May Earth Rise (32 page)

“But know this, old man,” the captain said, his cold blue eyes pitiless, “if this is a mistake, I will see that you pay for it, not I.”

“No mistake,” he said. “None at all.”

“Go then.”

He followed the soldiers into the palace. He hardly dared to breathe once inside, for all the richness of the place took his breath away. Great tapestries, spun in rich colors of green and red, of amber and gold, of blue and purple covered the fine, marble walls.

One showed Wuffa, founder of the Wufmaegth, the second dynasty, killing his wife’s brothers as they attempted to rescue their sister from his hated embrace. Another showed Sigger of the Sigmaegth conquering the kingdom of Mierce, killing King Centwine, spitting the king’s baby son on a spear, and forcing Queen Cyneburga to become his queen. A third showed Emperor Aelle, founder of the present dynasty, the Aelmaegth, defeating the Dereans, killing King Ingild and watching as Queen Hildelinda threw herself off the tower rather than fall into Coranian hands.

But all that was as nothing to the most beautiful room he had ever seen—the Gulden Hul of the Emperors of Corania. The great, golden roof was held up by eight pillars, carved in the likeness of mighty trees and sheathed in gleaming gold. The floor was covered with tiles of gold and the walls were covered with sheets of beaten gold. Candles filled the hall, making it gleam softly. In the center a huge tree of gold stood, spreading its jewel-covered branches up to the roof. Mechanical, jeweled birds nested in its branches, occasionally singing with the sounds of tinkling bells.

Two golden thrones stood at the north end of the hall on a dais covered with cloth of gold. The Flyflot, the banner of the Emperor, hung on the wall behind the thrones, worked in amethysts and gold.

The Emperor himself was surprisingly small and pale, his fine blond hair falling lankly to his narrow shoulders. His head seemed bent by the weight of the golden diadem, Cyst Eorcanstan, and the huge jewels of amber, emerald, and sapphire that adorned it.

The Empress, by contrast, seemed vitally alive. Athelflead sat on the smaller throne and her rich, brown hair, still untouched by frost, was curled and braided, spilling down her alabaster shoulders.

But at this moment he did not really have eyes for either of them. He was only interested in the man who stood at the bottom of the dais. Prince Aesc, the Emperor’s brother, seemed to have all the vitality that his older brother lacked. His powerful shoulders strained against the cloth of his amber tunic. His blond beard was rich and full and his bright, blue eyes glittered with intelligence in his tanned, leathery face.

The guards made their way through the crowd in the hall and he followed. At last they stood before Aesc. The prince raised his brow and looked inquiringly.

Torgar, sailor for Corania for years beyond counting, gave an awkward bow and held out Havgan’s ruby ring to the prince.

Aesc took it and it glittered in his palm with a light of its own. “He is well?” the prince asked anxiously.

“He was well when I last saw him. I am Torgar, and he has sent me with a message to you.” “What is his need?”

“Soldiers. In Kymru before the month is out.” “Then,” Aesc said, simply, “it shall be done.”

Arberth
Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 500

Llundydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early morning

A
t Rhoram’s signal Achren extinguished the torch. Velvety darkness descended, so thick here in the heart of the caves that honeycombed the cliffs beneath Caer Tir that Rhoram thought he could almost taste it. He put out his hand and lightly touched Achren’s arm. He reached out with his other hand and touched the cave just where the rough wall gave way to smooth stone. He moved forward with one hand on the wall to guide him and the other hand in Achren’s to guide her.

After a few feet in the palpable darkness, he halted. He could tell by the feel of the air on his face that the hidden door was just in front of him. He pressed one ear against the almost imperceptible place where the stone door joined the stone wall and listened.

The faintest wisp of sound through the stone told him what he had expected—that the chamber on the other side of the door was not empty. He guessed that there were not many guards there—possibly only one in the makeshift prison General Penda had created on the first floor of Caer Tir’s northwest watchtower.

He reached out and lightly touched the spring that would release the catch on the door. He could tell by touch that the catch was still in working order. General Penda had indeed destroyed the secret passage that he had discovered when Ellywen was captured less than a month ago. But he had not looked hard enough—if at all—for yet another door. Rhoram smiled in the darkness, for he had been quite sure that the second door had fooled them all.

He briefly squeezed Achren’s hand to indicate she should be ready. Achren released his hand. The faintest steely rasp told him she had drawn her sword.

“Now,” he breathed to her then pressed the catch. The door sprang open and he and Achren leapt through.

A lone guard whirled toward them, his axe raised. Quick as thought Achren darted forward, ducking low to let the axe swing pass harmlessly over her and thrusting upward with her blade, burying it in the guard’s belly. Rhoram sprang behind the man and put his hand over the dying guard’s mouth. The guard sank to the floor without a sound.

A few torches lit the chamber, illuminating the stone walls and empty cells. Achren rose and went to the wooden door leading out into the courtyard. She silently opened the door a crack and looked out. After a few moments she turned back to him.

“No movement in the courtyard,” Achren said softly. “And the watch won’t change for another hour at least. Time for you to do what you have to do before dawn.”

Rhoram silently laid the dead man down full length on the stone floor. He glanced up at her and there was something about this moment, about what they had come here to do, about what awaited the city at dawning, that made him want speak the truth.

Her dark hair was braided tightly to her scalp. She wore a close-fitting tunic of dark green and trousers of black leather as well as worn, black leather boots from which two daggers protruded. As she looked down at him her dark eyes sparkled and her generous mouth grinned at the thought of what this day’s work would mean.

And, to him, she was beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. More beautiful to him, truth be told, than Rhiannon had been—and she had been his measure of beauty since he had lost her so many years ago. It had seemed so strange at first, when he realized that he had fallen in love with Achren ur Canhustyr, the woman who had been his captain for so many years. Strange because he had known her for so long. He had fought battles with her, had hunted game with her, had fought the Coranians with her at his side. Had, at the last, fallen in love with her. Or, perhaps, had always been, but only recently realized it.

He had spoken of his feelings for her only once, and she had stopped him then, refusing to take him seriously. So he had bided his time, knowing that she would one day come to believe him. That day was today.

“Do you think to crouch here all day?” she asked acidly when he did not immediately rise.

“I love you,” he said simply.

Her eyes widened in surprise as he rose to his feet. “What in the world—” she began to sputter.

“I told you once before, but you didn’t believe me,” he went on as though she had not spoken. “You didn’t think I would just let it go, did you?”

“I thought—and do think—that you don’t know what you are saying,” she said firmly.

“I won’t wait forever, Achren, for you to decide to believe me. And, unlike every other man you have ever met, I don’t fear you.”

“This is hardly the time or the place to—” she began.

But she was wrong. For this was exactly the time and place. This moment, before he cast the die and risked everything on the throw he was making here this morning. The end of this day would see him either restored to his own hall or dead in it. And it was that knowledge that drove him now as he reached out, pulled her to him, and fastened his lips over hers.

The kiss was sweet, sweeter than he had thought possible. He held her tightly against him, feeling every line and curve of her body against his. Her mouth parted beneath his questing lips and he moaned softly as he held her even tighter.

He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, savoring the taste of her. At last he released her and they were both breathless. “Now do you believe me?” he asked.

“Rhoram,” she began.

He released her and crossed the room, softly opening the door. “When you get her bring her to me,” he said. “You know where I will be.” Before he stepped out into the night he looked back at her. “Oh, and save my place,” he grinned. “Because I’ll be back to take up where I left off.”

And then he slipped out into the courtyard of Caer Tir. He did not look back.

H
E CROSSED THE
silent courtyard swiftly, melting into the shadows that were cast by the flickering torches set at intervals along the fortress walls. Dense, pale fog covered the sky, cutting off visibility.

The watchtower was only a few feet from the walls of the king’s ystafell, so Rhoram did not have far to go to reach his destination. He crept through the narrow alleyway between the back of the ystafell and the walls of Caer Tir until he was directly beneath the second-story window of what used to be his chambers.

He pulled out the weighted, thin rope where he had secured it on his belt. He whirled the weight over his head once, twice, three times, then let it fly. It arched overhead and then snaked down, catching the eave as it did so, wrapping securely around the protruding wood. He pulled down on it to ensure it was fastened tightly. He wrapped the rope around his forearm, then began to climb up the wall.

When he reached the second-story window he pulled his dagger from his belt and deftly flicked the catch. He soundlessly opened the casement outward, then climbed inside.

He knew the room well, so he easily avoided the furniture in the darkened chamber, creeping silently until he stood at the foot of the huge bed. By the light of the stars he barely made out the outline on the coverlet—a wolf’s head worked in black on a dark green background. The sleeper’s even breathing seemed to make the wolf’s head nod back at him, as though the animal bade him go on.

Rhoram softly made his way to the fireplace and stirred the glowing coals, laying a log on top of them. Flames licked at the wood then grew to illuminate the chamber. The sleeper stirred but did not awaken.

Rhoram opened the oaken chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out the scabbard he saw lying on top. He pulled the blade from the scabbard and tossed the naked blade onto the end of the bed. Then he drew his own sword with a steely hiss.

The sleeper awoke. His red hair was awry; his small piglike eyes widened at the sight of Rhoram and his scar whitened on his face.

“Wake up, Erfin,” Rhoram said softly. “Wake up and die.”

Erfin, who, for all his cowardice always retained a great deal of cunning sprang to the end of the bed, snatched up the sword, and rolled over the coverlet to the floor in one fluid movement.

Rhoram did not move; he merely watched Erfin. “Did you think I was going to stop you?” he asked softly. “Then you are indeed a fool.”

“You are the fool,” Erfin snarled. “You should have killed me while I slept.”

“I wanted to,” Rhoram said in a confidential tone. “I really did. But High King Arthur thought it would be best to kill you in a duel. He felt I would enjoy that more.”

“A duel? Did you learn nothing from last time?”

“I learned a great deal. And more since then,” Rhoram answered gently. “Now, brother mine, fight me.”

“I don’t have to fight you,” Erfin sneered. “I only have to raise my voice and guards will come running.”

“I’m afraid not,” Rhoram said apologetically. “For your guards are dead by now.”

“Achren,” Erfin said flatly.

“Indeed,” Rhoram agreed. “You are, nonetheless, welcome to try to summon help. As a matter of fact, I think I might like that.”

“Rhoram,” Erfin began, licking his lips nervously. “Brother-in-law, remember our common kin. My sister, your wife. By our laws if you kill me you would be guilty of fratricide. The punishment by the gods for that is severe.”

“The punishment, Erfin, for betraying one’s king is even more so,” Rhoram countered. “And by Kymric law she is no longer my wife. For she deserted me and sought to betray me. Therefore you are no longer my brother. Say goodbye to this world, Erfin. For the next awaits you.”

Rhoram sprang forward, his sword glittering. Erfin brought up his blade and the fight was joined. The two men fought back and forth across the room, Rhoram raining blows that Erfin barely deflected in time.

“You are slower, Erfin, than last time,” Rhoram taunted. “Consorting with the enemy has made you fat.”

Erfin did not have the breath to answer, but neither did he stop parrying the blows. But he was so sorely beset by Rhoram that he could not even attempt to do anything other than defend himself. Attack was out of the question.

At last Rhoram tired of baiting the man and determined to make an end. With a swing of his sword he sent Erfin’s blade flying across the room. He backed Erfin up against the wall, the point of his blade set against Erfin’s chest. A bright bead of blood blossomed on Erfin’s white nightshirt.

“Brother,” Erfin panted. “I am unarmed. You would kill me now? Without a chance to defend myself?”

“Do you think this some kind of game? You had your chance to defend yourself. And you lost.”

“Rhoram—” Erfin began.

But Rhoram did not let him finish. He thrust the blade forward into Erfin’s heart. Blood gushed from Erfin’s mouth and his astonished eyes widened in pain, then glazed over as he sank to the floor.

Rhoram pulled his blade from Erfin’s chest and contemptuously wiped it on Erfin’s nightshirt, never taking his gaze off his dying brother-in-law. He smiled as the spirit fled Erfin’s eyes, beginning its journey to the Land of Summer. Once there Erfin would be judged by Aertan the Weaver. Rhoram did not doubt that the judgement would be harsh, the penalty severe.

The door of the chamber burst open. A stumbling figure was thrust into the room, landing at Rhoram’s feet. The second figure stepped in to the room calmly and closed the door.

“Efa,” Rhoram said to the woman who sprawled on the floor where Achren had flung her. “How nice to see you again.”

“Rhoram!” Efa exclaimed as she rose shakily to her feet. She wore a night-robe of forest green, embroidered with gold thread. Her rich, red hair was unbound, flowing over her gown in a fiery cascade.

He glanced over at his Captain and smiled. “Any trouble?” he asked.

“Not a bit,” Achren replied. “The guards are dead. And so, I see, is Erfin.”

“So he is,” Rhoram agreed.

Efa, Rhoram’s one-time queen, raised her hands to her mouth and gasped as she saw the bloody carcass of her brother. She raised her beautiful, velvety brown eyes to Rhoram and he saw her pull herself back from the hysteria that was rising to the surface. He saw her begin to calculate her effect on him, and how she might be able to use it.

He considered stopping her before she even began, but reconsidered. This might even be better than killing Erfin.

“Rhoram,” Efa whispered. “You killed him. Oh,
cariad,
I’m glad you killed him.”

“You are glad I killed him,” Rhoram repeated.

“Yes. Oh, yes. He held me a virtual prisoner here. Did you really think I had deserted you? Oh, yes, I did think to do it. But just for a time. Just until I was sure you were sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“For how badly you treated me. Did you think I didn’t know about your other women?”

“Of course I thought you knew,” Rhoram said. “You have always known. And never cared.”

“Oh, but I did!”

“You cared about being Queen of Prydyn,” he said flatly. “That is all you ever cared for.”

“Oh,
cariad,
you are wrong. Wrong about me.”

He stepped forward and gazed down at Efa for a few moments, long enough for a sensuous smile, for hope, to dawn on that lovely face. At last he spoke. “High King Arthur has commanded me to spare you,” he said softly. “If it were not for that you would be dead by now.”

“You would kill me? Your wife?”

“You are no longer my wife. And I would indeed kill you—as payment for the lives you took. I have been told of how you used your knowledge of Arberth and its people to betray the Y Dawnus to the Coranians. It is only my duty to my High King that persuades me to let you live.”

He signaled to Achren and stepped back. Without a word his captain swiftly and efficiently bound and gagged the former Queen of Prydyn.

“Now we go?” Achren asked.

“Now we go,” Rhoram replied.

A
FTER BINDING EFA
securely and leaving her in Erfin’s rooms, Rhoram and Achren made their way from the ystafell and across the courtyard to the gate, keeping to the shadows. Achren swiftly dispatched the guard at the gate, and the two of them slipped through. Rhoram turned back as they moved out of Caer Tir and into the city. The golden doors gleamed even in the heavy fog. The wolf’s head outlined in onyx seemed to shimmer, and the emerald eyes glittered balefully.