The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) (55 page)

She released him, and he looked back at the weir gate. It would consume him if he did not break away. Already his hand was sunk into it nearly full across the backs of his fingers, yet the desire to go even deeper was greater than his will to fight, more a need than a temptation, a desperate need. Aye, he knew the way of yielding to pleasure and a thousand ways of surrendering to solace. ’Twas his mortal weakness, as Moriath had said. A strange death, she’d promised him, and long ago she’d told him Nemeton had died here. Had it been thus that the wage had met his demise? In desperate longing?

The question no sooner formed in his mind than it was answered with blood, a red wash of it beneath his hand, obscuring the emerald surface of the gate.
The Beirdd Braint of the Quicken-tree, Nemeton, did not die in search of pleasure or knowledge, but in battle with a blade through his heart, killed by Gwrnach the Destroyer; and behind the Druid, raped and gutted by a golden-haired youth, son of the Destroyer, the lady Rhiannon died in a pool of her own blood.

Dain jerked his hand away and stumbled back, freed by the truth and the horror and the blood. Always blood. An uncontrollable trembling seized him along with a flash of pain so sharp, it made him cry out and sent him to his knees. He slid his arm around his middle, a vain attempt to contain his body’s yearning to return to the insidious bliss of the door. He’d felt such before, which only made it worse, for he’d succumbed again.

Save me.

Grim-faced, he looked down at the red stain covering his palm. Revulsion churned to life in his belly, and he fought the urge to lose the contents of his stomach. Damned, blessed sight. He would have died there, if not for his damned gift of sight. More than words had been upon the gate. A vision had been there: he’d seen the Druid’s death and heard Rhiannon’s last scream, her voice like Ceridwen’s, her hair the same, her body, her face—’twas all of the daughter.

Save me.

He held himself tighter and tried to draw a deep breath into his lungs, vaguely aware of the tears tracking down his face. He had thought it Ceridwen lying there, raped and cut down by Caradoc’s blade, the life within her flowing onto the cold stone like wine from a broken cup. The shock and horror of it had overridden every other instinct in his body.

Moriath could not have known, for no matter the gains to be had, the witch would not have sanctioned a betrothal between Ceridwen and her mother’s murderer.

He lifted his head to look at Ceridwen. She was still entranced, still working her magic upon the gate.
Christ, Ceraunnos save me
. He’d thought he’d lost her.

Ceridwen knew of Dain’s pain, had felt it as it had washed through the weir. She had heard his cry and could feel his tears as if they ran down her own cheeks. He was a part of her, as was the gate and the creatures and the place beyond. She had put her hand upon the emerald surface again and felt not heat, but oneness. The warmth of the whole had lain up against her like the softest coverlet, molding itself to her, to every part of her body, and through its touch, expanding her existence beyond the boundaries of her skin. Then she’d brought the whole of it inside herself.

Her lips were curved by their own accord in a smile. Pure light radiated from the center of her being, the bright core pulsing. The Mother Goddess heart.

Rhuddlan removed his hand from Dain’s shoulder, knowing there was no more to be done. Nemeton’s and Rhiannon’s deaths had initiated the weir’s existence. The vision that relived those moments had been the key to unlocking the ether’s hold—that fateful wash of life’s blood brought forth by Lavrans’s gift. And Ceridwen had proven him somewhat wrong. She was quite capable of bringing about and containing the gate’s destruction. The dismantling had already begun, with one opening where Dain’s hand had been and another where the gate symbol had burned hot in the maid’s palm.

He shifted his gaze to Ceridwen, and for her sake was grateful she was no more than she was, surefooted in the mists, a good tracker, and, in the end, strong enough to yield herself to the heart of the Mother Goddess. Without the gift of deep sight, though, she would be useless in the gateway of time; yet the lack had spared her from seeing her mother die. He wished another could have been spared.

He did not need to see Moriath’s tears to know she was crying. That one always saw too much. She was her father’s daughter and would have claimed a place as Magus Druid Priestess at the scrying pool, except for Rhuddlan himself denying her. She had been bound to him as the Beltaine goddess in her seventeenth year, and he would not see her bound to another for any reason, with or without the magic of sex. She was a weakness he would not renounce, and in the end, his patience would outlast her stubbornness.

For certes she’d saved the mage. Lavrans suffered from a strange malady beyond Rhuddlan’s experience, but Moriath had recognized it and known enough to intervene.

A fresh wash of opalescence cascaded through the weir gate, causing it to lighten and thin, and he felt a familiar restlessness begin deep in the earth. Rhuddlan smiled. ’Twouldn’t be long now.

Dain reached for Ceridwen as the first tremor hit, pulling her close and bracing himself against the stone surrounding the gate. Her eyes opened with a slow sweep of lashes, and though the ground shook beneath their feet, she appeared profoundly calm.

“It’s time to leave,” he said, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes. He felt sick, shaken, but was still of a piece. The gate was ripping in places, starting to shred and tear, and the holes they’d made were growing larger. Their work was done. He made to turn back to the mists and was stopped by her hand taking hold of his.

“Wait,” she said. “I would see.”

He had no time to ask her what it was she would see, for they came then, up from out of the abyss with furious speed, streaking across the other side of the weir as dark shadows, making the earth tremble in their wake.

Pryf.

Larger than he had thought.

Much larger.

The size of castle towers, but alive, serpentine worms of the highest order.

Their keening cry resounded against the back of the weir, and where the seal was broken, a hot, gushing wind poured through, smelling of rich earth. The first worm rolled into a turn behind the gate, its body sliding across the emerald surface, twisting in a tight curve and heading back down into the bore hole. The second worm was bigger, its sheer bulk causing a collision with the weir. The force of the crash knocked both him and Ceridwen over as the ground lurched underneath them. The seal bulged out with a stretching, tearing sound, nearly touching Ceridwen where she’d fallen.

The thing would not hold under another onslaught, yet another would come, for through the gaping emerald holes, he could see tens and hundreds of the giant creatures, their bodies slickly black with a deep green cast, a clew of
pryf
—
prifarym
, the Quicken-tree had sung—twisting and spiraling up and down the whole interminable length of the abyss.
Born of the froth of a thousand serpents tangled in a frenzy beneath the stones of Domh-ringr
.

The Doom Rings of Judgment. Dain looked at the rim of rock encircling the weir and again into the wormhole, to the chaos at its core, and knew he dared not be judged here.

A bolt of purple light crackled in the center of the clew, and a single
pryf
broke free to make its run.

“Now, Ceri!” he yelled above the growing rush of wind and cries, tightening his hold on her. “We must leave now!”

Aye, he was right, she thought. The
prifarym
would break through soon, some to slide into the deep caves of the Canolbarth, others—the pale, silvery-gold ones farther down than she would ever see—to continue their swirling patrol of the abyss...
infinite chasm from whence came the world.

And a few, like the one heading straight for them, the undulations of its young body propelling it up the shaft, to make their way out to the open sea.

Dain swore, scrambling to his feet and dragging her up with him. She cast one last glance at the giant creature closing in on the weir—its featureless face into the wind, the single-mindedness of its purpose like a shield before it—then with a sweep of her arm, she parted the mists and turned into the opening with Dain at her side, bringing them both back to the cavern of the scrying pool.

Moriath was there, reaching for her as the steamy clouds sank back into the pool.

“You have done well, little one,” the older woman whispered, and gave her a serenely pleased smile.

Rhuddlan echoed the sentiment with his cool, gray gaze and a slight nod that implied both gratitude and dismissal.

Exhausted—and aye, she could feel Dain trembling at her side—they were taken to a part of the cave far from the pool and made to rest on soft piles of rugs, where Aedyth and Moira tended to them and brought them honeymead and seedcakes to refresh their spirits and bodies.

C
aradoc stormed into Balor’s keep, the pain in his leg and his limping gait adding to his rage. His captain, Dyfn, flanked him on his left, keeping a goodly distance between himself and his master’s sword, but by the gods, even at a distance, Caradoc could cut him down before the man could dodge. The only thing that stayed his hand was the battle they faced.

The first sortie had been lost. The pit guards had been found dead, one of them with his throat cut and two others pin-stuck with black-feathered arrows. Dyfn had taken thirty men into the boar’s maze to rout Dain and his companions, but all they’d found was Old Groaner with his head cut off and tracks heading into a wall of rubble. ’Twas beyond the rubble that the true depth of their dilemma had become clear. The caves, deserted for all these years, were overrun by an army the likes of which Caradoc had not seen since he’d fought by his father’s side for Carn Merioneth, an invisible army made up of men hiding in the dark, their presence marked by flashes of cold steel and strange blue light. “The wild ones,” his father had called them, and as they’d been defeated before, Caradoc swore he would defeat them again.

He stepped up onto the dais at the end of the hall, then reached down with both hands to lift his injured leg. The little bitch had nearly castrated him with her bolt, and for that she would pay.

“Bring me the hairless leech,” he gritted from between his teeth, limping to his great chair. Dain Lavrans had chosen his side badly in this fight. Years ago, Gwrnach had allowed the survivors of the battle for Merioneth to escape. Caradoc was not so softhearted as his father. He would lead the full force of Balor into the caves and crush every living soul who dared to trespass beneath his keep—except for one, Ceridwen ab Arawn. He would kill her separately, with Helebore at his side to catch her blood.

~ ~ ~

With the ending of the ceremony, those of the Quicken-tree who could fight had gone into the tunnels of the Light Caves with the Liosalfar to help man the defenses. Scouts had reported a marshaling of the forces in Balor after Rhuddlan’s first rout, and another attack was expected.

For himself, Dain had decided to make for the surface. He’d gotten what he’d come for; Rhuddlan could fight his own battles.

“Moira is sending over seedcakes for our journey,” Ceridwen said, coming up beside him where he knelt by their supply packs. The dogs were with her and began sniffing around, seeing what was what. “And two thick rugs for our pallet, a pot of
rasca
, four gourds of something she called catkin dew—though it’s hard to imagine collecting dew off catkins—and seven ells, a small fortune, in Quicken-tree cloth. She said Rhuddlan got far more than his hour of magic.”

“’Tis true,” he said, tying down a strap with a quick jerk. He could not be gone soon enough. Unlike the Quicken-tree, who were contentedly overjoyed at the prospect of winning back Carn Merioneth in mortal combat, he had no desire to fight again. Lady Rhiannon deserved avenging; he felt that need down to his core. But just as surely as he felt it, he knew another would come to do the deed. A remnant of the weir sight, mayhaps, or his own gift, it did not matter. Caradoc’s death was not to be his.

And the worms. The
pryf
. Was he the only one concerned that the creatures were free and making their way into the Canolbarth and could soon be at the great cavern itself? Rhuddlan had assured him that ’twas not the season for the
pryf
to rise above the midland caves; but given the speed Dain had seen, he feared the
pryf
would rise whether the season be right or nay.

The Quicken-tree leader had promised them a guide, a Liosalfar well versed in the ways of worms and skilled in their handling. Dain had scoffed. The creatures he’d seen were far too large to be handled by even a skilled man. They made elephants look no more than rats, and he’d thought to never see anything bigger than an elephant, not on land.

“And Moriath gives you these,” Ceridwen said, holding out a pair of leather pouches.

He glanced at them before continuing with the packing of their supplies.

“Don’t you want them?”

“No.” God only knew what was inside.

“But you don’t even know what they are.”

His point exactly. The witch had seen him on his knees, the worst of his needs stripped bare. He wanted no gift from her.

“This one is from Edmee.” The larger of the two pouches dangled into his line of sight, extended from Ceri’s fingers.

His hands stilled in mid-tie, and his gaze lifted to her face.

She was looking down at him with a challenging tilt to her head, her brows arched in curiosity. He had not forgotten that she’d seen Edmee on her knees, with her sweet needs bared. Nor, it seemed, had she forgotten.

He rose to his feet and took the pouch. He did not hesitate in opening it, but shook the contents directly into his hand. There were six linen packets, each one small though not all the same size, and each one embroidered with fine green thread worked into the leaves of a plant: valerian, chamomile, dill, hawthorn, balm, mistletoe.

A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’s a practical girl.”