by Holly Taylor
He knew that he must go to her. Together they would journey to Corania and see what kind of victory they would be able to wrest from the Golden Man, who carried the desire for their death in his tawny eyes.
Chapter 6
Coed Aderyn, Kingdom of Prydyn &
Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn, Kymru
Collen Mis, 495
Gwaithdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late morning
She sat on the cold, stone floor before the ash-covered hearth, wrapped in a tattered blanket. She shivered, for in spite of the sunlight that streamed into the mouth of the cave, she was cold. It seemed that she was always cold these days. She knew that she should light a fire to take the chill out of the air, but she was too tired. It didn’t seem worth the effort. She would do it later.
There were so many things to do. And she would do them. But not now. Later.
She should be hunting in the forest for deer and rabbits. She should be smoking meat for the winter, to carry her through the days when hunting would be scarce. She should be curing animal skins so she would have something to trade in Dillys for the supplies she needed. She should be harvesting herbs and drying them to use for both cooking and medicine. She should be doing any one of a hundred things to make sure that she would survive the coming winter months in her cave deep in the forest of Coed Aderyn.
And yet she did none of them. But she would. Later.
How long had it been since that horrible day on Afalon? How long since the day that Amatheon had died; the day that she saw something die inside of Gwydion? With an effort she concentrated and realized it had been a little less than a year. Just a year since she, Gwydion, Amatheon, and the four Captains of Kymru had located Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings, on the forbidding Isle of Afalon. Just a year since Amatheon had been murdered while saving Gwydion’s life. Just a year since Gwydion had turned on her, accusing her of being responsible for his death, turning his back on her and walking away.
Just a year since her life had turned to dust and ashes.
Not that what had happened on Afalon had anything to do with that. It was what happened later that changed everything.
She had grieved deeply for Amatheon, for she had loved him as a dear friend, and the fact that she would not hear his laughter, nor see the light in his blue eyes again, had brought her great pain. And she had grieved for the Captain of Ederynion, for Angharad had been in love with Amatheon. She had shrugged her shoulders over Gwydion’s accusations. She would show no one the pain that had caused her, for there had been something between she and Gwydion, although she still could not have fully identified exactly what it had been. Whatever it was, its loss was not enough to hurt her deeply, for she had known from the beginning that he was a dangerous man and had guarded her heart.
So she had turned her back on him to return to Prydyn, to journey to Arberth in the company of Achren, Prydyn’s Captain, her dearest friend. She had ridden to Arberth with a hopeful heart. Her daughter, Gwenhwyfar, was in Arberth, and Rhiannon was desperately eager to see her. She had not seen Gwen for some months, ever since leaving her in Rhoram’s care. She and Gwen had parted badly, it was true. But she was sure Gwen would have forgiven her by now, would have come to understand why she had been left behind.
Rhiannon had been anxious to see Rhoram. He still held a great deal of her heart, even though she knew, as she had always known, that he was too careless for such a burden. But there was a part of her that still loved him, even as she told herself over and over that he had a wife now. That Rhoram no longer loved his Queen was not the point. Or, at least, that had seemed to be what Achren had been getting at in the conversations they had had during the weeks of their travel to Arberth.
“So,” Achren would say, causally, as they rode through the forests and vineyards that sprawled across Prydyn, “do you think you could learn to get along with Queen Efa?”
“What do you—”
“You know what I mean. Rhoram will not put her aside. Her brother is the Lord of Ceredigion and will not take such an insult.”
“I have no thought of staying in Arberth, Achren.”
“Of course not,” Achren would reply, her generous mouth quirking with amusement. “Not in a million years.”
“Of course,” Rhiannon would say idly, trying to keep the laughter from her voice, “if something should happen to Efa—”
“You would mourn for precisely three seconds.”
“Four.”
The day she and Achren had arrived in Arberth dawned clear and fair. They had ridden past vineyards laden with purple fruit just moments away from the harvest. They had ridden through the gates of the city and been saluted all the way to Caer Tir. The gates of the King’s fortress were open, and the wolf’s head emblazoned in jet-black onyx and gleaming emerald seemed to stare at her with an intensity that made her shiver for a moment.
The courtyard had been crowded with warriors and townsfolk, merchants and farmers, who had come to see King Rhoram, for it was the day he held open court, hearing cases and giving his judgments.
Tallwch, Rhoram’s gatekeeper, had helped Rhiannon from her horse and had smiled his welcome.
“Any news?” Achren asked as she dismounted.
“Only the news of Amatheon’s death that Gwydion sent out. No information has yet been forthcoming on what you were all doing on Afalon.”
“And none will be,” Achren said crisply. “Unless the Dreamer himself gives leave.”
“Rhoram will want to know,” Tallwch said pointedly.
Achren glanced at Tallwch in surprise. “But, of course, I will tell him. He is my King. That was never a question.”
“Of course not,” Tallwch had replied solemnly.
“Gwen?” Rhiannon had asked eagerly.
“In the court with Rhoram, Sanon, and Geriant,” Tallwch replied, naming Rhoram’s son and daughter from a previous marriage.
“I must go to her,” Rhiannon had said, intent only on seeing Gwen.
“Rhiannon,” Tallwch had started to say.
Oh, if she had only listened to his tone. If she had only waited a few moments to find out what he had wanted to tell her, she would have been spared much humiliation. But she had not waited. She had gone on ahead, and walked into a pain so great that sometimes she still thought she might die of it. She had left Tallwch behind, not heeding what he was urgently saying to Achren.
She had proceeded up the steps and into the Great Hall. The hall had been packed with those who had come to hear Rhoram’s judgments. Sunlight had streamed through the huge, open doors and through windows set high around the stone walls, but that had not been enough to illuminate the large chamber, so hundreds of torches burned, set in brackets against the walls. A fire had been burning in the huge fireplace, sending its shifting light to play over the faces of those in the hall.
Rhoram had sat on the dais in a massive chair canopied with green velvet. He was wearing a tunic and breeches of emerald, with black leather boots stitched with emeralds on the turned-down cuffs. He had worn his emerald ring, and a ring of glittering onyx dangled from his right ear. His golden hair was pulled back and secured at the nape of his neck with a clasp of emerald and gold. His blue eyes were intent as he listened to the man speaking, a merchant who had been presenting his case.
Rhiannon had scanned the faces on the dais, barely noting that Queen Efa sat next to her husband; that the Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s chief counselor, was standing by the King’s chair, that golden-haired Geriant and gentle Sanon were standing to one side, listening gravely.
Instead she was looking for Gwen, and she had eyes for no one else now. The glint of familiar golden hair in the firelight caught her eye. Gwen stood to one side at the foot of the dais, looking bored. She wore a tunic and breeches of brown leather and was tapping one booted foot impatiently, her arms crossed, a frown on her exquisite face. Clearly Gwen was anxious to return to her warrior’s training and resentful of the delay. Rhiannon determined to speak to her daughter abou
t that at the earliest opportunity.
At that moment Achren joined her at the doorway. Achren did not hesitate, but made her way though the crowd easily, with Rhiannon following in her wake. As they came nearer to the dais, the merchant faltered, aware of a commotion behind him.
Rhoram’s eyes had lit up as he had seen Achren make her way through the crowd. He had risen, prepared to welcome his Captain home after her three-month absence. And then his eyes had met Rhiannon’s and the spark that leapt into his eyes had almost choked her with its intensity. But she tore her gaze from his to seek Gwen. And that was when she clearly saw the turn her life had taken, clearly saw the price that the Shining Ones had demanded of her.
Gwen, gazing at her mother with contempt, had turned away and left the hall.
Rhiannon had stopped midway through the crowd when she had seen that. Rhoram, seeing it, too, had descended the dais, pity in his eyes and the need to explain written on his face.
But she had needed no explanation. It had been clear in her daughter’s blue eyes that she had not been forgiven for leaving. Clear that Gwen would punish Rhiannon for abandoning her, punish her for some time—perhaps forever.
So she had turned away, blinded by her sudden tears, pushing her way through the crowd and back into the courtyard where Tallwch still stood by her horse.
“She will forgive you, Rhiannon,” Tallwch had said.
“When?” she had asked through the ache in her throat.
But Tallwch had not had an answer for her. She had ridden away, not looking back. Not bidding Achren good-bye, not giving Rhoram a chance to greet her. She had ridden straight to her cave in Coed Aderyn, to the place she had once lived with Gwen.
She knew Gwen would not come here. And she knew her daughter would tell no one the location of the cave. So she had stayed there, alone, during this last year, forcing herself to get up in the mornings, forcing herself to feed and clothe herself, forcing herself to get through each day.
But now she was tired. More tired than she had ever been. She hadn’t been eating well for some time, and she knew her clothes hung awkwardly on her too-thin frame. Her hair had lost its blue-black sheen and lay lank and tangled over her bony shoulders. She had not even bothered to dress today and still wore her cotton, low-cut sleeveless nightshift.
Dirty cups and wooden plates were scattered across the surface of the rough table. Her pallet was still unmade, and the blankets were mussed and dirty. Dust covered the surfaces of the shelves and the intricately carved wooden trunk that held her clothes; the same layer of dust lay heavily on the telyn, her father’s harp, and on the books stacked next to it. Even the rough walls of the caves gleamed dully in the fitful light that ended less than a foot from the cave entrance, for there was no other light source. It had seemed too much trouble to light the candles, much less a fire. Water streamed over the mouth of the cave, the sunlight turning the shimmering waterfall into a spray of diamonds, for the one thing she had done this morning was to pull back the heavy curtain that hid the mouth of the cave.
And that was when the light shifted. Someone was standing at the mouth of the cave, having made their way across the rocks of the pool and behind the curtain of water.
Dully she wondered if it was someone sent to kill her, just as the man from a year ago had tried to murder her. But then she realized that she did not care. She was already dead, so what did it matter what happened to her body? She would welcome a murderer.
But it wasn’t a murderer at all.
It was something worse. Much, much worse.
“RHIANNON,” HE SAID. “Wake up.”
He was sitting on the cold, stone floor, holding her in his lap, cradling her head against his chest.
She opened her eyes and looked up into his face. His short, dark beard was shot here and there with silvery-gray. There were, perhaps, more lines on his handsome face, lines of grief and sorrow and loneliness. But his gray eyes were as cool and watchful as ever, giving nothing away as he gazed down at her, his face carefully expressionless.
“What happened?” she asked tiredly.
“You fainted.”
“Ridiculous,” she snorted. “I never faint.”
“Do you ever eat?”
“Since when is that any of your business?”
“Ah,” he said, his mouth giving the faintest twitch of humor, “the same old Rhiannon. For a moment there I thought you had changed.”
She sat up, removing herself from his embrace. The move-ment, slight as it was, made her dizzy, and she sat still for a moment, her eyes closed, willing the cave to stop spinning. She made as if to stand, but Gwydion, laying his hands on her shoulders, stopped her.
“No,” he said quietly. “Do not move just yet.”
She would have ignored his command if she had been able to, but she knew he was right—if she stood she would only fall. And he probably wouldn’t bother to catch her.
“Do you have any Penduran’s Rose?” he asked as he rose and searched her shelf of medicines.
“Third bottle from the right,” she answered wearily. She knew what that was for. The plant was known for, among other things, fighting depression. She wanted to argue with him, to tell him that she was not depressed, but she was too tired.
He picked up a small, dirty pot from the table and went to the waterfall. He washed out the pot, then filled it and brought it back to the hearth. He went to her dwindling stack of firewood and laid a fire in the fireplace. Then he raised his hand and gestured, and the wood burst into flames. The fire crackled cheerfully as he hung the small pot from the spit and settled it to warm over the fire.
He glanced down at her as she sat huddled on the floor, the dirty blanket still around her thin shoulders. He looked around and spotted her small rocking chair and drew it up before the hearth. Without a word he helped her up and into the chair. He took off his black cloak and, dispensing with the tattered blanket, wrapped her in the warm, woolen cloth. Tears sprang to her eyes because of his unwonted gentleness, but she ducked her head so he wouldn’t see. She must be weaker than she thought to let such a gesture affect her. And from the Dreamer, of all people.
After a few moments, when the fire had taken the chill off the water, he poured it from the pot into a small, wooden cup—one of the few that were not dirty. He crushed a few leaves of Penduran’s Rose into the cup and swirled the liquid around. He then handed it to her and stood over her as she drank it, which she did without protest, for she knew he was determined. And she was tired. So tired. Too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything else but lay her head against the back of the chair and let the drowsiness wash over her.
Too tired to even care—then—that Gwydion had seen her in her weakness. Later that would matter. And it would matter a great deal.
Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon
SHE WOKE WITH a start, uncertain, at first, where she was. Sunlight streamed in through the cave mouth, illuminating the rock walls where crystal gleamed in the golden light. A fire crackled, warming a large pot from which came a most wonderful, appetizing smell. The dishes were cleared from the table, washed, and put away neatly on their accustomed shelf. Her harp, the bindings of her books, the small trunk all gleamed, free of dust. The floor had been swept, and candles burned brightly, illuminating the dark corners where neither sunlight nor firelight could reach. Her chair was still drawn up before the hearth, but now Gwydion was sitting in it, occasionally leaning forward to stir whatever wonderful concoction bubbled in the pot.
She was still wearing her shift, but she noticed that her body had been washed and her hair was combed out of its dreadful tangles. She was still wrapped in Gwydion’s soft, woolen cloak, and she felt more comfortable than she had been in a long time. Most amazing, her stomach growled at the smell of food, instead of responding with nausea, as she was accustomed to.
She sat up and even the dizziness was gone. He turned to her as he sensed her movement. They looked at each other for a long time, silvery-gr
ay eyes meeting emerald green, but they did not speak. Later she would be unable to say what had really passed between them in that look. There had been too much there to allow her to sort it out into neat answers. She finally made herself to rise, and he hurried over to her.
“Hungry?” he asked as he helped her over to the bench at the table.
“Yes,” she replied in surprise. “I really am.”
“Supper will be ready in one moment. Drink this.” He handed her a cup of watered ale and turned back to the fire. Using a cloth, he opened the door of the small bread oven and pulled out a loaf, the crust done to perfection. He set it down on one of the wooden plates and sliced it. Though she knew it was hot, she took a piece anyway and began to eat, for she could not wait. It burned her mouth slightly, but it was worth it, she reasoned, for it was the best bread she had ever eaten. That alone boded well for the stew he was still stirring.
In the end she ate three bowls of the rich, savory stew. He had caught a rabbit that morning, he said. A search of her larder had yielded a few edibles to put in the stew—some dried peas and beans, some onions, and some parsley. She had no idea he was capable of making such a wonderful meal from so little. Indeed, she would have told him so, but with her returning strength came a keen sense of humiliation.
That he of all people should see her in her weakness! That was surely something he would hold over her head forever. That he had cleaned her home, that he had washed her body and combed her hair, that he had fed her and wrapped her in his own cloak—it was almost too much to be borne.
She laid down her spoon after eating the last drop in her bowl and looked up at him. He had finished eating some time ago and had been quietly sitting across from her at the table, waiting for her to finish. She studied his face, seeking for some hint of superiority, of pity, of contempt. But she could find nothing. Nothing at all, for his face was as much of a mask as it had always been, and his eyes were shuttered.
But she knew what he was thinking. He was secretly exulting that he had seen her in her weakness. He was turning over strategies to use her vulnerability to his advantage. He was here because he wanted something, and he had helped her because he saw that as a way to get what he wanted. The only question was, what did he want? She scowled at him, her brows rushing together.