Cry of Sorrow (44 page)

“Why?”

“Their fate has been decided since the Master Bard will not give us the information we seek. They are to be collared.”

“Why don’t you just kill them now?” Cian asked.

“Ah, that would be too easy a death. This will be much worse. We have noticed that those who are collared sicken, but take a very, very long time to die. The children seem to go first.”

Anieron closed his eyes briefly. The children. Oh, the children.

“You needn’t act as though you care, Master Bard,” Sledda hissed. “If you did, you would have saved them. You would have told us what we want to know.”

Anieron looked back at Sledda, his gaze steady, full of contempt. The warriors began to march Cian away.

“Anieron!” Cian called as they hauled him up the steps. “I will tell them of your bravery. We will live as long as we can, to honor you. We will live for that day when we will be freed. Anieron! Anieron, may Taran be with you!”

The door clanged shut. Anieron knew he would never see Cian again. He would die alone in this cell, with no friend to comfort him.

Sledda, now alone, unlocked Anieron’s cell and entered. He carried a bag, which he set down in the straw. “I have your gift from Havgan.” Sledda smiled as he lifted the thing from the bag.

Anieron’s breath caught in his throat at what he saw.

His harp. His harp, brought here from the sack of Allt Llwyd. The harp gleamed in the torchlight. The wooden frame was carved in the likeness of Queen Ethyllt of Rheged, the mother of Anieron’s child. Her beautiful smile sent a barb of grief into his heart. The frame was inlaid with silver, and the sapphires scattered across it glowed. He had made that harp in memory of the woman he had loved so long ago. The strings shimmered softly as Sledda placed it at Anieron’s feet.

“I have put it where you can play it when you like,” Sledda mocked. “Or, perhaps I should say that you could, if you only had fingers. What a pity you don’t. I will leave the torch so you may see and truly appreciate Havgan’s magnificent gift.” Sledda smiled again and left the cell. The clang of the upper door convinced Anieron that he was alone.

He strained forward to take the harp in his bloody palms. He ran the back of his hand over the strings, but the jangle of chords made him wince. He laid his head on the frame and wept, as he had not done since coming to Eiodel. He could not sing with his tongue cut out. He could not play with his fingers gone. He could not Wind-Speak with the collar around his neck.

It was all gone. Everything he had. Everything he was. Everything he had hoped to be. Now he waited only for death, a death it seemed would never come. Oh, if only he could have one boon, one gift from Taran before he died. If he could have that, death would be so sweet. He would ask for the harp to play. He would sing one last song—a song to be heard by all those in Kymru, Kymri and Coranian alike, a song like no other, a song of freedom and hope.

Taran, King of the Winds
, he began in his mind,
I beg
—but there here stopped. He could not ask for such a thing. Who was he to have such a gift? No, he could only wait for that blessed moment when his spirit would leave this world for Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer. And there he would meet the friends who had gone before. And there he would wait his chance to be reborn. And maybe, while he waited for rebirth, he could play his harp and sing. He could never do those things now.

The touch of a cool breeze on his face made him raise his head in bewilderment. A breeze in the dungeons of Eiodel? That was not possible. But it was true.

The breeze caught the straw, sending it floating gently. The torch sputtered, then burned brighter still. And, oh, the wind brought with it the scents of Kymru. He smelled the cool mountain air of Gwynedd and the fresh clean lakes and rivers of Ederynion. He breathed in the scent of the sun-baked wheat fields of Rheged and the rich vineyards of Prydyn. He even knew the scent of the meadows and plains of Gwytheryn and a hint of the mountain of Cadair Idris that reached from the meadows to the sky.

His collar dropped off into the straw. His mind drew in the breath of Taran, and his Wind-Speech returned. The shackles around his wrists fell away. Most wondrous of all, the harp began to play the melody that he had crafted night after pain-filled night in this cell. His heart bursting with joy, he began to sing the words in his mind.

And I am manacled

In the earthen house
,

An iron chain

Over my two legs;

Yet of magic and bravery
,

And the Kymri
,

I, Anieron, will sing
.

   
Shall there not be a song of freedom

Before the dawn of the fair day?

Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?

   
You of Corania

After your joyful cry
,

Silence will be your portion
.

And you will taste death

Far from your native home
.

   
Shall there not be a song of freedom

Before the dawn of the fair day?

Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?

   And as he sang, he knew that everyone who was in the land of Kymru could hear him. Every man, woman, and child was listening to his song of hope.

He sang, and he knew a joy like no other he had ever known.

G
WYDION TURNED TO
Rhiannon as they sat by the great campfire in Owein’s hidden camp. They were all there—Arthur and Gwen, Elstar and Elidyr, Owein and Trystan and Sabrina, Cariadas and Sinend, Dudod and Esyllt and March. In front of them all he would beg Rhiannon’s pardon for his treatment of her.

He would never tell her why he had treated her so coldly. He would never tell her of his hideous fear that she would die. He would never, ever tell her that he loved her so. But he would say that he was sorry for his cruelty. Never had Cariadas spoken to him that way before. And he could not even be angry with her, because everything she had said was true. And so he turned to Rhiannon and opened his mouth to say those words. But he did not.

For just then a breeze began, a wind that seemed to swoop down from the stars themselves. And with the wind came a song
.

And I am manacled

In the earthen house
,

An iron chain

Over my two legs;

Yet of magic and bravery
,

And the Kymri
,

I, Anieron, will sing
.

   Elstar leapt to her feet, her arms reaching up to the sky. “Da!” she screamed. “Da!”

Dudod sank to his knees, stunned, his face awash with tears. “Brother,” he whispered. “Oh, my brother.”

And as Gwydion listened to the song, he reached out and took Rhiannon’s hand, the hand that was already reaching out for him. And he began to weep, as he had not done for many years, and Rhiannon held him, rocking him in her arms as she, too, cried.

For they knew that this night, one way or another, the song would end.

I
N
L
LWYNARTH
, Q
UEEN
Enid taunted her new husband as Bledri and General Baldred looked on. “The ring of the House of PenMarch has been in my family’s hands for hundreds and hundreds of years! I give it to you and you lose it in less than a day!”

King Morcant reached out and grabbed Enid by the hair. “Do you think I am a fool? You took it from me!”

“How could I?” Enid screamed. “I am no better than a prisoner here. What could I have done with it?”

“I don’t know, but you have done something. And I swear to you—”

The song came to them on the wings of the wind that rushed through Caer Erias, overturning chairs and tearing tapestries from the walls.

Shall there not be a song of freedom

Before the dawn of the fair day?

Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?

   And Enid, her clothing torn, her hair disheveled, her lower lip bruised and bleeding, smiled as Morcant, Bledri, and Baldred froze in dread.

I
N
D
INMAEL
, Q
UEEN
Elen of Ederynion halted with her cup halfway to her lips. In the great hall a wind began to blow. It tossed the tapestries back and forth, and the torches guttered wildly. General Talorcan rose from the table, his sword in hand.

You of Corania

After your joyful cry
,

Silence will be your portion
.

And you will taste death

Far from your native home
.

R
EGAN JUMPED TO
her feet, her face pale as death as she laid her hand on Talorcan’s arm.

“Put up your sword, General,” Elen said coldly. “The singer is not one that you can kill this night.”

Talorcan looked down at Regan. “My love,” he whispered, “silence will be my portion. When I am dead, then you will be free.”

“No,” Regan whispered back. “When you are dead, then I will be also.”

“Anieron,” the Druid Iago moaned, his dark eyes full of fear. “Taran’s Wind brings him.”

“He does,” Elen smiled. “Your new god cannot stop Taran of the Winds.”

Talhearn the Bard sat by the fire in the depths of the forest of Coed Ddu. He sighed. Prince Lludd was at it again.

“I tell you that I will wait no longer!” the Prince cried. “My sister has been captive long enough!”

“And what,” Angharad asked, her green eyes flashing, “might your brilliant plan be to rescue her? Do you have thousands of men up your sleeve, perhaps? Enough to storm Dinmael and bring her out?”

“I will find a way! I am tired of waiting, I tell you—” The wind rose in the forest, hurtling through the trees, bringing with it the song of the Master Bard.

Shall there not be a song of freedom

Before the dawn of the fair day?

Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?

   “Oh, Anieron,” Talhearn whispered to his old friend, as the rest of the Cerddorian leapt to their feet. “Oh, Anieron. Brave you are. Brave you have always been. Farewell, my friend.”

P
RINCESS
T
ANGWEN SAT
quietly in the great hall, looking down at her plate. She refused to look at her father, King Madoc, for fear he would see contempt for him in her eyes. She refused to look at General Catha, for fear she would see the lust in his eyes. She would not look at Arday because anything she saw in the eyes of her father’s mistress only confused her more.

“Tangwen,” Catha said as he flicked her cheek carelessly with one finger. Startled, she lifted her head. Catha’s handsome face was inches from her own. “Come, Princess, you must not be so glum. Just think of what I could do for you—”

But his words were abruptly cut off as a strange wind whistled through the hall, darting back and forth, throwing down the tapestries and almost smothering the fire.

You of Corania

After your Joy fulcry
,

Silence will be your portion
.

And you will taste death

Far from your native home
.

   “You will taste death,” Tangwen whispered, staring up at Catha. “Far from your native home.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Arday lift her hand to hide a smile.

H
IGH IN THE
mountains of Mynydd Tawel, Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer of Kymru, sat down by the fire. Her joints ached, as they always did these days. It was not fair to live so far beyond the time of usefulness. For the thousandth time, she wished she had died the day the dreams had passed to Gwydion.

She looked around at her companions. Ygraine sat stiffly, her eyes staring into the flames as though conjuring visions of her dead husband, Uthyr. Morrigan sat next to her mother’s knee, and she, too, was staring into the flames. But if she knew Morrigan, the girl was not seeing the faces of those she loved—she was seeing visions of weapons and war.

Arianrod did not stare at the fire. Her head back, she scanned the stars. The firelight played on her amber eyes and honey-blond hair. What was the child looking for? Dinaswyn wondered. What had she always been looking for?

“Some apples, my lady?” the Bard asked.

Dinaswyn turned and gave Jonas a smile. He was always so helpful, so kind. He had come to them recently, sent by Anieron, just before Allt Llwyd had been taken.

But the smile faded from Jonas’s pale face as the wind whipped down the mountains, thundering into the camp, bringing with it a song.
And I am manacled

In the earthen house
,

An iron chain Over my two legs;

Yet of magic and bravery
,

And the Kymri
,

I, Anieron, will sing
.

   Jonas cried out at the words, and huddled on the ground, his face hidden in his hands. Dinaswyn rose and went to him, patting his shoulders.

“Never fear, boyo,” Dinaswyn said as the tears streamed down her face. “It is the voice of the Master Bard. It is the voice of Kymru herself this night. Never fear.”

G
ENERAL
P
ENDA GLANCED
around the high table. King Erfin, brother-in-law of the dispossessed King Rhoram, was tearing into his meal as though it was his last. Efa, Erfin’s sister and formerly Rhoram’s wife, daintily dipped her hands in a basin of rosewater. Her sensual smile as she looked at Penda was only annoying—he had long since discovered that what Efa had to offer was not much different from any other woman. Ellywen sat stiffly at her place. The woman did everything that way. Penda wasn’t even sure she didn’t sleep standing up. It would be like her.