by Holly Taylor
“I—I’m sorry, Enid. We can’t,” Trystan said, his voice breaking.
“Can’t?” Enid stepped away, searching their faces wildly. She spun for the door, but Rhiannon and Gwen were in her way. “What are you doing here if not to come for me? Why won’t you help me? Why?”
“We did not come here for you because there is nothing we can do for you,” Gwydion said. Only the tautness of his shoulders betrayed how hard those cold words were for him to say. “We have come for the ring.”
“The ring?”
“The ring you stole from your brother, its rightful owner.”
“I didn’t steal it!” Enid flared. “I—I borrowed it.”
“Then the time has come for you to return it. For we have need of it. The land wakes to fight for freedom. The Protectors are come back to us. The Treasures must be found. Even now we have one in our possession. And the Treasures will be used to make a High King, one who will drive the enemy from this land. And to find the next Treasure, we need the ring.”
“You can’t have it!” Enid cried. “Not without taking me with you. That is my price!”
“Your price?” Gwydion hissed, stepping closer to her. Enid looked around, but the rest of them only stared at her, appalled at what she was saying.
“Your price?” Gwydion asked again, his voice cold and deadly. “How dare you talk to us of price. For all of us have paid—and will continue to pay—in heart’s blood for what has been done, for what will be done. We have lost those we have loved. We have lost our country, our freedom, our way of life. And you—you who placed yourself in your own prison—demand help. You who have caused suffering to your brothers, to Sabrina and Trystan because they could not save you, to Prince Geriant who loved you, to the Cerddorian who had to flee for their lives from Coed Addien when you betrayed their hiding place—you set a price. You sicken me. We stand at the brink of destruction, and all you can think of is to be rescued from what you have done to yourself.”
“Get me out of here!” Enid screamed. “Get me away from Morcant. Away from Bledri and the things that they do to me! Get me out and you will have your ring!”
“Enid ur Urien var Ellirri, I know you have listened to your brother speak of your father’s last message to him. And so I say this to you now, in the words foretold by Bran the Dreamer, the words passed down from ruler to ruler, ‘The High King commands you to surrender Bran’s gift.’ Know that I am the Dreamer who was born to give you this command. Know that to ignore this command is to betray Kymru herself.”
The chamber was silent as Enid and Gwydion faced each other. The color drained from Enid’s face at Gwydion’s words. At last her eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her head. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”
Trystan stepped forward and again took Enid in his arms. She clung to him and her tears fell, but she was silent. At last she raised her head and turned to face Gwydion. “I do not have the ring. I gave it to Morcant in the ceremony today. But I can get it for you. When he takes me tonight, he will be thinking of nothing but my humiliation and of inflicting pain. I can get it for you then, for he wears it on his finger.”
Gwen choked back a sob at Enid’s words. Enid turned to Gwen. “Give your brother a message from me. Please.”
Gwen nodded but could not speak.
“Tell Geriant that I wish with all my heart that I had known what I had in him. Tell him that I wish he were the man I married today. I would have spent the rest of my life with him and been content. But that will never be now.”
“Enid,” Gwen wept. “If we win Kymru back, Geriant can be yours. He will never suffer Morcant to live.”
“No,” Enid said quietly. “It is too late for that. The woman he would find then would be very different from the girl he loved. They do things to me here that change me. Tell him I am sorry. Tell him that, in the end, I paid for my foolishness, paid full price, as the Dreamer would say.”
Enid turned away from Gwen and went to stand before Gwydion. Rhiannon was not surprised to see the torment in Gwydion’s eyes as the girl looked up at him, her face set. “Dreamer, I will do as you ask. Stand beneath the window of the bedchamber in the Queen’s ystafell in an hour’s time. Then will I give back what I have stolen.
“Trystan,” she went on, turning to her brother’s Captain, “there is only one more thing you can do, if you will. I ask you to do all you can to release a captive from Caer Erias.”
“Enid, I can’t—”
“No, not me,” Enid smiled faintly. “I know that. But there is someone else here who has suffered longer than I have. March Y Meirchion, my father’s huntsman, Esyllt’s husband, is here.
Trystan paled and swallowed hard. “You ask this of me? To rescue the man whose wife I have loved for so many years?”
“He does not deserve to be imprisoned here. No matter what you feel for his wife.”
“A great gift you give me, Enid,” Trystan said, his face working. “A great gift. The chance to save him and return him to his wife, the chance to make up to him, in some small measure, for the pain I have caused him.”
“The pain Esyllt has caused him, too. For would she not be happy to have him back again?” Enid grinned wickedly.
“What a lovely gift for Esyllt,” Dudod grinned back. “Come, Trystan,” he said, slapping his friend on the back, “let us take this man back to his loving wife.”
“How did you know, Enid, that I would give my soul to do this?” Trystan asked.
“The look in your eyes. You are changed. March is held in the cellars beneath the kitchen. It will not be easy.”
“Don’t be foolish, girl,” Dudod said smoothly. “There is no kitchen in the world that doesn’t have a wine barrel I can’t take with me.”
“I STILL SAY it’s foolish,” Gwydion whispered to Rhiannon for what seemed like the hundredth time as they waited, crouched down next to the walls of the ystafell hidden from casual sight by the barrels stacked there.
Rhiannon sighed. “Yes, I know you do. You have said so, over and over. But this is something Trystan must do. And what better man to help him than Dudod?”
“Once we get back to Menestyr’s stall and join Gwen and Arthur there, we will not wait one minute past midnight for them,” Gwydion threatened. “They are on their own.”
“There is no need to wait for them at all, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said serenely. “They won’t be coming with us on our journey. They will be returning to Coed Coch.”
Gwydion muttered something under his breath.
“What did you say?” she asked sweetly, turning to him.
He did not reply, but searched her face for a moment. “Rhiannon,” he began. “About that day by the lake. I’m sorry. I—”
“Best not to talk about it, Dreamer. Let’s just say you were overcome at the joy of seeing the Stone. After all, think of the years you dreamed of it. You would, of course, be momentarily grateful to anyone who had retrieved it for you. I understand.”
And she did. She knew Gwydion ap Awst through and through. He cared nothing for her, and never had. It had been the Stone, the fact that she had done his bidding like the puppet she was, that had almost made him kiss her in gratitude.
“You don’t understand,” Gwydion whispered harshly. “You—”
“Hush,” she breathed, putting her hand on his arm to silence him, nodding to the upper window. Gwydion’s eyes followed her gaze. The curtains that hung over the window rustled slightly. A thin, white hand pushed the window open. For a moment they saw her. Her hair was disheveled. Her robe, open at the neck, revealed red welts on her chest. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, and her mouth was torn and bleeding.
But she smiled as she tossed the ring down to them as it turned end over end, the opals flashing fire under the pale light of the stars.
Chapter 17
Coed Sarrug
Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru
Draenenwen Mis, 499
Meriwdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—early
afternoon
South,” Gwydion had said when he put on the opal ring. “South.” So they had gone south, traveling Sarn Halen, the great north/south road that bisected Rheged.
Rhiannon remembered, from the time she had worn the pearl ring of Nantsovelta, the pull she had felt, the relentless pull toward the place where the Treasure was hidden, the pull that never lessened until the Treasure had been found. So she was not surprised that Gwydion did not sleep well during the ten days of their journey. And not surprised when he was restless and uncommunicative. It had been the same for her.
And there was another similarity—the fear. She had been afraid of what she had known was coming as they neared the Stone. And she knew Gwydion’s fear.
It was something she had never taunted him with. She could—and did—taunt him with the things that everyone already knew about him. That he was cold, that he cared nothing for others, that he used people. But she had never shown that she knew his secret fear. She had never said to anyone that the great Dreamer, that cold, impervious man, feared Mabon’s Fire.
He would have been appalled that she had known the truth. But she had known it for years. Hadn’t she traveled with him more leagues than could be counted? And every night he had Fire-Started their campfire using different ways to shape the blaze—blossoming roses and roaring lions, jeweled necklaces dripping with flames, swords that slashed through the air trailing fire. No one put on such a display of mastery except for one reason—because they were secretly afraid. This she had understood a long, long time ago, but had kept that knowledge to herself. Strange that she could hate him, but she would not humiliate him.
They had left Llwynarth ten nights ago, soon after returning to Menestyr’s stall. Only a few moments after they had arrived there, Dudod and Trystan had returned with a wine barrel and had hauled March Y Meirchion out of it. Poor March had been almost nothing but skin and bones after two years of captivity.
March had said little as they helped clean his scars and filthy body. He merely kept staring up at Trystan in disbelief. As well he might, for Trystan had cuckolded March for years. Rhiannon smiled, visualizing Esyllt’s horror when they brought her husband back to her.
Trystan, Dudod, and March had also left Llwynarth that night. They would make their way back to Coed Coch in easy stages, giving March time to recover his strength.
“By the time you reach Coed Coch,” Gwydion had said, “I hope we will be right behind you.”
“How long for you to recover the Spear?” Trystan had asked.
Gwydion shook his head. “No telling. But we are in a hurry, and so I hope it will not be long. The ring tells me that we go south. But I don’t know how far we must go.”
“Take the location of Owein’s main camp from me,” Dudod had said.
“I’m not sure Owein would like that.”
“I am quite sure he would not. But take it just the same. You will need it.”
“Rhiannon,” Gwydion had said, eyeing Dudod. “Take it from your uncle.”
“You think I would take this opportunity to take things from you when your guard is down, Dreamer?” Dudod had asked, his voice hard.
“Dudod, you can take anything you want from anyone, any time you want. Did you think I didn’t know that? But I thought it might be easier for you to be read by your niece.”
Dudod had looked Gwydion up and down. “Kindness ill becomes you, Dreamer.”
“So it does,” he had agreed mildly. “Rhiannon?”
And so she had been the one to place her hands on her uncle’s head. She had been the one to read the forest of Coed Coch, to learn the signposts, the location of Owein’s main camp.
“Be sure that Owein himself is there when we come,” Gwydion had said when it was done. “And also be sure that Elidyr and Elstar are there. I must speak to them about the network of Y Dawnus.”
“Yes, O Great One,” Dudod had replied, grinning. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Find yourself a nice, warm widow. You deserve it for your work today.”
“Your wish is my command, Dreamer.”
“Good. At least someone thinks so,” Gwydion had said, with a withering look at Rhiannon.
March had asked only one question as they had cleaned his wounds and fed him, trying to help him gain some strength for his journey. “Why?” he had whispered to Trystan. “Why?”
And Trystan had laid down the cloth and looked down at March. “Because I owe it to you. And you know that.”
“You owe me nothing. You never took anything from me that I really had.”
“She liked it the way it was—having both of us.”
“And now she has only me?”
“Yes,” Trystan had said evenly. “Only you.”
March smiled faintly. “She won’t like that.”
“Then find another who will.”
“I just might do that, my friend. I just might.”
Rhiannon smiled as she remembered the conversation. Then the wagon slowed, and she looked up. “What’s ahead?” she asked.
Gwydion nodded toward the town of Margam, which was half a league away. “We will leave the road soon, after we pass through the town.”
“Which way?”
“Northeast.”
She mused on the verse from the song of the Caers. “Within the dark forest / In the land of honey / The hill of oak stands.”
“Yes. I think we go to Bryn Duir, the hill of the oak.”
Standing within Coed Sarrug, the Grim Forest, the hill was bare of trees but one—a storm-blasted oak that had stood there for years beyond counting. Often struck by lightning in storms, the oak was never fully destroyed. She glanced up at the sky, where storm clouds threatened. Poor Gwydion—lightning meant fire. And they both knew it.
“Yes,” Gwydion said to her unspoken comment. “A storm. And a tree that draws lightning. The gods laugh at me, I think.”
Impulsively, she put her hand on his. “We will be with you. Don’t be afraid.”
He turned to her, and his gray eyes were alight with something she did not understand. “You know.”
“I always have.”
“And have never said.”
“You have never said anything to me of water. Why would I say anything to you of fire?”
“You are generous, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. More generous than I deserve.”
“Ah. You noticed.”
Arthur rode up next to the wagon box. He nodded toward the town. “There is a checkpoint up ahead,” he said quietly.
Gwydion glanced up at the road ahead. “We will leave the road after we go through the town.”
“Why not now?” Arthur asked.
“Because the path we want does not branch off until after the town, of course. And because they have already seen us.”
“Of course,” Arthur said sourly. “How kind of you to explain.”
“Patience,” Gwydion said airily, “is a virtue.”
“And so is treating your companions like people—not puppets.”
Gwydion’s brows shot up. “Are you sure that’s a virtue? I don’t recall that one.”
Gwen drew up her horse on the other side of the wagon box. “Shall we go on?” she inquired in a polite tone. “Or does Arthur wish to argue some more about nothing of any importance whatsoever?”
“Why don’t you keep your questions to yourself!” Arthur snarled.
“And why don’t you get off that horse, bend over, and—” Gwen began.
“Gwenhwyfar,” Rhiannon said sternly. “Hush.”
“You can’t tell me what to do! I—”
“We are nearing the soldiers, if anyone cares,” Gwydion interrupted. “Now would be a good time to show some of that family unity we do so well.”
“Brothers and sisters always bicker,” Arthur said with a forced smile. “Or so they tell me. I would not know.”
“Of course, you would throw that up to my face,” Gwydion said. “And at such an opportune time, too. Thank you, my son.”
“Da,” Gwen said sweetly, “I believe those soldiers want us to stop. I hope it’s not for very long—I want to get to Uncle Bryndan’s house and take a bath.”
“You are always complaining about being dirty,” Arthur said sourly, as Gwydion slowed the wagon to a halt in front of the soldiers that fanned across the road. “Mam, can’t you tell her to shut up about that?”
“Your sister has her little ways,” Rhiannon replied serenely, as though the soldiers were not there. “And it wouldn’t hurt you to take a bath yourself.”
“He likes smelling like horses,” Gwen put in with a sniff of disdain. “He’s little better than an animal himself.”
There were other Kymri clustered around the soldiers, waiting for their turn to get through the checkpoint and into the town. They smiled appreciatively at the squabbling. The Coranian soldiers, on the other hand, began to look impatient as they waited to be noticed.
“Ha! At least I don’t have to go around smelling like a perfume bottle. As though any boy would look twice at a scrawny girl like you—no matter what you smell like.”
“I’m not scrawny,” Gwen flared. “I’m slender.”
“No meat on those bones,” Arthur scoffed. “What man would want that?”
“You—”
“I—”
“Children,” Gwydion said sternly. “This is not the time.”
Gwen and Arthur looked around and appeared to notice for the first time that there were soldiers about.
“Captain,” Gwydion said, standing up in the box and bowing with a flourish. “You see before you an honest merchant, down on his luck. Care to buy something? Pots and pans? Cloth?”
“Two children?” Rhiannon asked sweetly.
The Kymri waiting their turn laughed. The Captain, his blond hair flaring in the afternoon sun, continued to look impatient. There were twenty soldiers at the checkpoint, all armed to the teeth. Standing in the dust all day did not seem to agree with them.
Rhiannon, though she did not show it, was nervous. This was a lot of soldiers for such a small town. It was obvious that word had gone out from Llwynarth about the ring. She knew that her and Gwydion’s descriptions had been sent about Kymru ever since Havgan had taken this land. Havgan would have been told about the ring disappearing from Llwynarth. Perhaps he had guessed who had done it and stepped up all the checkpoints in Rheged. If so, there might be trouble.