Cry of Sorrow (45 page)

How much longer must he be here in Kymru? He longed to be back home in Mierce with his father and son. If only he could convince Havgan to let him go. But it was an idle thought. Havgan would never let any of his band go. Penda and Catha, Talorcan and Baldred, Sigerric and Sledda—they were here in Kymru to stay, for as long as Havgan was here.

Somehow, from somewhere, wind whipped through the great hall. Penda leapt up, sword in hand, though he did not know what he could do with it.

You of Corania

After your joyful cry
,

Silence will be your portion
.

And you will taste death

Far from your native home
.

“Ellywen,” Penda whispered. “What does this mean?”

The Druid was pale as death, and her lips trembled as she answered. “Anieron. Taran of the Winds grants him a boon. Oh, Anieron, what have I done?”

I
N THE HIDDEN
vale of Haford Bryn, Rhoram squatted down next to his son, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Geriant did not say a word, and Rhoram sat next to him on the ground, waiting.

At last, Geriant spoke. “Poor Enid.”

“Yes,” Rhoram agreed. “You loved her.”

“No, I love her. Not loved. Love. And when we battle again to take Kymru back, she will be a widow by my hand.”

“She may not be the girl you love by then.”

“That does not matter. I will make her free. Free to be with whomever she will. I know it won’t be with me.”

Rhoram’s brows raised. “And why not?”

“Da, if she had loved me, she never would have gone to Llwynarth to find Bledri in the first place. She would have been content with me. But she was not. She will never love me. She never has. But that doesn’t matter. I love her, and I will free her.”

“My son–” Rhoram began. But there he stopped.

For a wind whistled over Haford Bryn, and it brought with it a song like no other he had ever heard.

Shall there not be a song of freedom

Before the dawn of the fair day?

Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?

   “Anieron,” Rhoram whispered, knowing what this wind meant, knowing that the enemy would not suffer Anieron to live. “Oh, you are brave.”

“Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?” Geriant asked slowly, his eyes gleaming. “Will we not make it so?”

I
N THE
A
RCHDRUID’S
chambers at Caer Duir, Aergol sat quietly across from Cathbad. Cathbad could not see it, but then the Archdruid had always seen only what he wanted to. But Aergol knew. Soon, very soon, their Coranian allies would come to Caer Duir with enaid-dals in their hands. The Coranians no longer needed the help of the Druids, and they would soon realize it, if they hadn’t already.

Cathbad drank deeply from his golden cup. “Soon the Dreamer will be in our hands. The word is out across Kymru to find him and Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.”

“The word has been out to find those two for years, but they have never been found,” Aergol replied shortly.

Cathbad waved his hand. “No matter. They will be found. And when they are, we will make them tell us where your daughter is. Sinend will be brought back to Caer Duir, to be trained the way she should be.”

“My daughter is safe enough wherever she is,” Aergol snapped. “And you can just leave her be.”

“Leave her be! Are you mad?”

“Are you?”

And that was when Taran’s Wind came whistling down the corridors of Caer Duir. Cathbad leapt to his feet, but Aergol remained seated and bowed his head.

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
.

   Oh, yes. Of bravery and the Kymri, Anieron would sing, Aergol thought. Would that he could be that—brave, a man of the Kymri. Maybe he could. Yes, maybe he still could.

H
AVGAN’S ROOMS IN
Eiodel were glorious. Tapestries sewn with precious stones adorned the walls. The stone floor was covered with carpets woven by the Master Weavers of Gwynedd. Delicately etched goblets and glass pitchers blown by the glassmakers of Ederynion were scattered on tables. The finest Prydyn wines filled the pitchers. Fine candles from Rheged cast a soft light. A fire roared in the hearth, illuminating Havgan’s huge bed.

The woman on the bed was naked, and her hands clawed uselessly for Havgan’s face. His huge, battle-scarred hands were wrapped around her throat. He stared down at her, watching her die, watching her eyes for that thing he had been looking for all his life. Her honey-blond hair flowed over the bedspread as she fought to breathe. He had already forgotten her name. She was only a woman of the Kymri, one who had been brought to him because of the color of her hair, because that was the color of the hair of the Woman-on-the-Rocks, the one who was always turned away from him.

Slowly, her struggles ceased. Her eyes remained open as she died. And still they had not shown him anything. Nothing at all. Another waste of his time.

He rose from the bed. The light of the fire crawled greedily over his naked body. He reached for a robe and wrapped it around him. He would have Sledda take care of the body. Sledda would like that. He went to the door and opened it. Both Sigerric and Sledda were sitting in the outer chamber.

“Ah, you have finished, my Lord,” Sledda said, licking his pale lips.

“Take care of her, wyrce-jaga,” Havgan said shortly.

Sigerric turned away from Havgan, looking down into his wine cup.

“Sigerric, my friend,” Havgan smiled. “Is something wrong?”

Sigerric shook his head, but still would not meet Havgan’s eyes. “Come, come,” Havgan went on. “The girl was not anyone you knew.”

“Havgan,” Sigerric whispered. “Why?”

“You know why. But once again I am cheated.”

And then the winds came. They howled through the halls of Eiodel, slashing and tearing. The glass bottles smashed into pieces. The tapestries flew from the walls. The fire roared up. And the song came.
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
.

   “The Master Bard,” Sigerric breathed. “He is free.”

“He is not free,” Sledda gasped. “I left him in his cell. My Lord, I swear it!”

“Kill him!” Havgan screamed. “Kill him!” You of Corania After your joyful cry, Silence will be your portion. And you will taste death Far from your native home
.

“Far from our home, Havgan,” Sigerric said quietly. “Death far from our native home.”

“I said, kill him!” Havgan screamed to Sledda, who stood frozen in the doorway. Without another word, Sledda turned and ran from the room.

T
HE WIND BLEW
. The harp played. And Anieron sang and sang. From all across Kymru they heard him. Some wept as they listened. Some hearts leapt for joy at the promise of freedom. Some were afraid. But they all heard him. Anieron closed his eyes as he sang, overcome with this last blessing of Taran.

He heard the cell door open, but he did not stop his song. He stopped only when he felt the knife enter his heart. He opened his eyes as he fell to his knees. Sledda stood there, panting, Anieron’s blood splashed over his black robe. The wind quieted. The harp stopped playing.

Anieron was dying. But he had one last thing to say to everyone in Kymru before his spirit left this world.
Sledda of Corania, I say this
to you, for it is true. For the murder you do to me today, you will die at the hands of the High King himself
.

Good-bye, my brother
, Anieron whispered as the darkness took him.
Good-bye
.

“GOOD-BYE, MY
brother,” Dudod whispered, as he knelt by the fire in Coed Coch. “Oh, good-bye.”

Arthur sat unmoving while all those around him wept. Then, slowly, he rose. They quieted as he stood. Even Dudod lifted his head, watching.

“I, Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, vow today that Anieron’s last words will be true. One day I will take vengeance on Sledda for the murder of the Master Bard. I, who will be High King of Kymru, swear this. You do not need to find another. It shall be me.”

Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late afternoon

A
idan ap Camber, Lieutenant to King Rhoram, knew that he was going to die. He didn’t mind dying so much—it happened to everyone, sooner or later. But he did mind the fact that his death was sure to be painfully slow. And, no doubt, extremely messy.

Aidan tensed as the Coranian soldiers moved in closer. He put a comforting hand on Cadell’s shoulder as the Dewin swallowed hard. It was dark in the back of the smithy, and he could barely make out Cadell’s face, but he was quite sure his friend was just as on edge as he was. The punishment set aside for Cadell would be even worse than what Aidan would endure. Cadell would be collared with an enaid-dal and sent to the isle of Afalon in Gwytheryn. And, once there, there would be no escape. The collar would slowly kill him, if the Coranian guards at the isle didn’t kill him first as they played their sick games on the prisoners.

For the hundredth time that afternoon, Aidan turned over possible escape plans in his mind. And, for the hundredth time, he concluded that it was not possible. Their only hope, since they had no weapons, was to break cover from the smithy and be killed instantly. Cadell knew this as well as Aidan did.

Ah, well, Aidan thought, it had been a good life. Even after the Coranians had invaded, life had been good. He had served King Rhoram faithfully and well and had no regrets on that score. He would very much regret having to leave Lluched, the Gwarda of Crueddyn and Cadell’s sister. He thought it was very possible that he was in love with that fierce Cerddorian. And he was sorry that he would not be here to see the High King return and take back Kymru from the invaders. That was a fight he wished he could be a part of.

The irony was that he and Cadell had been all set to leave enemy-occupied Arberth today. Their mission had been accomplished, and they had been heading home, after being here for five days. Cadell’s mission had been to set up portions of the network of Y Dawnus, broken when Anieron and the rest of those in Allt Llwyd had been taken. Now spies were again set in the fortress and in the city. Elidyr and Elstar, the Master Bard and the Ardewin, would be pleased. The last link was now reforged, and the network in western Prydyn was once again in place.

If only Aidan had not been recognized, they would have left the city by now. How Queen Efa could recognize him from a quarter of a league away when he had his back to her was something he could not fathom. Never, he thought wryly, underestimate the capacity for vengeance of a woman scorned.

For it had been Aidan who, at King Rhoram’s orders, had tricked Efa into leaving the caves of Ogaf Greu, enabling Rhoram and his people to disappear to a new location without the risk of being betrayed. Aidan had tricked her into abandoning the King by making her believe he was in love with her and he would follow her to Arberth to join the Coranian cause. The part where he had to pretend to be in love with her had not been as pleasant as he had anticipated. Efa, though she was beautiful and sensual, had made Aidan’s skin crawl. The fact that she was selfish, faithless, and rotten had been harder to ignore then he had first thought.

When Efa had cried out his name in the marketplace, Aidan had not even turned around. He knew the voice, and he knew what it meant. He had grabbed Cadell’s arm, and they had melted into the crowd. They had almost made the east gate when the guards shouted for them to stop. So they had run through the streets of Arberth, not daring to approach the spies they had just installed. The work they had completed was far too important to risk.

They had done their best to throw off pursuit by creating havoc in the marketplace as they ran. The people of Arberth had helped. Goods had somehow gone flying into the paths of the Coranians, dogs had yipped at the guards’ heels, and stalls had unaccountably collapsed on the soldiers. The help of the people had been just enough to enable them to reach the smithy, just outside the marketplace. There the Smith had urged them in, hustled them into the back, then returned to the open front to continue forging horseshoes.

The guards were now searching the marketplace from stall to stall. Every moment brought them closer to the smithy. The city gates were shut tight. Even if they could somehow sneak away from the smithy, they had nowhere to go.

“They’ve reached the last row,” the Smith said from the front, his voice low. “They’ll be here next.”

The Smith of Arberth was a burly, taciturn man, one of the Master Smith’s assistants. The Master Smith and her family had disappeared out of Arberth months ago, taken by the Coranians.

Aidan looked at Cadell. “Shall we make it quick, my friend?” he whispered.

Cadell nodded, then shuddered. “Better than the collar. Anything would be better than that.”

The two men rose. The plan was simple. Run out of the smithy and right into the spears of the soldiers.

But before they could even begin, the sound of horses’ hooves stopped them. Someone, they could not see whom, had halted in front of the smithy.

“Smith, I demand that you look at this horse’s shoe. I tell you, there is something wrong with it.”

Aidan froze. He knew that voice. It was Ellywen, King Rhoram’s former Druid. Cold, callous, and controlled, Ellywen had been a special protégé of the Archdruid and had been hand in glove with all his schemes for years.