Cry of Sorrow (26 page)

Something flashed out of the corner of her eye, something whistled close to her ear, then flew past. Sinend, just behind her, stumbled. Cynfar grabbed for her, but missed. Sinend went down, clutching her arm where a bright red rose had blossomed. Blood poured from the wound. The spear that had grazed her buried itself in the earth, but Dudod leapt over it in the nick of time and kept to his feet. Llywelyn and Dudod picked Sinend up, hardly missing a beat, and dragged her along.

The warriors shouted, laughing, cursing. More spears flew in the air, flashing in the bloodred light of the setting sun. Ahead of her, ten warriors waited to cut them off. They were surrounded. It was over. Over.

She halted, unwilling to run to meet her death, meaning to make them come to her. That one small victory she would have. The others pressed around her, ringed by the grinning warriors.

Her short life was over. She had never even had a dream.

With a rush of wind, fire leapt up, crackling hungrily, as though sprung from the earth itself. The blue-tinged fire ringed the little band, rushing outward to hold off the ring of warriors.

Druid’s Fire. How? Who?

“Sinend?” she asked, her voice shaking. But Sinend, her head drooping, held up only by the strong arms of Llywelyn and Dudod, did not reply.

“Not her, girl,” Dudod said, panting. “Not her. But whom?”

Then men and women dressed in tunics of green and brown, arrows at the ready, knives gleaming, rose up from the surrounding hills. As one, arrows were loosened, cutting through the air, speeding into the backs of the Coranian warriors, shearing through the metal links of byrnies, sending the Coranians deathward.

A man with a torque around his throat of opals and gold led the Kymric warriors in their race down the hill, his short sword gleaming in his sinewy brown hand. With a wild cry, he swung the blade, severing the head of a Coranian warrior who had survived the first volley. The Kymri poured down the hills, screaming defiance, butchering the enemy as the fire raged, still ringing the little band, keeping them safe from harm.

C
ARIADAS SQUINTED, TRYING
to see through the flames. At last the fire quieted, burned low, then was gone. Before them stood a woman with hair as black as a raven’s wing, her eyes the color of a summer sky.

“Do not be afraid,” the woman said kindly. “You are safe now.”

“Sabrina? Sabrina ur Dadweir?” Dudod asked.

“Yes. And I know you, Dudod ap Cyvarnion.”

“One thing I’ve been curious about,” Dudod said smoothly, as though they had all the time in the world to chat together. “That day in Llwynarth, when I was there to find out about Princess Enid, I saw you in the marketplace with Bledri. Did you see me?”

“Of course, I did.” She smiled. “I must say, I was surprised. You used to be better than that.”

Suddenly, Dudod laughed. “Try me, Sabrina. I’ll show you how good I still am.”

“Dudod, for the gods’ sake,” a man said irritably, “act your age.” The man had dark brown hair, and his green eyes flashed with annoyance. He lightly laid his hand on Sabrina’s arm, then quickly removed his hand and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

“Trystan,” Dudod said, nodding coolly. “Still no sense of humor, I see. Tell me, how is Esyllt?”

Sabrina’s face tightened, and her eyes flickered. But she said nothing.

“Esyllt is well,” Trystan said evenly.

“A shame,” Dudod said, grinning at Sabrina.

The man who had led the warriors down the hills strode up, the gold and opals of his torque flickering in the setting sun. His sword was bloody, and his face was fierce, harsh with the echoes of blood-lust momentarily stilled, lined with a pain that never slept.

“Dudod,” the man said, bowing slightly. “You are all welcome in Coed Coch.”

“You must not bow to me,” Dudod said. “It is I who should bow to you, King Owein.”

“I am King of nothing, Dudod,” Owein said, his voice bitter. “However that may be, we are glad to see you alive. We were not sure of your fate. The chain of Y Dawnus is broken, and news is scanty, at best.”

“Are there—are there any others who have made it here?” Cariadas asked, her voice small.

Owein turned to her. “Some,” he said softly. “There are some. Not many.”

“Know, then, who has come to you this day, King Owein,” Dudod said formally. “This is Cariadas ur Gwydion, the heir to the Dreamer. And the Ardewin, Elstar ur Anieron, and Elidyr, my son, Anieron’s heir. And here are Llywelyn and Cynfar, their sons. And this,” he said, taking Sinend tenderly into this arms from Llywelyn and Cynfar’s hold, “is Sinend ur Aergol, heir to the Archdruid’s heir. And she is hurt.”

“She will be tended,” Owein said, walking forward to examine the wound. “It is not deep, and will heal well, I think. Of course, the Dewin could say better.”

Elstar went to Sinend and put her hand lightly over the wound. She closed her eyes briefly as she did the Life-Reading, then opened them and turned to Owein. “You are right, Owein. We will make a doctor of you yet, I think.”

Owein smiled his bitter smile. “My experiences these past years have taught me much of wounds.”

A woman, fierce for all her petite size, strode up to them. “All dead, Owein,” she said crisply. “Of us, only young Gwyr was wounded, and that was his own fault. We have already scavenged their rations. Enough to eat well tonight. We must go.”

“Thank you, Teleri. Come, my guests. We shall not reach the main camp until tomorrow. But tonight you shall sleep safely in Coed Coch, guarded by my warriors. Come.”

T
HE FIRE CRACKLED
cheerfully, and Cariadas gratefully held out her dirty hands to the blaze. Sabrina pressed a cup of warm wine into her hands. Cariadas sipped, willing the tremors to ease off. The shakes had surprised her, coming on so suddenly, just a few moments ago when they stopped for the night beneath the spreading branches of Coed Coch.

“Drink, child,” Sabrina said softly.

Cariadas drank. The brew was warm, burning like fire down her throat. She choked slightly, then, urged by Sabrina, drank some more. A warm lassitude came over her. The cup felt so heavy. Sabrina took the cup from her tired hands and set it on the ground. The Druid laid a blanket across Cariadas’s shoulders. Cariadas risked a glance at the others, shamed that she had come undone. But the faces around the fire were sympathetic. Owein’s warriors, alert and grave, spaced around the perimeter of the clearing, did not laugh. Dudod, Elidyr, and Cynfar gave her brief, warm smiles. Llywelyn even reached out and patted her hand. And Sinend—

“Where’s Sinend?” Cariadas cried, nearly panicked. The last few moments when they had halted to camp had been a blur.

“Sinend’s fine, child,” Sabrina said, her voice soothing. “She’s sleeping. Right over there, see?”

Cariadas strained her eyes, catching sight of Sinend bundled in blankets. Elstar’s arm was around the girl’s shoulders to lift her up and give her something to drink. With a tired sigh, Sinend drank. Elstar tenderly laid Sinend down, tucking the blankets around her. Elstar rose, then came to her husband, settling down next to him. He put his arm around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder.

“We have some Dewin here in our forest,” Owein said quietly. “Others have passed on to them what they saw.”

“The death-march,” Dudod said, his voice harsh. “We saw the beginning. Before we got too far away. Did it go on?”

“It did. All the way across Rheged they marched the Y Dawnus they had caught.”

“How many dead?” Elstar asked, with a shaking voice.

“Almost half. They took over two hundred people in that raid. And at least eighty of them died before reaching their destination. Lucky them.”

“Where did they take them?”

“Eiodel.”

At the sound of that name, Cariadas went cold. Eiodel. That black fortress built by Havgan, the Destroyer. Eiodel, the fortress of shadows that faced Cadair Idris. Eiodel, Havgan’s defiance against the mountain of Idris.

“The next day they marched them to Llyn Mwygil and ferried them on to Afalon.”

“And my da?” Elstar asked hesitantly. “Is he alive?” Her tone was uncertain, as though not knowing what to really hope for.

“Anieron was alive by the time they got to Eiodel. I do not know if he still is. He was not among those taken to Afalon. Of that we are sure.”

Slowly Cynfar, tears spilling down his young face, pulled something from his tunic. It glittered in his hands like a piece of sky and moonlight come to earth.

“The Master Bard’s torque,” Cariadas said in awe. “How did you get that?”

“Granda gave it to me,” the boy said, his voice shaking. “He took it from his neck and handed it to me, as we were going down the tunnel at Allt Llwyd. He Wind-Spoke to me alone and said I should give this to my da. He said da was the Master Bard now.” Cynfar held the torque out to his father. But Elidyr did not move to take it.

“No,” Elidyr whispered. “It is not for me. Not yet. Anieron may be alive. We don’t know.”

“Alive or not,” Dudod said harshly, “he cannot be the Master Bard anymore. He is not free. Take it, my son. You are the heir.”

“No,” Elidyr said stubbornly. “No.”

“Husband,” Elstar said her voice soft. “The task has passed on. Our network is broken, scattered. The children, our hope for the future, have been taken. You and I, the Master Bard and the Ardewin, we must rebuild what has been lost. Dudod is right. My da is no longer the Master Bard. You are.”

Cariadas, tears spilling down her face, wept helplessly and soundlessly. Wept for Anieron, and all that had been lost with him. Wept, even more, for the look on Elidyr’s face. Wept to see Elidyr’s hand reach out, shaking, to touch the necklace, then hesitantly take it from his son. Wept to see Elidyr clasp it around his neck, and finger the torque as tears streamed down his drawn face.

Wept to see Dudod close his eyes and look away.

“So,” Owein said quietly. “Anieron is in Eiodel, in the hands of the Warleader. How long, think you, before he talks?”

“Never,” Cariadas said fiercely. “Never.”

“I mean no insult. But my own sister, a lady of pride and courage, at last gave the enemy the words they longed to hear. In the end, they always do.”

“My brother will never speak,” Dudod said wearily.

“How can you be so sure?” Elstar asked in a voice full of tears.

“Didn’t you see what he did as he ran?”

“What do you mean?” Cariadas asked fearfully. She had not seen. She hadn’t been able to bear to watch as they captured him.

Dudod shook his head. “He will never speak. Never. Never sing, never tell another story, never lead another Alban Awyr, and never praise Taran with his honeyed words. Never again.”

“Oh, gods, no! Dudod, he didn’t! He couldn’t have!” Elstar’s horror spilled from her, snaking through the hearts of those who sat there, twining through their souls, leaving cold terror behind.

“He did. He cut his tongue out as he ran. He will never speak. Unless he Speaks to us on the Wind.”

The night waited in silence, broken only by the sounds of the crackling fire and Elstar’s sobs. Cariadas, too stunned to cry, sat still as a stone, barely breathing. Anieron had done that to himself. He had sacrificed his beautiful voice, his chanted poems, his songs, his very being. Sacrificed it all so that they would live.

He must have known what was coming. He must have sensed it, somehow. Why else would he have given his torque to Cynfar before leaving Allt Llwyd? Anieron’s last song had been sung. His voice was now stilled. How could he bear it? How could she? What would become of them all now?

NO!

The cry rang through the clearing, shattering the night, darting through the sky over Kymru, splintering the cold stars overhead.

NO!

They leapt to their feet, all of them, the warriors with their weapons ready, looking around wildly for the source of that hopeless cry.

“Who—” Cariadas began.

“Anieron. His Mind-Shout.” Of them all, Dudod had not risen. “Oh, my brother,” he whispered. “What are they doing to you?”

NO! NO! N—

Then all was silent.

Gwaithdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—evening

H
e woke up reluctantly, fighting to stay within his last attempt to forget.

Something was pulling him away from his dreams, forcing him to wake. But the dreams! They were so sweet, so pure. In them he was unfettered, running free beneath the sun, the wind blowing in his silvery hair, water playing and laughing as it wandered through the meadow, the earth at his feet sprouting rich colors. He darted through the fields as the breeze drew gentle patterns in the tall grass. And at last, at long last, he understood the meaning of those shapes born of air. He knew—at last, he knew.

Until he woke to darkness. And the knowledge was lost to him, slipping away from him along with the dream’s sweetness.

“Anieron, Anieron, is it you?” That voice, remembered from some distant time, from some distant life, pulled at him until he truly woke and knew where he was—trapped in this dank, dark cell in the very bowels of Eiodel, the dark fortress of the Golden Man.

He wanted to call out to the owner of that voice. To tell the man something, anything that would help ease the fear he heard in the other’s tone. But he could not speak. For he had cut his tongue out to save the others, to prevent himself from breaking. And to taunt the Golden Man with the useless prize gained.

Memories of the death-march crowded over him, overwhelming him with grief as the tears ran down his face. So many had died just in those two weeks of marching here to Gwytheryn. So many little children there had been, now dead. So many of the teachers, men and women he had known for years, some of whom had even guided his first steps.

There had been so many guards—too many for the Bards and Dewin to attempt escape, even if they hadn’t been drugged with hawthorn. And the guards had been too many to allow the Cerddorian to rescue them. They would only have lost their lives, too.

The marchers had been given only drugged water, and even that in small supply. At night they had lain on the rough ground, and the nights were cold. Weakened by hunger, by exposure, the very old and the very young had died.