by Holly Taylor
Though the words might have been insulting, the tone was not. And Angharad was not a fool, so she took it for the compliment it was. But before she could reply, her sharp eyes spotted a cloud of dust just rising from the road in the far distance.
“Someone’s coming to Sycharth,” she said.
“Not unusual. It is a fairly large city.”
No, it wasn’t unusual. So why did she feel so tense? “I think we had better—”
“Too late,” Talhearn said calmly, slinging his peddler’s pack onto his back and assuming an old man’s stoop. “They’ve seen us. They’re too far away to fully identify us, but if we run off the road, they will think something is wrong.”
Angharad hefted the basket onto her left arm, her right hand holding on to the cover. “Don’t forget what we agreed on at the beginning of this venture,” she said to Talhearn as he began to shuffle forward. “If anything starts to go wrong, you run. As far and as fast as you can. Remember.”
“I remember,” he said.
Something in his tone left Angharad feeling uncertain that he would obey those orders. Oh, well, maybe they wouldn’t have to fight. Their disguise was good and had gotten them through many leagues already. No reason why—
The man who rode toward them sat stiffly in his saddle, his back erect, his head of black hair bared to the midmorning sun. His brown robes with green trim fluttered around him. And when his black eyes saw them, Angharad’s heart skipped a beat. Twenty Coranian warriors fanned out behind the man. Their metal byrnies flashed in the sun. Their shields were red and gold, with the boar’s head stamped on the center.
And the man who was now bearing down on them was surely the last man she ever wished to see—unless, of course, she had a dagger in her hand. And she did, beneath the lid of the basket. It might be worth it to—
“No, Angharad,” Talhearn said quietly, lightly touching her arm. “There are too many of them for that. Best we run, I think.”
But before they could so much as turn, Talhearn cried out softly, and Angharad’s head almost split with the Shout that sounded in her mind.
Esyllt, Talhearn, Susanna, Cian! Turn back now! The enemy comes!
And then the enemy was upon them. She could have cursed the Master Bard and his timing, but she knew it wouldn’t really have mattered. It had already been too late, even before the Shout.
The man who led the group of warriors reined in his horse, looking down at them with mad, gleeful eyes. She returned his gaze squarely, holding a weakened and disoriented Talhearn so he wouldn’t fall to the ground.
Then Talhearn raised his head, and his eyes slowly focused on the man who stared down at them.
Angharad would always remember that their fate changed the moment when the man met Talhearn’s eyes. Perhaps it was the compassion and the wisdom in the Bard’s eyes. Perhaps it was the remembrance of all the years they had known each other. Perhaps it was the shared love for a certain auburn-haired captive Queen. Whatever it was, it changed everything.
“What’s the problem, Druid?” one of the warriors asked of the man, gesturing at Angharad and Talhearn. “Thinking of buying something?” The men laughed, but the Druid’s gaze did not waver.
“Your father looks ill,” the Druid said softly, ignoring the warrior’s taunt. “A hard life for you both, on the road.”
“Better than no life at all,” Angharad said sharply, then silently cursed herself for being so abrupt.
But Iago merely smiled sadly. “Yes, so it is.”
And then he rode on, followed by the warriors. He did not look back.
Tegeingl, Kingdom of Gwynedd
BEDWYR STOOD SILENTLY just inside the door of the dye shed, looking out at the compound. The door was open only a crack, but it was enough for him to keep an eye on the wool workers as they went about their tasks.
The large hall where the prized wool of Gwynedd was dyed was warm from the heat of the fires that were laid beneath each huge vat. The dyes boiled and bubbled as the workers thrust at the floating wool with long-handled poles.
Bedwyr glanced back over his shoulder. The room was smoky, and he could barely make out the red-gold of Susanna’s hair from where she sat in the far corner, surrounded by children and their anxious parents.
Silently, Bedwyr breathed a prayer to Cerrunnos and Cerridwen, the Protectors. He was a fine warrior, and he knew it. But he had never liked the idea of coming so close to Tegeingl. Both he and Susanna had lived here for many years and had been recognized instantly, in spite of their disguises. They had expected that, of course. And they had taken all proper precautions before coming here, to the wool works outside the city.
The compound was busy—busier than normal, for Bedwyr had asked for a certain amount of distracting movements, just in case any Coranians took it into their heads to come here. Men and women were sorting and washing the raw wool, beating it thoroughly in tubs of water. Wool hung on poles to dry until ready to be combed and oiled. Finished wool was being spun into thread with distaffs.
The door to the spinning shed across the compound was open, and a great many people were assisting the warpers as they arranged the threads into strands and cut them. The spoolers wound the thread into bobbins to use on the huge shuttles. The looms were clacking furiously, each one worked by two men. All eight looms were busy.
Huge water-filled troughs were laid out in the center of the compound. The wool cloth was dumped into the troughs and tread on to thicken it. Then the cloth was hooked onto frames and stretched out to dry.
All of this was being done with a great deal of noise and bustle. Good enough, Bedwyr thought, satisfied. Once again, he scanned the compound. Lots of noise, lots of movement. Perfect. And that was when it all started to go wrong.
A mighty Shout echoed through his head, fit to split it in two.
Esyllt, Talhearn, Susanna, Cian! Turn back now! The enemy comes!
He whirled around, speeding through the stunned wool workers to reach her. Some of the children began to cry. The faces of their parents were white and shocked. Susanna was slumped on the stool, but she had not fainted. Bedwyr knelt down next to her, lifting her up.
“Was that—?”
She nodded weakly. “The Master Bard. There is danger.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
“I haven’t finished,” she protested.
“Oh, yes, you have.” Without bothering to continue the argument, he wrapped her cloak around her and pulled her behind him out the door. Just then, one of the women ran up, out of breath. “Madoc! He’s on his way here, with his daughter. You must go!”
Bedwyr whirled around to head out of the compound, but the glint of sun on steel at the gate stopped him.
“General Catha’s warriors,” the woman panted. “Catha won’t let Madoc go anywhere without them.”
“Not much of a warning,” Bedwyr said, exasperated.
“It was too fast. No one expected him to come here. He never does.”
Swiftly, Bedwyr set Susanna on her feet, whipped off her cloak, and snatched off the cloth tied around his neck, wrapping it over Susanna’s bright hair. “Get your shoes off,” he hissed, slipping off his boots. “Hurry.”
Susanna kicked off her shoes and kilted her skirt, baring her legs. They leapt into one of the troughs and began to tread on the wool cloth.
Slowly kneading the cloth, Bedwyr bent his head, turning his face away from the sight of Madoc and a young girl coming through the gate. But not turning away fast enough to prevent him from getting a good look at Madoc’s daughter.
Tangwen was beautiful. Her red-gold hair swung down past her slender hips. She had wide-spaced blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes. Her skin was fair and smooth, but she was too pale. There was a kind of listlessness in her movements that tugged at his heart. Her gown was pale blue, embroidered with silver thread and tiny sapphires.
He caught only a glimpse of Madoc; his face set in a scowl, dressed in his usual elaborate finery—cloth
of silver, with a silver circlet on his golden head.
“Tangwen looks very sad, doesn’t she?” Susanna murmured.
“Don’t look!” he hissed. But he stole another glance and found himself agreeing with her. Tangwen did look sad. Well, who could blame her with a father like that?
Susanna poked him surreptitiously in the ribs. “Don’t look,” she mocked, using the tone he had used earlier.
Madoc strode arrogantly through the compound as the Master Weaver rushed up to greet him. Personally, Bedwyr thought the man was overdoing the obsequiousness a little bit, stopping just short of parody. But Madoc didn’t seem to notice. He cut the man’s effusive welcome short.
“I have just come from the marketplace and have failed to find the cloth I want. I need a perfect shade of ivory. It is to set off some new pearls I have bought. You will make the shade I want and have the cloth delivered to me by tonight.”
“Tonight!” the Master Weaver repeated, aghast. “But, my King, that is not possible.”
“It is possible. And you will do it, or I will see you hanged.”
“My Lord, allow me to say that ivory is not your best color—”
“It is not for me, fool!”
“Ah. Well, your daughter will look charming in a pale rose I have just finished—”
“It’s not for her, either! It is for Arday.”
“But, you see, General Catha has commissioned a cloth from me in just that shade already for her.”
From the busy crowd, there was a wave of mocking laughter. Madoc flushed. “Then you will give it to me.”
The Master Weaver hesitated just long enough to stop shy of insult. “Certainly.”
Bedwyr risked another glance, though he knew he shouldn’t—he was far too close to laughter. But what he saw sobered him instantly. The sight of Tangwen and her white face, pinched with misery and shame, was almost too much for him.
And then she turned her head and looked him full in the face. And he did not—he could not—turn away. Her eyes widened as she saw him, and then she looked straight at Susanna. Her jaw dropped open, and Bedwyr got ready to run. But Tangwen shut her mouth with a snap and looked away.
The Master Weaver had gone to find the cloth, and Madoc stood impatiently tapping his foot. His eyes began to wander around the compound, and the men and women there suddenly found themselves very busy.
Bedwyr bent his head again, solemnly treading the wet cloth. Beside him Susanna did the same. Her voice barely audible, she whispered, “She recognized me.”
“Yes, but she turned away.”
“She was always a good girl. Too good for a da like that.”
“Do you think she’ll—”
“Not a chance. We’re safe from her.”
But not from Madoc, for he had begun to pace with impatience. And he was coming far too close to the trough where they stood. Idly, Madoc scanned the crowd. His gaze skipped right over them. But then he stiffened. He looked again. He took one step toward the trough for a closer look.
But one step was all he took.
He fell facedown in the dirt, tripped by his own daughter. She flung herself down next to him, apologizing for her clumsiness. But just as she helped him up, she stumbled again, and they both went down. Bedwyr only saw her next move clearly because he was watching for it. And sure enough, her elbow managed to hit Madoc right on the nose. Very, very hard.
“Oh, Da!” she cried. “You’re bleeding. Here, tilt your head back.” Ruthlessly, she tilted his head, and he began to choke. “Oh, dear,” she said. She grabbed a water bucket and threw the water in his face. “Is that better?”
Madoc sputtered, blowing water from his mouth. He wiped his streaming eyes, and stared at the trough where Bedwyr and Susanna had been.
But they were no longer there. Obedient to the slight motion of Tangwen’s hand when she had grabbed the bucket, they had quit the trough, and now mingled in the center of the crowd that had stopped to gape at Madoc as he sat in the dirt, his fine clothes water-soaked, blood streaming down his chin.
“You there,” Tangwen said haughtily to one of the grinning Coranian warriors. “Take the King back to Caer Gwynt. I’ll stay here, Da, and get the cloth for you. If you touched it now, it would be ruined. Go on.”
Disoriented, Madoc rose to his feet, assisted by one of the warriors. He stumbled out of the compound without another word, shocked by the shambles his daughter had made of his dignity.
Half of the warriors remained with her as she waited for the Master Weaver to return with the cloth. And so Bedwyr never had a chance to speak to her that day. But he caught her eye as she turned to go, the cloth clutched tightly in her hands. She did not smile, but the light that sprang into her eyes as she saw him once more was blinding. He hoped she saw the same light in his own eyes. For he knew it was there.
Cil, Kingdom of Prydyn
THE DAY HAD begun badly, Achren mused, and was on its way to worse. Any day that included the sight of Ellywen was sure to be a bad day.
Restlessly she paced the forest floor, continually circling the perimeter of the clearing where Cian was testing. Twenty men, women and children filled the clearing, silently waiting to hear Cian’s verdict for each child. They knew the danger—both she and Cian had explained that to continue with the Plentyn Prawf now would be even more perilous than usual. But they had come anyway. Not that Achren was surprised, for she knew her people. Brave, stubborn, they never gave up.
She wished Cian would hurry up. All her senses hummed that disaster was imminent. But she had not been able to persuade Cian to turn back to Haford Bryn.
The sight of Ellywen, Rhoram’s one-time Druid, in the village of Cil that morning had shocked her. And had enraged her, too. Just looking at Ellywen—cool and collected, escorted by twenty Coranian warriors armed to the teeth, with her fair hair and her icy gray eyes, her haughty bearing—had made Achren want to put a knife straight through the Druid’s black heart. She had not forgotten—and she never would—that the Druid had once done her best to kill Rhoram in the First Battle of Arberth. And though Cian had been sure they had not been seen, Achren was not so positive. But Cian had insisted he be allowed to carry on with the testing, and Achren had acquiesced. How she now wished that she had not.
For something was coming. Something was—
Esyllt, Talhearn, Susanna, Cian! Turn back now! The enemy comes!
The Shout that echoed through her mind made her dizzy, and she clutched at a tree for support. In that moment she heard something else. She froze, trying to identify the source of the sound. And then she knew. She whirled back to the clearing.
“Get out now! They’re coming.” She spoke in a low tone—no need to give the Coranians exact directions. She grabbed Cian’s arm and hauled him to his feet.
But Cian wrenched his arm from her grasp. His eyes were narrowed in pain from the aftermath of the Shout. “Lead them out of here, Achren,” he gasped, gesturing to the families. “If the Coranians capture them—”
“It’s you they want!” she snarled.
“I can take care of myself. The children can’t.”
Cian was right, and she knew it. She would have to be sure the people got safely out of here and back to their homes. “What about you?”
“I’ll go west and circle back. Meet you on the road, just north of Cil. Achren,” he went on as she hesitated, “please. You must get them back.”
She nodded. “Go!” Cian left, slipping through the trees. “Everyone carries a child,” she said to the men and women. “Follow me. No talking.”
The group was silent. Even the children did not make a sound. Already they had learned. They were too young to have learned that. But they had.
Her keen ears tracked the progress of the warriors, leaving them far behind, as she guided her people through the forest without incident. When they reached the outskirts of the village at the edge of the forest, she motioned for them to stay where they were. She scanned the streets carefully, then g
ave the signal for them to break from the woods. In groups of twos and threes, they walked quickly and quietly back to their homes.
Still there were no threatening movements from the village. The warriors must all be in the forest. And Ellywen must be with them.
A muffled shout from far behind her made her heart sink. No, oh, no. She whirled around, running back into the forest, moving swiftly and silently, tracking the source of that shout. Sounds of struggle, then a cry of triumph reached her ears. They were coming this way, and she melted back into the foliage, eyeing the path, hoping against hope that she would not see what she expected.
Twenty warriors, their shields at the ready, their battle-axes drawn, came down the path. And in the midst of the knot of men, Cian stumbled. His head was bleeding, and his arm was bent at an unnatural angle. His face was ashen, and his eyes were trained on the small silver box that one warrior held in his hands. The testing device. They had captured it.
Just behind them, she saw Ellywen, her face frozen, a peculiar look in her cold, gray eyes. Strange, Achren would have expected signs of triumph. The Druid had certainly caught her quarry.
Achren followed them through the trees. She had to know where they were taking Cian. Maybe, somehow, she could rescue him. Or, if nothing else, she could kill him. He would want that, she knew. More important, maybe she could retrieve the testing device. The thought of it in their hands—
The warriors were leaving the forest, their captive in their midst. But Ellywen halted, motioning for the warriors to go on. “I must have a few moments by myself,” she said, her voice cold as always. “Get my horse, and one for the Bard. He cannot walk.” One warrior opened his mouth to protest, but shut it when she looked at him. The warriors marched away, dragging Cian with them.
Left alone on the fringes of the forest, Ellywen turned and called softly. “Achren ur Canhustyr, I know you can hear me.”
Achren did not answer. Ellywen surely had not expected her to. Slowly, Achren drew her knife, cocked her arm back, and prepared to throw.
“Before you attempt to kill me, let me remind you that as a Druid I am a Shape-Mover. I can prevent the knife I am sure you have in your hand from reaching me. You know I can do this.”