The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy)

by Janzen, Tara

  She was so very weary. The march had been relentless, with the rain pounding away at them, day after day. Her nights had been fraught with wide-eyed fear, lest someone should come for her. Any sleep she’d gotten had been on the back of the palfrey.

  “Dain,” she whispered again, and her tears began anew, running down her cheeks. She was tired, so tired, and cold, and alone. She closed her eyes, meaning nothing more than to rest for a moment. One moment was all she asked.

  ~ ~ ~

  She’s here. She’s here. She’s here, here, here! Snit could hardly contain his excitement. The lady had come to live in Balor and make it a home, a very fine place indeed, indeed. She’s here, here, here!

  He rummaged through his cupboard, through this drawer and that, searching for the fairest treasures of all his great store. Dust and lint flew up behind him as he tossed things every which way. One fine ball caught his attention while in the air, and he quickly turned to capture it in his hand before it could hit the floor.

  “Ah, yes,” he crooned. It was a prize. Mostly gray, as lint was apt to be, but this particular little bundle had a red thread running through it, twisting and curving. Just the thing for a lady.

  He set it in a box he’d marked with a “C” for Ceridwen, next to a smooth piece of driftwood. Actually, he’d made the box for Caradoc the Ingrate, who had proven too true to his name to deserve the gift. So now it was for the lady, and the ingrate could do without.

  He checked a few more nooks and crannies, coming up with the rare, wee beasty he’d found in March. Women liked soft things, so he put it in the box. Lastly, he chose the star rock, the one with shards of the celestial heavens embedded in its hard gray core. Not only would he welcome her with gifts, he’d make her rich in the bargain. ’Twas important for a person to have a little wealth of his own, and he knew she came a pauper from the convent, a sweet bride from God’s hands to theirs. He, Snit, could always get by, and any wealth he gave her, he could easily replace from down in the caves. Dark, wondrous places they were. Not for the faint of heart, especially in the deeper reaches, especially of late.

  There was an intruder in the caves.

  Snit froze in place and slanted his eyes first to the right, then to the left. A sneaky, elusive intruder well versed in the arts of concealment. Snit had not seen him, but he’d seen sign of him—a thread of white wool, a footprint, and a bit of lost hair, one strand a long silvery gold and the other strands of the deepest, reddest copper. ’Twas a devil-angel for certain.

  Devil-angel... The words seem to come out of the air, mocking him, or daring him. Snit whirled and pressed his back up against the cupboard.

  There was nothing and no one.

  He carefully gathered his prizes, watching the room for signs of danger. Sly, sneaky stuff was danger, slipping and sliding out of the dark when one was least suspecting. Danger could crush a person, if he wasn’t quick. Snit had learned that in the deep caves.

  Gifts safely in hand, he clambered up on top of the cupboard and made a leap for the rafters. Once there, he ran the length of a beam and disappeared into a cubbyhole hollowed out of the rock and earth.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ceridwen knew not what awakened her, other than mayhaps the slow rise of hairs on the nape of her neck. She had just realized she’d fallen asleep in the same instant she’d realized she was being watched.

  She held her breath, listening, but heard no sound other than the rain and the wind beating against the keep. The storm had grown worse. Hearing nothing inside the chamber, she slowly opened her eyes and got such a fright, she sucked the breath she’d held clean down into her toes and nearly choked.

  Eye to eye she was with a tiny three-winged bat, a dead bat hardly as big as her thumb, a desiccated abomination of nature. Next to it was a ball of lint and whatnot the size of a quince, and next to that a small piece of driftwood and a box, the four items laid out as neatly as beads on a string, not two handspans from her face.

  She inched herself backward on the bed, not knowing what evil Helebore was conjuring with the odd array. When she reached a bearable distance, she lifted her head and turned her gaze to the rest of the chamber. At first, she saw no one. A low bench sat by the hearth, a pair of chairs with footstools off to one side. A large chest ran the width of the bed at its foot.

  Rushes redolent with the scent of hyssop had been spread on the floor, making the room seem better taken care of than the rest of the keep. Her gaze went back to the bench by the hearth, and ’twas then that she saw him, a changeling, hiding between the wood box and the mantel wall. She gasped, and so did he, both of them backing away, her on the bed, and him deeper into the shadows of his narrow hiding place.

  His hair was dark and scraggly, reaching to his shoulders, one of which was higher than the other. His eyes shone out at her, two bright spots in an ash-smudged face with a fine small nose and pointed chin. Sackcloth covered him from neck to knee, and naught but rags cross-gartered his thin legs. For shoes, she saw none, only bare, dirty toes peeking out of the rushes.

  She had never seen a changeling, but she’d heard about them, wild, cantankerous children. The faeries would come and steal a woman’s fair newborn babe and leave one of their own in its place. So said the ladies at Usk. For all of Rhiannon’s talk of faeries, she had never told of any who stole children. Quite the contrary. According to Rhiannon, there was no need as faerie children were as lovely as any other.

  Yet here was a changeling true, staring out at her from the shadows. She could put no other name to him.

  Except mayhaps one, she thought with a growing sense of realization and wonder: that small dwarf, whose power could steep the king’s host in deathlike sleep...

  She opened her fist and looked down at the green glass orb in her palm. Brochan’s Great Charm. She’d done it. Her heart beat faster, but in excitement, not fear. She’d called the faerie from the Domh-ringr spell, and he could spirit her away and take her to Dain.

  She lifted her head to speak—but he was gone, disappeared in a twinkling. All that was left was a rock on the bench, a gray rock flecked with quartz.

  No, no, no, she thought, not more charms. She needed no more charms.

  “Domh-ringr faerie?” she called softly, hoping to make him reappear. “Little man of the tylwyth teg?”

  He didn’t come forth, and she sighed and looked at the oddments he’d left: dead bat, lint ball, stick, box. The whole of it did not look promising, yet ’twas his, so she took care as she laid each item into the box.

  Up above, in the rafters, Snit hugged himself in rapture. She had accepted his gifts. They were off to a fine start, he and she.

  Ceridwen closed the box and set it aside. There was hope. She had her pack, and she’d had more success with Brochan’s Great Charm than she’d truly expected, though it had come in a surprising manner. For her next magic, she needed more control and even more success. She unrolled the Quicken-tree pack and chose the unguent from its contents. If she were to turn herself into the Demon and not suffer any disastrous results, she must leave nothing to chance. There could be no fearful, misspoken mutterings of the spell, no wavering from her course. She had to be strong and forceful to create a Demon capable of cowing the Boar, and even stronger if she was to bring herself back as Dain had done.

  Thus she girded herself with a commitment to strength and touched her finger to the black, earthy mud. Like Dain, she began on the left side of her face, drawing a line beneath her eye and out to her hairline. She did the same on the right side, then dipped her finger in again.

  “Rhuddlan calls—” She hesitated, trying to think through it. Magic was so damned complicated, and Rhuddlan had nothing to do with what she wanted, so she began again with her own words and prayed they would prove effective. “Ceridwen ab Arawn calls up the Sacred Demon of the unknown for her own use, the Demon of despair.” She closed her eyes, concentrating her will and all her effort into the litany. “Ceridwen welcomes the true Demon of suffering and sorrow, th
e one who steals the first sweet breaths of children, the one who cripples and maims youth and the old with no regard to justice, the one who steals souls.”

  “What’s this?” a deep, dismayingly familiar voice demanded from behind her.

  Her eyes flew open. She turned toward the door, her heart in her throat. ’Twas Caradoc, and behind him, Helebore. She was too late. Simple sleep had been the cost of her life.

  “Seize her,” the Boar ordered, and guards moved by him into the room.

  She scrambled off the bed and kicked out at the first one to come near. He faltered when her foot connected with his shin, but ’twas a hollow victory. The others had her quick enough. She squirmed against their hold, trying to break free, until Caradoc brought her struggles to a halt. It took no more than the touch of his fingers on her chin.

  “Cariad,” he said, looking upon her with his lovely, mad gaze. He squeezed her jaw, briefly and painfully, then let her go.

  He could have crushed the bones in her face, such was his strength. She knew that as certainly as she was standing there. He smeared a finger through the stripe under her eyes and looked down at the black unguent left on his skin.

  “What is this foolishness?”

  “Dain has bound me with spells,” she said, her voice trembling with the faint hope that it may be true. “Any one of you who brings me harm will die a dreadful death.”

  He looked to his leech, and Helebore shook his head.

  “Dain has laid with you, nothing more,” Caradoc said, wiping his finger off on her cheek. “For this, he will die a dreadful death, as will you.” He stepped closer, blocking her from the leech’s view, and bent his head toward her. “I would have kept you alive awhile longer,” he whispered, “but Helebore fears the pryf will taste the lust in your blood if we leave it too long, and be frightened away instead of coming when he calls them. You chose very unwisely, Ceridwen, to disgrace the Boar of Balor. Remember that as you die under the leech’s blade.”

  “Your leech is the foolish one, if he thinks to call pryf with my blood,” she said, her teeth gritted, “and even more foolish if he kills me. For I am the daughter of Rhiannon, she who called the dragons in from the deep beyond.”

  “Dragons?” Caradoc lifted his head and turned a narrowing gaze on Helebore. “You have not spoken of dragons.”

  “There are no dragons,” the medicus said, his lips tightening into a thin, peevish line.

  “He knows naught of what he speaks,” Ceridwen said. “The dragon nest is empty, but I can bring them back to Carn Merioneth.”

  “She bargains for her life with lies.” Helebore gave her an evil look.

  “She is the daughter of Rhiannon, leech, and dragons are much more to my liking than worms, no matter their great size.”

  “She is a woman and not to be trusted.”

  “I should trust you in her stead?” Caradoc laughed, a sly, mocking sound. “I think not, Helebore. I have oft wondered what it is you hope to gain with your promise of wealth. I thought ’twas something with the pryf but mayhaps the maid has truly let it slip.”

  “She knows nothing,” Helebore insisted, growing more agitated.

  “Then why are your nerves shredding, leech?” Caradoc left her and advanced upon the pale, hairless man. She tried to jerk free again, but was held by too many.

  Helebore took a step back, then another as the Boar drew closer. “Dragons are written about in many books, in many lands and languages, but they are myth and fancy, Caradoc, nothing more. No one has ever seen a dragon. No one.” He twisted his head to one side and grimaced, showing a mouth full of brown teeth. “Whereas I, Helebore, have seen the pryf. I have seen their shiny dark bodies gliding through the deep caves far below the ocean waves that break against Ynys Enlli, and I followed them here. What others have given by their words to dragons, I say belong to pryf: gold, jewels, treasures, and more, much more.” The leech stopped, his back to a wall, and looked up at the taller man. “The woman lies, Caradoc. Give me her blood, and I will prove it.”

  The Boar appeared to waver, slanting a glance at her from over his shoulder.

  “No!” Ceridwen shouted, pulling and tugging, trying to break free.

  “A cup.” Caradoc returned his gaze to the leech, decided. “A small cup.”

  “So little?” Helebore implored.

  “Use it to show me what you have seen, and I will let you have more.”

  “’Tis not much, but I can make do.” Helebore grew smugly thoughtful and even deigned to smile upon her. “I will have to purify her on the ramparts to cleanse her of her filthy deed.”

  “Do what you must.”

  The leech’s smile broadened disgustingly. He signaled to the guards holding her. “Take her to the north wall.”

  Snit watched them all leave the room, his hands clenched into small fists. The Ingrate had gone too far, much too far, showing an ingratitude beyond comprehension. Had Caradoc not seen the fairness of her face? The softness of her hair? The sweetness of the soul shining in her eyes?

  The last guard closed the door, and Snit leaped down onto the bed. She had spoken words of mystery and demons, oddly familiar words. They were meant to be friends, he and she. One by one he gathered her things into the middle of her pretty pack cloth. His fingers brushed against it, and a tingling started in their tips, a not unpleasant sensation. Curious, he sat back on his heels and touched it again. Warmth radiated out from the silken warp and weft. Wondrous stuff, this, he thought, picking it up and rubbing it against his cheek.

  Sticks! Left a mark, he had. He brushed at the dirt with his hand, but only managed to smear it farther. Fie! What a beast he was.

  He finished rolling everything up in her pack, hiding the dirty spot as best he could, and tied it with her ribands—except for one he kept for himself, weaving it into his hair. They were friends, were they not? Then he slung the pack over his shoulder and made for the north wall.

  Chapter 23

  From their vantage point in the hills to the southeast, Dain, Morgan, and Rhuddlan looked upon Balor. Torches had been burning on a section of the north rampart since the rain had diminished to a drizzle. The flames danced against the night sky while flashes of lightning sporadically lit the keep and curtain wall.

  “Escalade,” Morgan said. “We can scale the west wall. The patrols are always fewest there. There is a path of sorts up the cliffs from the beach, if the tide is out.”

  “And if the tide is in?” Dain asked without taking his gaze from the castle. ’Twas an ominous-looking place, and Ceri was in there, somewhere.

  “Then there is no beach, and we get wet.”

  “The tide matters not,” Rhuddlan said. “I can get you near to the base of the stone wall through the caves.”

  “’Tis true,” Morgan said. “The caves are directly beneath the bailey and open onto the cliffs, but how are you going to get us into the caves?”

  Dain turned to the pair as Rhuddlan gestured to the east. “There is an opening near that copse of hazel on the hillside.”

  “To the Light Caves?”

  “Not directly. We will have to descend into the Canolbarth, the midland caves, and come back up into the Light Caves which open onto the cliff face.”

  “Canolbarth?” Morgan repeated. “I was in the Light Caves a few times as a child, and there was never any talk of a Canolbarth or other caves.”

  “No one knows the true length or depth of the caverns that begin beneath Carn Merioneth,” said Rhuddlan, “but I have traveled many leagues in their darkness and been to the Canolbarth and beyond. As to the openings scattered throughout the hills, no one is left besides Quicken-tree and Druids who know where those openings are hidden.”

  Dain noticed how Morgan grew still, then the younger man swore under his breath.

  Rhuddlan threw a questioning glance at the Welshman.

  “’Tis the talk of Druids Morgan doesn’t like,” Dain explained. “His God is offended by other religions. What about the Quicken-tr
ee in our plans? Where will they be?”

  “We will work from beneath the keep. Morgan’s men will also be needed there, if he so agrees.”

  “Aye,” Morgan muttered. “The fewer over the wall, the better.” He looked to Dain. “’Tis a place more pagan than I knew that we go to, friend.”

  They had made preliminary plans in their camp each night of the march, going over what every man knew of Balor and its defenses. Morgan and Owain were the most familiar with the garrison and the manning of the wall, yet they deferred to Rhuddlan with a naturalness Dain found intriguing. For himself, he would not have chosen any of their plans. The smell of battle, of clashing arms and grunting men coming together in a lust for blood made his stomach churn. If he had to kill to free Ceri, he preferred to kill quickly, silently, and alone.

  “You can’t bring Ceridwen down the cliffs,” Rhuddlan continued, pointing toward Balor. “Our work will be to take and hold the southwest tower, there on the left, and open the passage that lies underneath.”

  “Under the pit?” Morgan’s attention came fully back to them. “You want us to go through the pit to get out of Balor?”

  “’Tis the safest way.”

  “Safe?” the Welshman begged to differ, his deference waning. “I say we come out through the gatehouse and take our chances with the murder holes, a far safer course than taking on the beasts in the pit.”

  “It matters not, Morgan,” Dain said. “I go over the castle wall alone. Whatever is in the pit will answer to my sword, not yours.”

  “No,” Rhuddlan said. “We must—” He fell silent, as did they all. Though water dripped from the leaves and branches and filled the forest with a soft rushing noise, each had heard the sound that did not fit the pattern. “Llynya,” the Quicken-tree man called out after a moment. “Show yourself.”