by Holly Taylor
General Talorcan walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. He stood before Elen, his green eyes shadowed in his too-thin face. Elen rose to face him, her fists clenched. Regan, pale and mute, gazed up at him.
“Queen Elen, the service at the temple begins in one hour,” Talorcan said quietly. “I will escort you there. You will be ready.”
“I will be ready,” Elen said, her voice fierce with hatred, “to enter that abomination and pray to my gods for your deaths.”
Talorcan’s mouth twisted. “One day, Lady, you will have your wish, I am sure.” He glanced down at Regan, then looked away. His eyes traveled indifferently over Gwen’s bowed head, then came to rest on Rhiannon. As he moved to stand in front of her, Regan rose, her eyes pleading.
Slowly Talorcan reached out and took Rhiannon’s chin in his hand, forcing her head up. He stared down at her for a long moment. “Once you sang ‘The Lament’ for my mother. Do you remember?”
“‘Oh, Elmete,’“ Rhiannon recited softly. “‘We remember you. Bright city of our father’s fathers. We remember you.’ Is this what you would have me sing for Kymru, General? Shall I sing another Lament for another country lost to the enemy?”
His grip tightened on her chin, then he withdrew his hand. “No,” he said harshly. “One is enough.” He went to the door and opened it. He turned around and looked at them all again. Elen’s face was pale as death. Regan’s eyes were hopeless. Gwen stared back in defiance, though she could not control the tremor in her hands.
But Rhiannon, knowing what he was, knowing what he had meant, knowing now what he would do, and how he would pay for it, had only pity on her face.
“Talorcan,” Regan said helplessly, softly. “Oh, Talorcan, please.”
“Never mind, Regan,” Rhiannon said. “There will be no change of plans.”
“You know me better than I do myself,” Talorcan said softly. “Maybe you have since the beginning.” He shut the door quietly behind him.
THE REVELRY WAS at its height when Rhiannon at last made her move.
The great hall was hot and noisy, packed to overflowing with drunken Coranian soldiers. Hazy smoke from hundreds of torches, and from the fire roaring in the huge hearth, seemed to make the hall even hotter. The Coranian banner that hung over the high table showed a stylized boar, stitched in the Warleader’s colors of red and gold. It seemed to shimmer in the heat, as though the boar were about to pounce on the celebrants. Rhiannon only wished it would.
From her place in the corner next to the wine barrels, she glanced up at the high table. Elen sat in the center, with Talorcan to her right and Guthlac on her left. Coolly, Elen took another sip of wine from her goblet of silver and pearls. Dressed all in white, her face frozen in an expression of stony indifference, she seemed impervious to the noise and heat.
Talorcan had not said a word throughout the feast. He looked neither at Elen, nor at Regan, who sat on his other side. He did not scan the room for Rhiannon or Gwen. He simply stared at the far wall, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.
Regan, too, had said nothing throughout the meal. She sat pale and mute—which made Rhiannon want to kick her. For the gods’ sake, the least Regan could do was act naturally. Already the Druid, Iago, who sat to Guthlac’s right, was suspicious. He glanced at Regan often, and at Elen even more so. His dark eyes scanned the room continuously. But Rhiannon was careful to keep her back to him as she stood by the barrels. She and Iago had never met, but her description—as well as Gwydion’s—had been sent up and down Kymru for the past two years.
She slowly filled a pitcher with rich Prydyn wine from the barrel, nudging Gwen slightly as she did so.
“It’s time,” she whispered to her daughter. As she passed her hand quickly over the pitcher, she emptied the contents of a small vial into the wine. Swiftly she pressed the bottle into Gwen’s hands. Gwen promptly laid it out of sight behind the barrel.
“Mam, that’s not enough pennyroyal,” she whispered back.
“I told you, we don’t want to kill him. Just put him off balance.”
“Convulsions are not enough for the likes of him. Why not kill him? He’s a wyrce-jaga. You know what they are.”
“Because I don’t want the entire army after us, that’s why. It must look as natural as possible. And remember, do it quickly. Iago’s at that table, and he’s a Druid. He can sense what you do—unless you are quick.”
“I’ll be quick.”
Rhiannon bore the pitcher to the table, heading for Guthlac, who sat to Elen’s left. The wyrce-jaga was a huge man, and his black robe skewed ridiculously over his massive paunch. His scanty brown hair was wispy, and his jowls were greasy from the meal he had eaten. As Rhiannon moved between him and Elen to dispense the wine into his cup, she saw Elen’s hand tighten on the base of her goblet.
Elen, having seen Rhiannon pour the wine and Guthlac begin to drain his cup, turned to the drunken wyrce-jaga with a sneer of disdain on her beautiful face. “Tell me, Guthlac,” she said coldly. “I am curious. How does the Warleader feel about the fact that you can’t capture a single Dewin or Bard, no matter how hard you try?”
Guthlac’s face darkened as he swerved in his chair to face the Queen. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Elen replied, her voice patient, “how does Havgan feel about the fact that you are incompetent? Or is that last word too big for you? Do you need me to explain it to you?”
“Who are you to question me? You are nothing! We keep you alive only for our own amusement. And, believe me, that will soon pass. The moment General Talorcan gives me leave to do to you what you deserve—”
Elen’s lips curved in derision. “You would not dare touch me, wyrce-jaga. One old fat man cannot frighten me.”
“Why, you—” Guthlac slammed down his almost empty goblet and heaved himself to his feet. The pearl ring he wore on his greasy hand shone in the light of the torches as he swung his hand toward Elen’s upturned face.
Iago, who had been closely listening, leapt to his feet, interposing himself between Elen and the enraged Guthlac. It was then that Guthlac’s convulsions began. With a cry, his body jerked, his hand flying out. And as his right hand jerked, the ring flew off, as though impelled by the force of his convulsions, arching through the air and across the table, to land with a splash in the nearly empty jug of wine Gwen held in her hands. Yet no one seemed to notice, their attention held by the wyrce-jaga’s now helpless movements—and, more importantly, by Elen’s calculated scream.
Iago caught at Guthlac’s flailing hands, forcing the man to the floor. “Regan!” he cried. Regan hurried over to him, kneeling on the floor. “What’s wrong with him?” the Druid panted. “He’s convulsing.”
“Too much wine,” Regan said crisply. “He’s wearing out his body with his appetites. It will pass.”
Slowly Talorcan stood, staring at Guthlac’s now-bare ring finger. Yet the General did not move. Nor did he seem to mark that Rhiannon had now joined Gwen, surreptitiously reaching into the pitcher.
The men in the hall were now on their feet, straining to see what was happening to Guthlac. The wyrce-jaga continued to flail as Iago snatched up a part of his robe to put between the convulsing man’s lips.
“Where’s the ring?” Iago cried.
“Why worry about that now?” Regan asked sharply, trying to help Iago still Guthlac’s flailing limbs. “No doubt it flew off. We’ll find it in a minute.”
Iago, his suspicions already alerted, leapt to his feet. His eyes scanned the crowd. As ill luck would have it, he looked Rhiannon full in the face as she turned at the door to be sure Gwen was behind her before slipping out into the night.
Their eyes met—cool green to fiery black—and Iago shouted, pointing to Rhiannon and Gwen. “Don’t let them get away!”
One of the soldiers, less drunk than most, reached out and grabbed Gwen’s skirt. Rhiannon snatched up a nearby platter and brought it down on the man’s head. His eyes rolled up as he fell. Another
soldier lashed out with his fist, catching Rhiannon with a glancing blow on her temple. She staggered, her hand going to her head. She could feel blood streaming down her face. She tried to regain her balance as Gwen grabbed her arm and dragged her through the doors and down the steps of the hall.
The doors of the hall slammed behind them, impelled by the force of Gwen’s Shape-Moving. “Hurry,” Gwen panted, “I can’t hold them very long.”
Stumbling, partially supported by Gwen, they made for the still-opened doors of the fortress, when the sound of the alarm made her heart sink. The gates began to close. Behind them, soldiers spilled through the doors of the hall as Gwen’s power weakened. She looked around wildly, trying to make out the buildings in the darkness. Where to go? How to get out of there? They turned, now making for Elen’s ystafell.
A hand shot out of the darkness, closing on her wrist with bruising force, bringing her up sharply.
“This way,” Talorcan said. “Hurry.”
“Mam, no! It’s a trap!”
“You have no choice but to trust me if you want to get out of here alive,” Talorcan said grimly. “It’s up to you.”
Rhiannon’s eyes flickered back to the hall. Soldiers with torches leapt into the courtyard. Any moment now they would be seen. She turned to Talorcan and nodded. “Get us out of here.”
Without another word he spun around, herding them into the ystafell and shutting the door behind them. The room was dark, and Talorcan lit no candles. He rustled behind the canopied throne that stood against the east wall. They heard a click, and the throne swung outward, revealing a trapdoor beneath.
“How did you know—” Rhiannon began.
“Any good soldier thoroughly investigates the enemy.”
“Why haven’t Elen and Regan used this to flee?”
“There is a lock at the door on the other end. I put it there, and only I have the key. Come on.” He dropped down through the door, helping Gwen and Rhiannon to descend. Then he pulled the trapdoor shut and pushed some kind of lever. They heard a scraping above, as the wooden throne returned to its previous position.
“Put your hand on my shoulder, Rhiannon. And you—” he turned to Gwen, “whoever you are, put your hand on her shoulder. We can’t risk a light.”
They did as they were told, following Talorcan into the darkness. It seemed to go on forever. Rhiannon, through her dizziness, was acutely aware of Gwen’s trembling hand on her shoulder. Gwen did not like dark, underground places.
They were slowing now. At last Talorcan halted. He stood silently for a moment, then nodded, as though satisfied. The sound of a key fitting into a lock, another click, and above them, the barest glimmer of starlight could be seen. Talorcan leapt up, grasping either side of the trapdoor, pulling himself out. He reached down, searching for Rhiannon’s hand. His hand was cold and much too thin, but strong. He pulled her out, and she saw they were on the edge of the forest just outside the town walls. She crouched down beside him on her knees, cradling her head in her hands. So dizzy. And so much blood. She could feel it, sticky and wet on her face.
Talorcan pulled Gwen out of the tunnel, then spun on his knees to face them. In the faint starlight, his face was no more than a shadow.
“I called Gwydion,” he said quietly. “I think he heard me. He should be here soon.”
“Talorcan,” Rhiannon began, “how can I, how can we—”
“Don’t thank me,” he said coldly. “That is the last thing I want to hear. Or don’t you understand what I have become?”
“I know what you have become. You have become what you were meant to be from the beginning. You are one of us.”
From far off, drifting over the night sky, the faint sound of a hunting horn could be heard. A tinkling of silver bells, the barest hint of a hoofbeat, and the sounds were gone, the night still again.
“The Wild Hunt,” Rhiannon said softly. “It’s Calan Llachar. Of course, they would come.”
“Farewell, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, and farewell to your companion. I must go. Tell Gwydion ap Awst that, if I should see him again, I will kill him, as is my duty.”
“I understand,” Rhiannon said.
“Do you?”
“Yes. Keep Elen and Regan safe, against the day when they will be free again. And the day when you, too, will be free.”
“That day will be never. I am a fool, but not such a fool as to believe I could ever be free.” He melted away in the shadows, without even waiting for her answer.
And then she felt strong, warm hands, cradling her head, a soft cloth mopping her face, the sound of his voice, whispering that she would be all right. And she knew that was true, for Gwydion had come.
Chapter 15
Llyn Wiber
Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru
Celynnen Mis, 499
Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—late morning
Gwydion observed Rhiannon closely out of the corner of his eye as she sat next to him on the wagon box. By now she was fully recovered from the blow to the head she had received in Dinmael thirteen days ago, but Gwydion continued to be anxious.
Not anxious, really—enraged would be more like it.
He was enraged because someone had dared to harm her, enraged because she had come so close to being captured and the thought of that still twisted his heart with cold, harsh fear. He was enraged because she had been determined to take such a terrible chance and he had not known how to stop her—indeed, he had known from the beginning that he could not. And that powerlessness alone was enough to infuriate him.
“You’re doing it again, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said crisply. “And I feel fine. Or did you just want to yell at me some more? You haven’t done that yet today, so you’re long overdue.”
He looked away from her without replying and glanced over at Gwen and Arthur, who rode their horses on either side of the wagon. Sometimes he thought he saw something in their eyes that told him they knew exactly why he was so angry. But, if so, neither one of them had said a word about it. Gwen had continued to treat her mother as if Rhiannon didn’t exist. And Arthur continued to treat Gwydion as less than the dirt beneath his feet.
The wagon creaked as they made their way to the lake of Llyn Wiber in northern Ederynion. They had been drawn here by the power and the pull from the pearl ring Rhiannon wore. She had guided them here all the way from Dinmael, from the moment she had put on Elen’s ring and it had begun to glow. North, she had said then, the blood still dripping down her face. North. The Stone was there.
So in the last two weeks, north was where they had gone. Just a few days ago they had passed into the cantref of Dinan, into the commote of Mawddwy. And there they had again reviewed the clues from the song.
“Under the gravestone
In the land of glass
The serpent líes coiled.
Beneath the water líes the seeker.”
“The serpent lies coiled,” Gwydion had mused, “beneath the water.”
“I know where it is. And you do, too,” Rhiannon had answered. “Isn’t Llyn Wiber, Lake of the Serpent, just a day away? ‘Under the gravestone,’ the song says. In the center of the lake is the cairn of Carreg Fedd, the Gravestone. It’s there. The Stone is there.”
He felt her shiver slightly as the lake came into view. Overhead the sky was a clear, cool blue. The forest, which gave way at the water’s edge, stood silent guard over the lake. The water had an emerald cast to it, as though the serpent still slept beneath.
Gravestone, indeed. It would not be Rhiannon’s, he vowed silently. And he knew that he would willingly leave the Stone in this lake rather than see her harmed. He wondered at himself, because he knew that was the truth.
Slightly ahead of them, he saw Gwen and Arthur on their horses, cantering up to the water’s edge. The horses dipped their heads and drank noisily. Gwydion halted the wagon, set the brake, and climbed down. Rhiannon stayed where she was, absently fingering the ring she wore.
“Hold,” a powerful voice boomed from
the trees.
At these words thirty men and women melted from the forest to surround their tiny band. Arthur and Gwen leapt from their horses, their hands flying to loosen their weapons. Rhiannon sat unmoving on the wagon box, calmly eyeing the newcomers.
The man who had spoken stepped from the trees and came to stand before Gwydion, his sword drawn and his face grim. The man was huge, his powerful shoulders straining against the brown leather of his tunic. His hair was iron gray, and his blue eyes were bright in his tanned face. Two women closely flanked him. One had fierce dark eyes and her dark hair was braided and wound around her head. The other had light brown hair and cool gray eyes. Both had arrows nocked and ready as they watched Arthur and Gwen narrowly.
“Have the cubs put up their weapons,” the huge man said, gesturing to Arthur and Gwen, who had both pulled short spears from their packs.
“Arthur, Gwen,” Gwydion said from beside the wagon. “Put your spears down.”
“But, Gwydion,” Gwen began in protest. The woman with the dark hair shifted slightly so she was aiming directly at Gwen.
“Do as I say,” Gwydion said calmly. He turned to the huge man. “Well-met, Drwys Iron-Fist.”
The huge man smiled as he put up his sword. “Well-met, Gwydion ap Awst, Dreamer of Kymru. The Cerddorian of Penbeullt are here, as you have Wind-Spoken for us to be. How may we serve you?”
“You might help me down,” Rhiannon said, as she extended her hand to the huge man. “And then introductions are probably in order.”
“Ah, you are Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, and every bit as beautiful as I have heard.”
Gwen and Arthur put up their weapons and came to stand beside Gwydion as Drwys helped Rhiannon down from the wagon.