Cry of Sorrow (41 page)

He would have been appalled that she had known the truth. But she had known it for years. Hadn’t she traveled with him more leagues than could be counted? And every night he had Fire-Started their campfire using different ways to shape the blaze—blossoming roses and roaring lions, jeweled necklaces dripping with flames, swords that slashed through the air trailing fire. No one put on such a display of mastery except for one reason—because they were secretly afraid. This she had understood a long, long time ago, but had kept that knowledge to herself. Strange that she could hate him, but she would not humiliate him.

They had left Llwynarth ten nights ago, soon after returning to Menestyr’s stall. Only a few moments after they had arrived there, Dudod and Trystan had returned with a wine barrel and had hauled March Y Meirchion out of it. Poor March had been almost nothing but skin and bones after two years of captivity.

March had said little as they helped clean his scars and filthy body. He merely kept staring up at Trystan in disbelief. As well he might, for Trystan had cuckolded March for years. Rhiannon smiled, visualizing Esyllt’s horror when they brought her husband back to her.

Trystan, Dudod, and March had also left Llwynarth that night. They would make their way back to Coed Coch in easy stages, giving March time to recover his strength.

“By the time you reach Coed Coch,” Gwydion had said, “I hope we will be right behind you.”

“How long for you to recover the Spear?” Trystan had asked.

Gwydion shook his head. “No telling. But we are in a hurry, and so I hope it will not be long. The ring tells me that we go south. But I don’t know how far we must go.”

“Take the location of Owein’s main camp from me,” Dudod had said.

“I’m not sure Owein would like that.”

“I am quite sure he would not. But take it just the same. You will need it.”

“Rhiannon,” Gwydion had said, eyeing Dudod. “Take it from your uncle.”

“You think I would take this opportunity to take things from you when your guard is down, Dreamer?” Dudod had asked, his voice hard.

“Dudod, you can take anything you want from anyone, any time you want. Did you think I didn’t know that? But I thought it might be easier for you to be read by your niece.”

Dudod had looked Gwydion up and down. “Kindness ill becomes you, Dreamer.”

“So it does,” he had agreed mildly. “Rhiannon?”

And so she had been the one to place her hands on her uncle’s head. She had been the one to read the forest of Coed Coch, to learn the signposts, the location of Owein’s main camp.

“Be sure that Owein himself is there when we come,” Gwydion had said when it was done. “And also be sure that Elidyr and Elstar are there. I must speak to them about the network of Y Dawnus.”

“Yes, O Great One,” Dudod had replied, grinning. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Find yourself a nice, warm widow. You deserve it for your work today.”

“Your wish is my command, Dreamer.”

“Good. At least someone thinks so,” Gwydion had said, with a withering look at Rhiannon.

March had asked only one question as they had cleaned his wounds and fed him, trying to help him gain some strength for his journey. “Why?” he had whispered to Trystan. “Why?”

And Trystan had laid down the cloth and looked down at March. “Because I owe it to you. And you know that.”

“You owe me nothing. You never took anything from me that I really had.”

“She liked it the way it was—having both of us.”

“And now she has only me?”

“Yes,” Trystan had said evenly. “Only you.”

March smiled faintly. “She won’t like that.”

“Then find another who will.”

“I just might do that, my friend. I just might.”

Rhiannon smiled as she remembered the conversation. Then the wagon slowed, and she looked up. “What’s ahead?” she asked.

Gwydion nodded toward the town of Margam, which was half a league away. “We will leave the road soon, after we pass through the town.”

“Which way?”

“Northeast.”

She mused on the verse from the song of the Caers. “Within the dark forest / In the land of honey / The hill of oak stands.”

“Yes. I think we go to Bryn Duir, the hill of the oak.”

Standing within Coed Sarrug, the Grim Forest, the hill was bare of trees but one—a storm-blasted oak that had stood there for years beyond counting. Often struck by lightning in storms, the oak was never fully destroyed. She glanced up at the sky, where storm clouds threatened. Poor Gwydion—lightning meant fire. And they both knew it.

“Yes,” Gwydion said to her unspoken comment. “A storm. And a tree that draws lightning. The gods laugh at me, I think.”

Impulsively, she put her hand on his. “We will be with you. Don’t be afraid.”

He turned to her, and his gray eyes were alight with something she did not understand. “You know.”

“I always have.”

“And have never said.”

“You have never said anything to me of water. Why would I say anything to you of fire?”

“You are generous, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. More generous than I deserve.”

“Ah. You noticed.”

Arthur rode up next to the wagon box. He nodded toward the town. “There is a checkpoint up ahead,” he said quietly.

Gwydion glanced up at the road ahead. “We will leave the road after we go through the town.”

“Why not now?” Arthur asked.

“Because the path we want does not branch off until after the town, of course. And because they have already seen us.”

“Of course,” Arthur said sourly. “How kind of you to explain.”

“Patience,” Gwydion said airily, “is a virtue.”

“And so is treating your companions like people—not puppets.”

Gwydion’s brows shot up. “Are you sure that’s a virtue? I don’t recall that one.”

Gwen drew up her horse on the other side of the wagon box. “Shall we go on?” she inquired in a polite tone. “Or does Arthur wish to argue some more about nothing of any importance whatsoever?”

“Why don’t you keep your questions to yourself!” Arthur snarled.

“And why don’t you get off that horse, bend over, and—” Gwen began.

“Gwenhwyfar,” Rhiannon said sternly. “Hush.”

“You can’t tell me what to do! I—”

“We are nearing the soldiers, if anyone cares,” Gwydion interrupted. “Now would be a good time to show some of that family unity we do so well.”

“Brothers and sisters always bicker,” Arthur said with a forced smile. “Or so they tell me. I would not know.”

“Of course, you would throw that up to my face,” Gwydion said. “And at such an opportune time, too. Thank you, my son.”

“Da,” Gwen said sweetly, “I believe those soldiers want us to stop. I hope it’s not for very long—I want to get to Uncle Bryndan’s house and take a bath.”

“You are always complaining about being dirty,” Arthur said sourly, as Gwydion slowed the wagon to a halt in front of the soldiers that fanned across the road. “Mam, can’t you tell her to shut up about that?”

“Your sister has her little ways,” Rhiannon replied serenely, as though the soldiers were not there. “And it wouldn’t hurt you to take a bath yourself.”

“He likes smelling like horses,” Gwen put in with a sniff of disdain. “He’s little better than an animal himself.”

There were other Kymri clustered around the soldiers, waiting for their turn to get through the checkpoint and into the town. They smiled appreciatively at the squabbling. The Coranian soldiers, on the other hand, began to look impatient as they waited to be noticed.

“Ha! At least I don’t have to go around smelling like a perfume bottle. As though any boy would look twice at a scrawny girl like you—no matter what you smell like.”

“I’m not scrawny,” Gwen flared. “I’m slender.”

“No meat on those bones,” Arthur scoffed. “What man would want that?”

“You—”

“I—”

“Children,” Gwydion said sternly. “This is not the time.”

Gwen and Arthur looked around and appeared to notice for the first time that there were soldiers about.

“Captain,” Gwydion said, standing up in the box and bowing with a flourish. “You see before you an honest merchant, down on his luck. Care to buy something? Pots and pans? Cloth?”

“Two children?” Rhiannon asked sweetly.

The Kymri waiting their turn laughed. The Captain, his blond hair flaring in the afternoon sun, continued to look impatient. There were twenty soldiers at the checkpoint, all armed to the teeth. Standing in the dust all day did not seem to agree with them.

Rhiannon, though she did not show it, was nervous. This was a lot of soldiers for such a small town. It was obvious that word had gone out from Llwynarth about the ring. She knew that her and Gwydion’s descriptions had been sent about Kymru ever since Havgan had taken this land. Havgan would have been told about the ring disappearing from Llwynarth. Perhaps he had guessed who had done it and stepped up all the checkpoints in Rheged. If so, there might be trouble.

“If there is anything we want in Kymru,” the Captain said sourly, “we take it. Not buy it. And I do believe there might be something we want.” The Captain eyed Rhiannon and grinned.

Gwen bristled, and her hand crept to the knife at her side. But Arthur nudged his horse forward into Gwen’s, making her horse dance sideways. Rhiannon barely heard his whisper to her daughter.

“Let them handle it,” Arthur said quietly.

Gwen did not reply, but she gave Arthur a look that said she would have plenty to say later. She took her hand from her belt and laid it across the pommel of the saddle.

Frantically, though it did not show in her face, Rhiannon called out in Wind-Speech for the flock of ravens she knew was only a short distance away.

“Captain,” Gwydion said in a pained tone, “you are uncivil. I am a merchant down on his luck, and you serve me with this kind of talk. Life is hard enough as it is, for we are going to my wife’s brother’s holding in Coed Sarrug. And you know they don’t call it the Grim Forest for nothing.”

Some of the Kymri smiled, and even the Captain’s stance relaxed somewhat.

“And my brother-in-law! Well, that’s another story. Never did he think I was good enough for his sister. And now he can’t wait for his chance to be proven right. We lost everything in the war, you see. And now we must throw ourselves on his charity. Worse than that, he raises pigs! Can you see me helping in the pigsty? Have mercy, sir, isn’t life hard enough? Imagine what he would do to me if I showed up without his sister!”

“There speaks the brave man I married,” Rhiannon said sourly. “I think a turn with the pigs would do you a world of good.”

“Then perhaps you would like to come with us,” the Captain said. “We could show you a better time.” As he said that, his eyes widened. Slowly he moved forward, grabbing the bridle of one of the wagon horses. For a moment everything was quiet. And Rhiannon clearly saw the recognition in the Captain’s eyes. So, their descriptions had, indeed, reached all the way to Gwent.

“Hey, Captain,” one of the burly farmers said. “Can’t you move it along? Find your women on your own time. It’s market day, and I have food to sell!”

The other Kymri began to clamor for the Captain to move them along. Just then, a flock of ravens flew overhead. Cawing and calling to one another, they set up another clamor, enough to hurt the eardrums.

“All right!” the Captain shouted. “All right!” He jerked his head at the wagon, stepping away from the horses. “Go on through.”

But Rhiannon was not fooled. She had seen the Captain’s eyes, and had guessed his orders. Let them through, and follow them where they go.

They passed through the town, riding slowly, for the streets were crowded. The people of Margam did not seem to pay them any attention, but Rhiannon knew better. They were being watched very closely, indeed. The crowd seemed to part like water to let them through, then closed in behind them. It was not enough to stop the pursuit, but it gave them a little time.

When they reached the other end of town, they were not being visibly followed. They left the Sarn Halen road, turning northeast toward Coed Sarrug. As they neared the wood, Rhiannon WindRode back along the trail and saw what she had expected to see. “All twenty soldiers following us,” she said crisply.

“Only twenty?” Gwydion replied. “I’m insulted.”

“Indeed,” Rhiannon said.

D
USK WAS FALLING
by the time they reached the outskirts of Coed Sarrug and halted the wagon. Gwydion climbed down and unhitched the horses. As Rhiannon mounted one of them, the black cloth of her dress hiked up to her knees, exposing the sheath strapped to her calf, which held a long, sharp knife. As she waited for the others to be ready, she quickly braided her hair to get it out of her way.

A
RTHUR AND
G
WEN
were also armed, both carrying short spears as well as knives at their belts. Only Gwydion was not armed. He mounted the other wagon horse, his black tunic and trousers blending with the shadows cast by the trees. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated his set, taut face. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the horses moved skittishly about.

“A storm,” Gwydion muttered. “Of course. ‘Within the storm lies the blaze.’“

“The Song of the Caers?” Gwen asked.

“The Song of the Caers,” Rhiannon agreed. “We will find what we seek at the top of Bryn Duir. There lies Tymestl Pren, the Storm Tree, an ancient oak. And that is where we go.”

“Storm Tree? I have heard of it,” Gwen said softly. “It is always hit by lightning in a storm. It burns, but it never dies.”

“Shouldn’t you take the Stone with you?” Arthur asked Rhiannon. “Surely it is unwise to leave it here, unguarded.”

“It will not be unguarded, boyo,” a woman’s voice said from the dark shelter of the trees.

As one, Arthur and Gwen leapt from their horses and spun to face the voice, their hands on their weapons.

“A likely pair,” a deeper, masculine voice said.

“So they are,” Rhiannon agreed. “Please, come and greet them.”

At her words fifteen men and women melted from the shadowy forest. Their tunics of dark green and brown blended in with the forest so perfectly that it was difficult to make them out. The wind whipped the trees, rippling the cloaks of the Cerddorian who stood there.