“It is not my place to have a say.” Glain’s indignation underscored her tone, despite her intention to temper it. “Alwen is Sovereign, not I.”
“And not Madoc.” There was compassion in his voice that Glain felt she did not deserve. “What would he have done?”
“He would not have shown Nerys every little kindness and treated her as though she were wronged, I tell you that. Not with only her word against the evidence,” Glain blustered. “Treason is a high crime. The punishment is death.”
“I admit the evidence is damning, but even you must see that there are more questions than answers. Nerys has not been convicted, but neither has she been acquitted. Isn’t it enough that she is confined and under guard?”
“Confined,” Glain scoffed, “in the comfort of her own rooms.”
Now Ynyr sighed, but his exaggerated huff was one of exasperation. “Where would you have her, in the dungeon? I wonder if Madoc would have been so harsh.”
“He might well have set down the same sentence, at least until the whole truth is found out. But he would have respected the concerns of his advisors rather than dismissing them out of hand.” Glain realized she had found the true root of her discontent. “And he would have called for a formal inquiry before witnesses and a jury of her peers, as the canons dictate.”
“You are right.” Ynyr finally emerged from the shadows and plopped himself into an adjacent chair. “Madoc certainly had a more democratic bent.”
Glain took his subtle reference as she knew it was intended. It was difficult to accept Alwen’s more solitary and interpretive approach to authority. Madoc had made it a practice to invite the counsel of others, Glain’s in particular, but in general he took the opinions of others into consideration on matters that affected the entire Order. And he strictly adhered to the rules of order that governed the Stewardry.
“We all miss him, Glain,” he said. “But I know it is hardest for you.”
“She has never asked me what you just did.” Glain was too close to tears and swallowed a gulp of the tea, hoping the ginger vapors would help. “Not once has she ever asked me what Madoc would do.”
Ynyr attempted to placate her. “It may be that Alwen believes she already knows.”
“How could she know?” Glain argued. “She lived half her life outside the Fane, away from his company. She tells me every day that she still cannot find his voice in her dreams. Her only connection to him is through me.”
Ynyr’s smile was born of empathy. “No one knew him better than you, and Alwen would do well to seek your insight. Not to speak ill of her, as I confess I am glad for the mercy she has shown Nerys, but Alwen does seem reluctant to take a hard line.”
“I often wonder if she ever will,” Glain said. “Perhaps when there is no other choice. I tend to think that times of unrest require a stronger hand, not a softer one. But as I said,”—she forced a smile over the rim of her cup—“Alwen is Sovereign.”
The rain had let up by morning, but the clouds clung to the sky, gray and bloated and soon to start seeping again. Thorne had slept well for the first time in weeks, partly because of the shelter of the old hut and partly because of the company. He had forgotten what a relief it was to share the watch.
Rhys was eager to please after his carelessness the day before and had offered to find food. As it happened, he was particularly skilled with an unusual looking shepherd’s sling, fashioned from exotic leather. There had been rabbit meat on the spit for supper and entrails soup for breakfast—a veritable feast that had gone a long way toward easing Thorne’s misgivings. Today was a new day.
Maelgwn had reappeared during the night and was waiting with the horses in the small lean-to that the last residents had erected as a makeshift stable. Rhys had already loaded the saddle sacks and was now contemplating the warghound. Thorne watched with amusement as Rhys screwed up the courage to approach the animal. It seemed important to him to have Maelgwn’s respect.
“Do not bend to him as you would a dog,” Thorne advised. “You put yourself at risk of losing your nose or an eye. And for Gods’ sake, do not just stretch out your hand. Stand close, but stay still and let him decide.”
Rhys did as he was told, waiting for Maelgwn to respond. Thorne wasn’t sure what to expect. Aside from him, the only person in this world Maelgwn had truly taken to was Martin Trevanion. It was Martin who had found the warghound pup in the first place and offered him to Thorne to raise. The memory pained him. Everything Thorne valued Martin had given him.
Maelgwn appeared disinterested at first, but Rhys was patient. After a minute or two of completely ignoring the man, Maelgwn began a lazy circle around Rhys while pretending not to notice him. The only sign of the warghound’s interest was the slight flare and flutter of his nostrils. The second pass was closer than the first, and Thorne found himself feeling a little anxious. Even he could not always predict Maelgwn’s decisions, and he wasn’t absolutely certain the move was not predatory.
Rhys never so much as flinched. He remained calm as Maelgwn prowled around him, which Thorne thought incredibly brave. Maelgwn’s size alone was intimidating—his head was nearly level with the messenger boy’s chest. If the warghound should strike, Rhys would be dead before he realized he’d been attacked.
Maelgwn finished his second circle and came to a standing stop facing Rhys. Thorne’s throat tightened, trapping his breath in his lungs. He wasn’t sure that Rhys knew better than to stare the warghound down, but he didn’t dare speak up for fear of startling either of them into motion.
Then Rhys made an unexpected gesture that gave Thorne a good fright. He knelt on one knee, as he had seen Thorne do the day before, and extended his hand. Rhys placed something wrapped in cloth on the ground and then laid back the folds to reveal its contents. He’d brought an offering—a second rabbit carcass, salvaged from his kill.
It was a good gambit, though Thorne thought Rhys lucky Maelgwn hadn’t decided to take it from him rather than wait for it to be given. The warghound would have smelled the meat on Rhys long before the approach had begun. It was a good sign, though, and Thorne began to breathe again.
Maelgwn barely hesitated before snatching up the rabbit. He swallowed it whole, but without taking his eyes from Rhys, which gave Thorne pause. To his credit, Rhys had not assumed that he’d passed muster and held his position. Then, at last, Maelgwn sat.
Thorne let out a sigh of relief. “You can pet him now, if you like.”
Rhys was tentative, but he took the opportunity to touch the beast. Maelgwn’s fur was softer than it looked, and the warghound loved a good scratch. When Rhys went to rub between his ears, Maelgwn tilted his head so that his jowl was exposed and Rhys obliged. “The gray wolf is the sigil of my father’s tribe and an honored spirit among his people.”
“Maelgwn is part warg, a Norse wolf,” Thorne said. “Perhaps he senses a kinship.”
“Perhaps,” Rhys grinned. “But I think it was the meat.”
Thorne laughed. “Well, whatever it was, you should know he doesn’t generally take to people.” A change in the air tamped his humor. The hairs on his arm stood on end, and the back of his neck burned. Mage sign. “Someone approaches.”
“From the east,” Rhys said as Maelgwn’s ears flattened. “He hears it too.”
“They are close.” Thorne lunged for his saddle sack to retrieve his septacle and a length of mage tether, thoroughly annoyed that he had not sensed the danger sooner. “There isn’t much time.”
“What do you want me to do?” Rhys stood with his hand poised above the hilt of this sword.
“Tell me again who we’re facing.” Thorne held the coil of mage tether in his teeth while he looped the chain anchored to the seven-chambered silver septacle around his right wrist so that he could cradle it in his palm.
“If it is Cerrigwen, we’ll have her to deal with and then the two soldiers of t
he Crwn Cawr, the father and son who are her protectorate.” Rhys was staring at the septacle. “What is that?”
Thorne tucked the coiled tether into the top of his belt, where it could be easily reached when he needed it. “A tool of the trade.”
“Yes, but what does it do?”
Thorne watched Maelgwn as he edged around the clearing, looking for a place in the trees to hide himself. “The septacle is a spell catcher. It captures the burst of magical energy that drives a hex or an incantation.”
“A protective device?”
“When it works.” Thorne made his stand in the open. “Prepare yourself.”
“I am known to them. Perhaps I can encourage a surrender.”
“Not likely, once they see me, though you’re welcome to try.” Thorne had come to a resolution he hoped he wouldn’t regret. “I aim to take Cerrigwen alive, Rhys, but if it comes to a fight, I will strike to kill. And so should you.”
Both men fell silent, waiting for first sight of the riders closing in on the clearing. Odds were best that it was Cerrigwen and her escort returning to their shelter, but Thorne was prepared for anything. The White Woods were the first and last stronghold of the magical realms, the birthplace of the Ancients, and the final refuge of the mystics and the mageborn. All manner of enchanted beings still made these woods their home, some more deadly than others.
Like all the Ruagaire, Thorne knew this forest well. During the dark era, when the Brotherhood had unwisely turned from their once noble path, they were charged by the Christian bishops with ridding the White Woods of the witches and wizards who defended the old religions and sought sanctuary here. To this day every Ruagaire apprentice was required to survive the rite of Twelve Nights and find his way out of the forest alive before receiving his ring.
Thorne alerted to the scuff of hooves thrashing through the duff. The riders made no attempt to conceal their approach. Either they were unaware of the danger, or they had no fear of it. Thorne expected the latter. The back of his neck burned, and a road-ragged sorceress astride a silver mare emerged from the trees.
Despite the dust streaking her face and the nettles matting her long, unraveled locks, she would never be mistaken for ordinary. Her mage sign was stronger than any Thorne had previously encountered. This was not just any sorceress of the Stewardry. She wore the indigo robe, marking her rank at docent or better, and at the base of her throat hung the moss agate—the legendary keystone to the natural realm. This could only be Cerrigwen.
The sorceress acknowledged Rhys with a slight nod and then turned to Thorne. “You wear the ring of the Brotherhood. What is your name, mage hunter?”
“Dismount, sorceress.” Thorne ignored her question. It was an obvious distraction. She was too calm, and her escort had yet to show themselves. “Where are your men?”
“Close enough.” Cerrigwen slid from the back of the mare with easy grace and stepped forward as if to submit. Thorne quickly pocketed the septacle and pulled the mage tether from his belt to bind her hands. No matter how compliant she appeared, he knew better than to leave her any advantage she could exploit.
In the few instants it took Thorne to close the dozen paces between him and the sorceress, fate turned against them all. The moment the first horse soldier broke through the tree line and entered his visual periphery, Thorne’s subconscious imprinted two instinctive conclusions on his stream of thought: the soldier would immediately interpret Thorne’s approach as a deadly threat to his mistress and act without questioning, and then Thorne would be forced to kill him.
The dread that had settled upon him the day before descended into soul sickness as his training took over. Before the tip of his sword cleared the scabbard, Thorne already knew how the last moments of this soldier’s life would unfold. The horse would charge full on and break slightly left so that the rider could engage from his strong side, leaving him open to Thorne’s left-handed strike.
His timing was so practiced and the movements so fluid that not even Rhys, who was remarkably quick to understand what was happening, could intervene in time to prevent the inevitable. But Rhys tried anyway, adding another stone to the sack of regrets Thorne carried.
Just as the horse banked, the soldier raised his sword, giving Thorne aim at the underarm seam where the chain mail shirtfront was connected to the sleeve, and the protection was weakest. As he threw into the upthrust, Thorne called to mind a prayer for forgiveness, but the one that actually left his lips was a plea for deliverance.
Salvation—of a sort—came in a flurry of fur and teeth. For all his arrogant reckoning, Thorne had failed to take Maelgwn into account. The warghound, sensing the threat to his master, did exactly as his nature would call him to do. Maelgwn sprang from the shadows in a single swift and sure bound and tore the soldier from his saddle before Thorne’s sword could reach its mark.
“Leave him, Maelgwn!” Thorne dropped his sword and fell to his knees beside the wounded man. Maelgwn backed away, teeth bared and hackles raised in protest. Rhys edged around the warghound and knelt to help, easing the soldier’s head into the crook of one bent knee.
“The other one,” Thorne demanded as he tried to assess the damage. “Where is he?”
The wounded man’s color was poor, but his breathing was good. Maelgwn had snatched him from the horse by his shoulder, gnashing through chain mail and leather and shirt cloth and flesh. The skin and sinew were torn from the clavicle, and the blood gushed. But at least Maelgwn had not ripped out the man’s throat.
“He won’t be far.” Rhys tore cloth from his undershirt to use as a compress. “Cerrigwen, where is Finn?”
“A furlong behind, maybe less.” Cerrigwen hovered closer but stopped short of imposing. “Let me see to him.”
“She is a gifted healer,” Rhys offered. He masked his concern better than most men would manage under similar circumstances, but he was worried. “And Pedr means something to her.”
Pedr. It always made things worse to know their names. Now this soldier was also a son, a husband, a father, a brother, a friend. The last thing Thorne wanted was an undeserved death on his conscience.
“Do what you can for him, sorceress.” Thorne heard the muffled thunder of hooves drawing nearer. He snatched up his sword as he rose and stepped back to make room, edging slightly to his right to keep the tree line behind her in his line of view. “But know I am watching.”
With her hands still bound, Cerrigwen knelt beside the wounded man and placed her right palm over his heart and her left on his brow. She muttered an incantation in the old tongue. It had been so long since Thorne had heard the language of the Ancients that he could recall only a handful of her words, just enough to recognize a sleeping spell. He was surprised that her healing magic worked so well through the binding power of the mage tether. As impressed as was, he was reminded to be wary. Cerrigwen was powerful.
Pedr’s eyes closed, and his body ceased its violent trembling. Cerrigwen next removed a drawstring pouch from her belt, a healer’s bag, and handed it to Rhys to hold for her. She then pulled a dagger from its sheathing somewhere beneath her cloak and cut away as much of the clothing the armored mesh would allow.
Thorne resolved to remember she was armed, and then looked for Maelgwn. The warghound had disappeared, either into the woods or the netherworld, but he was no longer a threat. Thorne was relieved and turned to face the second horse soldier as he barreled into the clearing.
“What’s happened?” the second soldier shouted. He leapt from his mount, quickly taking account of the situation and coming up nearly as bewildered as he was horrified. “Rhys?”
This second soldier was older than Thorne by at least a dozen years and closely resembled the wounded one. Father and son. Thorne’s remorse turned to self-loathing. How had he made such a foolish mistake? How could he have allowed this to go so terribly awry?
“Keep your wits, Finn MacDonag
h. Your boy is alive,” Cerrigwen answered before Thorne could swallow his sorrow and speak. She selected two glass vials from the bag as Rhys held it open. One held a clear liquid; the other, a yellowish powder. “Pedr intervened to protect me, but things were not as they appeared. He had no way to know I was under no threat. The mage hunter was only defending himself.”
“Mage hunter?” Finn turned his furious and stunned glare on Thorne. “This is your doing?”
“His hound, saving his master as any dog would,” Cerrigwen said. She unstopped the vial and drizzled the liquid over Pedr’s wound. “Moonwort oil will stave off an infection from the beast’s drool and ease the pain some. I can make a paste from the turmeric to slow the bleeding, but I need fresh water and clean cloth to dress this wound.”
Thorne took on the tasks to cure his feelings of helplessness and guilt. He had a new linen undershirt in his saddle sack, and good water could be got from a spring a few yards behind the old cottage. By the time he returned to the clearing with the supplies, the others had moved Pedr inside.
Rhys met Thorne at the door. “Cerrigwen says she’ll have him strong enough to travel by morning. She’s asked to be returned to the Stewardry, in shackles if you insist, but she says she will come willingly.”
“From what you know of her, would you take this as a sincere show of contrition?” Thorne wasn’t convinced, but neither did he feel particularly suspicious. “It could just as easily be a ruse of some kind.”
“I wondered that as well.” Rhys shrugged. “But I figure her reasons don’t much matter, so long as she and that amulet are brought back to the Fane.”
Thorne nodded his agreement. “I am sorry about your friend.”
“We’re all alive, and Cerrigwen’s been found.” Rhys smiled in such a way that Thorne felt understood and forgiven. “It could have gone worse.”
That thought brought Thorne an unexpected bit of comfort. It was a simple but profound truth that reminded him to be mindful of even the smallest of blessings. Rhys was right—it could have gone worse, far worse. But instead, the renegade sorceress had been brought to heel, and Thorne had been spared the gruesome task of taking yet another life. The elders at Castell Banraven would claim that these were signs that the Ancients were once again listening to the pleas of their believers and that they still visited their grace upon the world of man. Thorne would not go so far as to say he had actually felt the hands of the Gods intervening, but he had gotten what he asked for.
The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Page 11