Cry of Sorrow (49 page)

“I do, indeed, feel lucky, good sir. Perhaps a pot or two might make up to you for the inconvenience. At, say, half-price?”

“Put your finger in the device and then get out of my sight!” Hild raged.

With another bow and a flourish, Gwydion did as he was told. He noticed Rhiannon’s still face and he longed to reassure her, but he could not.

The amethyst and the topaz glowed. And that was all.

Hild nodded to Rhiannon. “Now you.”

With a look that seemed to say to the Coranians that this was all a waste of time, Rhiannon inserted her finger into the box. And the amethyst and the topaz glowed. And that was all.

“Our children wait, good sir,” Gwydion said. “Perhaps you could test them now also? Then we can be on our way.”

With a scowl Hild motioned for Arthur and Gwen to step forward. At the wyrce-jaga’s command, they each inserted their fingers into the box. Again, the amethyst and the topaz glowed. And that was all.

“On your way,” the wyrce-jaga said sharply.

“My thanks, good sir,” Gwydion said jauntily as they mounted their horses and rode off through the gate.

No
ONE SPOKE
until they had returned to the wagon hidden deep in the wood. Rhiannon loaded the supplies into the wagon while Gwydion and Arthur hitched up two of the horses. Gwen sat her horse, unmoving, watching them. At last Arthur mounted his horse while Gwydion and Rhiannon climbed into the wagon box.

“All right,” Rhiannon asked, turning to Gwydion. “How did you do that?”

“Did you know that once, when Arthur was four years old, he was publicly tested?”

“I suppose that I did.”

“Remember that, Arthur?”

“Yes. You tested me in private, with my mam and da and Susanna the Bard. And I remember that every single jewel on the device lit up. But this time—”

“This time was like when I tested you on public. Only the amethyst and the topaz glowed. And that’s all that device will ever do. I had it specially made for that purpose.”

“Then where is the real device?”

With a flourish, Gwydion pulled the device from his sleeve. “I couldn’t let them keep it, now could I?”

“That is the one they took from Cian?” Arthur asked.

“The very same.”

“By the gods,” Rhiannon breathed. “And now they don’t have a real device any more. Very clever, Dreamer.”

“Yes, I thought so, too.”

“It does make me wonder what that wyrce-jaga was doing here, though,” Rhiannon went on. “Why was he here in Maen, such a small place? And with the only testing device the Coranians have?”

Gwydion shook his head. “I couldn’t say. But I wonder—” he trailed off, frowning.

“You wonder what?” Arthur asked.

“Some months ago I had a dream of the Protectors. And Havgan was in that dream. Indeed, he was so real that I have wondered ever since if he didn’t dream the same thing.”

“Havgan is a Dreamer?” Rhiannon asked in an appalled tone.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I wonder if he didn’t know somehow that Maen was an important place for the testing device to be, though he did not, perhaps, know why.”

They were silent for a moment, contemplating that thought. Then Gwydion, with a shrug, picked up the reins.

“Wait,” Gwen said in a low voice.

The three of them stared at her, waiting as she had asked them to do.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, her head bowed so she would not need to see their eyes. No one spoke, so she forced herself to go on. “I was afraid. I was going back to my da.” Again, they made no answer. “I was afraid,” she said again. She steeled herself to see the contempt in their eyes as she raised her head to look at them.

But their eyes did not hold contempt. Wonder of wonders, there was kindness there. And understanding. And pity for her in her agony.

“Of course, you were afraid, Gwen,” Gwydion said quietly. “Rhiannon and I, when we came close to our Treasures, we were afraid.”

“So we were,” her mother agreed, her voice kind.

“And I am afraid, Gwen,” Arthur said suddenly.

“But you two did what you must do,” Gwen said slowly. “And you, Arthur, you will go on.”

“So I will,” Arthur replied.

“Then so must I,” she said.

   
Meirwdydd, Disglair Wythnos—early morning

R
HIANNON NEVER TOOK
her eyes from her daughter’s pale, tight face. The fear she saw there almost broke her heart. But Rhiannon knew better than to show that—Gwen neither wanted nor needed her mother’s understanding. And so Rhiannon’s own countenance was unmoving. Only the pity in her eyes betrayed her.

Gwen stood stiffly just outside the entrance to the caves of Ogaf Greu. The rushing of the sea as it crept up and down the sandy beach hissed in their ears. The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky as the stars winked out. The morning was cool—but that was not why Gwen shivered.

Today Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon would enter the cave and search for the Cauldron, the Treasure belonging to Modron, the great Mother. Gwen would go alone. The task was hers, and no one could take it from her.

Rhiannon well remembered that day, years ago, when Gwen had been lost in the caves that branched out from their hiding place in Coed Aderyn. She remembered at last finding her daughter, sobbing, at the bottom of a pit into which she had fallen. After that Gwen had a horror of being beneath the surface of the earth.

True, Gwen had lived here in the caves of Ogaf Greu with Rhoram and his people for years. But she had been sure, she told them, to never be alone there, always having people within call. But today, Gwen would go alone.

Gwydion stood on one side of Gwen. His usual stonelike expression was unmoving as he surveyed the surrounding beach. Arthur stood on Gwen’s other side. He had spoken little in the past few days as they journeyed from Maen to the caves. And he said nothing now. But there was pity in his dark eyes. The scar on his face whitened a little as he looked down at Gwen.

Gwen was dressed in a tunic and trousers of soft, brown leather. Her blond hair was braided tightly to her head. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that the cords on her neck stood out. She twisted the emerald ring of the House of PenBlaid around and around her finger.

At Gwydion’s nod Arthur handed Gwen a length of rope. She shrugged it over her shoulder, still fingering the ring. Gwydion held two torches in his hands. He stared at one, and the end of it burst into flame. He handed them both to her and she took them with trembling hands.

“Remember, Gwen,” Gwydion said sternly, “what I taught you about Fire-Weaving. Don’t lose your concentration, and you can do it. If the first torch should go out, light the other one in that way.”

Gwen nodded. Before she could turn to go, Rhiannon reached out and touched her arm. But at Gwen’s flinch, Rhiannon dropped her hand and stepped back.

Rhiannon ducked her head, staring at the ground, so the others would not see the pain in her eyes. She would not watch Gwen go—Gwen did not need even that from her.

She heard the sound of Gwen’s boots, taking her first, hesitant steps toward the wide, dark mouth of Ogaf Greu, the Caves of Blood. The footsteps halted, then came back in a rush. Gwen threw her arms around Rhiannon. Before Rhiannon even had time to hug her back, Gwen was gone, vanished into the caves.

Rhiannon took a deep breath, trying to surreptitiously wipe away the tears that had come to her eyes. She turned away from Gwydion and Arthur. Then Gwydion’s strong, scarred hands gently grasped her shoulders. Standing behind her, he said nothing, merely pulling her back against him, letting her feel the warm strength of his body.

Without even thinking about it, she twisted in his arms to face him as she burst into tears. Her sobs seemed to go on and on as Gwydion stroked her hair and held her tight. He said nothing, just let her be what she was—a wounded woman, crying out in her pain.

G
WEN STOOD WITHIN
the shallow entrance to the caves, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Behind her the morning light streamed in, gathering in a pool at her feet, leaving the rest of the cave in shadow.

She glanced down at the ring on her finger. It seemed to glow slightly, pulsing on her finger in time with the beat of her heart. Taking a deep breath, she made her way to the first entrance. Ducking slightly, she began down the familiar passageways. The light from the torch shifted over the cave walls that glittered in the wavering flames.

Not knowing exactly what she was doing, she found herself moving toward the chamber where she used to sleep when she had lived here. But as she did, the glow from the ring faded. So, she thought, so even the familiar ways, which held enough terrors for her were not right. It was not enough that she was, once again, beneath the earth. It was not enough that she was alone. It was not enough that all she could think of was that the walls would collapse and cover her.

Taking a deep breath, she retraced her steps and took an unused passageway at random. The light of the ring strengthened slightly. She followed the passageway down for what seemed like hours. The passageway abruptly ended into a junction. Here there were three more passageways, three pools of darkness, and three more ways to die.

And she knew that she had come to it at last—Cyfnos Heol, the Twilight Road; the path from which no one was said to ever return.

“Stop that,” she muttered, as she stood still, trying to decide which way to take. Her words seemed to be swallowed up instantly, smothered, left lifeless. Like she would be soon. The walls would collapse and she would—

She would start screaming in a minute if she didn’t stop this. She moved to stand before the east passage and looked down at the ring on her shaking hand. It seemed as though the glow had lessened. She moved to the north passage, but the glow did not change. West, she thought to herself as she came to stand before the last passage. Of course, west for Modron the Great Mother. And, indeed, as she stood before the west passage the ring began to glow with a greater intensity. Taking a deep breath, she hitched the coil of rope more firmly over her shoulder, griped the lit torch and the unlit one tightly, and began to walk down the passageway.

It was narrow to begin with, but it seemed to narrow even more as she went. In some places her shoulders brushed both walls. Only the thought of what the others would say if she came back empty-handed prevented her from turning around and running away.

Longer and longer the passage ran. There were no other exits, no openings, nothing but this narrow passageway. Truly she was on the Twilight Road. She was finding it hard to breathe now. She had no idea how long she had been down here. She glanced at the flaring torch and was startled to see how far it had burned down. She would need to light the other torch, soon. But if she did that, how would she make it back before the second torch went out? She should have brought more. Gwydion should have seen to it.

She continued down, following the twisting, serpentine, narrow way. Down she went to the center of the earth, to the realm of the Mother. Twisting and turning, turning and twisting, spiraling through this maze of passageways, traveling the Twilight Road.

The torch guttered. Shocked, she realized that it had almost burned down. She would have to light the second torch. She stopped and, remembering what Gwydion had taught her, took a deep breath to calm herself. She stared at the tip of the unlit torch and willed Fire to come to it. But nothing happened. No, this was wrong. She was trying too hard. Another deep breath, a moment to find and feel the inner balance. A moment to reach for the flames. But still, nothing happened.

Fool, she thought to herself fiercely. You cannot do what every Druid in Kymru could do. Oh, gods, if only her mother had not hidden her away all those years she might have learned how to do this. If only her mother had sent her to Caer Duir to learn, she might be able to bring fire now.

No, these thoughts would not help her now. “Modron,” she whispered. “Great Mother, Giver of Harvests, Queen of the Earth, please help me to call fire.” But nothing happened. Her other torch had nearly burned down. She could not do it. Quickly she touched the lit torch to the unlit one. The new torch blazed up, and she set the old torch on the ground.

Please, Modron
, she thought,
please don’t let it be much farther. Or else I will never get out of here
. But, no, Modron had not answered her earlier plea. Modron cared nothing for her. She felt a pull, a faint tug, something—but what? She stopped, wanting to understand. The ring on her finger lost some of its glow. Had she missed something? Some turning? But how? There were no other ways out.

The glow of the ring became fainter still. The pull she had felt became stronger. And then she realized what she had to do, why Modron had not answered her prayer for fire. Fire would not do for the Great Mother. Fire belonged to Mabon of the Sun. But the Mother was different. Abruptly she threw the torch on the ground and extinguished the flame. Total darkness surrounded her.

No, there was light. The light from the emerald began to glow stronger. Modron was here, guiding her. She started forward, and the rocky ground became smooth as glass beneath her feet. The passageway began to widen.

Somehow her fear was gone. She almost ran down the passage lit by the verdant glow of the ring. There, not far now, an opening. A pit of blackness far, far beneath the earth. And she was not afraid.

She burst into the cavern, and the ring flared up even brighter than before. The chamber was perfectly round, the walls smooth and glittering with gems. In the center a green light glowed, pulsing, ever-changing. She walked slowly toward the light that came from the pit.

The pit. One much like the pit she had fallen into so many years ago. But this time she was not afraid. The ring on her hand, the glow from the pit, the beat of her heart pulsed in the same rhythm. She squatted by the hole and leaned over to look.

And there it was. Y Pair, the Cauldron of Modron. Buarth Y Greu, the Circle of Blood. The shallow bowl was made of glittering gold with a dizzying array of spirals etched on all sides. The lip of the bowl was covered with emeralds. In the center of the inside of the bowl was a figure eight, etched in onyx, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.