Cry of Sorrow (57 page)

“In return for what, exactly?” Arthur asked.

“For what she had always wanted—power,” Rhiannon said, studiously not looking at Gwydion.

“I refused her, you see,” Gwydion said quietly to Myrrdin, “at Mynydd Tawel. And she was determined not to be left behind there anymore.”

So, Gwydion had refused Arianrod after all. Rhiannon thought that very strange. A fact that Gwydion was apparently aware of, since he looked at her so pointedly.

“Yes,” Gwydion said, answering her unspoken question. “I did, indeed. I take it you did not think so?”

“I didn’t think about it at all,” Rhiannon lied airily. “Who you sleep with is your business.”

“So it is,” Gwydion agreed. “So it is.”

   
Llundydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening

D
UDOD WALKED AWAY
from the marketplace with a casual air. After many years of serving his now-dead brother, Anieron, Dudod was well schooled in the ways of deviousness. For he was not casual at all, now. He was fully aware that he was being followed.

The man who followed Dudod was, for the moment, unidentifiable. He wore a cloak with the hood well pushed down over his forehead, his features left in shadow. The man’s hands were those of an old man, but the man’s walk was vigorous. He had been following Dudod for the last hour as the Bard had made his way through the marketplace in the center of Brecon, one of the most important cities in the cantref of Ceredigion in Prydyn.

As Dudod had done for his brother, now he did for his son, Elidyr, who was now the Master Bard of Kymru and faced with the backbreaking task of knitting together the broken network of Dewin and Bards that had spanned the country. The network had been broken almost beyond repair earlier this year, when the Coranians had raided Allt Llwyd. Many key men and women had been captured then. And much damage had resulted to internal communications.

It was this damage that Dudod had come to Brecon to repair. He had done his job well. Now all of Prydyn was once again functional, and Elidyr would again receive messages at his refuge with King Owein in Coed Coch.

As Dudod always did when he thought of the damage done, he thought of his dead brother, who had cut out his own tongue rather than betray secrets to the enemy. Anieron had died at the hands of the Arch-wyrce-jaga, Sledda, not many months ago. As he always did, Dudod swore to himself that he would exact revenge from that one-eyed night crow. He would see to it that Sledda suffered mightily before he died.

But now was not the time to brood over his future plans for vengeance. Brecon was his last stop, and, from here, he was to go to Coed Aderyn. It was to that forest, on the border between Prydyn and Gwytheryn, that the others were to make their way. It would be from there that the Cerddorian of Kymru would receive their orders to create the diversion necessary for the others to get into Cadair Idris. And Dudod would be there to see it all. He would kill this man who followed him as soon as he had the chance. And then he would leave Brecon as quickly as he could.

Casually, he made his way down one of the busy streets, whistling, stopping occasionally to make an infinitesimal correction to the folds of his cloak, to his boots, to the lacing of his tunic. He didn’t want to go too fast for his follower. And he did not. For every time he contrived to glance behind him, the man was there, not bothering to mask that he was following. Bad sign, that. A sign that Dudod must take this man out as soon as possible, for when those who followed did not mind being spotted, things were very bad, indeed.

Dudod turned down a narrow side street, still whistling. The man who followed him was just a few paces behind. Now was the time to act.

He slipped into the constricted opening of an alleyway. The alley was narrow and dark, nestled between the two houses on either side. As he pressed himself against the wall, he drew his knife from the top of his boot and waited quietly, barely breathing.

The slight light that drifted past the opening was blocked off as the hooded man halted in the narrow passageway. The man’s hands were empty of weapons, but that meant nothing. Silently, the man slipped into the alley, and faced Dudod from just inches away.

“If you kill me, old friend, I hope you will do a quick, clean job. I am sick of long, drawn-out deaths.”

That voice! Something about it was familiar, but even Dudod, who had perfect pitch and a memory that had never before failed, could not place it. Someone he had known, he thought, from the time he had been Bard to the court of Gwynedd, long ago, when Queen Rathtyen was alive.

The man removed the hood of his cloak. In the dim light, Dudod could make out gray hair, which still held a glint of reddish-gold, like a treasured memory. He had an aquiline, commanding nose, and his skin stretched tightly over a face that was little more than a skull. And blue eyes, eyes that Dudod now remembered had often been cold and distant, but which now sparkled with life and purpose.

“You are a hard man to find, Dudod,” the man said softly. “I have been looking for you for many, many months.”

“Rhodri! Rhodri ap Erddufyl! By the gods, man, I thought you were dead!”

“I was, Dudod,” Rhodri agreed softly. “I was, when I left Tegeingl after Rathtyen died, and left Gwynedd in the hands of her son, Uthyr. I was when I left my own son, Madoc, and hid myself away.”

“And in the years since?”

“Living a half life on the island of Caer Siddi. Dead, really, for all those years.”

“Until?” Dudod prompted.

“Until now, since the enemy has come. I have heard, Dudod, of the death of my daughter, Ellirri, once Queen of Rheged, and the death of her husband and oldest son in battle with the enemy. I have heard of my son, how Madoc betrayed Uthyr and threw in his lot with the Coranians. And I have seen—”

“What?” Dudod asked as Rhodri paused. “What have you seen?”

“I have seen the Smiths of Kymru in bondage. I have seen them make those collars meant for our own Y Dawnus. I have seen them die inside as they do this.”

“You know where they are being held?”

“I do. And it is for that which I have found you. I will give this information to the man who desires it most. You must take me to him.”

“And that is?”

“To the Dreamer.”

“To Awst’s son,” Dudod pointed out.

“That he is the son of my one-time rival means nothing to me anymore. If it did, I would still be residing in Caer Siddi, empty inside.”

“Then I will take you to him, Rhodri. As you wish.”

“Good,” Rhodri said. “And then I must go, for I have another task.”

“And that is?”

“Madoc.” Rhodri spoke the name of his son as though he had ashes in his mouth.

“And what will you do, Rhodri ap Erddufyl, once-time King of Gwynedd, when you see your son?”

“What must be done, Dudod ap Cyvarnion. What must be done.”

Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—late afternoon

T
hey were all assembled and waiting when Gwydion entered the enormous cavern. Rock crystal, set in the rough walls of the huge cave, shimmered in the light of the hundreds of torches set in brackets around the chamber.

As he entered he paused for a moment, scanning the faces of the folk who stood around the walls.

The party from Rheged was led by King Owein, who stood unmoving, his cool blue eyes surveying Gwydion as intently as he himself was being surveyed. Around his neck he wore the opal-studded torque of Rheged. His red trousers were tucked into calf-length boots of brown leather, the cuffs studded with opals. Opals shimmered from the brooch that fastened his red cloak over his left shoulder.

Trystan, Owein’s Captain and Teleri, his Lieutenant, stood closely on either side of the King, both dressed in red breeches and white tunics. The badge of Rheged, a white horse rearing on a field of red, glittered on the front of their tunics. Trystan’s green eyes were steady as he returned Gwydion’s gaze. Teleri fingered the dagger tucked into the belt at her waist and nodded briefly to Gwydion.

Owein’s younger brother, Rhiwallon, stood just behind and to the right of Owein, his reddish-gold hair glinting in the light of the torches, his stance wary, as though even here, danger might threaten his brother. Next to Rhiwallon stood Esyllt, Owein’s Bard, dressed in a robe of bardic blue fastened at the waist with a fine chain of silver. Around her neck she wore a torque of silver with a triangle in which a sapphire dangled. Sabrina, one of the few Druids who had not followed the Archdruid down the road of betrayal, wore the Druid’s robe of brown with green trim at the sleeves and hem. Around her neck she wore the Druid’s torque of gold, from which flashed an emerald set inside a circle and a square. The two women stood as far apart from each other, yet as close to Trystan, as they could.

Gwydion’s eyes lighted on the rest of the band from Coed Coch. There was Cariadas, his daughter, the next Dreamer. She wore a gown of black with an undershift of red, and her red-gold hair was braided and bound to the crown of her head with ribbons of red and black. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Her smile was less sunny than it had been some months ago, but it was even more beautiful for all of that, for she always seemed now to be touched with just a hint of sadness, ever since the death of Anieron, Master Bard. Sinend, she who would one day be Archdruid, stood quietly, with her eyes downcast, as she always did. She wore the customary Druid’s robe of green and brown and the Druid’s torque set with an emerald.

Elstar, the Ardewin, and Elidyr, her husband, the new Master Bard, stood closely together. Elstar wore a robe of silver-gray, the pentagonal badge of the Dewin, a silver dragon on a field of green, over her heart. Around her neck she wore the Ardewin’s torque, a collar of silver set with pearls. Elidyr wore his robe of white trimmed in blue. The badge of the Bards, a white nightingale on a field of blue, was fastened to a belt of silver around his waist. Around his neck he wore the torque of the Master Bard, which shimmered with sapphires. The fine lines around Elstar’s eyes, the tired droop of Elidyr’s mouth, told their tale of long nights and days as they struggled to reconnect the broken chain of Y Dawnus. Yet they gazed triumphantly at Gwydion, for this task was now complete, as Gwydion had told them it must be by this time.

The couple’s sons, Llewelyn, who would be the next Ardewin, and Cynfar, who would one day be the Master Bard, stood on either side of their parents. Cynfar, the younger, possessed the green eyes of his granda, Anieron. Llewelyn had the sandy hair and brown eyes of his father. The faces of the two young men were fierce and eager.

The folk from Ederynion clustered around Prince Lludd. Lludd stood stolidly, his thumbs tucked into the belt around his waist. He wore a tunic and trousers of sea green. His boots were of white leather, studded with pearls. He did not wear the torque of Ederynion, for that was around his sister’s neck. He was, every moment of every day, Gwydion knew, anxious to rescue Queen Elen from the hands of the Coranians. But the boy was now a man, and had learned to wait, and his impatience could be seen only in the tight set of his jaw, and in the flicker of fire in his brown eyes.

Angharad, his Captain, her flaming red hair braided tightly to her head, surveyed Gwydion with her keen, green eyes. She wore white breeches and a tunic of sea green. The badge of Ederynion, a white swan on a field of sea green, glittered on her shoulder. The gaze of Emrys, her Lieutenant, danced over to Angharad, then quickly away. Angharad did not seem to notice. Talhearn, Lludd’s Bard, stood to one side of the Prince in his robe of bardic blue, his wise blue eyes calm and patient.

Queen Morrigan stood at the front of her party from Gwynedd. She wore a gown of brown with an undertunic of blue. The slight, mulish set of her mouth indicated that getting her into a dress had been a struggle. But, apparently, in the end, the solemnity of the occasion had won out. Around her neck she wore the silver torque of Gwynedd, studded with sapphires. The girl’s auburn hair and dark eyes were echoes of her mother, Ygraine, who stood behind her daughter, stiff and cool in white trimmed with pearls. Yet Gwydion saw much of his dead brother, Uthyr, in Morrigan, too, in the way she tilted her head, in the set of her fine mouth.

Cai, Morrigan’s Captain, and Bedwyr, her Lieutenant, stood on either side of the Queen, their identical brown gazes steady. Both wore blue tunics with brown breeches, and the badge of Gwynedd, a brown hawk on a field of blue, was buckled around their waists.

Susanna, Morrigan’s Bard, and Neuad, her Dewin, stood, each on either side of Cai and Bedwyr. Susanna’s red-gold hair glinted in the torchlight, and her generous mouth was curved into a smile as she waited. She wore the Bard’s torque of sapphire around her neck. Gwyhar, Susanna’s son, stood next to his mother, garbed in a robe of bardic blue. His freckled face was eager. Neuad, breathtakingly beautiful, stood as still as a statue, her robe of sea green barely moving with her breath, her eyes never leaving Myrrdin, who stood just at the entrance of the cave.

Just a little apart from them stood Gwydion’s aunt, Dinaswyn. She wore a gown of black and an undertunic of red. Her frosty hair spilled down her back, and her gray eyes gazed back at Gwydion without expression.

King Rhoram stood at the forefront of the party from Prydyn. The torchlight played over his golden hair and shifted over the deep lines of pain that cut clefts around his mouth. He wore a tunic and trousers of dark green. His boots were black, and the cuffs were studded with emeralds. Around his neck he wore the gold and emerald torque of Prydyn. In spite of the lines of pain in his face, he was smiling, his blue eyes glowing.

Achren, Rhoram’s Captain, and Aidan, his Lieutenant, stood on either side of Rhoram. Achren’s dark eyes danced, and Aidan’s easy grin came to his face as Gwydion surveyed them. They both wore the badge of Prydyn, a black wolf on a green field, stitched over their hearts on their green tunics.

Geriant and Sanon, Rhoram’s son and daughter, stood just behind their father, their golden hair glowing. Sanon was pale, as she always was; yet she stood proudly in her gown of black and undertunic of dark green. She was not looking at Gwydion, but at Owein, who seemed to be unaware of her gaze. Geriant was dressed like his father and bore a great resemblance to him, for he, too, had lines on his face—but his were lines of sorrow, put there, Gwydion knew, by Owein’s sister, Enid, now the captive wife of Morcant, the traitorous King of Rheged. Cadell, Rhoram’s Dewin, wore the Dewin’s robe of sea green trimmed with silver and the Dewin’s torque of silver and pearl. He gazed at Gwydion steadily. Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s counselor and Gwydion’s old friend, stood quietly, his dark eyes watchful.