The Well of Tears

by Trahan, Roberta

  “Our number may be small, but there is life enough left in these halls to withstand whatever is to come.” Alwen could not remain quiet any longer. If Cerrigwen’s voice would be heard on this, so would hers. “Courage and devotion and conscience, as well.”

  “Hah!” Madoc blinked and sat back in his chair, waving a handful of fatty pork in her direction. “What say you to that, Machreth?”

  The dark and measured gaze Machreth leveled upon Alwen gave her a chill. Whatever she may have thought of him before this night, she knew now beyond any doubt that Machreth was so dangerous that even Madoc might be no match for him. She could feel power seething from him, as if it strained at the confines of his bone and sinew.

  He nodded slightly, as if to say he saw her for exactly who she was. “I would say there are those among us who have the heart and gut to hold their ground to the very end, no matter where they stand.”

  Ten

  Glain clawed her way through the nightmare and awoke gasping for breath. Darkness greeted her bleary eyes as she stifled the shuddering sob in her throat. Her lungs were tamped with fear, and the harder she fought for air, the more panicked she became. Glain leapt from her bed and scuttled on bare feet across the room to fumble about her writing desk for the candle ends. “If the dream be a vision, I would rather be blind,” she whispered to the dark. Her hands shook as she willed the wicks to light. “If this omen be mine, I would rather forget it.”

  She would not forget. She could not. Glain knew the difference between a dream and a vision. Signs of things to come had been visited upon her in her sleep nearly all of her twenty-one years, giving her the ability to alter the minor fates should she choose. What had come to her this night was something more potent than a mere glimpse of some possible turn of events. This was an unavoidable, hideous horror. Too hideous to believe had she not known the revelations for the holy epistle they were. Glain had been given a warning from the gods.

  “Blasted thing,” she muttered helplessly at the lifeless wax. Just as she despaired, the wick sparked and the tallow smoldered. The small, defiant flame brought tears of gratitude to her eyes.

  A shiver rattled her teeth. The nightdress was thin cover against the cold night air. Glain pressed the wax stem into a brass holder on the table and padded over the floor stones back to her bedclothes, trembling now from the draft. Wrapped in wool and goose down, she curled on the end of her cot and concentrated on the candle flame to help calm her nerves.

  Some called her blessed to behold the specter of truths to come, and she supposed this was true. But what blessing could this haunting be? And if this was blessed, then what unbearable affliction must be a curse? Glain moaned aloud. If only she could wipe the images from her mind.

  She did not fully grasp the vision beyond the unspeakable horror of armored giants with red eyes storming the castle gates astride vicious bull-like creatures with jaws that could crush a horse. She had seen their legions standing over the slaughtered remains of the Cad Nawdd, led to this gruesome victory by a man she knew, but whose face she could not see. Whatever it was, Glain knew the message was not intended for her alone. Nor could it wait on the morrow. Madoc needed to know now.

  Glain searched the floor with her toes for her slippers and then reluctantly squirmed free of the blankets. The white finely woven wool of the acolyte’s robe was warm enough to help her brave the cold halls. But still she shivered.

  Glain slipped from her tiny room and crept carefully through the acolytes’ quarters. Only the most senior of her rank — she and the three others who served the docent’s floor — were afforded the privilege of a private chamber. This was to allow them to come and go as they were bidden, no matter the hour. The rest of the attendants shared a common apportioned porch lined with cots. If she were cautious, and quiet, no one would ever know she had gone.

  The long, high-ceilinged corridors were well lit by oil lamps mounted in iron sconces. She made her way quickly down the passage from the annex through the castle foyer and skidded to a stop just outside the assembly hall. Voices.

  Glain had expected everyone else to be asleep, but a meeting of strong minds and opinions over a pitcher of ale could stretch long into the night. Wagering that the men she heard in the hall were surely too ale sodden to notice the scurries of one small chamber attendant, Glain dashed past the open doorway, holding her breath all the way to the end of the corridor. As she reached the darkened annex that led to the service steps, Glain offered silent thanks for having avoided any witness to her mission.

  “Oh!” Glain stumbled into the proctor’s grasp as he stepped from the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

  Machreth steadied her and then roughly set her back from him. “What business have you in these halls, at this hour?”

  Glain was so startled she did not immediately notice the robed figure behind him. The tall, slender form shrank into the shadows and quickly disappeared up the stairs. A woman, she realized, but whom? Glain’s sense of foreboding tingled but before she could see who Machreth’s consort was, he distracted her.

  “I asked what you are doing here,” he snapped. “Have you nothing to say for yourself ?”

  His umbrage unnerved her, though she was tempted to ask the same of him. Surely he had no more business than she, skulking through the halls in the dead of night. A wizard of Machreth’s rank using the back stairs was beyond odd. It was suspect. He was her superior, however, and not to be openly questioned by the likes of her.

  “Well?”

  Glain was dumbstruck. She was unable to pluck a single plausible excuse from her disheveled thoughts. She had not been summoned. Her primary duty was to Alwen, who had long since retired. Machreth would know that. If only she could only offer some explanation, he might well give her leave to pass. But Glain could think of no recourse other than to beg his pardon and return to her bed. “I — ”

  “There you are.”

  Machreth scowled over her head. “And what is your business here?”

  Glain had never been so relieved. Some other subversive soul had rescued her from the brunt of Machreth’s burning scrutiny. She mustered her wits and turned to see who owned the kindly voice of her deliverance, only to find herself staring into compassionate eyes and a devastatingly handsome face. Why ever, she wondered, would Alwen’s son Rhys be looking for her?

  “My friend and I are lacking a table maid to fill the ale pots.” He shrugged apologetically. “This one will do, if you’ve no further use for her.”

  Unnerved by Rhys’s steady gaze, Glain looked away. It wasn’t the first time she had noticed him since he’d arrived, nor was it the first time she had noticed him noticing her, but she had never encountered him quite so closely before. Caught between Machreth’s icy scowl and Rhys’s infectious smile, Glain began to feel decidedly faint hearted.

  Hospitality was one of the few customs even Machreth would not dare deny, no matter how unreasonable the request. Rhys was Alwen’s son, after all, and due some special favor on that account. But it was unusually late. After several uncomfortable moments, Machreth narrowed his glare and cocked one stern eyebrow in warning to her, then bowed his head slightly to Rhys.

  “Of course.” Machreth was courteous, but hesitant. Suspicious, she feared. “Glain will lend you her service.”

  “Very good, then.” Rhys gestured toward the assembly hall with a quick tilt of his head and a sly wink.

  Glain was not so befuddled that she missed the opportunity to flee when it was offered. She slipped past Rhys to the corridor entrance, glad to have him between her and Machreth. He was a real champion, even if he did not know it. Because of Rhys she’d soon be on her way, once she saw to the ale pots.

  “Step lively, and don’t look back,” Rhys mumbled. He took her elbow and hastened her round the corner. “He’s still watching.”

  Glain was perplexed when he stopped midway to the assembly hall. “My Lord?”

  “Hush, now.” He glanced back to satisfy himself that Mach
reth had not followed. “Wait a minute or two and he’ll go on about his own business. Then you’ll be free to go about yours.”

  “But the ale pots.” She was bewildered.

  “Oh, that,” Rhys grinned. “I made that bit up. I saw you sneak past the doorway and my curiosity got the better of me. When I caught up to you, you were already in the clutches of our sinister friend there. Seemed to me you needed a way out of a difficult situation.”

  Glain couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. His dashing manner and cavalier humor were very appealing, and he still had her arm. “Indeed I did. Thank you.”

  “I am pleased to have been of service.” He released her and offered a slight bow, but made no move to leave. “Now, just where are you off to in the middle of the night? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “For your own sake, you should not,” she confessed. “I might actually tell you, and then you would be my conspirator. You’ve already aided and abetted my escape. That alone could be considered treasonous.”

  “As serious as all that, is it?” His mischievous grin mellowed to a soft, inviting smile that made her stomach quiver. “Well then. I won’t keep you from your mysterious task. But when next we meet, please call me Rhys.”

  Her heart fluttered to think there could, or would, be a next meeting. “As you wish, My Lord.”

  He chuckled at her insistence on the formal address. Glain felt her cheeks burn with chagrin, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to abandon decorum. It was as much her nature as her training, though Glain was not naive. Familiarity led to intimacy, sometimes too quickly. She was fully aware of the power of seduction and experienced enough to know when to yield — and when to resist.

  Still, he had not moved and neither had she. It was as if they each were waiting for the other to speak, or act. Glain felt herself nearly enchanted in his presence, lured by the wild spirit in his eyes. That bold realization alone should have been enough to shame her into withdrawing, but she remained. It was the awkward silence that finally broke the spell.

  “I must go.” Glain spoke with far more conviction than she felt.

  Rhys nodded slowly, still holding her with his gaze. “Good night, then, Glain.”

  He offered another polite bow and then went back to his friends. As soon as he’d left her sight, duty returned to mind with a sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach. She had lost precious time on distraction.

  Glain scampered back down the corridor, berating herself for the dalliance. In all fairness, though, she could not fault herself. None of the young men of the order had so instantly and so strongly captured her interest as Rhys. Surely no woman should be condemned for succumbing to his charms.

  As Glain turned at the juncture and started up the service steps, she suddenly remembered Machreth’s clandestine companion. Foreboding unsettled her instincts anew. Glain hurried her step toward Madoc’s chambers, more certain than ever that her nightmares were visions of horrors all too soon to unfold. What she would reveal to him would break his heart, but the truth could not be ignored.

  Eleven

  For the first few days it was all too apparent how much exile had eroded my abilities.” Alwen watched while Glain and the less experienced acolytes she had been training finished their lessons and tidied the spell room. She had discovered that teaching the more sophisticated spells like the concealment they had just learned was good practice for her, as well. “I felt more like a novice than a docent.”

  “It never showed,” said Glain.

  “You make it all look so effortless.” Ariane, whose days were spent attempting to refine a handful of skills she should have long ago mastered, was still focusing intently on a pair of candlewicks. She was trying with all her might to extinguish the flames with her thoughts. “Cerrigwen says I am hopeless.”

  “You must breathe, Ariane. Close your eyes,” Glain reminded her. “Now, wish it so. Imagine the flame already snuffed.”

  As she had familiarized herself with her new rank and responsibilities as both docent and proctor, Alwen had taken the opportunity over the last fortnight to witness the inner workings of the Stewardry. In particular, she had taken note of Glain’s devotion to others, especially the tall, awkward young woman struggling before them. Ariane was plain in appearance and missing her fair share of natural grace. She had plenty of raw talent but lacked confidence. She simply needed someone to believe in her.

  “Oh puddles,” Ariane sighed. “I give up.”

  In the instant she let go of her breath, the candlewicks blinked out.

  “Ariane.” Glain laughed. “See what you’ve done?”

  Ariane opened one eye, and then two. “I don’t believe it.” “Huzzah for Ariane.” Nerys was everything Ariane was not — clever, fair of face, and self-possessed. She had moved quickly through her studies and achieved the rank of acolyte well ahead of her peers. Nerys had also spent too much time in Cerrigwen’s company and had adopted her hypercritical point of view. “She’s finally actually earned the robe she wears.”

  “Better late than never,” Ariane beamed, undaunted by her classmate’s disdain.

  The three founding disciplines upon which all magic was based were sorcery by spell, by gesture, and by thought. Mastery took years of practice and ascending levels of difficulty, but basic command of these three skills was expected by the end of a novice’s first year. In the end, Ariane had been awarded the acolyte’s robe on her many other merits, not the least of which were her years of unwavering dedication.

  “You and I may both wear the white robe, Ariane, but we are hardly equals,” Nerys complained.

  Glain drew herself to her full bearing. As Madoc’s trusted attendant, she stood above the other acolytes. “The same can be said of you and me.”

  “I simply make the point that favor should be earned through accomplishment, not granted out of pity.”

  “There are many ways to earn favor, Nerys,” Glain bristled, “and just as many ways to lose it.”

  Nerys rolled her eyes. “It’s late. Are we finished, then?”

  Rivalry was to be expected, but so was respect for power and authority. Nerys needed to be reminded to offer it, and Glain needed to work harder at commanding it.

  “Almost,” Alwen said, considering an object lesson. “Perhaps you’d like to learn a new spell.”

  “A casting?” Nerys was only slightly intrigued. “Or an invocation?”

  The distinctions between the two were often difficult to distinguish, but very important. A casting was the use of one’s individual energy and power to affect something or someone outside oneself. An invocation was a summoning of an external force to work on behalf of the sorcerer who called it.

  “Neither.” Alwen thought a minute. “Both.”

  “How do you mean?” Ariane was uncharacteristically curious.

  “You’ll see.” Alwen looked at Glain. “We’ll need a twig or a feather, some sort of indicator.”

  Glain retrieved a raven’s feather from the cupboard above the work table and placed it on the floor. “Will this do?”

  “Perfect.” Alwen stood over the feather. “This is called a finding. It is used to retrieve a thing lost or hidden.”

  “How mysterious,” said Ariane. “Is it difficult?”

  “It is easier when you know what you’re looking for,” Glain explained, “and can envision a particular object clearly.”

  “You know this spell?” Alwen was surprised.

  Glain’s smile belied a hint of mischief. “I’ve been known to misplace the keys to Madoc’s private scriptorium, on occasion.”

  “Well then, let’s try something a bit different.” Alwen gestured around the room. “Let’s see if you can find something unknown to you. The temple is riddled with secret places — false panels in closets, hidden drawers in chests, for example. Somewhere in this room there is at least one such keepsafe. And I would expect, after so many lifetimes, there is a lost button or rune stone about. It’s simple, really.
Follow the feather to find its location, and then call upon the object to reveal itself.”

  Alwen indicated the bag tied at her waist that held her personal implements. Each Steward carried the tools of their trade in a similar fashion. “Your wand, Glain.”

  Glain drew an intricately carved and highly polished hornbeam twig from the soft cloth pouch she carried. Every symbol and adornment on a Steward’s wand had significance. Even the wood from which it was made had meaning. The wand was an extension of one’s essence, and as each individual was entirely unique, so was the wand.

  With grace and confidence, Glain stepped forward and extended her wand over the raven’s quill. She began a circular flourish, concentrating on the feather, and focusing her mind on the task at hand.

  “Open your mind to the possibilities,” Alwen whispered. “If you think too hard on details, like color or shape or texture, the spell will work itself to your expectations. If you are envisioning a metal box, for instance, the spell will not find a wooden one.”

  If Glain had heard her, she gave no sign, but Alwen was aware of an unusual intensity within her. From a deep well of inner strength there rose great power that Alwen realized almost too late was newly drawn. Glain’s sense of righteousness, her desire to put Nerys in her place, had given rise to something completely unexpected.

  The quill quivered and then spun slowly clockwise, full circle once, twice, thrice, and then halfway around again. It stopped with the tip pointing toward the bookshelves beneath windows on the far wall of the scriptorium. Glain reached out with her free hand and a book, snugly cased, flew from the shelf and landed with a bang on the floor, opened at the center seam.

  “A thistle.” Ariane was amazed. Just as she bent to retrieve the dried flower from the book, a drawer in the work table next to her slid open, several cabinet doors were thrown open, and three stone bricks above the fireplace mantel popped out. A polished brass urn crashed to the floor, spewing its contents, and a rug slid sideways to reveal a recessed lock safe.