Cry of Sorrow (3 page)

“And to that end I brought the wyrce-jaga, our witch-hunters,” Havgan continued, nodding at Sledda, who bowed in return. “And to that end I brought with me the finest warrior I have ever known.” The bitter lines around Sigerric’s mouth deepened as he acknowledged Havgan’s praise.

“And when my armies came to Kymru, we were aided in our battles by the Druids, whose support has been invaluable. Of the loyalty of the Archdruid and his heir I have no doubts,” Havgan lied. Cathbad, his mad eyes sparkling, inclined his proud head, while Aergol remained impassive, as though Havgan had not spoken at all.

“At first, for all intents and purposes, we had Kymru by the throat. In Ederynion, our forces, led by General Talorcan defeated and killed Queen Olwen. We captured her daughter and made her Queen, to do our bidding. In Rheged, King Urien, Queen Ellirri, and their son, Prince Elphin, all died at our hands. Morcant Whledig, one of Rheged’s lords, now sits on the throne, advised by General Baldred. In Prydyn, King Rhoram’s brother-in-law rules in the King’s stead, guided by General Penda. And in Gwynedd, King Uthyr was killed and his half brother, Madoc, now rules for us with the help of General Catha.”

Havgan stood, walking over to stand before the fire. The flames at his back outlined his golden figure. “In Gwytheryn, the Dewin and Bards fled their fortresses. The preosts of Lytir now inhabit Y Ty Dewin, the wyrce-jaga now live at Neuadd Gorsedd.”

The room was silent; the only sound was the crackling fire. Havgan walked to the narrow north window, the one that faced Cadair Idris. His back to the room, he said softly, “But Cadair Idris remains closed to me. The Guardian of the Doors denies me entry, because I have not the Treasures.”

He turned from the window, his face expressionless, his voice cold. “The Archdruid has explained to me what these Treasures are. They are the Stone of Water, the Spear of Fire, the Cauldron of Earth, and the Sword of Air. By these Treasures a man undergoes what the Kymri call the Tynged Mawr, which means Great Fate. If he survives this test, he becomes High King with command of powers beyond our comprehension. With these powers, the High King may command even wild beasts to do his bidding. He can spy upon the enemy from many leagues away. He can raise fog, call fire to burn an enemy camp, direct a battle by speaking to the minds of his warriors. Such powers would be invaluable.”

Havgan circled the chairs, coming to a stop behind Cathbad’s. He rested his hand on the Archdruid’s shoulder. Cathbad’s face spasmed in pain at Havgan’s grip.

“And the Archdruid also explained to me,” Havgan continued softly, “that somewhere in Kymru there is one who can claim to be High King. Who he is, where he is, the Archdruid cannot say. In fact, this is such a closely guarded secret that none can be found who can—or will—say.” Havgan at last released the Archdruid and stood in front of the fire once more. Cathbad closed his eyes briefly at his release.

“In the last two years we have consolidated our hold on Kymru,” Havgan continued. “The Druids have journeyed throughout this land with the preosts of Lytir, proclaiming the triumph of our God. And yet, it is not enough. Our work remains incomplete. For though we have Queen Elen, her brother, Prince Lludd, eludes us. Though we have killed King Urien and Queen Ellirri and their oldest son, their second son, Owein, still lives. Though we have taken Prydyn, the former King, Rhoram, is alive somewhere. Though King Uthyr is dead, his daughter, Queen Morrigan, continues to escape our grasp. Cadair Idris remains closed. The Treasures are hidden. I am not High King. But I will be. For I have seen in a dream that the time has come to change this unhappy state of affairs.”

Havgan, who had been watching Aergol closely without seeming to, saw the first expression he had ever seen on the man’s face—surprise. But why? What did Aergol think it meant that Havgan had dreamed?

He returned to his chair, his words cool and clipped. “Each of you has been given a task. To you, Eadwig, the task of bringing the Kymri to the worship of Lytir. To you, Sledda, the task of finding the Y Dawnus, the witches, who have escaped us. To you, Sigerric, the task of wiping out the warrior bands that continue to defy us. To you, Cathbad and Aergol, the task of finding a way to control the witches. You will tell me now, each of you, the progress you have made. Archbyshop, you may begin.”

“As you know,” Eadwig said quietly, “one of the first things we did was to burn their sacred groves and build temples to Lytir in their place. Every Soldaeg—or, as the Kymri say, every Suldydd—we call the people to worship.”

“And they come,” Cathbad said smugly.

“Yes,” Eadwig replied hesitantly. “They come.”

“You think this strange?” Sledda asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“They go to the services because they must,” Sigerric shrugged. “This is not so hard to understand.”

“I do not think that is why they go,” Eadwig said.

“No?” Havgan asked sharply, for he did not think so, either.

“No. I think they go because it amuses them. I think they are laughing at us.”

“Laughing!” Sledda exclaimed, shocked.

“Laughing,” Eadwig said firmly.

“They are not,” Cathbad snapped. “They know it is hopeless to resist. They go because they must, because their Druids tell them to.”

At the Archdruid’s words, Aergol stirred slightly. As subdued as the movement was, Havgan caught it. “You know better, don’t you, Archdruid’s heir? Even if Cathbad does not. Tell us, Aergol, what do you think they are doing?”

For a moment Aergol did not answer. Then he said quietly, “They are waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Sigerric asked.

“For the High King to return to Cadair Idris. Then they will drive you from this land into the sea.”

“You dare to say such things?” Sledda began, rising from his chair.

“Be quiet, wyrce-jaga,” Havgan hissed. Sledda shrank back into his chair. “Go on, Eadwig.”

“There is little more to say, my Lord. As you also know, the temples that we build are often burned. These fires are, no doubt, set by the Cerddorian.”

“Which brings us to Sigerric,” Havgan said.

Sigerric, not meeting Havgan’s eyes, began. “The Cerddorian, which, I am given to understand by Aergol, means ‘The Sons of Cerridwen,’ seem to be everywhere. They are said to be blessed in their efforts to drive us from the land by the goddess Cerridwen herself, the Queen of the Wood, she who leads the Wild Hunt. Bands of Cerddorian burn the temples of Lytir. They attack tribute caravans and small groups of Coranian warriors. Their efforts are not confined to any one area—but we have managed to confirm that their orders are given through the network of witches set up by the Master Bard and his daughter, the Ardewin. Orders are filtered through this network of Bards and Dewin to the chief band in each kingdom. Their headquarters are unknown, yet we have managed to pinpoint their general areas. For example, the band led by Prince Lludd, in Ederynion, is somewhere in the cantref of Arystli—probably in the great forest of Coed Ddu.”

“If you know where they are, why can’t you find them?” Sledda sneered.

“Have you ever, wyrce-jaga, attempted to find people in a forest that stretches for over ten leagues in each direction? Ever hunted for Bards who could call a warning from mind to mind without a sound? Ever hunted for people who had Dewin who could ‘see’ you coming from leagues away? But, of course, I am forgetting. You have hunted for such. For two years. And managed to find nothing.”

Sledda shot Sigerric a venomous look with his one eye, but said nothing.

“The chief band in Rheged,” Sigerric continued, “led by Owein PenMarch, appears to be centered quite close to the capital of Llwynarth, probably somewhere in Coed Addien. The band led by King Rhoram in Prydyn seems to be somewhere off the coast of cantref Aeron. The last band in Gwynedd, led by Queen Morrigan, is probably deep in the mountains of Eyri.”

“But,” Eadwig asked, puzzled, “surely at one time or another you have caught members of these bands and questioned them. Someone must have told you something.”

“We have caught some Cerddorian, Archbyshop. But it has yielded us nothing. Not one man or woman we have captured has spoken one word—not even their names. And not even under the kind of tortures the wyrce-jaga can devise.”

“And yet, General, the attacks of these bands are mere pinpricks. The villages, the towns, the cities—all are in our hands,” Cathbad pointed out. “These attacks will die down, surely, as my people become reconciled to their lot.”

Havgan noticed that something like a bitter smile was tugging at the corners of Aergol’s mouth in response to the Archdruid’s confident words.

“You know these people, Archdruid,” Havgan said. “You know Prince Lludd and his Captain, Angharad. You know Owein and his Captain, Trystan. You know King Rhoram and his Captain, Achren. You know Queen Morrigan and her Captain, Cai. Through you, I know them also. And yet you say they will give up? They will not. Sigerric has done well to—as you say—hold the villages, the towns, and the cities. Done well to even be able to guess where the chiefs of these bands are hiding. Yet they cannot be found and killed. Not as long as the network set by the Master Bard and the Ardewin still functions.”

“And that,” Sledda interrupted eagerly, “will not be for much longer.”

“Which, Sledda, brings us to you. For two years I have heard you say this. And talk is all I have gotten from you.”

“My Lord, the time we have been waiting for has come. I have captured a Bard. A Bard who is willing to tell all he knows!”

“Why?” Aergol cut in curiously.

“Because,” Sledda replied, his one eye gleaming with cruel satisfaction, “I hold his wife and baby daughter. And he will do anything to have them freed.”

“Ah,” said Sigerric, the bitter lines around his mouth deepening. “And will you have them freed?”

“Most unfortunately, General, I cannot. For his wife died of injuries sustained when she fought too strongly for her virtue.”

“Against you.”

Sledda smiled. “Against me.”

“What woman wouldn’t?”

Sledda’s smile faded. “Simply because you have failed in your task to locate the Cerddorian, Sigerric, there is no need to insult me.”

“Oh, Sledda, there is always need—and so much cause—to insult you. And the baby girl? What did you do to her?”

Sledda shrugged. “I did not have the means to care for the child after her mother died. I ordered her killed.”

“The supreme cruelty. To make a man betray his people to save the lives of those already dead.”

“A piece of information that, I trust, you will not share with the Bard? I fear Lord Havgan would be highly displeased.”

“Havgan,” Sigerric began in a pleading tone.

“Be quiet, Sigerric,” Havgan said coolly. “I will use who and what I must to get what I need. Don’t be a fool.” Havgan gestured to Sledda. “You have the Bard here?”

“I do, Lord Havgan.”

“Then bring him in.”

Sledda left the room. Havgan said, “Sigerric, I wish that you would leave me be to do the things I must do.”

Sigerric smiled bitterly. “And that is something I will never do. As long as you demean yourself with unworthy deeds, so I will speak against it.”

“So you will,” Havgan agreed equably. “And so I will continue.”

“Never have any poor words of mine changed your course. Why should now be any different?

“Why, indeed?”

Sledda returned, followed by a small, lithe man, dressed in a worn tunic and trousers of nondescript brown. The man had sandy hair, pale green eyes, and small, sharp features. His face was tight, his hands clasped into fists, his shoulders tense.

“You will bow to Lord Havgan, Bard,” Sledda commanded.

The man hesitated, then bowed slightly.

“What is your name?” Havgan asked.

“I am called Jonas, Warleader,” he said softly. “Jonas ap Morgan.”

“And you are a Bard.”

“I am. Before the war I was the Bard to Diadwa ur Tryffin, Gwarda of Creuddyn, in Gwynedd. Lady Diadwa was killed in the Third Battle of Tegeingl.”

“You were in the battles of Tegeingl? Surely, then, you know where Queen Morrigan and her mother, Ygraine, and the rest of her people fled.”

“Most unfortunately, Lord, I do not. Before the battles began, the Master Bard called me back to meet with him at Neuadd Gorsedd.”

“And then, I suppose, he took you to their hiding place?”

“No, my Lord. He sent me to Rheged, to act as another link in the great chain he and the Ardewin were creating throughout Kymru.”

“Then you know where the Master Bard and the Ardewin have gone. You know the final destination of your messages.”

“Again, I must say no.”

“You are lying.”

“Lying,” the man said flatly. His fists clenched tighter, his knuckles white. “Lying. Don’t you think I would tell you all I knew to free my wife, my baby? I will do anything to have them freed! Anything. If I knew, I would tell you!”

“Then I fail to see, Sledda, what use this man is to us, if he knows nothing,” Sigerric taunted.

“Few of the Bards or Dewin know the location of the headquarters of the Master Bard and the Ardewin,” Sledda explained smoothly. “The Bards relay spoken messages, mind to mind. The Dewin relay the ‘pictures’ of what they have seen one to another. Each person knows only one link in that chain.”

“Then the chain must be pursued! Capture the next Bard that Jonas knows of, and follow!” Cathbad said, his mad eyes gleaming.

“And that is what we must not do, Archdruid,” Sledda said shortly. “The next Bard may not be so—ah, amenable—to sharing information with us. The Kymri might be alerted. I have a better plan. Explain, Jonas.”

Jonas took a deep breath, his face pale and set. “No one but me knows that my wife and daughter are prisoners. I will send a message up the chain to Anieron that they were killed, and beg him to reassign me to another post where their memory will not haunt me. He will call me to him, and then I will know where he hides.”

“Why should he call you to him?” Eadwig asked. “He could very well simply tell you where you must go next, without seeing you.”

Suddenly, Aergol spoke. “Anieron will call Jonas to him because he will be concerned for the Bard’s state of mind. He will wish to see for himself that Jonas will recover from the supposed death of his family. And so Anieron’s compassion will be his undoing. Isn’t that so, Jonas?”