The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 by Roberta Trahan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612183725
ISBN-10: 1612183727
Dedication
For my husband — the hero of my story and champion of my heart
Contents
The Prophecy
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Lexicon of the Stewardry
Hierarchy of the Stewardry
The Bloodlines
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
The Prophecy
Even before the seeds of the first civilizations were scattered, sorcerers walked this world. For a time, they trod in the formidable footfall of the gods, serving mortals as the arbiters of faith and fate. And, with their guidance, the societies of humankind flourished. But with prosperity came avarice, and with avarice came ambition. Before long, the world knew tyranny.
Dark and terrible times followed. Chaos descended upon the land, and for a thousand years, her peoples suffered at the hands of tyrants. And yet, somehow, the seeds of salvation survived.
In the province Ystrad Tywi of the Kingdom of Seisyllwg, a handful of those devoted to the old ways found refuge in the abandoned sanctuaries of their ancestors. Hidden deep within the mystical woods of Coedwig Gwyn, nestled at the headlands near the tiny village Pwll, stood one such ancient and sacred place — the all but forgotten temple called Fane Gramarye.
Cloistered within an enchantment that hid the temple from the eyes of mortals, the mages who served the order of the Stewardry at Fane Gramarye endured to fulfill a single sacred vow — to protect the king who would one day unite the peoples of Cymru in a long and lasting peace. An ages-old prophecy foretold that a son descended from a line of noble rulers would rise to rule a new era and that by his hand the ancient beliefs would be resurrected and the sorcerers returned to reverence. And so it was that, for nine generations, the Stewards served in silence, awaiting an omen in the birth of a boy.
In the year 880 AD, it came to pass that a son begotten of Cadell, King of Seisyllwg, was delivered unto the world and anointed by the gods. Upon reaching his manhood, the boy called Hywel would seize his destiny and the ancient prophecy would finally be fulfilled. The Stewards of Fane Gramarye would be called to raise the first sorcerer’s council to serve a high king in more than a millennium.
But it was also foreseen that there were those among men of power who would stop at nothing to prevent such an alliance. As the age of peace approached, the grand wizard of the Ninth Order moved to protect the prophecy, secretly naming four sorceresses of uncommon character and ability to the sacred council. The sorceresses were then sent into hiding, scattered to the four corners of the earth so that if one were discovered, the others might survive. For more than twenty years, they lived in exile, until the summons to return arrived.
One
Summertide in the White Woods, 905 AD
“It is time.” Aslak, long the captain of the castle guard, stood at the door stiff-lipped and sober. He had come clad in riding dress and bearing battle gear, prepared for a long and perilous journey. “It will be dark soon.”
Madoc nodded and hauled himself from the flattened seat cushion that had so well served his backside. After all this time, the weave still held against the chafe. If only he had worn so well, Madoc thought as he struggled to tug the heavy indigo velvet mantle of the Ard Druidh over his stooped shoulders. This day he felt the full weight of his robe, and his years.
“Hardly spry,” Madoc grumbled. He shuffled across the thunderstone floor to the hornbeam and hazelwood desk in the corner of his chamber. “But then, a gnarled old wizard of one hundred and fifty-three can hardly expect to scurry, can he.”
“Such is the tithe of time, Sovereign.” Though he managed a weak smile, Aslak’s usual drollery was muted, if not altogether absent. Madoc paused to look long on his friend, taking in the full measure of the man upon whom he’d relied so completely these past thirty years.
Aslak, too, was a bit past his prime. Fifty odd years fully lived had coarsened his flaxen good looks and whitened his beard, but Aslak scarcely seemed bowed by his age. The raw vigor and steel of his youth were still fully evidenced by his barreled chest, strong shoulders, and long, straight spine. Aslak’s character and carriage exuded an ease and authority that could only come from a man’s full knowledge of his expanse, and his limitations. If anything, Aslak was more imposing in his middle years than he ever had been as a younger man.
“Yes, for some of us.” Madoc flashed a wry grin. “And a high a price we pay for it, too. Thin skin and even thinner blood, and the complaining of old bones when they are bid to bend.” He chuckled at Aslak. “Just you wait.”
Madoc waved away the discussion and began to rifle through the mess on his desk. “Enough of my grievance. Time is too short now to be wasted on wallowing.”
“My men are waiting in the woods beyond the gate,” said Aslak. “Unseen and unheard, just as you asked. There’ll be no advantage lost on our account, I promise you.”
“Ah. Here we are.” Madoc separated four neatly rolled scrolls from the rest of his writings and set them aside. He pointed toward the divan against the wall next to the hearth. “Hand me that bag, would you?”
Aslak retrieved the leather haversack from the divan and set it on the corner of the desk. “Good man.” Madoc pulled the bag close. “We’ll have you on your way in no time.”
Madoc caught a glimpse of Aslak’s expression and regretted his rush to hasten Aslak’s departure. He let the sack slouch back onto the desk and reached for the silver flagon on the table instead.
“On second thought,” he said, “time is not so short we haven’t the time for a proper farewell.” Madoc turned two silver cups open end up. “Sit with me.”
Aslak sidled a single step toward the divan and hesitated. “Much as I am tempted to partake of your graciousness, Sovereign, the sun is soon to set. We’ll require what little light is left to make our way through the woods before dark.”
“Sit, man.” Madoc decanted the wine and offered a cup to his friend. “I insist.”
Aslak reluctantly accepted the drink and Madoc walked round the desk to settle again in his own chair. “We’ll drink to my health,” he chortled, sipping at the sweet-smelling mellow liqueur.
“’Tis a bittersweet drink, one of parting,” A
slak said softly.
Madoc heaved a weary sigh. “So it is, Aslak, though this is not final farewell. We shall meet again, old friend. If not in this life, then in the next.” Madoc gulped the last of his wine and held out his cup. “Pour, will you?”
Madoc watched Aslak rise to refill both cups and then return to his rigid post on the divan. “Wine is a blessed potion,” he observed. “It dulls a man’s aches and eases his pains. Looks as though you’re in need of a goodly bit tonight.”
“The spirits are sometimes more easily swallowed than the demands of duty,” Aslak confessed.
“The Cad Nawdd is no easy calling,” Madoc agreed. “I know well the burden of the pledge.”
But then, so he should. It was he who had imposed it. Service in the castle guard of Fane Gramarye required a man to foreswear his worldly obligations in favor of lifelong loyalty to the Stewardry. Aslak had ceded his birthright to the high seat of some faraway northern settlement to join their ranks. This was no small sacrifice, but Madoc held that the greater the cost the deeper the vow and, naturally, the more prized the honor. Even the children Aslak had fathered had chosen his calling. Both his sons served the guard, and with distinction.
“I suppose one could say I’ve done well, Aslak, if I were to be judged by the love you’ve shown me.” Of all the captains Madoc had appointed in his time as sovereign of the Stewardry at Fane Gramarye, none had more pride, or heart, than Aslak of Norvik. Tears of pride welled in his old eyes. “Very well, indeed.”
“No man could be more honored than I.” Emotion choked Aslak’s strong baritone to a coarse whisper. “I have had the command of the finest soldiers, and all in the most sacred service. I’ve no regret.”
Madoc chuckled. “Well, there’s time enough yet. No man who has really lived dies without regret. Your lack of it seems to me evidence enough that you’ve many more good years ahead of you.”
“If you say so, so it must be.” Aslak grinned, and the deep furrows in his brow softened. It seemed the wine had begun to work its magic on Aslak’s harried nerves.
Madoc leaned forward. “Well then. I suppose it is time we spoke of the business at hand.”
Aslak upended his cup and squared his shoulders. “All I require are your instructions, Sovereign.”
“You’ll need more than that. I’d say luck, at the very least, and the blessing of the Ancients. I’m afraid we’ve many a hard fight ahead of us.” Madoc regarded his friend soberly. “In the end, the fate of the Stewardry is tied to Hywel. Our numbers dwindle as the clans turn away from the faith of their forefathers. It has been nearly two decades since the last mage born foundling was brought to the Fane. The Stewardry bloodlines are dying, Aslak. The temple halls echo with emptiness. Even as the signs come to me, I worry our time is already past. We are little more than a whisper in a windstorm. The people cry out for peace and prosperity, yet still they fight amongst themselves and ravage their own lands. They have forgotten how to shepherd their own destinies. If only I was certain the world will accept the wisdom the Stewards can offer.”
“The Ancients have sanctioned our cause, Sovereign. They have given us the prophecy, and a king who is promised to resurrect the old ways.” Aslak’s gaze was steady and intent. “There is still hope.”
Madoc laughed. “And so you remind me of the very essence of faith, Aslak. Something apparently even I can forget.”
Aslak shrugged. “We are each such a small piece in the enormous design of infinity that a man can easily convince himself of his insignificance.”
“Ah,” Madoc countered. “But lest you forget, the wondrous untold truth of this universe is that we are infinite in our influence. Every one of us. Mankind has forgotten how closely he is tied to this earth, how much what he does affects his own prosperity, his destiny.” Madoc suddenly realized he was waving his cup as he spoke and set it down on the side table to spare the wine. “And yet — ” He sighed, folding his hands into his lap. “In this, I am powerless. Our success depends upon you, now.” Madoc beckoned Aslak closer.
“Events are unfolding just as they were foretold. Hywel is on the verge of his ascension,” Madoc said quietly. “Though he is young, he has already begun to consolidate his power. Hywel’s marriage has brought the kingdom of Dyfed under his control, and now his father’s death has given him claim to Seisyllwg. He must still bring the other territories to heel and fend off his brothers and their ambitions, but there is no doubt Hywel is the king of the prophecy.”
“You have seen this?” Aslak asked. Though a practical manby nature, he was ever fascinated by evidence of the surreal. The mystical and magical held great sway over him.
Madoc nodded. “The Ancients have visited the future upon me in my dreams, or at least this much of it. He will need our magic to survive his enemies. By now I suspect you have guessed your part in this.”
“I’ve some idea.” Aslak smiled. His eyes shone with keen interest. Aslak was never happier than when charged with a trust or a challenge.
“It is time to summon the council,” said Madoc. “The Mistresses of the Realms must return. You’re the only man alive I can trust to bring them home.”
Madoc rose and returned to his desk. He carefully tucked the four scrolls into the haversack. “Herein you will find my letters to each of my chosen. The scrolls bear my seal. If they no longer recognize the standard of the Stewardry, or you, they will surely recognize that.”
“But will I know them?” said Aslak. “It’s been a long time. Even sorceresses of the Stewardry must change in twenty years.”
“So they do.” Madoc winked. “They gain beauty with time, and allure. No doubt all four of them will have been altered by the world, but there will still be something of the girl in the woman. If nothing else, you will know them each by their talisman.”
“Yes, the amulet. I remember,” said Aslak.
“Be certain you see it, Aslak. Examine each talisman closely no matter how sure you are of the woman who wears it. The talisman is the only true sign of allegiance to the Stewardry, and to me.”
“My arrival will no doubt come as a shock,” Aslak said. “I expect they have gone on to live full and purposeful lives. They may have husbands, children. They might not want to return.”
Madoc’s impatience prompted a scowl. “The sisterhood is a blood vow, not a request. It is written that only the daughters may serve the Circle. The council cannot be complete without all four bloodlines, and we need the strength of unity more now than ever. If that alone does not persuade them, you must find something that will.”
“Madoc.” Concern dug deeper harrows into Aslak’s already worried brow. “There’s something else. What haven’t you told me?”
Madoc sagged under the weight of his fatal misstep. His old friend was the only soul Madoc could bear to tell. He had learned more than a thing or two about regret.
“The trouble with tradition is that it narrows a man’s field of vision,” he said. “You see, Aslak, no woman has ever sat in the seat of the Ard Druidh. ’Tis true the guardians of the realms have always been mothers and daughters of the guild, but since the beginning the sovereign has sprung from the spear side. In my haste to carry custom into the next generation, I fear I may have initiated a dissident into the line of my ancestors.” Madoc shook his head helplessly. “It seems I have been my own undoing.”
Aslak flew to his feet, eyes stark and wide with the shock of it all. “What has happened?”
“The Ancients have been kind.” Madoc offered a faded smile. “They have shown me my fate.” He chuckled. “Or at least my arrogance.”
“I do not understand.” Aslak’s expression begged for an explanation Madoc was not prepared to give. And then the light of recognition flickered in Aslak’s eyes as he pieced together Madoc’s cryptic hints. “Machreth?”
“You must make haste, my friend.” Madoc stepped from behind the desk and handed the bag to Aslak. “Our only hope is in the strength of the Circle. And then,” he tried to smil
e. “If the gods of the Ancients are willing, my legacy may outlive me, after all.”
Aslak slung the sack over one shoulder and offered Madoc the other as they left the room. Madoc guided Aslak in silence along the upper corridor of the east annex, past the docent’s quarters, to the very end of the hall where a small recess gave access to the service stairs. Adjacent to the recess, hung beneath the glasspaned transom high on the exterior wall, was an ancient tapestry depicting an offering at the altar of a long-forgotten god. Madoc smiled to himself as reached behind the edge of the tapes try and depressed a lever cleverly fashioned to match the surrounding stones. Almost silently, an equally camouflaged door swung inward to reveal a second set of steps that led to the tunnels running beneath the castle.
“My forefathers were cunning,” Madoc said, pointing at the stairs. “Our people have fallen in and out of favor more times than anyone can remember, and a quick escape is always a good defense.”
Aslak lighted a torch with the dwindling flame of an oil lamp still burning on the wall to help guide their descent. The smell of smoldering tallow was overpowering given the poorly ventilated channels below. Madoc paused halfway to the bottom, hoping to catch his wind.
“Good grace, but these stairs are steep,” he gasped. “I’d forgotten how many there are.”
“We can rest a bit,” Aslak offered.
“No.” His old lungs were hard pressed, but the longer they lingered the less chance Aslak stood of an unobserved departure. He nodded toward the wrought iron gate at the bottom of the stairs. “Keep on.”
They navigated the underground passageway at Madoc’s direction. He alone knew the route through the labyrinth of catacombs. There was only one true path to the cavern, and from there, only one true path beyond the veil.
“Through there, Aslak.” Madoc pointed through a narrow opening just ahead. “It widens on the other side. Bear right at every turn, then up a steep rise, and out.”
“I remember.” Aslak stepped ahead and turned to face him. “It goes against my grain to leave you here. There are others I would send in my stead.”
The Well of Tears Page 1