by Holly Taylor
Prince Geriant of Prydyn, her betrothed, was far from her thoughts then. She had only agreed to the marriage to please her brother. And though Geriant was golden and handsome and had looked at her with love, he had not touched her heart. For her heart had been given to Bledri long ago.
And so she turned to go back to camp, her mind made up. And there, as she turned, her eye lighted on a small, fernlike plant, nestled at the base of the oak. And as she saw it, she understood that her decision had been right. For why else would she see valerian, the herb that, when mixed with wine or ale, would bring deep, deep sleep?
Truly the gods were with her. She would not fail.
Meirigdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—midmorning
THREE DAYS LATER, when Enid crested the last rise of Sarn Halen, the main road to Llwynarth, and saw the city in which she had been born, her heart nearly failed her. Almost she turned back, and, oh, what a difference that would have made to so many, she would think later. But she went on.
The walls that circled the city were still broken and torn in some places, even after two years. So hard had her father and mother fought to hold Llwynarth, so hard had Morcant Whledig fought to take it, that the destruction had been even more extensive than she had dreamed.
The last time she had seen the city, when she and her brother Rhiwallon had been sent away before the battles, it had been white and shining, like purest flame in the midst of the golden wheat fields. But the fields had been burned, and scarred, and soaked in blood. And now they yielded little, if at all. They were nothing compared to what they had once been. Neither was the city. A heaviness, a gloom hung over it. Never, she knew, would the city shine again until her brother came back in triumph to claim his own.
Nervously, she touched the leather strip around her neck from which her brother’s ring hung, hidden beneath her plain, linen smock. She had taken the ring (she would not say stolen) from her brother’s hand as he had slept a deep, unnatural sleep—the result of the valerian-laced wine she had given him.
She was dressed plainly, like a servant girl, for that was the part she needed to play. Her kirtle was of dull brown, and she had wrapped her telltale red-gold hair with a plain linen band. She felt awkward in these clothes and hoped that the woman back at the camp from whom she had taken them (she would not say stolen) had not been too attached to them.
They would not follow her, she knew, for she had chosen her time wisely. With the prospect of a band of wyrce-jaga to kill, Owein would not have split his warriors to send some after her. And she had been careful, as she had moved through the forest, knowing the places where the Dewin and Bards were set.
It was so strange to be here on the road in the full light of day. The faces of the people around her were pinched with hunger. Even those who looked better-fed showed another kind of want, as though remembering the days when King Urien and Queen Ellirri held the city and the land was fair.
What she saw as she continued through the gate and up the road toward the marketplace nearly made her weep with rage. In that moment, if she had seen Morcant, she would certainly have killed him and never mind what would have happened to her after. For Nemed Draenenwen, the grove of hawthorn trees, the sacred grove where she and her family and the people of Rheged had celebrated the festivals, the grove where the white petals had shone in spring and the red berries had dripped like fire in autumn, was no more.
Every last tree had been cut down. And in its place a temple now stood, consecrated to Lytir, the god of the Coranians. They had built it on this sacred ground, and it was a wonder to her that the Great Mother had not vomited up the temple, spewing it into the air, to be laced with fire, and blown away as ashes in the wind.
One day, she told herself fiercely, her blue eyes sharp and cold, one day the temple would be destroyed. And the grove replanted, and hawthorn would again flower in the city of Llwynarth.
But today was not the day. So she blinked back her tears of helpless fury and continued on to the marketplace. Compared to days gone by, the market was quiet. Of food there was little, for it was early spring and the harvest last autumn—and the autumn before that—had been poor and meager. But there were other wares there, and she made her way straight to the nearest weaver’s booth.
“Fine cloth, my girl, for your mistress?” the proprietor said in a tone that was meant to be cheerful but was forced and tight. “I have cloth made in Tegeingl itself, from Gwynedd. The finest cloth in all of Kymru.”
“They still weave in Tegeingl, do they?” she asked absently, her mind still on the destruction of the grove. “I suppose they must keep themselves busy while they wait.”
The proprietor paled a little at her words. Then he spoke so softly that only she could hear. “Be careful, girl. We all wait, but we none of us speak of it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. What a fool she had been already, and she had just arrived. How little skill she had for intrigue. Too much time in the forest, she thought wildly, among those where she did not have to watch her words.
“Don’t be sorry lass. Be careful.” He then raised his voice in a normal tone. “You seek fine cloth for your mistress, do you?”
“For my master,” she said. “He wants something in silver, perhaps. Or sea green.” These were the colors of the Dewin, and she needed a reason to see Bledri.
“Something for your mistress would be better,” the man replied swiftly. “Something in green or brown.”
Her mistress? Green or brown? Those were the colors of the Druids. Oh, surely not, for the Druids had fought for the enemy. What was the man trying to tell her?
“Yes. Green or brown,” he continued in a firm tone. “Your mistress will surely like that best of all. And will reward you for a job well done.”
And then she had it, and wondered what it truly meant. For surely the man was trying to tell her something about Sabrina ur Dadweir, who had been the Druid to her mother and father. Sabrina had fought with them in the last battles, but had in the end bowed to the Archdruid and joined with the enemy after she was captured when the city was lost. Or so they had been told in Coed Addien. Maybe green or brown would be best after all. To start.
So she said she would take something in green. And the proprietor cut and measured and handed her a length of cloth, folded into a square. Another sign, she knew.
“Tell your mistress that Menestyr ap Naw wishes her well.”
“I will,” she said, smiling for the first time in many days.
“And, lass,” he said, very low, “pull your linen cap down a bit. The color of your hair is showing.”
“Thank you,” she said, as she adjusted the band. “And wish me luck.”
“If you’re going where I think you are going, you will need more than luck.” And with that he turned away, his eyes sad.
ON HER WAY through the city to Caer Erias, she detoured slightly. She had to see Crug Mawr, the burial place of the rulers of Rheged. Her mother and father had been laid here with honor, at the insistence of General Baldred. Morcant had wanted them to be left on the field to be picked over by the wolves and the ravens. But Baldred had overruled him, and the bodies had been interred within the stones.
A company of Coranian warriors ringed around the standing stones. So, it was true. She had heard that Morcant and Baldred had set a guard here. Did they fear the dead? She remembered asking Owein when she had first heard of it. And Owein had said, no, they feared the living. For the people of Llwynarth had begun leaving gifts at the stones. They had often gathered here to mourn—or to call on—the spirits of their dead King and Queen. So Morcant had set his guard, and she could not linger at the stones, for they might have asked her what she wanted there.
So she walked by, with her head bowed, and did not let the tears fall. And silently, in her heart, she said good-bye again—oh, once again—to the mother who had borne her, to the father who had nurtured her, to the brother who had loved her. In this world she would never behold their bright faces again.
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nbsp; She came at last to Caer Erias, which had once been her father’s fortress. The gate to her home was swung back wide, and as she walked through, she gazed on the sight of the horse of Rheged, white on a field of red-gold, its mane outlined in opals. Its fiery opal eyes gleamed at her, knowing her, she felt, as one of the House of PenMarch.
And then she was through the gate and into the fortress. It was all the same, yet so different. The servants in the courtyard scurried about their tasks, their heads down, moving as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible.
Warriors drilled outside their quarters, but instead of the red and white tunics of Rheged, they wore the metal, sleeved byrnies of the Coranians. Instead of helmets fashioned like the head of a horse, they wore helmets with the figure of a boar on top. Instead of short spears, they drilled with double-bladed axes.
There were no cheerful greetings being bandied back and forth, no joking, or laughing. Her home had turned into a grim, dark place, and she could barely stand to return here.
A flash of bright color seen out of the corner of her eye caused her to turn, and what she saw made her dart behind the stables. Her heart beating wildly, she peered around the corner.
The flash of color had come from the bright red cloak Morcant Whledig wore as he came out of the King’s ystafell, a host of people behind him. Morcant’s black, shoulder-length hair shone like a raven’s wing. Around his head he wore a golden circlet. Of course, Enid thought. The torque was not here. Owein had it. So they had given Morcant something to show he was a King, like the master throwing a bone to a dog. His tunic and trousers were of red and white, worked with gold thread and opals. She gritted her teeth to see that the traitor of Rheged wore her father’s colors.
Beside Morcant stood a stocky, powerful-looking man. His light brown hair was uncovered. In one hand he held a helmet of silver, fashioned like the head of a boar. He wore a byrnie of silver that flashed in the sun. She knew of him, General Baldred, the Coranian watchdog, who let Morcant think he was King.
She recognized the woman standing a little to the side and behind Baldred. Sabrina’s beautiful face seemed carved from stone. Her long black hair was worn loosely, spilling over her Druid’s robe of brown and green. Her Druid’s torque of gold and emerald sparkled at her slender throat.
And then Enid’s heart beat even faster as she saw the man she had come so far to find. The muscles of Bledri’s broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his sea-green and silver robe. Around his neck the Dewin’s torque of silver and pearl was clasped. His sandy brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a fine silver chain. His gray eyes, oh, so charming, so perfect, so arresting, exuded power and intelligence. His almost impossibly handsome face was smiling sardonically as he eyed the General and the King—and the man who was being dragged out of the ystafell.
Enid knew that man, Llyenog ap Glwys, the Master Smith of Rheged. The Master Smith was loaded down with chains. Gray-haired but strong, he straightened up under the load and dug in his heels as two warriors tried to drag him past the King.
“I ask you again, Morcant Whledig, so-called King of Rheged, what is my crime?”
Morcant, his face flushed, began to say something, but General Baldred forestalled him. “You are being taken at my command.”
“So, Morcant,” said Llyenog, the contempt in his tone clear and biting, “you do not know. You are King of nothing.” Llyenog spat on the ground at Morcant’s feet.
Morcant stepped forward and would have landed a blow on Llyenog’s face if Bledri had not caught his arm. “Leave him be, Morcant,” Bledri said in an amused tone. “He is not worth your notice.”
“And besides,” Sabrina said, her voice like velvet, “he could probably break you in two, even now.”
Morcant shot Sabrina a venomous look, but General Baldred only laughed. “Take him away,” Baldred said, gesturing to the two warriors on either side of the Master Smith. “Oh, and Llyenog, your family will be joining you so you won’t be lonely.”
“And to be sure you do as you are told,” Bledri interjected. “Should you give Baldred’s men trouble on your journey, or once you reach the place, your family will be killed. One by one, you will watch them die. And be sure that they will suffer exquisite tortures before they do.” Bledri smiled a smile that Enid had never seen on his face before, one she hadn’t even known he was capable of. “Take him.”
Sabrina, her face cold, pushed past the men and began to walk away. As she passed Llyenog, she whispered something to him. At her message Llyenog straightened his shoulders, and marched out of the fortress proudly, escorted by ten warriors.
Morcant and Baldred turned and went back into the ystafell, but Bledri stood where he was, watching Sabrina cross the courtyard. Almost Enid tried to catch Bledri’s eye, but she remembered the cloth she still clutched in her cold hands, and what the merchant had said. So, instead, she stepped from behind the stable and faced Sabrina.
“My Lady,” Enid said. “I have come with the cloth you wanted.”
Sabrina stared at Enid in shock, her face suddenly white. A frantic warning deep within Sabrina’s blue eyes leapt out, catching at Enid’s heart. Quickly Sabrina spoke, and her voice was querulous. “At last! Come to my rooms and let me see it. What took you so long, girl? I have been waiting half the morning!” She took Enid’s arm in a firm grip, rushing her across the yard and into the guesthouse. Swiftly, she led Enid to her room and closed and barred the door.
For a moment, Sabrina stood with her face to the door, then took a deep breath and turned to look at Enid.
“What in the name of all the gods of Kymru are you doing here?”
“I—I have come for Bledri.”
“Come for Bledri,” Sabrina repeated slowly. “Did I hear you right?”
Enid held her head high. “Yes. You heard me right.”
“Oh, child, child, you cannot be thinking this. You cannot do this.”
“I am not a child! And I know that Bledri sickens of what he has done.”
“What,” Sabrina asked incredulously, “makes you think that?”
“I just know it. And Owein knows it, too. See,” she said, taking the ring from her bodice, “Owein sends me here with his forgiveness. To bring Bledri back.”
“You lie,” Sabrina said, her voice flat. “That is Urien’s ring. Owein would never, never give that up. Oh, Enid, you must go from here. Now!”
And then she understood. “You’re jealous! You’re jealous of me. You don’t want Bledri to go away!”
“Oh, Enid,” Sabrina said, her voice despairing. “What have you done?”
Before Enid could answer, a pounding on the barred door make them jump.
“Sabrina?” Bledri called. “Open up. I want to talk to you.”
“Go away!” Sabrina called.
“Open it, Sabrina. Don’t make me have the door torn down. You know I will—I have before!”
“Don’t make me burn you,” Sabrina shouted back, as she frantically looked around the room. “You know I will—I have before!” She clutched Enid’s arm, murmuring, “Oh, gods, no place to hide you. And the window is guarded. Here, under the bed.”
“No!” Enid cried, tearing her arm away. “I must see him.”
“You must not! I swear to you, Enid, you are wrong. Wrong about everything. Please, hide. Then we can talk. I’ll think of a way to get you out of here. Please.”
“No!”
“Sabrina,” Bledri called. “Who is with you?”
“Open the door, Druid,” Enid said quietly. “If you don’t, he’ll bring others to do it for him.”
Sabrina looked from the door to Enid, despair written on her beautiful face. Without another word, she went to the door and unbarred it, opening it wide.
“You’ve been avoiding me again,” Bledri said smoothly. “And you know what can happen when you do that.” Then his gray eyes lit on Enid, standing in the middle of the room, and he fell silent.
Enid removed the linen band fr
om her head, and her hair came down, falling around her shoulders in a shower of red-gold. She removed the ring from the string around her neck, holding it out to Bledri, who still stood, frozen, by the door.
“This is from Owein, cariad,” Enid said quietly. “You are forgiven for all. Come with me, and let us go to him. Help us in our fight to take back what was once ours.”
Sabrina gave a low moan of despair and sank to the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. Bledri, his face still, held out his hand, and Enid laid the ring in his palm.
“Urien’s ring. You have brought it to me,” he said, his tone wondering.
“I have. Now come with me. Let us go from this prison. Be free.”
Bledri looked down at the ring, turning it this way and that, enthralled with the fiery opal. Almost absently, he said, “It will make a fine bridal piece, Enid. Very fine.”
Enid shot a glance of triumph at Sabrina, but the Druid was staring at the floor. And then her heart skipped a beat. She felt cold, colder than she had ever been in her life. Her head swam. Shock, she thought incoherently. This is shock.
For Bledri had continued. “A fine bridal piece, indeed. And a bride from the House of PenMarch will be just what he needs.”
“He?” Enid whispered.
“Morcant Whledig,” Bledri said. And smiled.
THAT NIGHT THE message sent by the Shining Ones reached into Gwydion’s sleep.
At last he had found Y Honneit, the Spear, one of the lost Treasures of Kymru. He had found Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge. He could see it as it floated within a mighty ring of fire.
The long shaft made of twining silver and gold flashed brightly in the light of the fire. Gleaming opals covered the base and the top of the shaft. The spear point itself was studded with onyx in a figure eight, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.
He tried to reach out for it then, but the fire blazed even brighter. The heat made the Spear shimmer before his eyes.
And he cried out in frustration and anger, for he was so close but could not obtain what he so desperately sought.
Then, suddenly, a black raven shot down from the sky. A collar of opals encircled his neck, and his black feathers glowed red in the light of the flames.