The Well of Tears

by Trahan, Roberta

  They held each other up through the courtyard and down the cobbled lane, past the darkened outbuildings and the stables. The barracks were all dark as well, save the captain’s house. The quarters Rhys and Bledig shared with Fergus and Odwain were aglow with what could only be a heartily stoked blaze in the hearth.

  To Bledig’s surprise, Fergus was waiting outside on the steps holding a wineskin in each hand. Behind him, the door to the barracks stood open, a sign of warmth and welcoming. It was the best Fergus could do, and it was enough.

  Fergus tipped his head toward the door. “Unless you’ve an objection, we’ll all wait with you for Odwain.”

  Bledig wondered for a moment whom Fergus meant, until he got a better look through the door. Finn was seated with Domagoj at the long table in the center of the room, and Pedr stood near the fire. Bledig was pleased. It seemed the Cad Nawdd could muster true kinship, after all. “I see the bad news got here ahead of us.”

  Fergus handed Rhys one of the wineskins as Bledig nudged him through the door. “I had some idea what you were up to.”

  Bledig stopped before Fergus and returned the old Scotsman’s troubled gaze with one of gratitude and respect. “It’s good to see the gathering of family and friends,” Bledig said. “Odwain will be sorely in need of the comfort.”

  “So will you, barbarian.” Fergus put a hand on Bledig’s shoulder and guided him into the room. “Especially when Alwen finds out what you’ve done.”

  Bledig’s gut clenched at the thought. He lowered himself onto the bench next to Rhys while Fergus pulled a stool up to the table end and sat between Bledig and Finn. He uncorked the wine sack and offered to pour for Bledig.

  “For what good it does you,” Fergus said, “if it were me in your place I’d have done the same.”

  Bledig was stunned, and humbled. “I will take heart in that, Fergus. If ever there were a time I found myself grateful for your support, this is it.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Domagoj’s low chuckle rumbled from the far end of the table as he raised his cup in salute. “Truce between the Wolf Tribe and the Cad Nawdd. An unholy alliance if ever there was one.”

  Finn leaned forward over his elbows, his hands clasped in front of him. What little Bledig had come to know of the eldest MacDonagh had impressed him. Like his youngest son, Odwain’s father was a sober man of commanding presence. He seemed a practical sort, and quiet. So rare was Finn’s comment on any matter that whatever opinion he did offer carried real weight among the men of the ranks. He had them all hanging on his every word.

  “When it comes to honor, the only measure of a man that matters is that there is something, or someone, for which he will stand and fight. Be we savage or civil, we here around this table are all men of honor. We are kindred,” Finn avowed. “If not in blood or by marriage, then we are bonded in heart.”

  Bledig felt the sting of tears welling again and coughed to keep them at bay. There were important words to be spoken at times such as these, deeply held gratitude and regard that Bledig could not trust himself to voice with any dignity. Instead, he offered his cup to the sky in silent tribute to these true friends and family all around him, and nodded his thanks for their fellowship.

  * * *

  The temple grounds had taken on the glow of the moon. It seemed dead to him, all of it. The place, the people, his world — it had all ceased to exist. Odwain felt nothing, not the night air or the ground beneath his feet, not the bitter winter cold. Even Eirlys was weightless in his arms, as if she were already gone.

  It was the numbness that saved him. It was what allowed him to carry her from the castle against his heart wish. It was what allowed him to lay her out and offer her over to something he did not know or understand. It was the numbness, and faith.

  Grim comfort though it was, Bledig’s solution had offered him hope, given him something to hold on to. If one day a cure could be found, perhaps Eirlys could return to him. If not, she would at least be safe.

  Had he the chance, Odwain would have gladly laid down his own life in place of hers. He would have begged it, would it have done Eirlys any good. Giving her up was the only sacrifice he could make that would matter, and this was a fate far more cruel and brutal than death. Eirlys would live, but in a world beyond him. And he would have to learn to survive without her.

  Odwain found the faerie ring, just as Bledig had described it. A faint circle in the middle of the meadow, near the tree line where the orchards met the field. It reminded him of a roundelay — the grass was tamped down in a perfect ring as if from dancing feet.

  He stepped gingerly over the circle’s edge, fearing to disturb it. Eirlys was to be placed in the open, but he could not bear to leave her unprotected in the cold. Odwain laid her down, wrapped in the bed covers, and sat beside her to wait.

  “Well, pet, here we are.” It was odd to hear his voice breaking the silence, but it seemed odder still not to speak. “It won’t be long now.”

  Part of him still hoped for an answer. Odwain wondered whether she could even hear him.

  She is never alone. Rhys’s words had new meaning now. Odwain was not fully convinced that faeries were real, but he would believe it tonight with all his heart. They had to be real.

  The whistle of the wind through the trees made his heart race. For a time, he started at the slightest movement or sound, expecting the little people to come scurrying. When after several minutes of anxious anticipation, no miniature men had appeared, Odwain forced himself to relax.

  He tried to ignore the cold by distraction, counting the stars between the wafting cloudbanks and watching Eirlys sleep. The shifting moonlight cast an ethereal glow that made her appear untouched. Her peaceful repose was a cruel deception. If he hadn’t seen for himself the evil that ravaged her body, Odwain might have succumbed to the illusion of a beautiful dreamer soon to awake. Even though he knew better, his heart still longed for her eyes to open.

  Odwain shuddered from the strain of resisting. He’d been fighting tears and holding back rage for days. Every inch of him ached with grief, with longing and sadness. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to curl alongside Eirlys and gather her into an embrace so tight that nothing could force him to release it.

  The urge to hold her tormented him until he could withstand it no more. This was the last time he might ever be allowed that joy. It was all he might ever have. Even if Eirlys could not feel his arms about her, could not feel his warmth surrounding her, Odwain would.

  He stretched out on his side, as close to Eirlys as he could get, and slid one arm underneath her shoulders to bring her head to rest against his chest. With the other arm wrapped snugly around her, blankets and all, Odwain leaned his head against hers and shut his eyes to the truth.

  Soon his breathing was keeping time with hers, in a slow and even rhythm. The warmth of their bodies pressed together began to soothe his soul. In his dreams, Eirlys was as she had ever been, flitting along on gossamer wings and gracing everything that she touched. Him, most of all.

  “Odwain.”

  Her voice seemed so far away. He struggled to focus his thoughts enough to answer. Odwain opened his eyes and sat up, trying to remember where he was. A chill rifled through him, reminding him of the crisp night air and the damp grass beneath him. And there was a mist. There had not been fog before, but now it covered the meadow. It was all around him, eclipsing the moon and the stars and the rest of the world. He could see only a few feet before him.

  “Odwain.”

  Eirlys. He glanced at the ground beside him, but she was gone. His heart leapt to his throat. “Eirlys?” he whispered.

  He scrambled to his feet and turned full circle to find her. It was then that Odwain realized that he was not where he expected to be. He was no longer inside the faerie ring, but beside it.

  “Here, Odwain. I am here.”

  His gaze followed the lilt of her voice, hither and yon, and then she appeared in the mist. Eirlys stood directly before him, in the center of
the circle. Relief swamped him, knocking him to his knees. “Praise be,” he sobbed.

  Even through the haze of his tears he could see her smile. She looked to him as she always had, vibrant and happy — and alive. He staggered to his feet and reached for her, only to find himself grasping at the air.

  “You cannot reach beyond the veil, my love.”

  Odwain was desperately confused. He could see her, hear her. How could he not touch her? Anguish wracked his body, forcing tears he did not wish to shed. He gaped at her, speechless and yet beseeching.

  And still she smiled at him. “Don’t fret so, Odwain. Please. I so hate to see you sad.”

  “Is it really you?” he rasped. “Do you live?”

  “I exist,” Eirlys nodded. “But not as you know it. Not as you remember me.”

  Odwain shook his head helplessly, unbelieving. “But you are well?”

  “Well enough,” she reassured him. “So long as I remain here, with the fey.”

  At last, Odwain remembered what Bledig had told him. His heart crushed in on itself. Eirlys was now in a world to which he could never gain entry, and from which she might never emerge. She lived, but she was lost to him.

  The realization hit him so hard he cried out. Odwain doubled over, gasping for breath. What had he done?

  “Odwain.” Her words seemed to touch him. He could feel them, somehow, as if they were her hands on his face. “It’s not so bad as it seems, really it isn’t. I’m not so very far away.”

  Inexplicable warmth swathed him as the mist began to thicken. Before his eyes, Eirlys began to fade from his view. Odwain panicked, frantic for some way to hold her near.

  “You must let me go now, Odwain.” He could no longer see her, but he could hear her as clearly as if she were whispering in his ear. “When the moon is full, come to the meadow. Look for me where the veil is thin. I will be waiting.”

  Odwain could have sworn he felt her lips brush his. He tasted the mint on her breath, and honey cakes. He searched his mind for the words, for the things he most wanted to say while he thought he might still have the chance. But she was gone. There was nothing within his reach but the mist, and his memories.

  The aloneness was suffocating, heart singeing. It burned his blood. Odwain wanted to scream from the pain but he could not catch his breath. He dropped to his knees, fists and innards clenched against the agony. And then, from the roots of his soul wrenched the only thought that existed. It howled from his throat with the entire force of his being. “No!”

  Twenty-Five

  Alwen propped her elbows on the table and pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to rub away the burning behind them. The words on the pages had begun to blur several hours and half a dozen volumes ago. She had been so certain that somewhere in the vast stacks of the scriptorium would be a remedy, some lost or forgotten healing spell. She’d thought it only a matter of time.

  Time, however, was fast slipping away, completely unhindered by her desperate clutching. It seemed what precious little of it there had been to begin with was all but wasted on a fool’s errand. Frustrated, Alwen shoved the piles of paper away and contemplated angrily on the candle flame.

  Perhaps she had erred in carrying out her own judgment to the exclusion of any other possibility. Madoc had managed to pierce her stubbornness with his practical advice. It had been needling her ever since and now it was even harder to defend her convictions. Doubt seemed to creep closer with the shadows as the candlelight waned.

  No matter how many ways she tried to rationalize her arguments, one glaring flaw in her logic remained. She owned no special power or skill that would save her daughter. Even Madoc had told her that none existed. She just could not believe it to be true. She had lost her way.

  Alwen moaned and dropped her head into her hands. Fortunately, Bledig had sense enough to defy her. Alwen had longed for his reliable good sense and his strength — and then dismissed his wisdom. She needed him now, but Bledig would not be coming to her comfort. It was time to admit her helplessness and concede to Bledig’s wiser voice before it was too late for confession, too late for forgiveness, too late for Eirlys.

  “Gods of mercy,” she cried. The moon was already on its rise.

  Just as the realization struck her, a stabbing pain slit her psyche. Alwen clutched at herself to stop the sudden tremble in her bones that seemed to root in her stomach and ice her veins as it forced its way through to her skin. The breath in her lungs was too thick to move.

  The chair clattered to the floor as Alwen leapt to her feet. Before she could blink, she swooned, grabbing frantically at the edge of the table with both hands to stop the fall as her knees buckled. Alwen dragged herself to a stand and gasped for air.

  If she could breathe, she could think. Alwen pulled air into her lungs and focused on the wall for balance. Vertigo threatened to flatten her. She clung to the table until the spinning subsided. Once her stomach settled and her vision cleared, so did her mind.

  Alwen then recognized the grief she felt was not her own. It belonged to Bledig, to Rhys, and even Odwain. It had already begun. Just as he had sworn to her, Bledig had taken matters into his own hands.

  “Let there yet be time,” she begged the silence, hoping she could still offer her blessing and free them all from the agony of acting against her.

  Just as she reached the first floor and dashed past the assembly hall, Alwen was struck dead by a bloodcurdling wail. The cry of a desperately wounded soul pierced her mind as if she had been run through with a lance. Alwen stumbled against the wall, struggling to keep her feet as she tried to identify the source of the pain.

  Who was more important than where, but the force of the emotion was difficult to filter through. This person had to be close to her to reach her so deeply, near in space and in spirit. Alwen calmed herself with slow, even breathing and worked to center her intuition.

  She sifted through the impressions, unraveling the tangled weave of sensations that ensnared her until she found a single thread she could trace. Alwen followed the longing. Though it was as tumultuous as any of the other feelings that assailed her, at least it was an ache she could bear. No sooner did she begin to concentrate on the emotion did she have her answer.

  It came to her in a searing flash and a single blinding image. The realization flooded her senses with horror and fury and fear. Alwen bolted for the foyer and through the temple doors, racing like hellfire for the meadow.

  Before she had even reached the garden gate, she knew that she would find him in the meadow, alone in the dark and crumpled on the ground. Alwen stumbled to her knees beside him and tried to pull him up. He was dead weight in her grip.

  “Oh, Odwain,” she cried, “what have you done?”

  At the sound of her voice, Odwain raised himself and crawled forward to bury his head in her lap. It shattered what was left of her heart. Alwen wrapped her arms around him and held him as he wept. He did not need to answer. Odwain did not need to tell her what she already knew. Eirlys was gone.

  She had been so long in coming round to reason that it was too late. Alwen looked to the moon, still bright but low and on the wane, desperate to be wrong, desperate for the chance to say good-bye. And yet, here lay Odwain — broken before her, vulnerable in his despair. Alwen could feel his heart crumbling with the weight of what he had done. She knew what it had cost him, the pain that threatened to tear his soul to pieces. But in that knowing, she also fully understood the vast stores of his courage, the magnitude of his selflessness, the true nobility of his nature. Odwain had forsaken all of the happiness and joy he had ever hoped to have to save the woman he loved.

  Alwen was humbled. Her anguish could not compare to his, no matter how righteous her rage or how great the gape the loss of her daughter had torn through her heart. Odwain, by his act of sacrifice, had saved her from having to make one of her own. He bore the burden for them all, and for that, Alwen would be forever in his debt.

  Her tears fell unrestrained f
or Odwain. Of all the wishes a mother could make for her child, to be so well loved was the first — and the best. Alwen ached to ease his suffering. It was unbearable as it was, split between the two of them.

  “Dear, sweet boy,” she told him, “I would take this pain from you, if only I knew how.”

  Alwen tried to pull him closer. What good was her sorcery if it could not help him? Her hold was nowhere near comfort enough. It could not quiet his moans nor quell the sobs that wracked his body. Nor did her touch reach the emptiness that was hollowing him.

  Would that the knowledge of the elders could aid her, but their wisdom was beyond her still. Alwen shut her eyes tight and silently begged the universe for guidance. She waited for the whispers that had come to her in the White Woods as she faced the black wall of death that had wounded her child. She waited in vain, while Odwain lay dying of a broken heart.

  “Will you not speak to me now?” she cried to the heavens. Alwen did not know what greater power she beseeched, but she knew that she was heard. “Is this any less a travesty? Is this one man any less worthy of your charity?”

  “Or is it me that you forsake?” she sobbed. “If this be your judgment, if you will not aid me even to help him, then make his penance mine.”

  But she did know how to take Odwain’s torment. The thought was not her own, at least she did not think it was, but the knowledge was hers — and hers alone. The gift with which to ease his suffering was within her command. She could not give him a different truth. She would not, even if she possessed the ability. It was part of who he was now. But she could dilute the reality he was forced to live with, make it less vivid.

  It was a way to honor Eirlys as well. Alwen could no longer care for or protect her daughter, but she could look after the man Eirlys loved. Yes. For all their sakes, Alwen would give Odwain the illusion of inner peace until his memories faded.

  Just the fragments of the idea as it formed in her head gave rise to a heat in her veins. The same heat she had felt in the forest. Alwen sensed the power of the gemstone at her throat, remembered the faint burn on the skin beneath it. More aware of herself and the magic within her, this time she felt the opening of the floodgate.