Cry of Sorrow (12 page)

He released her abruptly and turned away.

“How did you know? How did you stop me?” she asked, bewildered. “How could you possibly …” And then the answer came to her. After so long, at last she understood. It explained so much. “Oh. Oh, Talorcan, you are Dewin.”

“I am not!” he snarled, whipping around to face her.

“But you are,” she insisted. “They have such people in Corania. They are called Walkers. And you are one of them.”

“Enough!” He grabbed her and shook her, breathing hard, his hands tight on her arms. She struggled to pull free, and he let her go abruptly. She stumbled, fetching up against the wall. With a shaking hand, she smoothed back her tangled hair and faced him. They were silent, looking at each other for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” Talorcan at last said, stiffly. “Are you hurt?”

“Not in a place that shows,” she said quietly.

He reached out and touched her face. The tenderness of the gesture brought tears to her eyes. She looked up at the face that had become so dear to her over the last two years, looked up into the face of the enemy.

Remember, she told herself fiercely, remember this is the man who killed Queen Olwen in battle. Remember this is the man who holds Elen captive. Remember, oh, remember, this man is the enemy. She turned her face away
.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, then walked to the parapet, looking out over the water. “Across the sea is my home. There lies Dere, the land where I was born. Would that one day I could show it to you.”

“I think not,” she said harshly, more harshly than she had intended. But she was frightened of herself now. “I understand from you that the city of Elmete where you lived is not much to look at anymore. Not since the Coranians came and destroyed it. As they wish to do in Kymru.”

His voice low and sad, he said, “Ah, but once it was beautiful.” Softly, he sang:

“Oh, Elmete!

Here once many a man, mood-glad
,

Goldbright, of gleams garnished
,

Flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear
,

Gazed on bright gemstones, on gold, on silver, On wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amber
,

On the bright city of broad dominion.”

   “It is,” he continued softly, “my mother’s favorite song. Once Gwydion and Rhiannon sang it for her. I will be sorry when they are dead.”

“You are so sure that Havgan will find them?”

“He does not give up. One day he will find them and kill them.”

“And you will watch?”

“It is my earnest prayer that I will not have to.”

“Perhaps they won’t be captured.”

“They will. For now they are on the move again, making the next bid to free Kymru. They seek the Treasures, to make a High King. Havgan seeks the Treasures, too. Their paths will cross. And Gwydion and Rhiannon will die. If they are lucky, they will die quickly. But I do not think Havgan plans a quick death.”

“Maybe they will surprise you.”

“Maybe they will.” He took a deep breath, then turned to her. “Regan, why did you try to Wind-Ride?”

She turned away, shrugging, her back to him. “I just felt like it.”

“Did you think I would not guess that you wouldn’t return? Why, Regan?”

She did not answer. There was nothing she could bring herself to say. Unbidden, tears began to rain down her face.

“So, you would rather die than be near me?” he rasped. “Do you hate me so much?”

She spun around to face him. “No! Oh, no!” she cried.

He cradled her face in his hands, and she let him. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, tasting the tears there. With mounting passion he kissed her lips. She moaned softly, and tried to pull away, but his grip was too tight. Just as she was on the verge of surrendering, of forgetting everything except his burning kisses, he stepped back, putting her away from him, his face tormented. “Go now, Regan,” he whispered, “for if I escorted you back to your room, I would not leave. Later your heart would break. And then mine would break for you.”

For a moment she hesitated. She wanted his arms around her, his lips on her skin, the feel of him down the length of her body. But she knew what would happen to her if she did not stop this thing now. So she gathered her skirts and began to descend the stairs. She did not look back.

A
FTER
R
EGAN AND
Talorcan had gone, Elen remained in her chair, her knees too weak to allow her to rise. She stared at the wall, her thoughts chaotic. Regan had almost died tonight. And it was Talorcan who had saved her. Surely now Regan would realize the truth Elen herself had seen. These two loved each other. And they would destroy each other, whether they willed it or no. What would the truth do to her dearest friend, her only ally in this prison that had once been her home? How would Regan choose?

Someone put a wineglass in her hand. “Drink,” the voice said.

She blinked and looked up. Of course. Iago. He was still there, still watching her, as he always did.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She laughed a little wildly. “‘What’s the matter?’ How can you ask such a question?”

Iago flushed and withdrew to the door. “Good night, my Queen.”

“I am hardly that, Iago. To say I am your Queen implies you are loyal to me. And we all know to whom you are loyal.”

“The Archdruid is my master. He is to be obeyed, no matter the cost.”

“As I well know,” she said bitterly. “And as Regan knows, too.”

Iago said nothing, but neither did he go. He did not look at her with his tormented eyes, but leaned against the door, staring into the fire on the hearth.

“Yes,” she mused. “We are lucky you fought with us at all, I suppose. For you did fight with us, before you received the Archdruid’s letter. I remember you waiting on the beach with my mother for them to come. I remember you setting fire to their ships at my mother’s command. How proud she would be of you if she could see you now! To know that you do not just set fire to ships, but to people, as well.”

“It was not my wish, Elen,” he said softly.

“What is your wish, then?”

“That you forgive.”

“Never.”

“Yes, I know that,” he said quietly. “I knew that from the beginning. You do not have to be afraid of me. I would never harm you.”

“Unless you are ordered to,” she retorted.

“No. Not even then.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But it is true. And you understand nothing about me at all. Years I loved you. And you never even noticed.”

“A fine way you have of showing me you love me,” she said with bitterness of her own. “Turning from your allegiance to me and working with the enemy.”

“You never noticed that I loved you,” he went on, as though she had not spoken. “And, gods help me, I love you still.”

“You should not say ‘gods,’ Iago,” she jeered. “As a Druid you are now a preost of Lytir. And preosts believe only in the One God. They revile Modron, the Mother. And the land suffers from it! Our harvests are as nothing, now. The Mother turns from us, because of you and your Druids.”

“Do not speak of the Mother,” he said, looking at her at last. “Never speak of her to me.”

The wild agony in his eyes leapt out at her, shaking her to her soul. Without conscious thought, she flinched.

A low moan burst from his throat as he saw her draw back in fear. “You are afraid of me. Oh, my love, you are afraid.”

Swiftly he crossed the room and knelt beside her. He took her cool hand and cradled it in his own hot grip. She tried to pull away, but he clutched her fiercely. “Oh, Elen, my true love, don’t fear me!”

But she did. She, who had once feared nothing, trembled now before the madness in his dark eyes. His tormented face searched her clear blue eyes, and recoiled in his turn from what he saw there.

He leapt to his feet as if stung. “You hate me,” he whispered. “So be it, then.”

“What will you do, Iago?” she whispered in her turn. “Will you kill me?”

“No. I will leave you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I go to seek Talhearn, the Bard. I know what he looks like, you see.”

“I don’t see. What does Talhearn have to do with you?”

“We—the Druids in Ederynion—have been ordered to help find him at all costs.”

“But why?” she pressed. “Even if you found Talhearn, he would never tell you where my brother and his Cerddorian are. Never.”

“What time of year is it, Elen?” he asked gently, as though she were a very dull child.

“Why, it’s early spring. Nearly time—” she halted, as understanding came to her. “Nearly time for the Plentyn Prawf. You seek a testing tool. Why?”

“The Archdruid has at last found a way to prevent Bards and Dewin from using their talents. A collar.”

“And to identify them, you need a testing tool. Oh, Iago, what if you found Talhearn? Would you really turn him over to the Coranians? He was your friend.”

“And you are my love. But that is not enough. It never has been.”

“Yes,” she said bitterly. “I know.”

T
HAT NIGHT THE
message sent by the Shining Ones reached into Gwydion’s sleep.

At last, he had found Y Llech, the Stone, one of the lost Treasures of Kymru. He had found Gwyr Yr Brenin, Seeker of the King. He could see it as it floated just beneath the surface of the clear, shining lake.

The large, square stone was shot through with a latticework of silver threads. At each silvery junction, where one thread met another, a single pearl rested, gleaming. On the top of the stone, a figure eight, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, was carved and studded with dark onyx.

He reached out for the Stone, but it bobbed away from him in the water, just out of his reach. For some reason he was rooted to the spot on the rocks beside the lake and could not move. He could only watch the Stone floating serenely beyond his grasp.

And he cried out then in frustration, in anger, for he was so close but could not obtain what he so desperately sought.

Then, suddenly, a silver dragon swooped down from the sky to land on the rocks. A collar of pearls encircled her slender neck, and her silver hide glistened like the surface of the water.

In her talons she held a wreath of bright yellow globeflowers. She tossed the wreath into the water, and it settled on the surface, floating just above the Stone.

Ask
. Her thought echoed through the deepest chambers of his mind.
You are to ask
.

At first his pride forbade him to speak, to ask for help, but his need was great. “I beg you, then. I beg you to help me,” he rasped.

Reach
, she answered.

And he stretched out his hands, but they were not his. Instead, he saw the slim, delicate hands of a woman stretched toward the Stone, and the Stone floated gently into the outstretched hands. And the hands turned into silver talons, then back into a woman’s hands, flickering unsteadily from one to the other.

And then the Stone came to him as the woman/dragon hands reached out and took it, hauling it up from the water as though it was light as a feather. In triumph, the dragon bellowed and shot up into the sky. And the wreath of flowers, which still floated on the water, blazed like tiny suns in the harsh light. And the water dropped from the Stone like diamonds, as his hands, the woman’s hands, held the Stone aloft under the blazing sky.

Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night

T
angwen ur Madoc sat quietly in the great hall. If she shut her eyes tightly, she could almost imagine the hall as it had been a few years ago when her uncle, Uthyr, was King of Gwynedd. Longingly she remembered those days. She remembered Uncle Uthyr’s great booming laugh, the camaraderie he had with his warriors, the kindness in his dark eyes. She remembered Aunt Ygraine’s beautiful, pale face, her watchfulness, how she rarely took her eyes off her daughter, Morrigan, the only child left to her after her son, Arthur, died.

Tangwen remembered Morrigan most of all. Morrigan, with her mother’s eyes and her father’s laughing spirit and charm. Morrigan, her dearest friend, was the true Queen of Gwynedd now that Uthyr was dead. But Morrigan was not here in Caer Gwynt, the Fortress of the Winds, her rightful place. Morrigan was hiding with the rest of the Cerddorian, those men and women who fought the enemy still. They raided tribute caravans, burned the hateful temples to the Coranian god, and killed the wyrce-jaga, the most feared and hated of the enemy.

She closed her eyes even tighter, bowed her head even lower, trying to shut out the sight of the Coranian warriors. She tried to make-believe that they were the men and women of King Uthyr’s teulu, tried to make-believe that Uthyr himself was sitting next to her, that he was alive again, and still King.

She clenched her fists in the rich, golden material of her gown, then raised her head, shaking back the long hair of reddish-gold that curtained her delicate face. It was no use. Those days were gone, and there was no going back. Instead of the good-natured roistering that her uncle’s warriors had always engaged in, the drunken shouting of the Coranian troops pounded at her ears. And the man who sat at the table beside her, though called the King of Gwynedd, was not her uncle. It was Madoc. Madoc, the traitor. Madoc, her father.

Madoc’s reddish-gold hair gleamed in the light of the torches that were set around the walls of the hall. As always, he was dressed richly, tonight in a tunic and trousers of dark blue decorated with silver thread and sapphires. On his brow he wore a circlet of silver, for the sapphire torque of Gwynedd had been taken away by Ygraine before that final battle. It was in that battle that King Uthyr had been killed by the man who really ruled Gwynedd—General Catha, whose word was law and whom her father obeyed as a dog obeys its master.

Shame crept on her again, bringing with it misery and hopelessness. What could she hope for? That Morrigan would return and slay Madoc and drive the Coranians from this land? Could she hope for such a thing as that and still love her father? For she did love him, in spite of what he was. Yet, she was ashamed of him. Sometimes she almost despised him. Especially on those days when she went out of the fortress to the city and saw afresh what the enemy had done. Especially on those days when she walked by the Sacred Grove that was gone now, the alder trees destroyed, a temple to Lytir in its place. Especially on those days when she watched the people of Tegeingl go about their business in silence and misery. Especially on those days when the people were kind to her, knowing who she was, forgiving her in her mute anguish.