by Holly Taylor
“Come, Maeder,” Havgan said, his eyes glittering. “You can’t tell me that and not tell me why.”
“I cannot tell you why. I cannot! You mustn’t ask me. No one must ever ask me!” She was becoming agitated. Havgan took her hands to calm her down, but she began to wail. “No, no! You mustn’t ask me. I mustn’t tell! You can’t make me!”
“Maeder …” Havgan said. “Maeder, don’t …”
Instantly she stopped. Her face became blank and she immediately began to gaze off into space. Slowly, she pulled her hands away and sat down on a chair at the table, her back to the door. She huddled there, hugging herself. “Oh,” she said softly. “I must. I must tell.” She rocked back and forth. “Oh, he’ll never believe me otherwise. Must tell. Must.”
“Maeder?” Havgan said, kneeling beside her. She raised her head and opened her mouth to speak.
And that was when Sledda sprang forward, grasped Hildegyth by the hair, and broke her neck. Gwydion heard it snap cleanly.
Havgan was frozen in shock, still kneeling on the floor. Sledda let Hildegyth’s limp body sink back down into the chair. Havgan looked up at Sledda. And Sledda looked down at Havgan, his face impassive. “You did not want to hear what she was going to say, did you?” Sledda said.
Slowly Havgan shook his head.
“Now you don’t have to,” Sledda said simply. “Now no one will ever hear it.” Effortlessly, Sledda picked up Hildegyth’s body. “I’ll take care of this. No one will ever even know she was here.”
“Guthlac …” Havgan said, his amber eyes still wide with shock.
“Will say nothing. Believe me, Lord Havgan, this is the best way. She’s out of her misery now.” Sledda nodded down at Hildegyth’s still face. Havgan reached out, touched her face gently, and then turned away.
Nardaeg, Sol 35—morning
FIVE DAYS LATER, Havgan summoned Gwydion as soon as it was light, and the two men rode out of the city. Havgan had offered no explanation, and Gwydion had not pressed, but his thoughts were in turmoil. Perhaps Havgan had found out the truth and he was taking Gwydion out of the city to kill him in private. After what he had seen last week, nothing would surprise him about Havgan anymore.
They passed fields and trees by the score. It was a beautiful morning, with just a touch of crispness to the air. Autumn was coming. And soon, very, very soon, Gwydion would be on his way back home. Unless he died today.
At last they reached a grove of trees, set back a little from the road. Havgan turned off and dismounted, tethering his horse at the edge of the grove. Gwydion did the same. Without a word, Havgan plucked his saddlebag from the horse’s back and walked through the trees. Gwydion followed, more apprehensive than ever.
There was a tiny clearing inside the grove, and a brook babbled through it. Birds sang, and the sunlight beamed shafts of gold through the trees and onto the forest floor. Havgan dumped the saddlebag on the ground, then turned to face Gwydion. He was smiling. Uncertainly, Gwydion smiled back.
“You have been very patient, minstrel. You ask no questions.”
“My lord will tell me in his own time,” Gwydion replied humbly.
“The time is now. Twice you have saved my life. You have proven yourself to be a true friend to me. Tomorrow my fate hangs in the balance. And I feel a need to be bound with my friends. Therefore, today we will become brothers.”
Gwydion swallowed hard. “My.. my lord,” he stuttered. “I am only a servant …”
“No, you are more than a servant. You are a true and loyal man. You have saved my life. And now you shall be my brother.”
Oh, gods. This was worse than he had expected. His mind raced, but he knew it was useless. Havgan was determined. This was almost more than he could stand. He had no choice—and he would not be able to keep the solemn oath he gave today. His word would be broken. He felt sick. And deep inside, he was ashamed at the level of deception he was being compelled to practice. “My lord—”
“No more protests, brother.”
Havgan opened the saddlebag and took out a sharp knife, a wineskin, and a small cup. Then he faced the east and chanted, “O place of air, write our words before the wind.” He turned south. “O place of fire, burn our words in the sun.” Then west. “O place of water, write our words upon the sea.” Finally, he turned to the north. “O place of earth, chisel our words in stone.”
He filled the cup with water from the brook and poured it over the ground. Then he placed his foot over the soaked earth, making a footprint. He gestured and Gwydion placed his own footprint on top of it.
Then Havgan cut his thumb and handed the knife to Gwydion, who did the same. They held their hands over the footprints, letting the blood drop into the ground. Then they grasped each other’s right wrists with their bleeding hands. Havgan spoke:
“So long as there is breath in my body,
I pledge true friendship.
So long as there is blood in my veins,
I will shed it in your defense.
So long as you call, I shall answer.
So long as you ride, I shall follow.”
Gwydion took a deep breath. Then he, in his turn, chanted the same formula. He kept his voice steady, but inside he was screaming. His mind was chaos. Contempt for himself, contempt for Havgan, sorrow, pain, genuine love, genuine hate, all boiled inside, creating a maelstrom of hopeless misery.
Havgan poured wine in the cup and drank. Then he handed the cup to Gwydion, who drank in his turn. Havgan placed his arm around Gwydion’s shoulders, and turned until they faced east. “Air has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”
They turned to the south. And Gwydion said, “Fire has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”
Turning west, Havgan said, “Water has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”
They turned north. “Earth has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another,” Gwydion said.
Havgan embraced Gwydion, his amber eyes shining. “Tomorrow I fight Aelbald. And I will win. You shall have a great place in my household, brother.”
Gwydion nodded with a tight smile on his face. But beneath his contempt for the part he played today, he felt a stirring of anger. Since the death of Amatheon, only Uthyr had the right to call him brother—only Uthyr, who would die because of this man standing before him now. Gwydion bowed his head, afraid that Havgan would see something in his eyes, something he should not see—not yet. The day will come, “brother,” Gwydion thoughtsavagely, when you shall truly know me. And I hope it destroys you.
AFTER THEY RETURNED to the house, Gwydion went straight up to his room without speaking to anyone.
“Are you all right?” Rhiannon asked sympathetically, taking in his white face and clenched hands.
“No,” he said carefully. “Not at all.” She helped him over to the chair and poured him a cup of wine. She handed it to him, closing both his hands around the goblet. She gave the cup a little push toward his lips to get him going, and Gwydion downed a healthy swallow. He waited a moment to see whether his stomach was going to accept or reject it. The issue was in doubt for several moments, but, at last, the queasiness subsided. He drank again, draining the goblet to the dregs.
“Do you know what happened?” Gwydion asked.
“I heard Sigerric and the others talking about it. He made you his brother, didn’t he?”
Gwydion turned to her, his eyes glittering. “I feel sick.”
“I’m sure you do. Tell me, is it because you hated it or because you liked it?”
“Both,” he shuddered. “Both.”
She nodded. “Yes, that does make it worse, doesn’t it?” Again she fell silent.
He cocked a brow at her. “That’s it? No lectures? No reminders that Havgan is a cold-blooded killer? No comments about how I saved the bastard’s life? I, his greatest enemy? Nothing about divided loyalties?”
“If
you can think of something I should say that you haven’t already thought of yourself, by all means let me know,” she said steadily. Her green eyes seemed to look through and beyond him. “We should have seen this coming. Isn’t this what he did with the inner circle of his warband? Bound them to him through this oath? Bound them so strongly that they would do anything he tells them to do?”
“That’s them,” Gwydion growled. “Not me.”
“I didn’t think it was,” she said mildly.
“Didn’t you?” he shot back.
“For the gods’ sake, Gwydion, what are you trying to get me to say? That I don’t trust you anymore?”
“Do you?”
“More than you do, apparently. Stop worrying about it. You’re not betraying your brother. Havgan is your enemy. And he always will be.”
Before he could reply, there was a knock on the door. Gwydion stiffened. Rhiannon went to the door and opened it. A servant stood there. “Lord Havgan requests the presence of his minstrels in his chambers,” he said.
Rhiannon nodded, then shut the door. “He wants us,” she said.
“What, now? It’s getting dark, so he can’t want to go anywhere.”
“Don’t bet on it. Come on, the master calls.”
“Don’t call him that!”
She looked at him steadily. “Gwydion, don’t be angry at me because of what happened.”
He ran his hands through his dark hair. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little edgy.”
“Well, that’s new, isn’t it?” She was still angry. “Come on.”
He shrugged and followed her. She was going to be angry as long as she wanted to be. Women. They were so difficult to get along with.
When they came to Havgan’s rooms, Sledda was also there. Without preamble, Havgan said, “Sledda and I are going to run an errand. I want you both to come.”
“What’s the errand?” Rhiannon asked.
“There is no need for you to know that,” Sledda snapped. “It is enough that Lord Havgan wishes you to go.”
Rhiannon turned to Havgan, her brows raised. “Touchy, isn’t he?”
Havgan’s stern face softened into an unwilling smile. “It’s his calling in life.”
“So, you’re not going to satisfy my curiosity, either?” she asked flippantly.
Havgan sighed. “I never could resist the blandishments of a beautiful woman. We go to seek a valla, a fate-teller.”
“A fate-teller,” she repeated slowly.
“Yes. A very famous one right here in the city. She is reputed to be excellent.”
“Then why isn’t she in a dungeon somewhere?” Rhiannon asked. Sledda frowned.
“Some of her customers are very important people. And so she is free, for now,” Havgan answered. “Come, both of you, it is getting dark.”
“Oh,” Rhiannon said, looking sharply at Gwydion. “That’s too bad. Never mind. If you stay up all night, maybe you can finish it.”
“Finish what?” Havgan asked sharply.
“His song,” Rhiannon said. “The song for the tournament tomorrow.”
Havgan turned to Gwydion with interest. “A song for the tournament?”
Gwydion ground his teeth. He wished that Rhiannon would discuss these clever ideas with him before she put them into action. “A special song that I was working on,” he said. “Praising your exceptional warrior’s skills. Singing of how you won the battle between you and Aelbald.”
“I haven’t fought yet,” Havgan said, his mouth quirking.
“But you are sure to win,” Gwydion said earnestly. Then he sighed. “But Rhea is right. Perhaps I can get it finished if I work all night after we return.”
“Hold on a moment,” Havgan said. “The song is more important. Rhea can come with me, and you can stay here. But I expect an excellent song tomorrow.”
“Your honor is mine. The song will be all you could wish for. Trust me.”
“I do,” Havgan said softly. “And I am sure that you won’t disappoint me.” He looked down at Rhiannon. “Come, my dear. Let us pay a visit to the fate-teller.”
Rhiannon swallowed hard. Gwydion knew what she was thinking. They had been lucky so far, when Havgan had the wyrd-galdra read to him. Neither reader had betrayed them to Havgan. But they couldn’t be lucky forever. Gwydion hoped with all his heart that this fate-teller was a fake. If not, Rhiannon might not return.
But she put a smile on her face and laid her hand on Havgan’s arm. “Yes, let’s pay her a visit, shall we?” She glanced at Gwydion. “See you when we return, my love.”
He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. Partly for the benefit of Havgan and Sledda. Partly in tribute to her resource and courage. And partly just because he wanted to.
“I’ll return her safe and sound, brother,” Havgan smiled.
Safe and sound. Yes. Havgan had better do just that.
AFTER THEY WERE gone, Gwydion went to the tapestry, lifting a corner and peering behind it. There was nothing but the whitewashed wall. He frowned and looked closer. There, a tiny crack, halfway up the wall. The door to a cupboard, obviously. But how to open it? He could not see anything that would do that. He grabbed a candle from the table and held it up, looking closer. Nothing. He pushed and pulled, but nothing moved.
Wonderful. A great hiding place. One that no one but Havgan could get into. No one but Havgan … ah. Of course. He closed his eyes and pushed against the tiny door in the wall with his mind. He heard a click as the cupboard swung open. Carefully, he reached in and pulled out the packet. He hurried over to the table, the packet in one hand and the candle in the other. Before he unwrapped the papers, he pushed the cupboard shut with his mind.
Taking a deep breath, he unwrapped the packet, noting the exact folds of the cloth as he did so, in order to wrap them up again properly. He unfolded a paper and found himself gazing at a detailed map of Kymru. Chief cities were marked with red ink—Tegeingl in Gwynedd, Arberth in Prydyn, Llwynarth in Rheged, and Dinmael in Ederynion. In the center of the map, the colleges were marked with green ink—Neuadd Gorsedd, where the Bards dwelled; Y Ty Dewin, where the Dewin lived; and Caer Duir, where the Druids were housed. A splash of gold ink in the center indicated the location of Cadair Idris, the abandoned hall of the High King. Within each country, the individual cantrefs and commotes were marked, as well as the roads and rivers, mountain ranges, and forests.
Lines of blue, green, and amber marked the planned path of Havgan’s armies. Blue probably meant Derean forces, and green was probably for Miercean. Amber would be for Coranian warriors. If he were reading this right, a Miercean force under Penda and a Derean force under Talorcan would take Arberth in Prydyn and Dinmael in Ederynion, respectively. Both cities were right on the sea and easily accessible by ship. A second Derean force under Baldred would take Llwynarth in Rheged by using Sarn Ermyn, the great east/west road that cut through Kymru. Another Miercean force, under Catha, would make for Tegeingl in Gwynedd via the River Mawddoch. And the Coranians under Havgan’s leadership would head straight for Gwytheryn, via Sarn Ermyn, where Cadair Idris and the colleges lay.
The door rattled. Gwydion looked up and swiftly shoved the plans beneath the table. Talorcan strode into the room. “Havgan, I want to—” He stopped abruptly, seeing Gwydion alone in the room.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Where is Havgan?”
“He and Sledda had to go out,” Gwydion said. His heart was in his throat, and his racing pulse pounded in his ears, but his voice did not shake. “But they will be back, soon, I think.”
Talorcan frowned. “What are you doing here by yourself?”
“Writing a song.”
“How? I see no parchment.”
“Are you a composer?”
Talorcan frowned. “No.”
“Well, then, you don’t really know how it’s done. You see, you must imagine first how the song will come. You reach out,” he went on, warming to his theme, “into the void of pure thought, pure mus
ic, pure poetry, and try to pull the song back out with you into the world. Only then, when it is fixed in your mind, do you write it down.”
“I see,” Talorcan said. For a moment, Gwydion was afraid that Talorcan truly did. His eyes were suspicious. “And why are you composing here?”
“It is a song about the prowess of Lord Havgan. What better place from which to get inspiration than here, where he spends so much of his time?”
“Mm. Indeed. I understand from Havgan that I must congratulate you.”
“Congratulate me?”
“As a new brother.” Talorcan smiled bitterly.
“Oh, yes. So I am,” Gwydion said, uncertain if Talorcan was truly offering him congratulations or condolences. Perhaps both. The two men looked at each other in silence. He thought he saw pity in Talorcan’s eyes.
“Well,” Talorcan said, clearing his throat. “When Havgan returns, tell him I want to see him, will you?”
Gwydion nodded, not trusting himself to speak. After Talorcan left, he reached under the table with shaking hands and grabbed the parchment. He rolled it up quickly, careful to return it to its exact condition. He folded the cloth over it, and, lifting the tapestry, willed the cupboard to open. He placed the plans back inside, then shut the cupboard with his mind. Then he returned to the table, forcing his heartbeat to slow to normal. He took a deep breath. There was a song to compose by tomorrow. He’d best get to it.
HlS SONG WAS almost done when Rhiannon returned. He had left a note for Havgan, giving him Talorcan’s message, then returned to his room. When she came in, he sighed in relief.
“Back safe but not very sound,” she said, her face pale.
He gestured her to take the chair. “What happened?”
“Oh, just the usual.”
“You mean—?
“Oh, yes. The same thing. All of it. The Fool, The Magician. Holda and Wuotan. The Tower. Everything.”
“Even the card of the Moon? The deception card?”