Cry of Sorrow (30 page)

“Not if you don’t wish it to,” Rhiannon said firmly. “And before you get angry, remember that I know all about nursing old wounds.”

Before Sanon could reply, the glint of golden hair caught Rhiannon’s eye. She turned to face Rhoram.

The King of Prydyn had changed in the past few years since his wounding in the invasion. Rhoram’s face was sharper, scored with lines of pain. But his sapphire blue eyes were the same. And his smile was just as warm. And Rhiannon, listening to the beat of her own heart as she gazed at him, understood that what had been between them was gone now. Gone, to be replaced by tender memories, by the warmth of friendship. When had that happened? she wondered briefly. At what point in the past four years had she truly, finally, let him go? And how was it she had not even known until this moment?

She reached out her arms and hugged him close, no longer afraid to touch him, knowing that the fire between them was gone, finding comfort in that. As he hugged her back, she felt his body relax, the tension gone from him, also. She released him and grinned up at him, to find him smiling.

“Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” Rhoram said laughter in his voice. “So kind of you to drop by.”

“So it is,” she agreed, smiling. “Have you some time to talk to me? The matter is urgent.”

“I’ll try to squeeze you in somehow.”

“Gwen?”

“She is well. But she’s—”

“Refusing to talk to me,” Rhiannon finished. “I saw her. May I talk to you privately? Unfortunately, I haven’t much time.”

“You must leave today?”

“Yes. And not alone.”

“Ah.” He gestured for Geriant and Sanon to withdraw. She hugged them both and promised to speak to them again before she left. As Achren turned to go, Rhiannon grabbed her arm.

“No. I must speak with you, also.” The three of them moved to one side of the canyon. At Rhoram’s gesture, she sat on one of the nearby rocks and began. “The Dreamer has had the dream at last.”

“It begins, then, our vengeance,” Rhoram said eagerly.

“It does. We have found the clues to the Treasures. And we know the four who are destined to search for them. Gwydion, myself, one other whom I may not name—”

“The High King?” Achren guessed.

“Yes. If we can make him so. And Gwen.”

“Mmm,” Rhoram said, musing. “So you have come for her.”

“I have. And we must be gone from here within the hour. We go to Ederynion, to begin the search.”

“Then Gwen must go,” Rhoram said firmly.

Rhiannon nodded. “I know she will not want to—”

“That is an understatement. But go, she will. You have come for her. And so she is no longer welcome here. Achren?”

It was when Rhoram turned to Achren that Rhiannon saw the truth. It was there in the way he looked at his Captain, there in the glitter in the depths of his sapphire eyes, there for anyone to see. Anyone, Rhiannon thought, except Achren herself, who appeared to see nothing.

At Rhoram’s question, Achren rose and strode purposefully toward a group of warriors who had resumed their practicing with spear and shield.

After Achren was out of earshot, Rhiannon turned to Rhoram, her brows raised.

Rhoram returned her look, not even bothering to pretend that he didn’t understand. “She has no idea, of course,” he said ruefully. “And even if she did, she would, no doubt, not believe me.”

“Is that what stops you?”

“That and the thought that she may very well carve my guts out and wear them for garters.”

“Chicken,” she said, grinning, as her eyes followed Achren’s movements.

At Achren’s sharp command, the warriors had halted their practice. Another command, and Gwen stepped up to Achren, standing stiffly at attention. Achren gestured over to Rhoram and Rhiannon, and Gwen shook her head. But no warrior ever successfully defied Achren. She snapped another command, then turned to go. Gwen hesitated briefly, then followed.

As Gwen came up to her, Rhiannon’s eyes gazed hungrily at her daughter. It had been four years since she had last seen Gwen. Her daughter had grown, and they were almost of a height, now. Gwen’s long, golden hair was braided and wound about her head, held in place by a band of blue. Her tunic, trousers, and boots were scuffed brown leather. Her blue eyes glittered above high cheekbones. She was beautiful. For the first time, Rhiannon wondered what young Arthur ap Uthyr would think of her daughter.

Gwen had not moved, had not even acknowledged Rhiannon’s presence. But Rhiannon had been prepared for this. She rose to her feet, facing Gwen squarely.

“Hello, daughter,” she said quietly, unsmiling.

Gwen’s frosty blue eyes flickered over to her, hardened, looked away.

“Greet your mam,” Rhoram said sharply, rising to his feet.

Gwen turned away, then found her way blocked by Achren. She turned back. “Greetings, Mam,” Gwen said quickly, but without inflection.

“You are to come with me,” Rhiannon said. No use in trying to be gentle and persuasive with this stubborn child.

“I will not!”

“You will. You have been named by the Dreamer, named by a song of Taliesin, named by the Wild Hunt itself. You have been named as one who will join in the task to find the Treasures, to stand at the Doors of Cadair Idris and enter there, to witness the making of a High King, and to drive the enemy from this land.”

“I will not go.”

“You have been named. You will.”

“Da,” Gwen pleaded, turning to Rhoram.

“One way or another, Gwenhwyfar, you leave here today,” he said sternly. “You will either leave with your mam, or go your own way.”

“Da!” Gwen cried. “You would leave me? You also?”

“You are named, child. There are no bargains to be made with that.”

“Then I will go,” Gwen said, turning to Rhiannon, her eyes flashing. “But not with you!”

“Your hatred makes you foolish,” Achren said, her tone cold and hard. “Your place on the Wheel must be taken. Or we will all die as captives.”

A cry from above made them all look up. Overhead, an eagle circled, screaming with defiance. It swooped over the camp, and the warriors ducked, not one even reaching for their weapons. For they knew what this was that had come to them.

Arderydd, the High Eagle, the sign of the High King to come, lighted on the rocks in front of Gwen. He fixed the girl with cold, gray eyes. Once again, he shrieked, spanning his wings and arching his proud neck as though to dart at Gwen. Gwen flinched, and turned to run. But Achren held her, forcing her to face the eagle.

Then, from far away, the sound of a hunting horn came to their ears. A flicker of movement at the top of the canyon caught everyone’s gaze. Two riders were there on the rim. One rode a horse of pure white, and antlers gleamed from his forehead. The other rode a horse of jet-black, her shadowy hair streaming out behind her. The rider of the white horse brought a horn to his lips and blew. At the sound, the eagle shrieked again, never taking his cold eyes off of Gwen.

“Answer, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram,” Rhiannon said quietly. “And know truly whom you answer to.”

Gwen’s eyes, wide and shocked, flickered from the riders to the eagle.

“The Hunt waits for your answer,” Rhoram said, unmoving.

Gwen slipped from Achren’s hold, and took a step toward the eagle. Then she sank to her knees and bowed her head. The bird cried out in triumph, then sprang up into the sky. It flew to the two riders, lighting on the arm of the dark-haired woman. The woman raised a thin, white arm in salute. The man nodded his antlered head. Then they flickered, topaz and amethyst, and vanished, the sound of the hunting horn still borne on the wings of the wind.

   
Meirwdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—evening

G
WYDION SAT ON
his horse, staring at the closed door of the tiny hut. Night had gathered and descended, cloaking the village of Dinas Emrys in shadow. The village was quiet, only the occasional barking of a dog disturbing the stillness. Overhead, the cold light of the stars had begun to shine. It was tywyllu, the week of the new moon, and not even the barest sliver of the crescent could be seen in the sky tonight. The surrounding mountains could be seen only as sharp, dark outlines against the starry sky.

He dismounted, and even that effort seemed too much, for the journey had not been easy and his mind was in turmoil. His tunic and trousers were dusty and stained with leagues of travel. He had taken side roads where possible, sleeping in the brush during the day, traveling by the light of the moon when he could, knowing he was being sought relentlessly by Havgan’s forces. And knowing those he loved were in danger. It had taken every ounce of his will to keep from turning back, to keep from seeking his daughter in the aftermath of the invasion of Allt Llwyd. Only the knowledge that he would be too late to prevent harm to her had kept him on his way to Dinas Emrys.

Gwydion leaned against his horse, too tired to move. Too tired to knock and enter the small hut. Too tired, in truth, to begin the battle that waited beyond the door.

Grief welled up within him. Grief for Anieron and for what Havgan must have done to wring that Mind-Shout from the Master Bard. Grief for his daughter, for he did not even know if Cariadas was alive. The network was broken, and news was scanty. And hundreds of Y Dawnus had been death-marched across Rheged, almost half of them dying on the way. The old, the small children, those too weak to endure the rough treatment, had laid their heads on the breast of Modron, the Mother, and died.

And Rhiannon—where was she? Had she made it safely to Haford Bryn? Was she even now on her way to Ederynion with Gwenhwyfar in tow, or had she, too, been taken by the enemy? If she died, would he even wish to live?

He made no move, listening to the stillness, waiting to discover the answer that was surely written on the cold stars that rode the wind tonight. Nothing. No sound. Nothing. It was over. Too late to continue this now hopeless quest. Too late.

And then he heard it, coming from some unimaginably distant place—the faint sound of a hunting horn. And at that moment, the door opened, spilling firelight and warmth over Gwydion’s tired face.

“Nephew,” Myrrdin said, his voice tired. “Gwydion. At last you have come.”

Gwydion moved forward, stumbling through the doorway, gripping Myrrdin’s arm. “Did you hear it?” he demanded. “Did you?”

Myrrdin nodded. “I heard the horn. It is not over. It is just beginning. Arthur,” he went on, speaking over his shoulder, “stable Gwydion’s horse.”

The boy pushed past Gwydion, averting his face, going out the door into the cold night. Myrrdin, half-supporting Gwydion, settled him onto the bench before the fire.

“Cariadas?” Myrrdin asked quietly. “Rhiannon?”

“I don’t know,” Gwydion whispered. “I don’t know. You—you heard the Shout a few days ago from Anieron?”

“All of Kymru heard his Shout,” Myrrdin replied, thrusting a cup of warm ale into Gwydion’s hands.

“Did Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it will matter?”

Myrrdin did not reply, turning away to stir a pot bubbling over the fire. “I might have known you would come here at supper time.”

Gwydion tried to smile, but the effort was too great. The back door of the hut slammed, and Arthur stalked back into the room. Gwydion lowered the cup, taking a long look at his nephew.

The boy was now almost a man. Sixteen years old, he would be seventeen next month. His shoulder-length auburn hair was tied with a leather thong at the base of his neck. His dark eyes avoided Gwydion’s gaze. He was slender, but he did not move with the awkwardness expected in boys, but rather with the grace of a hunted thing that knows it must move quietly to survive. Gwydion saw Arthur’s mother, Ygraine, clearly in the shade of the hair, in the shape and color of the eyes. He searched for some sign of Arthur’s father, of Uthyr, of the brother whom Gwydion had loved so dearly, and missed so fiercely. He saw it in the shape of the face, in the set of the jaw. The firelight illuminated a clear, white line that ran down the boy’s cheek.

“Where did you get that scar?” Gwydion asked, breaking the silence.

“From Arderydd,” Arthur spat. “From the eagle.”

“And you learned nothing from that, I see,” Gwydion replied tiredly. He turned to Myrrdin. “I had the dream.”

“It begins, then. Our chance to take it all back.”

“It begins,” Gwydion agreed gravely, cutting his eyes over to where Arthur stood. “And I have found the song, the clue to the whereabouts of the Treasures. And I know the four who must seek them.”

“And they are?” Myrrdin prompted, for Arthur’s benefit.

“Myself. Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Her daughter, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram. And Arthur. Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine.” Gwydion turned to the boy. “You must be ready to leave with me in the morning.”

“I will go nowhere with you,” Arthur said defiantly.

As though Arthur had not even spoken, Gwydion went on, turning to Myrrdin. “After we leave, I want you to go to Coed Aderyn, to the cave where Rhiannon lived those many years. Wait for us there. By Ysgawen Mis, six months from now, the four of us will return to the cave with the Treasures in our hands.”

“Show me the cave so I may find it,” Myrrdin said.

Gwydion reached out to Myrrdin, and they clasped hands. Both bowed their heads, and the room was silent as Gwydion sent the location into Myrrdin’s mind, tracing the route that led to the cave.

“You should be safe there,” Gwydion said, after it was done. “If we do not return by Ysgawen Mis, we will not be returning at all. If that happens, make your way to Haford Bryn. It’s the closest place of safety. Rhoram and his people will protect you.”

“If you do not return, there will be no safe place,” Myrrdin said quietly. “Not for me, not for any of us. The long night will continue, not to be pushed back, ever.”

Gwydion looked over at Arthur, who still stood tensely in the middle of the room, his hands balled into fists at his side. “We leave here at first light.”

“You did not listen, uncle,” Arthur said firmly. “You never have. I will not go.”

Slowly Gwydion rose, coming to stand before his nephew. They were almost of a height, and, as they stood there, Gwydion’s cool, gray eyes looking into Arthur’s dark, fiery stare, Myrrdin sank down on the hearth, looking away from them both, gazing into the fire.