autumn flowers around it in abundance and a large porch stood bordered by an access lane on its far side. Isolda turned the wagon down the lane and into a cleared space between several buildings.
A woman emerged from one of the buildings dressed in working clothes and cleaning her hands on a cloth. “Well timed,” she said, “I was just proposing to stop for a while.”
George recognized her as the woman he’d seen the day before as he brought the pack back, the one who hadn’t been inside. She seemed about his age, tall and calm, with dark auburn hair gathered into a single braid down her back and gray eyes. I wonder how old she really is, he thought.
Everyone climbed down from the wagon, and Isolda led the horses over to a trough for a drink before hitching them to a post.
Rhian did the introductions. “Angharad, this is our guest George Talbot Traherne who arrived yesterday. He’s a great-grandson of Gwyn. George, Angharad’s the maker of those plates you asked about last night, among her many other talents.”
George said, “I noticed you when the pack came through the village, outside the bakery. You weren’t indoors, unlike almost everyone else.”
“I have no fear of the hounds. Speaking of which, did you bring her?” she asked Isolda.
Isolda bent over the crate in the back of the wagon and lifted out a sleepy terrier puppy. “My lady, allow me to present Ermengarde.” The puppy yawned in her face, then licked it, wriggling.
Smiling, Angharad carried her toward the back door of the cottage. “Come in and have some tea.”
“We can’t stay that long,” Rhian said. “We must be back before the mid-day meal. I wanted to show George some of your work, though, since he so admired our dishes.”
They entered a large kitchen and were greeted by another terrier, eager to inspect Angharad’s armful of puppy. She put the puppy in a wicker basket near the wood stove and supervised the first encounters. “Cabal’s been lonely since Bran died. Look at him now.” Cabal was wagging his stump of a tail furiously as he lay down on the floor on his belly watching the puppy as she bumbled out of the basket and began exploring.
Angharad left them to it and led her guests into a large front room, filled with light and color. Brightly decorated plates and plaques hung in every small space, leaving room for paintings in watercolor and oils on the larger surfaces. Ceramic statues gleamed from the fireplace mantel. Woven textiles covered the cushions and furniture.
The first cat that George had seen since his arrival stretched on a cushion near the window and hopped down to inspect the visitors.
George paused to admire the room as a whole, then walked slowly around the edges examining the items on the walls. “All of this is your work?” he asked Angharad.
“Not the woodwork; I don’t build furniture these days.”
“They’re extraordinary,” he said, stunned by the quality of what he saw. This was a serious artist, he realized, in a wide variety of forms. The watercolors were landscapes, mostly scenes of the Blue Ridge in various weathers. The oils were a mix of landscapes and penetrating portraits. The pride of place was given to an antique oil portrait over the fireplace, the distilled essence of an older man with an intense and commanding gaze.
“Who’s that?”
“My second husband, Cai. I painted it many years later,” she said.
Here in this room of bright colors, something about her seemed even brighter and filled his gaze. Tough act to follow, that husband, George thought, mesmerized. But I’d like to try.
“He was exhausting,” she continued, “But then he was rarely home. It was a very long time ago.” She smiled quietly and refocused on her guests.
“I took up ceramics here in Annwn, and textiles are a new interest for me.” She gestured at the fresh fabrics. “Gwyn lets me work in peace.”
Isolda spoke up. “It’s getting late and we’re expected back. I’ll get the wagon.”
Rhian and George said their good-byes, leaving Angharad in the kitchen admiring the puppy, now lying fast asleep against the delighted older dog.
Before they left Angharad’s lane, George reminded Rhian to resume her changed appearance, in case anyone was watching from the inn. She held it until they reached the bridge and crossed over.
As they drove back up the west road to the manor, George asked Rhian, “Is Angharad another relative? Is she married?”
“Oh, no. I’m not sure who her last husband was, but she’s been alone for many years. I think she likes it that way. She came to Annwn in the early days, but not at the very beginning. You’ll have to ask my foster-father for more.”
Quite the older woman, George thought. She must look at the three of us as puppies, the lot of us. Her solemn face and gray eyes had a hold on his imagination. Too bad I can’t stay. I’d like to see that smile again.
CHAPTER 9
Rhian and George dropped off as Isolda pulled up in the manor yard. They offered to help her unload, but she waved them off as others came from the stable to meet her.
Rhian checked the position of the sun nervously. “We must hurry. Rhys and Idris are expecting us.”
They walked quickly into the back hall and into Gwyn’s council room where they found Idris, Rhys, and Ceridwen already present. Food was laid on a sideboard, cold meats from last night’s meal. George and Rhian filled plates and joined the others at the council table.
Gwyn greeted them. “Just in time. Ceridwen told us of the wounds on Iolo’s body and the marks on the saddle. Idris, please report your findings.”
Idris spoke of their early morning tracking expedition. At the appropriate time, Rhian pulled out the broken spell-stick and placed it on the table for all to see.
Ceridwen bent over it without touching it directly. “This is made by one of my kind. The writing’s clear enough: ‘Be thou masked in wind and fury.’” She touched it carefully with one finger. “It wasn’t made here in Annwn.”
She looked up. “This was given to someone who couldn’t work his own disguise.”
Idris continued with the tale and described the recent tunnel through the palisade.
“But this isn’t possible,” Ceridwen said, rising. “I must see this.” She made as if to leave immediately and Gwyn gestured her back down.
“You and Creiddylad shall inspect it when we’re done here.” To Idris, he said, “Did you post a guard?”
“No. We were fairly discreet when we found it and it’s possible the enemy doesn’t know what we discovered. I left Thomas Kethin there to loiter about plausibly and try to spot any unusual interest.” He looked at Ceridwen. “I don’t think we should make our knowledge plain with an inspection, my lord. Better an escape route we know about, than plugging this one and not finding its replacement.”
Gwyn nodded, but Ceridwen was still troubled.
“I must see it somehow, though. I don’t know how this damage could be done as you describe, and therefore I don’t know if we’re vulnerable in some more serious way along the entire palisade.”
Gwyn acknowledged her concern. “You and Creiddylad will go out riding this afternoon, with Thomas in attendance. No one should see you inspect the damage from the outside if you’re cautious. We’ll avoid drawing attention to the inside portion until we have some better sense of our enemy’s plans.”
Idris finished up with the fruitless search at the baths.
Ceridwen then took up the tale. “I’ve asked among the guards about traffic and that won’t be finished until tomorrow morning as they come off shift. But I can tell you already that it’s unlikely to be helpful. On the one hand, there’s been quite a bit of gate traffic, both from our guests and their entourage and from our own people. On the other hand, with this tunnel, why would our enemy need to use the gates?”
Idris said, “It was in my mind that he may have used the gates on the way out, when he was in a hurry and use of the tunnel entrance might have been seen. Clearly he returned in secret, as you suggest.”
George felt obliged to speak up. “There’s one guest servant I saw at dinner who caught my attention with his eager watching of the entrance of the guardsmen. He seemed pleased while everyone was shocked at the package. I don’t want to make too much of it, but he bothered me.”
Rhian said, “You know the man, the one with the white streaks.”
Gwyn nodded. “Part of Creiddylad’s staff. I haven’t noticed him much.”
“That’s because he stays out of your way,” she said. “I’ve seen him duck into other rooms when he sees you coming.”
“Oh?” Gwyn said, with sudden interest.
George was alarmed for Rhian’s safety. “Does he know you’ve seen him do that?”
“I don’t care. He’ll not scare me in my own house.”
Idris said, “Unwise. An enemy discovered and desperate is never to be despised.”
Rhian persisted. “He follows me around, and sometimes Rhys. I think I’ll pay him back and watch him, instead.”
Gwyn looked at her sternly. “You’ll do no such thing. Even if your suspicions have merit, better not to alarm a spy than to scare him into deeper hiding or, worse, force him to hand off the task to an unknown confederate. We have other ways of keeping an eye on him.” He looked at Ceridwen, who nodded thoughtfully.
Rhian spoke up again. “We ran errands in the village today, it’s why we were late. Do you know who’s at the inn?”
She recounted their encounter. “If our kinsman hadn’t warned me, I would have blundered in unprepared. I think he took us for servants. There’s something wrong about him. I don’t see any reason for him to be hanging around.”
It was Rhys’s turn to look alarmed. “Are you sure he didn’t recognize you? No one greeted you by name?”
“George made me keep the glamour up till we were out of sight of the inn, and had me resume it on our way back down the street later.”
Rhys nodded at George approvingly. “A wise precaution. How did you know he was glamoured?”
“I couldn’t exactly tell you. Can’t work very well if you can see through it,” he said.
“But normally you can’t detect a glamour,” Ceridwen said. “Did you know it was there, Rhian?”
Rhian shook her head.
Ceridwen summarized their results so far. “So, it seems clear that the attack on Iolo was made by a man disguised by magic, probably someone else’s magic, implying he has none of his own. He may have used artificial claws as weapons, presumably to suggest a creature not a man. He may have written the note and hung the hands, or that might have been done by a confederate. He knows of a breach in our defenses, made with unknown means, and perhaps may have created it himself. He’s likely here now, under our noses, and he may know of our discoveries. He’s made threats of additional violence, referring to a past history of some
kind. He’s most likely one of the guests or part of their entourage, given the foreign nature of the twine.”
“In addition,” she continued, “we have two unusual characters who may or may not deserve our suspicions and who may or may not have had anything to do with the murder, or each other.”
George said, “It’s not too late to bring back the bloodhounds and have them match the spell-stick to a person, if they went through the entire population, though with each passing hour that becomes more difficult. You could also do a search, looking for the weapon or anything else that matches the evidence, like the twine.”
“Neither of these are attractive alternatives,” Gwyn said. “They might not work, and at best will implicate just one person, assuming the murderer and the note-writer are the same. Much worse, they will certainly alert the enemy, who’s likely to be more than one man acting alone. Even if we catch one, what about the possible others?”
“No,” he said decisively. “We’ll continue in more subtle ways. Ceridwen will finish her interviews so that we can be seen to be looking into it. The inspection of the palisade damage will be done as covertly as possible. We’ll look into these two people but without alerting them. Whatever we find, we must assume there are other enemies we haven’t yet identified.”
He stood. “Iolo was killed for a larger purpose. Bad enough that he was the victim, but worse that it wasn’t even personal. We don’t know the full purpose yet, but it must revolve around Iolo as huntsman, and therefore around the great hunt in two weeks.
“The hunt will happen. It must happen, both for its own sake and our realm’s benefit, but also because I won’t be moved in this way like a pawn by powers that wish me and mine no good.” This last was spoken with quiet ferocity.
The others rose from the table and moved to the door, but Gwyn asked George to stay, closing the door behind them and returning to the council table.
