Cry of Sorrow (25 page)

T
HEY BURST INTO
the cave, momentarily blinded by the shadows. Scurrying forms, the sound of booted feet slapping the rocks, the smell of fear assaulted their senses. A hand shot out from the darkness, grasping Cariadas’s arm in a vise grip.

“Cariadas! Sinend! Come on. You two are in our group.”

She turned to face Llywelyn, Elstar and Elidyr’s eighteen-year-old son. “Who goes with us?” she asked.

“Anieron, and Dudod. My da and mam. And Cynfar. Come on.”

She and Sinend followed Llywelyn down the dark tunnels filled with hurrying people. Many carried armfuls of books and scrolls. Some carried packs of food and water. They burst into Anieron’s chambers. Cynfar, Llywelyn’s younger brother, was bundling Anieron’s cloak of feathers into a woolen sack.

“We can’t take that!” Llywelyn cried. “We’re taking too much as it is!”

Cynfar, his usually sunny sixteen-year-old face now set in stubborn lines, continued to stuff the cloak into the sack. “We will take it,” the boy said fiercely. “It’s granda’s. One day it will be da’s, and one day it will be mine.”

Llywelyn opened his mouth to argue, but Cariadas understood. “Here, then, Cynfar, put this in, too.” She snatched up the golden branch with its tinkling bells. The bells shifted, ringing with jeweled undertones in the stone chamber.

“You fool!” Llywelyn cried, snatching at the branch but missing it. “The sound will give us away!”

“Not if we wrap it up tightly,” Cariadas said grimly, bundling the branch into the sack and tying it shut. “There, Cynfar. Now, hoist it up and try it.”

Cynfar lifted the sack, wrapping the ties around his shoulders. He purposely shifted it, and it did not make a noise.

“See?” Cariadas said. Llywelyn was always so bossy, always thought he knew best, always looking at her as though she would never measure up to anyone’s expectations.

The Ardewin hurried into the chamber. Her light brown hair was unbraided, cascading down her back. Her face was calm, but her hands were clenched tightly on the scrolls she carried.

“Mam!” Llywelyn exclaimed. “Cynfar here is trying to take the cloak and the branch. It is too much! We’ll be caught before we move one step.”

“Better they should be destroyed, perhaps, than to fall into the Coranians’ hands,” Elstar said as she bundled the scrolls into another sack. “Here, Cynfar, give them to me.”

“No, mam,” Cynfar said stubbornly.

“Cynfar,” Elstar began, straightening up, her hands on her hips. “Leave them be.”

“Let him try,
cariad
,” her husband said as he entered the chamber. Elidyr’s voice was mild, as it always was, but his wife and oldest son did not argue. Elstar said nothing, only looked away and continued her work. Llywelyn muttered that it was foolish—but he was not speaking loud enough for any but Cariadas to hear.

Elidyr picked up a sack and motioned for Cariadas to turn around. He tied the sack to her back. The weight was light, easy for her to handle. They would save the books, the scrolls, the poems, and the histories of her people. Save them for a time when Kymru belonged to them again. Then they would sing these songs, chant these poems, tell these stories under the light of the sun, the breeze playing around them as they stood on green earth, with water sparkling and playing at their feet.

“Here, Llywelyn,” Elidyr said, “take some of the food.” Elidyr tied the sack to his son’s back, then briefly ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, boyo. Anieron, your mother and I have planned many, many nights for just such a happening. Already small groups are slipping out of Allt Llwyd, carrying our treasures, guarding our children. We make for Coed Coch, and there we will begin again.”

Anieron entered, followed by Dudod. “Is everyone ready?” he asked gravely.

“Anieron,” Cariadas said, her voice hushed and small. “Do you think—do you think my da made it out in time? And Rhiannon?”

“They left over a week ago, child. I am sure they are well.”

“But Rhiannon went west.”

“Rhiannon will be fine,” Elstar said sharply, her eyes cutting to her husband, then darting away again. “She is one who can take care of herself.”

“Her journey would not take her near Maenor Deilo,” Anieron said smoothly, as though Elstar had not spoken, “nor near Gwytheryn—from where these Coranians surely came. And your da has gone through Ederynion, to cut across to Gwynedd. No, they are both far from harm, child.”

“Which is more,” Elstar said, her blue eyes flashing, “than I can say for us. Are we to go now?”

“Yes, daughter,” Anieron said quietly. “Now we go. All the others are already on their way.”

“And the enemy is at the cave mouth now,” Elstar said, her head cocked to one side. “I see them in my mind’s eye.”

“Then we go,” Dudod said, stuffing his harp into a half-empty sack, then swinging the burden onto his back. “Come.”

T
HEY WALKED THE
tunnels silently, their footfalls making no sound. From far off they heard the rumor of death—harsh voices, the faintest wisp of smoke. The warriors had found the library. Some books had been left behind, and now they were burning.

Elstar’s mind-voice spoke. I see them. They have surrounded the caves. They have captured so many of us. They knew the ways out!

How many have gotten through?

No more than five groups—maybe fifty of us, all told. But there are hundreds already in enemy hands. The Coranians are forcing the captives to drink something—hawthorn, I think—to make them sleepy, useless. They will never be able to rescue themselves! And there are not enough free ones to rescue them
.

Look ahead, my girl. What about our exit? Guarded?

I see no one here. But that does not mean—

I know
.

Cariadas shivered. They slowed as a dim light winked at the end of the tunnel. Silent as ghosts, they crept nearer and nearer.

Elstar paused for a brief Wind-Ride. No one I can see. Still, they might be hiding
.

Search, then. Do your best, daughter, Anieron’s mind-voice said
.

Nothing. But there are trees not far away. They could—oh, the sun flashes in the trees! They are there.

This, then, is what we do. I go first and run north, drawing them off. When you see they’re after me, run south. As quickly as you can.

Da, no! They want you most of all!

And that is why they shall have me. If I get away, I will circle around to the south and meet up with you all.

Dudod reached out and gripped Anieron’s arm. He shook his head.
No, brother. Let me do it
.

No. Your task is to get the others to safety. Do you remember whom we have here? We have the Ardewin, the next Master Bard, and the four Great Ones of the next generation. Sinend, who will be Archdruid, and Cariadas, the Dreamer. Llywelyn, who will be the Ardewin, and Cynfar, the Master Bard. They must be protected at all costs. I am old. I have done much. Their chance has not yet come
.

Anieron—

Dudod, I have decided. Let me go.

Slowly, oh, so slowly, Dudod released his grip on his brother’s arm. Anieron straightened, shedding his pack. He reached out and cradled Elstar’s tear-streaked face in his hand, kissing his daughter one last time. He grasped Elidyr’s shoulders, pulling his son-in-law and nephew to him for a last embrace. He fixed his wise, green eyes on Sinend, on Cariadas, on Llywelyn, on Cynfar. “You four,” he said quietly, “will be the Great Ones of the High King, one day. I will not say his name, not even to you. But this will be so. Remember that. And be worthy of it.”

At last, Anieron turned to his brother. He smiled crookedly. So I will go to Gwlad Yr Haf first, brother, and greet the dead. As always, I will be ahead of you
.

Dudod nodded his attempt at a smile, almost a grimace.
Always you were first
.

And always I will be
. And with that, Anieron slipped away.

T
HEY WATCHED, WAITING
for their chance, almost unable to see it when it came because of tear-blinded eyes. Anieron ran like the wind, like Taran’s Wind, away from the caves, away from the trees that hid such bitter fruit, down the sparkling sands.

And the Coranians poured from the trees, haring after the Master Bard, shouting and laughing, knowing their prey was caught. Knowing, already, who and what he was.

And as the enemy ran, intent on their quarry, a desperate band slipped from the caves, threaded their way through the rocks, and were gone, leaving their hearts behind.

Gwaithdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—late afternoon

“A
LMOST THERE, CHILD
.
Almost there.”

Cariadas lifted her head, more because of the gentleness in Dudod’s voice than because she understood his words. She followed his gaze to the smudge of emerald green, glimpsed in the distance over the low hills.

Overhead, the sun had begun to sink toward that cool green, staining the sky. She thought of how it would feel to come out of these brown, dead hills, to walk under the shadowy silence of the distant forest. She thought of how it would feel to be safe and to walk without terror of what was hiding ahead or lurking behind.

At last, after more than two weeks of running, of hiding; of traveling night after night under the light of the moon, and sleeping lightly by day; of grieving, over and over and over again for Anieron, lost to them now, maybe lost to them forever; their destination was in sight—Coed Coch, the westernmost forest in Rheged.

And so few, so pitifully few of the Y Dawnus would make it to this place. Hundreds of Dewin and Bards—men, women, and little children just beginning to feel their powers—had been captured. And then, oh, and then, the enemy had marched them in long, chained lines across Rheged. Drugged, denied food, beaten mercilessly, the weak—the very young, the very old—fell to their knees. If they did not rise, they were murdered, speared and gutted, and left to rot on the blameless earth.

Later, much later, after the ragged, starving Dewin and Bards lurched by, driven by the shouts and curses and blows of the enemy, the people of Kymru—denied the right to help those still alive—crept out to help the dead. Bodies, some so very, very small, were washed with care. Rents in tattered clothing were repaired, hair was combed and braided, blossoms of hawthorn and marigold tucked into dead hands. Fires were lit to consume and cleanse the bodies. Chants were offered to Taran, the god of the Bards, and to Nantsovelta, the goddess of the Dewin, songs to speed the dead on their way to Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer.

Cariadas knew it all, for she had seen it on the Wind-Ride during those first few horrible days, until the distance had grown too great. She did not mind not being able to see any more. She had only watched because she knew she would need the memory in the years to come. She knew she would need it for those days when the weariness of the struggle would overwhelm her. She knew she would need the memory, the rage, and the grief to keep her strong.

She trudged now behind Dudod, her head bowed, struggling to put one foot before the other. Since the new-moon phase, they had begun to travel late in the afternoon. The nights were too dark, now, for making good time. Today, knowing Coed Coch was at last so near, they had traveled since sunrise. Elstar, Llywelyn, and Cariadas took turns Wind-Riding, scouting ahead and behind for signs of the enemy. But there had been nothing.

She walked slowly, daydreaming of how it would be in Coed Coch. They would find King Owein’s band of warriors. They would be taken to the camp deep in the forest. They would be warmed by the fire, be given hot food and warm blankets on which to sleep. They would hear the warriors of Owein sing gallant songs of victory, their proud heads lifted to the starry sky.

More daydreams followed. Anieron had escaped—the Master Bard had always been so clever. He would already be there in Coed Coch, waiting to welcome them. And her da, who would have heard of the taking of Allt Llwyd, would come to Coed Coch, abandoning his plans, abandoning everything just to comfort her and keep her safe.

“Stop.” Llywelyn’s voice, so stern, cut through her daydreams.

“What did you see?” Dudod asked, for it had been Llywelyn’s turn to Wind-Ride.

“A glint of something. Behind us.”

“How far?”

“Just over that last hill.”

“Coed Coch is only a league away. Could it be Owein’s men?”

“What would they wear to flash in the sun? I think it must be—”

A shout behind them made Cariadas jump.

“Elstar,” Dudod said hurriedly. “Ride.”

Elstar, her pale face smudged with dirt, her brown hair tangled and dusty, gave a nod, then was off. She stood still, her eyes closed, supported by her husband and youngest son. Then her eyelids fluttered as she returned to herself.

“A group of twenty warriors,” she said tightly, “just behind that last hill. They have seen us! And more are on either side of us!”

Dudod, his eyes cutting to the hill behind them, then to the forest ahead of them, made a decision. “We run for it, then. There’s no cover here. Run as if the hounds of the Lord of Chaos himself are after you! Run!”

He grabbed Cariadas and flung her forward, forcing her to lead. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Sinend following, then Cynfar. Elidyr grabbed his wife’s hand and ran. Llywelyn hesitated, waiting for Dudod. He shouted something, pointing behind them. The hill was crested with the boar’s-head helmets of the enemy. The warriors yelled gleefully and poured over the hill, laughing and shouting as they prepared to run their prey to the earth.

And they would, she understood suddenly, for there was no cover here. And the warriors came on so fast. Worse, they came pouring down from the surrounding hills, too. There were over fifty of them, rushing toward her from either side, preparing to kill her and hers—eventually. When they were done having their fun. If she were lucky, they would kill her now.

She ran, but the forest seemed no nearer than before. She risked another glance behind her. They were all there running with her, but the warriors were gaining, gaining. They’d never make it. Never.