by Holly Taylor
“Ah,” Havgan said, and he stood. When the woman reached the top of the mound, he took her hand in his and bent over it. “An flaeth, you are welcome here.”
“Why do you bring me here among the dead?” Her voice was rich and melodious.
“Surely Sledda explained what I wished, Anflaeth.”
She shrugged. “He told me that you wish to read the runes, and I have brought them. But he did not tell me why it must be now, in the middle of the night. And he did not tell me why it must be here, at the Mounds of the Dead.”
“Anflaeth, I have been warned by your reading and by the readings of others to beware of treachery. I wish you to name the traitor for me now by the runes you cast.”
The set of Gwydion’s shoulders stiffened slightly. No wonder Rhiannon had felt that sense of danger. This could be very, very bad.
She shrugged. “I will try, Lord Havgan. But as I told you before, the deceiver is veiled. I may not be able to find the answer for you. He, or she, has mighty protective spells woven about them.”
Rhiannon wished that this were true. She’d feel a lot better right now.
The woman reached into her voluminous skirts and produced a bag made of swan’s skin. “These are the Runes of Achtwan. This bag contains the most powerful runes of all. They will tell you the answer to your question in their own way.”
Without further ado, she sat down on the stone and intoned solemnly, “I am Anflaeth. I am the valla. I am the keeper of secrets. I am the teller of truths. I speak for the Wyrd, the three goddess of fate. I speak for past, for present, for future. What is it you wish to know?”
Havgan answered, “Who seeks to betray me?”
She held out the bag, and Havgan slipped his hand into it, pulling out a rune of pure gold. He laid it on the stone.
“Fire Eye,” Anflaeth said. “The rune of second sight. Choose another.”
Again, Havgan chose a rune and set it on the stone. “Seid. The rune for a magician, or a sorceress. Choose another.”
For the third time, Havgan reached into the bag and deposited his chosen rune on the stone. “Mundilfari. Power and magnetism.”
She leaned forward, studying the three runes, a frown on her face. At last, she looked up. “The one who seeks to deceive you has special powers to see into the future. He is a powerful magician. Or, it could be a woman, a powerful sorceress. And—mark you—he or she has had the power to make you trust them.”
Havgan’s eyes went flat with rage, and his face became as stone. Softly, too softly, he said, “You tell me nothing.”
She swallowed hard. “Lord, I tell you what I can. The answer is veiled from me by a powerful force. I can do nothing else with these runes.”
“I ask you for a name, and you give me excuses! I want that name!” Enraged, Havgan leapt up, grabbing for his dagger. The valla stepped back in terror and would have fallen but for Gwydion’s support.
“My lord, it is not my fault! I’ll find out—but I must use the dyrne-hwata to answer this question!”
“Very well,” Havgan said between gritted teeth. “Go, consult your dyrne-hwata. And return to me with the answer.”
“It may take some time, lord. I tell you that powerful forces are keeping me from seeing the answer.”
“Sledda, take Anflaeth back to her house, then return here. I expect an answer from you before noon, seeress. That is when I set out from my house to be married. Do not fail me.”
“I will not,” she said, her voice shaking.
Sledda took her arm and led her back to the boat. As the boat pushed away from the island, Rhiannon followed.
ANFLAETH LIVED NEAR the corner of Lindstrat and Bogastrat, very near to the docks. This was truly a stroke of luck, for Rhiannon had already decided that the docks were to be one of the places she must visit tonight. After Sledda left the valla’s house, Rhiannon hovered outside the woman’s window, peering through the gaps in the slats of the wooden shutters. Anflaeth’s rooms were on the first floor—another stroke of luck. The valla had gone straight to a cabinet and removed the dyrne-hwata, setting the board on a table in the middle of the room. Then she closed her eyes and began what looked to be a very complicated preparation ritual. That was all to the good. If Rhiannon hurried, she could be back at Anflaeth’s house before it was too late.
She rushed back to Byrnwiga and returned to her body. The door was still barred, and when she opened it and looked out, the corridor was empty. Sounds of drunken revelry drifted up to her room from the hall below.
She hurried to their baggage and pulled out her fine, new dress for the wedding tomorrow, along with the matching hair ornaments and shoes. Burrowing through Gwydion’s bag, she took out his new tunic, trousers, and boots and laid them on the bed next to her dress. Then she searched his bag for the oldest, most worn tunic and trousers she could find. She located a set of dark gray wool and quickly put them on. She hoped that Anflaeth wouldn’t have to be killed. But in case it was necessary, she had to wear something that could be burned afterward. And her own dresses were not made for that kind of work. It was too bad that the tunic and trousers were Gwydion’s favorites.
She donned a pair of boots, then slipped her knife into the top of the right boot. She braided her long, black hair tightly, then wrapped it around her head. She slung their bags over her shoulder and wrapped her own cloak of black wool tightly around her, pulling up the hood. The two harp cases were harder to carry, but she wouldn’t dream of leaving either of them behind. Quietly and cautiously she stepped into the empty corridor, closing the chamber door behind her. She made her way down the back staircase, the one that led to the kitchens at the back of the fortress. The kitchens were also deserted, and she silently slipped out the back door—straight into Sigerric’s surprised embrace.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a drunken slur.
Rhiannon looked closely at him in the flickering torchlight. His eyes were unfocused, his hair disheveled, his tunic stained and spotted with wine. “I’m not.”
He blinked. “Not what?”
“Not here. You’re drunk and imagining things.”
“Oh.” He digested this for a moment. “And why shouldn’t I be drunk?” he demanded belligerently. “Don’t you know what’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“Yes, such a shame. Well, I must disappear now. You go back inside and get another jug of wine. And don’t mention seeing me. They will think you have gone mad and lock you up. And if you’re locked up, you can’t help Aelfwyn, can you?”
Sigerric looked at her owlishly, trying to comprehend what she was saying. “Oh. Yes,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I understand.”
Rhiannon only wished she did.
She shook her head as Sigerric went back inside, then she left the fortress, running softly up Lindstrat. The streets were mostly deserted. Occasionally she heard one of the Emperor’s patrols ride by and she hid in the shadows until they were gone.
Rhiannon reached the docks at last. The moon shone feebly over the waters on the inlet. Ships loomed dark and strange in the night air. She made her way to where Fleet Foot was anchored, the ship on which she and Gwydion would be leaving tomorrow. Or, rather, today. In just a matter of hours. She hoped.
The gangplank was lowered, and torches flamed briefly on the deck of the ship. She made her way up the gangplank, stepping carefully.
“Here, now, just what do you think you’re doing?” She spun around. A man dressed in a tunic and trousers stained with saltwater and tar grabbed her arm. He was unshaven and, if the smell was any indicator, had gone unbathed for quite some time.
“What have you got there, Theo?” Another man, dressed in a tunic and trousers of fine blue cloth, stood on the deck.
“A stowaway, Captain. Or a thief,” the sailor answered, dragging her up the plank in front of the Captain.
“I am neither,” she said with as much dignity as possible. “I have booked passage on this boat.”
“Ship, please, my de
ar,” the Captain said in a pained voice.
“Oh. Sorry. Ship. And you are?”
“Captain Euric Gildmar. Of Austarias. And you?”
“I am Rhea of Turin. My partner and I have booked passage, and I wish to stow our belongings here now.”
“In a hurry to leave, are you?” the Captain asked, his dark eyes shrewd. “In a bit of trouble?”
Rhiannon hesitated, then smiled slightly. “Only if your boat—I mean ship—does not sail at noon.”
The Captain nodded, eyeing her sharply, then grinned. “She will. Go on with Theo. He’ll show you to your cabin. And if you’re not here tomorrow at noon, we sail with your belongings and without you.”
“Captain, if I am not here tomorrow at noon, you can keep my belongings. I won’t need them anymore.”
AFTER SHE LEFT the ship, she hurried back to Anflaeth’s house. Cautiously, she peered through the shutters. She noted it was latched from the inside, but the shutter was ill-made, and there was a gap between the two halves. The latch could easily be flipped open with her knife, if it came to that. She put her eye to the gap and surveyed the room.
The room was small, lit by the light of the fire and one feeble candle on the table. In the corner was a rolled sleeping pallet. A small table held a basin and pitcher. There were a few braided rugs on the floor and a tall cabinet next to the table. A small trunk rested next to the fireplace.
Anflaeth was muttering to herself as she laid her fingertips onto a thin, carved piece of wood. The wood block rested on the wooden board, which was painted with the letters of the Coranian alphabet in bright colors. Rhiannon watched as the block of wood moved over the letters. At last, the block then came to a stop. Anflaeth sighed. “Dreamer,” she muttered. “That’s all it will spell for me. All night. Just Dreamer. Dreamer. Now what does that mean?”
Rhiannon hesitated. If that was all the dyrne-hwata was going to tell her, there was no need to interfere. But best to wait for a while, since she still had some hours before dawn, when Gwydion and Havgan would return to the fortress.
Once again, Anflaeth rested her fingertips on the wood, and the block touched the letters, one by one. “Dreamer,” the valla sighed. “Lord Havgan will kill me for this. I need a name. A name.” She clasped her hands in her lap and bowed her head. “O Wyrd, goddesses of past, present, future. Hear me. O Urth, goddess of what has become, hear me. O Verthad, goddess of becoming, hear me. O Skuld, goddess of what shall be, hear me. I seek a name. Give me a name.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, the block of wood began to move. Anflaeth leaned forward to see the letters. “G—U—I—D—”
Rhiannon whipped out her knife and slid the blade between the two halves of the shutter, flipping the latch. Then she leapt over the sill and into the room, pushing the shutters aside. Like a cat, she landed quietly on her feet, and sprang at the valla, putting her hand over the woman’s mouth to stifle her scream.
Anflaeth struggled at first, but gave up quickly. When her struggles lessened, Rhiannon said softly in her ear. “Scream and you shall die. Remain silent, and you might live. Choose.” Anflaeth stopped struggling. Slowly, Rhiannon took her hand away from Anflaeth’s mouth. The valla gasped for air, but did not scream. Swiftly Rhiannon went to the shutter and closed it again. She noted that the door was barred. Then she returned to Anflaeth, who was just recovering from her shock.
“D—O,” Rhiannon said. “Those were to be the last two letters that would have come up if you had not been so rudely interrupted.”
Anflaeth said nothing. She remained frozen in her chair, staring up at Rhiannon with wide, frightened eyes.
“I am sorry that your prayer was answered, seeress. That was a mistake. But there is no mistake that can’t be mended, don’t you agree?”
Anflaeth nodded, her face brightening. “I have money. Much money. How much do you want?”
“Sorry, Anflaeth. Not interested in that at the moment. Now, here is what you will do. You will not send word to Havgan. If he sends to you, you tell him that the dyrne-hwata is not cooperating with you.”
“I can’t,” Anflaeth gasped. “I can’t. He’ll kill me.”
“Well, so will I, Anflaeth.” She slipped the knife back into her boot top. “Now. You can tell him the name that you have learned, but only after noon has come and gone. That is the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Anflaeth’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, really? I recognize you from when you were in here with Lord Havgan. What is your name?”
“That’s not important right now, Anflaeth. The important thing is to come up with a way for me to let you live. You are one of the Wiccan, I suppose.”
Anflaeth laughed. “Those fools. No. I am not one of them. I am Anflaeth. That is enough. People come to me from all over the Empire,” she said haughtily.
“I can’t imagine why. You barely have a glimmer of fate-telling. And nothing else. What a showman you must be!”
Anflaeth shrugged. “I make money.”
“And live in a dump.”
Anflaeth shrugged again. “Do you know what would happen to one such as I if I lived in a better place? I would be envied for my wealth. Eventually, someone would kill me. They would say I was a witch and burn me. And take my money. It is well for witches to live quietly. If not—they die.”
“Yes, I have seen a lot of that kind of death here. Do you know what Lord Havgan did in Dere for entertainment? He hunted and killed men, women, and children of the Heiden. He rode them down, then sank a blade in their guts. And he laughed when he did it. He thought it the best sport in the world.”
Anflaeth shrugged. “They were fools to be caught. It is nothing to me.”
“He had the wyrd-galdra read for him by two witches, and he killed them both.”
“He did not kill me.”
“They were your people!”
“I have no people. They were fools to be caught.”
Suddenly, Anflaeth grabbed the edges of the painted board and flung it at Rhiannon. As she ducked, the seeress swiftly leapt up from the table and grabbed the knife from Rhiannon’s boot top, slashing upward as she did so. Rhiannon grabbed Anflaeth’s wrist, just before the knife would have plunged into her breast. Rhiannon turned the valla’s wrist so the knife was pointing at Anflaeth’s own heart, then grabbed the back of the woman’s neck and pulled, thrusting her forward, impaling her on the knife. Anflaeth gasped. Her eyes were wide with shock. Slowly, she sank to the floor. Rhiannon sprang back, trying to keep the blood off of her tunic.
“I would have let you live, Anflaeth,” Rhiannon said sadly to the dying woman, “if you had only given me a reason.” She jerked the knife from Anflaeth’s body, wiped it on the valla’s dress, then stuck it back into her boot top. She looked around the room, and her eyes rested thoughtfully on the trunk next to the fireplace. Good enough.
Mandaeg, Sol 2—dawn
RHIANNON HAD JUST finished burning Gwydion’s old tunic when he returned to the fortress. He opened the door to their chambers, a scowl on his face. Carefully, he closed the door and barred it.
“Just what did you think you were doing last night?” he snarled. He glanced at the fireplace. “And what are you burning?”
“Your old tunic. There’s blood on it.”
“Whose blood?” he asked sharply.
“The valla’s.”
Slowly, Gwydion sank down onto one of the chairs, never taking his eyes off her. “The dyrne-hwata? She came up with a name?”
Rhiannon nodded. “She did. Your name. I tried to persuade her to keep it to herself, but she was stubborn.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked quickly.
Rhiannon shrugged. “She was an unpleasant woman, but I didn’t want to kill her just the same. It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”
“It does, but not now. What did you do with her?”
“I put her in a trunk. I locked it and threw the key away on my way back here. Oh, and I took all our things to the ship. When the wedding party forms ou
t on the street, we can slip away. The ship leaves at noon. And we’d best be on it.”
THE GREAT HALL at Byrnwiga was crowded when Gwydion and Rhiannon joined the forming wedding procession. Havgan would be attended by his inner circle of friends and by fifty warriors. Men filled the hall, talking, laughing, and drinking.
Havgan was resplendent in a tunic and trousers of pure white. Gold glittered from his belts, from the cuffs of his doeskin boots, from the hem and neck of his tunic. The shoulder clasps of his red cloak were made of gold in the shape of two boar’s heads. His tawny hair spilled over a golden circlet that bound his brow. The Bana’s sword hung from his golden belt.
Sigerric, Penda, Baldred, Catha, and Talorcan all wore Havgan’s customary red and gold. They, too, had fillets bound about their brows, but the circlets were thinner, less ornate. Sigerric looked a great deal worse for the wear this morning. He was pale and trembled visibly. Talorcan silently handed him a brimming cup of ale. Sigerric took it without a word and drained the entire contents in three swallows.
Gwydion was dressed in a tunic and trousers of dark blue, sapphires glittering from the neck and sleeves. His cloak, fastened with silver clasps, was white. Rhiannon was dressed in a gown of emerald green, cut—as always—embarrassingly low. Her cloak was black, clasped at the shoulders with emerald brooches. Around her unbound hair she wore a band of emeralds stitched into a narrow strip of gold cloth.
Havgan paced impatiently. He was frowning, and did not respond to the jests that his friends were throwing back and forth. Sledda was nowhere in sight.
“The nervous groom,” Catha said, gesturing to the pacing Havgan. “Probably hoping she’ll be gentle with him tonight.”