by Lisa Rector
Brenin kissed her on top of the head and whispered into her hair. “I love you, Ahnalyn.”
Her breath caught. He loves me—He loves me! But he’s going to die. Oh, please don’t let him die! The words Ahnalyn wanted so desperately to hear from Brenin would probably be his last, but in the eleventh hour, he had said them to her.
Brenin tilted Ahnalyn’s chin up and kissed her for one delicious, agonizing minute. The thread of tension tightened around her heart, cutting deep, as Brenin let her go and galloped down the road, returning to the barracks.
***
Brenin rode into battle the third month after their wedding. General Gethen set up his attack north of the river to the east of the lake, gaining control of the east bridge before Brenin met him. Gethen’s archers maintained the high ground and killed a substantial number of Brenin’s men before the infantry could attack. Brenin’s guard was annihilated, and the young ruler of Terrin was left with a paltry number of men holding the entrance to the city. At last, they surrendered too late—Brenin had been lanced by a spear.
Gethen and his men marched into Hyledd bearing Brenin on a liter, mortally wounded but still alive. Into the palace’s courtyard they marched with what few subjects were left watching in despair.
Ahnalyn stood on the dais as they marched in, blanching when she saw Brenin.
“Where’s the lady of the city? I’ve brought you your lord,” Gethen called out with disdain.
Ahnalyn ran down the steps and knelt beside the liter, heedless of Gethen and his cruel men. “My lord Brenin!”
Brenin lifted his hand to her face with great difficulty. His face was ashen, and his tunic stained crimson. A scant trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Brenin’s chest heaved in painful, rasping breaths.
He looked Ahnalyn in the eye. She grabbed his hand and held it to her cheek, her mouth touching it gingerly. Angry tears streamed down her face. Any minute Brenin’s strength would fail him. Ahnalyn held a pleading breath in her chest. Don’t let him die. Brenin struggled to speak, but blood frothed at his lips.
“Shh, don’t try to speak.” Ahnalyn carefully touched his face. A teardrop leaked from his eye and streaked down his skin. Ahnalyn’s vision blurred with tears. She should be able to help him. She couldn’t let him die.
But he will die. It’s too late. I’m sorry, the voice said.
NO! Nothing was done to prevent this. Nothing! And yet Ahnalyn knew, deep inside, nothing could have been done. Her mother couldn’t help her, not from the beyond.
Brenin’s mouth moved. His hand roved to the stone around her neck before falling limp at his side.
Ahnalyn caught a faint word. “Emrys.”
And his chest stilled.
Aware of a stirring beside her, she looked up into General Gethen’s vicious face.
With wide eyes, Gethen looked down Ahnalyn’s neck at the stone. “Bind her. Lord Caedryn will want an audience with this lovely,” he spat.
Ahnalyn didn’t budge. Her mind was reeling. She was going to be sick. Her entire world came crashing down on her. He’s gone. “Brenin,” she managed to whisper.
Get up, Ahnalyn. Move!
But no, she didn’t.
Rough hands pulled her to her feet. Her hands were tied together. She didn’t resist. She didn’t do anything. Her sight blurred. Her ears were ringing. Ahnalyn slumped to the ground, and her world darkened.
CHAPTER FOUR
MISERY
For days, Ahnalyn rode on horseback, her bound hands becoming raw around the wrists. She was tired and stiff from her inability to climb down and stretch. The heat at the end of summer was oppressive and nauseating. The bugs were horrible, biting at her neck during the day. Ahnalyn was constantly hungry and thirsty. She couldn’t escape how miserable she was.
General Gethen and a unit of his men were following the east road to the Great Forest. The terrain was hilly and rough, the travel slow because the road was nothing more than a cart-dug trail. Spanning north and south as far as her eye could see was the Great Ridge. Flanking the valley they passed through, Hyledd’s home, were the ridges in the north and south, which moved farther away in the distance the longer they rode.
She hoped her father in his little village and the people in and around Hyledd were safe. As far as Ahnalyn could tell, Gethen had taken over the city, posting guards and setting up one of his lieutenants to occupy the palace. He had spared the lives of the people. Apparently Caedryn’s desires were not to decimate the realm, but to control the rule and trade. Destroying the city and its subjects would damage whatever enterprise he hoped to sustain.
It was so thoughtless. Caedryn had every kindness and courtesy extended to his realm from Terrin. There had been peace for many long years. Thinking about the people Gethen murdered while tearing through the valley in his reckless pursuit of Hyledd, Ahnalyn swelled in anger.
The group followed the northern road away from Talfryn, the realm to the south. Brenin’s Uncle Sieffre ruled this land. Ahnalyn remembered him from the wedding. Sieffre had spoken of his fine city, Cynwrig, which sat on a hill overlooking the Dillon Sea. The Great River they followed started in the surrounding mountains of Sieffre’s country, flowed into the sea, and ran the entire way to the ocean through Brenin’s realm.
The reinforcements from Talfryn never came. Perhaps they had been intercepted and defeated. The remaining military in Terrin had been imprisoned, and King Sieffre had a limited number of men to protect his realm, so no one would come to her rescue. What would anyone care of this little shepherdess become lady, in a country no longer hers? No, never hers, it belonged to Brenin and his people. There was no way out of this. Day after day they rode toward the forest, her fate undetermined.
Ahnalyn didn’t fathom why Lord Caedryn would want to see her. She’d be useless with no one to pay a ransom for her. Ahnalyn imagined the gloating and pleasure on Caedryn’s face when they met because surely this torture and imprisonment must be his prize—and her shame.
Refusing to mourn Brenin’s death, Ahnalyn determined to harden herself against any future attack on her heart and spirit. Or perhaps she was still numb from shock. She didn’t feel it yet, didn’t shed those tears that she knew Brenin deserved for his unfailing love. What kind of person am I? An empty, pitted feeling dug at her chest. She would not let these brutal men see any weakness. They would not see her cry. The anger kept her steady, and a mask of indifference concealed her fear.
She touched her stone. What do I do? How do I find help? Mother, help me! But Ahnalyn didn’t hear a reply. Why couldn’t she hear anything? Is it my fault? Did you die because of me? Is this my punishment? Undoubtedly life had waited until Ahnalyn was deliriously happy before tearing it all from her.
Ahnalyn found herself nodding on her horse. Keeping her drooping head upright was wearisome with the scolding sun bearing down on her. She was afraid she might fall off. Ahnalyn slumped forward and lay against the horse…
Little Ahnalyn was seven, and the day was like any other. Laughing and playing, she kissed her father goodbye before he left to take merchandise into the city to trade for staples. The drive by cart with their aged horse was long, so it took two days, and her father wouldn’t be back until late the following morning. Ahnalyn didn’t worry. He’d done it before. So she twirled in the grass and waved, enjoying the way her hair and skirt spun out around her as Tad drove away.
Ahnalyn spent the day with her mother and the sheep in the pasture. She ate under the cool shade of the tree by the creek—crunchy bread and a lump of cheese—and dipped her hand in the stream for a drink.
“Mam, can I take my boots off and stick my toes in the water?” Her mother smiled, and the sun lightened her blonde hair so the pieces around her face were creamy white like the flowers in the meadow. Mam was the loveliest woman Ahnalyn had ever seen, and the kindest and sweetest mother. When her mother took off her boots and joined her daughter in the creek, Ahnalyn jumped in excitement. They laughed while slipping over
the smooth stones of the creek bed and soaked the hem of their skirts in the process.
Ahnalyn and her mother had to move the sheep into the paddock before the sun set. They lingered too long in the meadow. The evening became stifling, and the flies started to bite. Ahnalyn was in a hurry to go home and have a drink of water from the crock waiting on the table. By the time they finished with their chores and the sheep were secured, the sun was entirely gone. Ahnalyn didn’t like the dark, and she was so tired.
She ran ahead of her mother, almost to the entrance of the cottage, when she stopped. Ahnalyn heard a low rumble behind her—not thunder, which happened so often on late summer evenings. This was close to the ground and right upon her. The hairs stood on her arms, and terror filled her. She turned ever so slowly as she could, wishing she had her father’s knife to make her feel fearless, but he had taken it with him.
A wild ginger cat stood a few feet from her, looking ugly and mangy. The cat glared at Ahnalyn with its murderous eyes before turning to her mother. Niawen glowed faintly in the dimming dusk, but her face remained calm as she gauged the animal. As her mother lifted her arms in front of her, she glowed brighter. Ahnalyn knew they had seconds until the animal reacted, but fear held her paralyzed. The cat crouched and vaulted forward…
Ahnalyn gasped awake.
She heard callous snickering and looked up to see several savage-looking men staring at her, holding their various cudgels, axes, or shortswords. Some of them wore a quiver of arrows with their bows slung across their bodies.
A man spoke, his voice dry and grating. “Nightmare, my lady?” His scowl revealed a broken tooth.
The stringy-haired men standing around laughed again before resuming their labor of setting up camp. Ahnalyn turned her head away and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.
The dream was exactly how Ahnalyn remembered her mother’s death. She always woke at the same point, at the part she had forgotten. What happened during those final seconds? After the cat crouched and leapt, the next memory was of her father finding her the following morning, draped over her mother’s body, her smooth stone necklace now in Ahnalyn’s hand, and the cat dead a few feet away.
As a little child, she’d thought nothing of the strangeness of the attack, why a mountain cat would come down out of the mountains and kill unprovoked. She couldn’t forget the horrible glint in its eyes, bloodthirsty and spite filled with a wild human intelligence. Niawen had been so composed, so steady, while Ahnalyn had been afraid. And her mother’s glow—it wasn’t easily forgotten. As a little girl, Ahnalyn wondered if this was what happened before you died, the light inside you escaping, her mother’s essence slipping away so she wouldn’t feel the pain. At least this was what she told herself to bring some peace, but after witnessing Brenin’s death, she knew this wasn’t the case. He didn’t glow, but faded as his breath grappled with each painful rise. Ahnalyn didn’t know what to think anymore.
She swiped at her tears and looked around. When had they stopped to make camp? Ahnalyn was unsure how long she had dozed.
The rude man with the broken tooth sidled up to her horse, grabbed Ahnalyn by her bound hands, and pulled her down so harshly that she cried out and fell against him. His breath smelled stale and was hot on her face. In the process of securing Ahnalyn, his rough hands slid over her bosom and squeezed painfully while crushing her back to his chest. Ahnalyn let out another cry from the violation and stamped on his foot, but the man was jerked away and thrown into the dirt.
Ahnalyn turned around to find herself face-to-face with a tall, menacing man—General Gethen.
Gethen’s brown hair was cropped short. His clothes strained against hardened muscles—his attire and hygiene were a step above his men’s. He wore leather pants, an elaborate, metal-studded leather tunic, and a sword.
“Keep your filthy hands off the lady!” Gethen barked. “Lord Caedryn wants her unspoiled.”
Ahnalyn watched as Gethen took a whip from his belt and flicked it in the air. The man cowered, curled into a tight ball.
“I should have your right hand, but you’re useless if you can’t fight,” Gethen said.
The whip came down on the man’s back, and he cried out.
Ahnalyn hid her face in her hands. The brutality. Two more cracks—make it stop!—and Ahnalyn lifted her face and screamed through the man’s groans. “Stop it! Stop it!” Ahnalyn pulled on Gethen’s arm, but the man on the ground received one more crack.
Gethen turned to her and grabbed her wrists. He looked Ahnalyn in the eye, and she stared back into the black void of his pupils. Gethen held her gaze while he raised his voice for his men to hear. “I told you all once, to keep your hands to yourself. The next person to touch the lady will lose all ten of his fingers.” The general released his firm grip on Ahnalyn, pointed to another man in the crowd who had gathered to watch the whipping. “You have her care.” The bones in his hair swinging, the man ducked his head in comprehension. Gethen pushed through the group out of sight. Several soldiers helped the injured man to his feet.
Ahnalyn breathed a sigh of relief.
Her hands were unbound for her to relieve herself behind a tree, though the guard was unyielding with his watch, her skirts providing her only privacy. He helped her limp over to a rock to sit and gave her a skin of water and a crust of bread.
Used to their lives of grueling labor, their muscles bulky and sculpted as a result, the men had returned to their duties. Some pitched tents, but most spread out bedrolls or gathered wood for the fire.
After a while, Gethen huffed over to Ahnalyn and slumped onto a log by the fire. He tore into a piece of bread and washed it down with ale. His scowl hardened into a penetrating stare, Gethen glowered at her over his cup.
Ahnalyn glared back at him, noticing the pores on his face and whiskers on his chin that the fire glow illuminated.
“What interest am I to your Lord Caedryn? Why take me to him?” Ahnalyn asked, breaking the silence.
“I can imagine what’s going on behind those pretty, green eyes of yours.” Gethen’s voice was rough and slow. “Whatever conclusion you’re coming to is far from the truth.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me? What does Caedryn want with Terrin?”
“Oh, such the lady. It gives you credit to ask about your people. But you’re wrong. Ask yourself, what makes you so special?” Gethen slid over to Ahnalyn, grabbed her hands, and rubbed his rough, callused ones across hers. “The hands of a peasant. You have known toiling labor your entire life. Doesn’t it bother you why Brenin chose you?”
His goading worked. Haven’t I been asking myself the same question? Ahnalyn pulled her hands away. “Don’t speak to me about my husband. You’re a murderer! Nothing is special about me. You’re wasting your time. Caedryn will be disappointed you’ve wasted his. You should kill me.”
Gethen leaned in so close his breath warmed her face. “Oh, and that would ease your suffering?”
“I have nothing left to live for. You destroyed my one chance at happiness.”
Gethen smirked. “I have much satisfaction in that, but I take more in the fact that you’re mystified. You’re most valuable indeed. You don’t know exactly how valuable you are.”
“What are you withholding from me?” Ahnalyn hissed.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Gethen replied. “But meanwhile have satisfaction that I was the one to rip out your happiness.”
***
Another week crept by, and the Great Forest loomed closer. Each day was much the same—endless riding until nightfall. The land leading up to the Great Forest was like the hills around her home, virescent and rolling, vales with groves of trees, creeks running through gullies, and outcrops of rocks sprouting from hillsides.
Ahnalyn’s body hurt, and her legs ached for a nice stroll. She missed the smell of wild flowers and missed lying in a soft bed. How she would love to climb off her horse and bathe her sore wrists in an ice-cold creek!
What a way to see t
he country! Ahnalyn thought. If I wasn’t miserable and taken against my will, I’d actually like this—if I were with Brenin. Brenin… the word was a punch in the stomach.
They traveled through derelict villages that dotted the highway. Gethen and his army had raided them on the way into Terrin, so the men stopped only to water the horses at the wells in the center square.
Dreary, dirty, and desolate homes were once filled with life and the chatter of playing children. Would the families return to claim them and start their lives over? Ahnalyn hoped.
But this tiny optimism was clouded by her discomfort. The world held no brightness for her, only muted hues. Brenin was dead. She’d never see him again. He is dead. The reality wouldn’t hit with great force unless she spoke it aloud. Then it would be final.
CHAPTER FIVE
TO NO AVAIL
At last, they came to the Great Forest, spanning for miles to the north and south. Young trees skirted the edge of the old wood. Their youthful branches and smooth gray bark reached gracefully to the sky, roughly the height of four men, but they failed to obscure the ancients behind them.
As the horses moved into the forest’s gloom, an eerie chill raced down Ahnalyn’s spine. Wordless, the men quickened their pace. With each step the unit took on the forest road, the thicker and taller the trees stood, until the base of each was as substantial as a sprawling cottage. Ahnalyn could no longer see to the tops, and it was dreadfully bleak, though midday. The men stopped to light lanterns, casting shadows across the trees, which grew close together—scarcely far enough apart for a man to stand between them. The trees had no lower branches, just straight trunks reaching endlessly to the sky.
No chirping of birds, chattering of squirrels, or skittering of chipmunks broke the silence. The forest was dead quiet, the air, stagnant, the wind unable to penetrate the thick trees. Ahnalyn pictured moving through a tomb.