Cry of Sorrow (38 page)

But the moment the Stone touched the water, she saw her fears were groundless, for the Stone floated. She could easily hold on to it and keep herself afloat.

And then she had another horrible thought. If it floated, how would she get it down into the water-filled tunnel and out again? Tentatively, she tried to force the Stone under the water. It went easily, as though sensing what must be done and eager to do it.

Taking a deep breath, she once again submerged into the water, holding the Stone in front of her as though holding on to life itself.

   Gwen and Arthur drew up their sweating horses. Hidden from the warriors by the endless trees, they watched the contingent gallop past them and down the path. The Cerddorian waited for the soldiers around the bend, hidden in the trees. They would slaughter the Coranians, down to the last man, Arthur knew. He had seen it in Iron-Fist’s cold blue eyes when they had planned this.

“They really are fools,” Gwen whispered.

“They know nothing of the Kymri,” Arthur said. “And that, in the end, is what will kill them.”

“Yes,” Gwen said firmly. “It will.”

“And besides,” Arthur said absently, his thoughts elsewhere, “they would never have been able to catch me. I’m very good at this.”

“At what? Running away?” Gwen countered, stung that he was taking all the credit. It had, after all, been partially her idea to be the bait.

“I’ve been doing it all my life,” Arthur said bleakly. “And so, my girl, have you.”

“I’m not your girl!”

“Thank the gods for that.”

“You—”

“Hush,” he said firmly. “Let’s get back to the lake. We need to find Gwydion. And I hope to the gods that your mother has returned, safe and sound.”

“And with the Stone.”

He turned to look at her, and there was contempt in his eyes. “Just safe and sound would be enough for me. But not for you, I see.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you are cruel to her. And she doesn’t deserve it.”

“You don’t know anything about it. And you’re a fine one to talk of cruelty to others, the way you treat your uncle.”

“That is something you know nothing about. Come on.”

G
WYDION HUDDLED NEXT
to the tree, his head resting on his drawn-up knees. She was dead. And everything was over. Now what would he do?

The snap of a branch, the sound of steps, did not make him raise his head. The warriors had returned for him. Now would be his turn to die. And everything was ash, dust, everything was gone, and he did not care that life was over.

“What kind of welcome is this?”

Her voice. Her voice from the dead. He raised his head and saw her.

Her shift clung to her body like a second skin. Her feet were bare. Her braided hair was slicked against her head. In her arms she cradled the Stone. Her green eyes shone with triumph.

He leapt up, grabbed the Stone, and set it down, as though it was nothing. He took her in his arms and held her close. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her, reveling in the feel of her body against his, feeling the beat of her heart against his own, knowing that this was always how it had been meant to be.

He looked down at her, and she raised her face to his. Her green eyes were soft, and her lips parted as he bent his mouth to hers.

And before their lips touched he felt that he was at last at peace, having surrendered to the truth of his heart.

But his peace lasted only for a moment.

For he remembered everything about who he was, then. He remembered that he was the Dreamer and he had almost given up, all because he had despaired of losing her.

He remembered that the things he had done, that the things he must do, were tasks given him by the gods, and he must not fail.

He remembered what would happen to Kymru if he weakened.

And he knew he must not.

So he withdrew from her, dropping his arms, stepping away, standing in the forest by Llyn Wiber and feeling so cold as he saw the shock, then the humiliation, then the anger, in her emerald eyes.

Gwyntdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early afternoon

T
wenty-five days later, Gwydion, Rhiannon, Arthur, and Gwen silently made their way through the dense forest of Coed Coch in southern Rheged. They were on foot, having left the wagon behind in the trees a few leagues back, unable to further penetrate the woods with it in tow.

They walked in single file, waiting for the forces of King Owein to contact them. Owein and his people knew they were here, for Gwydion had contacted his daughter, through Wind-Speech. But the forest of Coed Coch was huge, and it would take some time for Owein’s people to reach them and guide them to the hidden camp; Cariadas had explained that Owein had forbidden knowledge of that location to anyone, including to the Dreamer and his party. Gwydion’s daughter had apparently expected outrage from him about this, but Gwydion had not felt any anger. Owein was right—such behavior was their only safety from traitors within. He did not forget that one of their own—whomever that might have been—had betrayed the location of the Y Dawnus at Allt Llwyd. And Owein’s own sister had, in the end, betrayed her brother’s presence in his previous hiding place in Coed Addien.

Thoughts of Enid, Owein’s sister, continued to irritate Gwydion. The stupid girl had stolen her brother’s ring and journeyed to Llwynarth to persuade Bledri, King Morcant’s Dewin, to repent of his collusion with the enemy and return to Owein. Bledri had promptly turned her over to Morcant Whledig. And Morcant was now determined to make Enid his wife, and, in so doing, claim the ring of the House of PenMarch for his own. It would be Gwydion’s task to get the ring back from beneath the watchful eyes of Morcant, Bledri, and Baldred, Havgan’s General in Rheged.

Gwydion glanced behind him at the others who followed. Gwen was right behind him, as she often was. It seemed as though whenever he turned around, she was there. Rhiannon trudged behind Gwen, looking, as was always the case now, at anything and everything except at Gwydion. Her eyes had not met his since that day at Llyn Wiber. She had barely spoken two words to him since then.

Why wouldn’t she understand? Because, he thought bitterly, she was a woman. And they never understood anything beyond their own desires. Higher concepts of honor and responsibility meant nothing to them. It was because of his responsibilities that he had withdrawn from her that day by the lake. His was the task of ensuring the return of the High King to Kymru, the task of driving the enemy from their land. And he could not be, would not be, fettered in any way in the pursuit of that task.

It was true that what had almost happened between them had been Gwydion’s fault. At the sight of her safe and sound, his heart had leapt and he had, momentarily, lacked the ability to check his impulses. But since then he had been in full control.

Behind Gwen, Rhiannon almost stumbled, for the balance of the Stone she was carrying in the pack on her back made her footing awkward. Arthur, the last in line, put his hand beneath her elbow to steady her. She smiled her thanks, and Arthur’s returning smile and slight flush told its own tale of how the boy felt about Rhiannon.

A violent rustling in the bushes halted the party. Gwydion, his walking staff raised, immediately placed himself between the source of the sound and Rhiannon. Arthur leapt forward, drawing his knife, to stand next to Gwydion, while Gwen guarded Rhiannon’s back, for the Stone Rhiannon carried was precious beyond price.

Then a slight figure, her red gold hair curling around her shoulders in its usual disarray, burst from the bushes and hurled herself into Gwydion’s arms.

“Da!” she cried, hugging him fiercely.

Gwydion dropped his staff and held his daughter close. He kissed her forehead, then tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. She was thinner than when he had last seen her. There was a line above her brows now for all that she was smiling. He remembered she had been in Allt Llwyd when the caves had been invaded. He remembered that she had journeyed with the few survivors across Rheged to take refuge with Owein. He remembered that she had barely escaped with her life. Tears came to his eyes, and he held her close to him. Should anything ever happen to Cariadas, his heart—touched by so few that many claimed it didn’t even exist—would break.

“Daughter,” he murmured softly into her hair. “Cariadas, my very dear.”

Three more people came from the forest to stand beside them. He gently disentangled Cariadas’s arms from his neck to greet them.

“Trystan ap Naf,” he said to the Captain of Owein’s forces. “Well-met.” He grasped Trystan’s hand, and the man’s green eyes lit with welcome.

“Teleri ur Brysethach,” he went on to Trystan’s petite but fierce Lieutenant. “What is your count of the enemy dead now?”

“Forty-two, including three wyrce-jaga,” Teleri replied with a grin. “Ah, the day I got the wyrce-jaga was a fine day, indeed.”

“It must have been,” Gwydion agreed. “And Sabrina ur Dadweir,” he went on. “I hope that you are well?” he said, for Sabrina’s blue eyes were shadowed.

“I am well, Dreamer. As well as anyone in Rheged can be with Princess Enid’s wedding to come so soon.”

“You were not at fault, Sabrina,” Trystan said, with the air of a man who has said the same thing dozens of times before. “You did all you could to save her that day in Llwynarth. Enid did this to herself.”

Trystan turned to Gwydion. “We rejoice that you have come. Owein has asked us to convey you safely to his nearest refuge. Elidyr, the Master Bard, and his wife, the Ardewin, have asked me to tell you that the new network is building apace and they expect to have it all repaired by the festival of Calan Gaef. They are in the southern part of Coed Coch and cannot come to greet you. But they will be listening for your Wind-Speech to them tonight and will give you all the details.”

Gwydion shook his head. “It is not enough. They must have the network repaired sooner than Calan Gaef. By Ysgawen Mis, at least.”

“They have done a great deal in a short time,” Trystan pointed out stiffly.

“I think much of their work, Trystan,” Gwydion said coolly. “But on Calan Gaef, truly momentous things will happen. This Kymric new-year festival will be like no other. And our network of Y Dawnus must be functioning before then.”

“Do you know my companions?” he went on smoothly, for he was not going to argue with—or be judged by—Trystan. “This,” he said, gesturing airily to Gwen, “is Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon, Princess of Prydyn and apprentice Druid. And this is the son of an old friend.” The lack of any further identification of the boy was not lost on those present. After a moment of silence, when it became clear that Gwydion was not going to add any other information, Sabrina greeted these two formally in the name of King Owein.

“I think you know Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” Gwydion went on.

Trystan bowed to Rhiannon. “We have never met, but I know of you.”

“And I you, Captain Trystan,” Rhiannon replied. “But I must ask you about another matter. Is my Uncle Dudod here with you? Or with Elidyr and Elstar?”

“Neither, Lady. Dudod is on his way to Llwynarth, to prepare for your coming to that city.”

Rhiannon turned to Gwydion, accusation in her green eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you sent him there?”

“You didn’t want to talk,” Gwydion replied innocently, picking up his staff. “Remember?”

“You—” Rhiannon began, then stopped as she noticed that Cariadas was looking from Rhiannon to Gwydion, bewildered. The girl seemed close to tears. Whatever Rhiannon had been about to say—and Gwydion was pretty sure what the general import would have been—remained unsaid. He knew that it was only a momentary respite. Rhiannon would not very easily forgive Gwydion for dispatching her uncle to Llwynarth. But Gwydion had no choice—someone had to set up the arrival in Llwynarth, and Dudod was the obvious choice.

“Take us to Owein,” Gwydion said. “There is much to talk about.”

T
HE JOURNEY TO
Owein’s hidden camp was accomplished in cool silence for the most part—the one notable exception was Cariadas. Gwydion’s daughter chatted almost without stop to everyone, and while no one initiated conversation, no one was unkind enough not to respond to her overtures. Gwen, in particular, was taken with Cariadas and so, in another way, was Arthur. But the elders in the party were mute. Sabrina was subdued. Rhiannon was furious. Trystan covertly watched Sabrina, but his face was unreadable. Only Teleri seemed unaffected by the general atmosphere, but she often ranged ahead of the group, scouting for potential trouble.

Cariadas, at the news that Gwen was a Druid, chatted about her friend Sinend. She was sure that the future Archdruid could help Gwen with further lessons, if Gwen wished. And she was very curious about Arthur. She spoke to him about general subjects, but questions were in her eyes. Secretly Gwydion was amazed that Cariadas had learned enough restraint not to try to worm Arthur’s identity out of them.

They reached the camp after a few hours. Sentries melted out of the forest to greet them and escort them into the camp proper. The camp was small, for it was not King Owein’s main camp. There were forty Cerddorian practicing their archery, wrestling, staging mock knife fights, and the like. Gwydion and the rest were led to a brown-colored tent erected within the shelter of a copse. The tent was large, and Gwydion barely had to duck his head to enter. The rest followed, all except Teleri, who stationed herself outside the tent flap.

In the dim light Gwydion recognized King Owein, his younger brother, Prince Rhiwallon, and Sinend, the daughter of the Archdruid’s heir.

Owein uncoiled his thin, wiry frame from where he sat and formally embraced Gwydion. “Dreamer,” Owein said, “you are very welcome here. The things you have asked for have been done. Tell me what else you need from us, and it is yours.”

“Such deference is bad for him, Owein,” Rhiannon said tartly.

Owein’s face relaxed slightly as he greeted her. “You are more lovely today than those years ago when I followed you and the Dreamer to meet the Wild Hunt and hear of our fate.”