The Curses of Arianrhod (A Bard Without a Star Book 4)

by Michael A. Hooten

  The Curses of Arianrhod

  A Bard Without a Star Book 4

  by Michael A. Hooten

  Text Copyright © 2014 Michael A. Hooten

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Photo: Wonderful castle by night under the milky way

  © Ellerslie77 | Dreamstime.com

  For my wife Kristin, who blesses my life daily

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: The Curse

  Chapter 2: The Ousel

  Chapter 3: The Trick

  Chapter 4: The Witch

  Chapter 5: Soldiers

  Chapter 6: The Attack

  Chapter 7: Escape

  Chapter 8: The Eagle

  Chapter 9: Tinkers

  Other books by Michael A. Hooten, available from Amazon.com:

  Cricket’s Song

  Book 1: The Cricket Learns to Sing

  Book2: A Cricket at Court

  Book 3: The Cricket That Roared

  A Bard Without a Star

  Book 1: Wizard’s Heir

  Book 2: The Two Tanists

  Book 3: The Bardic Academy

  Chapter 1: The Curse

  Gwydion ap Don looked over the items in the baker’s cart, mostly oat bread with a few barley and wheat loaves mixed in. He wore a cloak with four broad stripes of green, blue, yellow and white, and carried a harp across his back. His chestnut hair was full and he still had the thin beard of a young man, but already fine wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes.

  Gwydion handed the baker a few coins and took two crusty loaves. He felt like he was forgetting something, but he couldn’t remember what it was. He tried to shrug it off as he walked back to where he had left the horses, but it kept nagging at him. He put the one loaf into his saddlebag, and put the other one into his son’s saddlebag.

  His son!

  He whipped around, scanning the market crowd for the boy. Everything tried to distract him: the smell of a cart selling meat pies, the colorful scarves of a dancing girl, and the cries of a merchant hawking cheap trinkets. He had to keep reminding himself who he was looking for, and keep the boy’s image in his mind. As it was, he almost missed him because the boy sat with his back to him, watching a puppet show. Fortunately, most of the other children in the audience had dark hair, and his son’s bright yellow locks stood out.

  Gwydion resisted the impulse to run over, but instead walked in measured paces to his son’s side and sat next to him. The boy looked at him, smiled and leaned against him. Gwydion put his arm around the boy, and together, they finished watching the show. The puppeteers came around and took a bow, and the boy clapped delightedly.

  As the crowd began to disperse, Gwydion took the boy’s hand, and gave him a few pennies to toss into the hat that one of the performers held out. The boy threw them in and said, “Thank you. It was very entertaining.” But the puppeteer had already turned to someone else. The boy sighed and Gwydion led him back to the horses.

  They rode out of the caer, and down the road for a bit. He was still unfamiliar with most of Bangreen, but he watched the few people around them with more than natural senses. As the sun began to approach the horizon, Gwydion looked around for a campsite. He ended up leading them down a rarely used path that led behind a hill and into a small copse trees bordering a lively stream. A clearing showed signs that it had been used as a camp before, but the fire pit had more dirt than ash, and when Gwydion cast about, he found only a few sheep and shepherds nearby, but none close enough to disturb them.

  As he helped the boy down, Gwydion said, “I almost lost you again back there.”

  “You did?”

  Gwydion nodded. He set up the tent, and the boy said, “I asked you if I could go watch the puppets.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Gwydion said. He began gathering firewood, but he never left sight of the camp.

  When he came back, the boy said, “You even told me to stay there until you came and got me.”

  “I believe you.” Gwydion arranged the sticks into a cone, pulled a steel and flint from his belt, and began hitting sparks into the wood. After a few minutes without success, he shrugged, and pointed at the base. A blue flame shot from his finger, and soon yellow flames warmed his outstretched hands.

  “I’m so sorry, Da.”

  Gwydion wrapped his arms around the boy. “It’s not your fault, little one. Not your fault at all.”

  The boy began to cry. “I know, but I don’t know what to do. Nobody ever sees me but you, and even you forget if you’re not careful.”

  “It’s a powerful curse your mother put on you,” Gwydion said. “But it’s my fault, not yours.”

  “That’s what you say, but she’s the one that did it.”

  “True enough.”

  After they ate their dinner Gwydion played his harp, which always made the boy smile. He also used the song to cast powerful shields around their camp, keeping everything bad out, and keeping the boy in. And when the boy was asleep, he spent several hours like he did every night, probing the curse for a weakness, using both bardic magic and Cymric magic. And again, though he had been trying for a month, he found no way to break it. He finally sighed, and accepted the inevitable.

  In the morning, he said to the boy, “We’re going to go see your mother.”

  The boy became instantly guarded. “Why?”

  “To see if she’ll give you a name, and lift the curse.”

  The boy shook his head. “I’ve never seen her change her mind.”

  “You’re only four,” Gwydion said. “How much could you remember about her?”

  “Everything,” the boy said. “I loved her, wanted her to love me. She wouldn’t. She would yell at me, and punish me.”

  Gwydion wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he said, “How did she punish you?”

  “She locked me in the root cellar. A lot.” The boy whispered, “I tried to be brave, but it scared me. The dark tries to swallow you.”

  “She never hurt you, did she?”

  “No, but she didn’t want me. And she wouldn’t let anyone else be nice to me either.”

  Gwydion hugged him tight. “You’ve been very brave ever since we left Glencairck. I just need you to be brave enough to face her again. Can you do that?”

  “Will Aunt Mari be there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I like Aunt Mari,” he said. “She was always nice to me, no matter what my mother said.”

  “That sounds like her.” Gwydion stood up. “Let’s break camp and get going.”

  “Are we going to go in between again?” the boy said.

  “Through the Pale?” Gwydion said. “No, that was a special occasion. We’ll stick to this world for our journey.”

  “Oh,” the boy said, looking down.

  “Did you like crossing between worlds?” Gwydion said.

  The boy nodded, then shrugged. “I thought it would be fast.”

  “It would be,” Gwydion said. “But sometimes the journey is as important as the destination.”

  The boy nodded. “I don’t really want to go either.”

  It took them two weeks to get to the shore, where the boy was fascinated by the water that extended farther than he could see. “Does it go on forever?” he asked.

  “No one knows,” Gwydion said. “Perhaps you’ll be the first to find out.”

  “Maybe,” the boy said.

  The road they travelled ended at a large caer, but Gwydion went around it and down to the beach. The boy wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Old seaweed, dead fish, and salt,” Gwydion said.

/>   “I don’t like that.”

  “You get used to it,” Gwydion said with a laugh.

  They travelled south along the shore until they found a small fishing village, where a few bright gold coins purchased a small currach, with both oars and a sail, and provisions for their voyage. The boy looked at the boat doubtfully, but when Gwydion lifted him in, he said, “It rocks back and forth!”

  “You like that feeling?” Gwydion asked.

  “I sure do!”

  “We’ll see how well you like it when it never ends,” Gwydion said.

  He pushed the boat into the surf and jumped in. As he rowed them out past the breakers, the boy scrambled up to the bow, squealing with delight. He only came back to the center of the boat when Gwydion put up the sail. He asked a lot of questions about what Gwydion did and why, and he answered the boy with patient amusement. After a meal of hard tack and dried fish, the boy sat on Gwydion’s lap, and fell asleep while Gwydion told him stories of Mannanan Mac Lir, the god of the sea.

  They sailed for a week, and Gwydion woke every morning with no memory of the boy. But the closeness of the little boat remedied that quickly, and Gwydion told the boy stories from Glencairck all day as they sailed. He told him of great enchantments broken, wicked rulers overthrown, and evil curses foiled. The boy listened raptly, rarely interrupting.

  On the eighth day at sea, Caer Sidi appeared on the horizon. Less a caer than a fortress, it sat on a rocky isle where nothing grew. They could see nothing but the grey outer wall, without window or gate, and a single thick tower rising above it.

  They sailed to the other side of the island, where a stone seawall shielded a stone pier. Several other boats bobbed beside the pier, and on the gravelly strand, a small market had been set up, where colorful tents of the merchants flapped in the sea breeze. Two guards watched from the single gate leading into the caer, but the traders did not bother calling to them.

  Gwydion piloted his boat up to the pier, and a scruffy man appeared from a stone building at the far end. As Gwydion tied off, the man came up to him and said, “Welcome to Sidi. I am the Harbormaster, Huwynt ap Ifor. You may set your tents with the others. Servants of the mistress come out once a day, and if you have anything of interest, they will make their purchases then.” The man stifled a yawn. “If you try to enter the caer, the guards will kill you. If you try to bribe the guards to let you in, they will take your money, take you in, and the mistress will kill you herself. Any questions?”

  “No,” said Gwydion, helping the boy onto the pier. “But I am not here to sell anything. I am here to talk to Arianrhod ap Don.”

  Huwynt focused on him for the first time. “You want what? Never mind, it’s impossible. The mistress sees no one.”

  “She will see me.”

  The Harbor Master shook his head. “I know not who you are, or who you think you are, but you’re mad if you think you can get into the caer without her permission. And she gives no one permission, ever.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Shrugging, Huwynt said, “Do as you like. We bury the dead at sea, so I hope you don’t mind.”

  Gwydion lifted his son onto his shoulders. “Is my boat safe where it is?”

  “Oh, sure,” Huwynt said. “Only the desperate come here, but even so, a boat like yours is unlikely to be bothered.” He led them down the pier, but stopped at his shanty.

  “Thank you,” Gwydion said.

  “Nice knowing you,” Huwynt answered.

  Gwydion walked up the gravel to the gate. “Hold,” said one of the guards. “None may enter here.”

  “Tell Arianrhod that Gwydion ap Don is here to see her.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the Ard Righ himself, you’re not coming in.” The guard put his hand on his sword hilt for emphasis.

  Gwydion set the boy down. “Stay close, but be careful,” he said. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I’ll follow you wherever you go, Da.”

  “Good boy,” Gwydion said. “Don’t put yourself in danger, but if it looks like I’m forgetting you, tug on my cloak.”

  “I will, Da.”

  Gwydion ruffled the boy’s blonde hair, and turned back to the guards. “I’ll ask you once more to let me in.”

  “Ask all you want,” the guard said with a laugh. “Nothing will change.”

  Quick as thought, Gwydion drew two swords and attacked. The first guard lost his hand along with the sword he was trying to draw. He fell back yelling incoherently while he tried to stop the bleeding. The second guard got his sword out, but Gwydion lunged forward and pinned him against the wall with both swords scissored on his neck. “Lift your weapon and I take your head,” Gwydion said.

  The guard, pale and trembling, let it fall to the ground.

  “Now,” Gwydion said, pulling back, “Go tell Arianrhod that I want to see her.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the guard said, and sprinted inside the gate.

  Gwydion turned to the injured guard, and wiped the blood off his blades with the man’s cloak. The guard watched him in wide eyed fear, clutching his arm to his chest, but Gwydion sheathed his swords. He pointed to the bleeding stub, and blue flame cauterized the wound. The guard passed out and slumped to the ground.

  “Is he dead?”

  Gwydion looked up at the boy, and spent a moment remembering him. “No, he’ll live, I think. Are you okay?”

  The boy nodded. “I’ve never seen anyone move that fast.”

  Gwydion smiled. “Thank you.” He lifted the boy back onto his shoulders.

  A heavy man in green robes and a three colored cloak came out, flanked by six guards. They stopped just inside the gate, and the man bowed. “Gwydion ap Don, I am milady’s chief steward, Gogan ap Griffry,” he said. “Welcome to Caer Sidi.”

  Gwydion nodded, but said nothing.

  Gogan sighed and said, “If you would come with me, I will escort you to milady.”

  “I think not,” Gwydion said with a meaningful glance at the guards. “Have Arianrhod come out here, in the open.”

  “I do not think she will.” He glanced up briefly.

  Gwydion held up a glowing ball of baelfire. “Tell her that I will scour the keep from top to bottom with this before I enter.” He threw the ball into the air, incinerating the arrows falling towards his head. The ball continued up, and exploded on the parapet. The archers screamed briefly as they were consumed.

  The guards all backed up, leaving Gogan isolated. “I—I’ll, ah, tell her,” he stammered. “Please wait here, my lord.”

  “You don’t want me coming inside.”

  “No! No, I will bring milady to you. Please.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “I will, I will!” He turned and almost sprinted back inside, with the guards keeping pace with him.

  The boy laughed. “They sure are scared!”

  “They have reason to be,” Gwydion said. “Still, I didn’t want it to be like this.”

  “Do you love my mom?”

  Gwydion squeezed the boy’s ankle. “Smart lad.”

  “I don’t think she loves you.”

  Gwydion started to respond, but then he saw Arianrhod coming towards him with twelve guards behind her. She wore a deep blue dress that highlighted her blue eyes, and her platinum hair fell in waves down her back. His heart skipped a beat, and he saw a small smile appear on her lips. It was not a welcoming or playful smile, however; it was the smile of a cat looking at a plump mouse. It slipped a moment when she saw the boy, but she quickly recovered.

  “Gwydion ap Don,” she said. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

  “I wanted to get your attention,” he said.

  “You have it,” she said. “What are you doing here, at my grand palace? Did you come to court me again?”

  “I want to,” Gwydion said. “Truly I do. But there is a matter between us that must be settled.”

  “There is nothing between us,” she replied.

 
“Can you not see our son?” Gwydion said, lifting him down to hold him close to his chest.

  “He is your son, not mine!”

  “He is a part of both of us, Ari,” Gwydion said. “And he deserves a name.”

  “He is nothing of mine!” she said. “And he can wander nameless all his days for all I care.”

  “Please, Ari,” Gwydion said. “I will give all I have, all that I am. But please, give our son a name.”

  She composed herself. “As sweet as it is to see you grovel, there is nothing that will sway me.” She lowered her eyes, and looked at him through her lashes. “But perhaps, if you leave the child behind, you could come in for a night or two.”

  Gwydion felt the lust rise in him, but he pushed it back. “I swear to you, Arianrhod ap Don, that I shall not rest until this curse is broken.”

  Her chin snapped up, and any seductiveness disappeared instantly. “Or what?” she said. “Or you’ll kill me? That would seal his fate, wouldn’t it?”

  “You think you have won,” he answered, “but I will return.”

  “And you may slaughter everyone in this caer, but you’ll not harm a hair of my head,” she said. “And I will never relent.”

  “Do you hate him that much?”

  “No, I hate you,” she said. “You seduced me, used me, and left me alone and pregnant, with no word if you were alive or dead. And then, after nine months, I went through the pain of childbirth, alone except for my sister. She delivered that thing from me, but I gave it neither milk nor attention. I couldn’t kill it outright, much as I wanted to, and so it lived. But I knew you would return, and I wanted to burden you as I had been burdened, and change your life as much as mine had been changed. So I waited, and kept my eye on Bran, who wanted to find you as much as I did. And I laid the curse on the boy to deny you any semblance of ease in your life.”

  “But you have been banished to this place by the Ard Righ,” Gwydion said. “I’m sure that he would lift your punishment if you lifted your curse.”

  Arianrhod shook her head. “I will live here all my life, and gladly, as long as I know that you suffer even more than I do.” She smiled, the cruelest smile he had ever seen. “Welcome to hell, Gwydion. I intend to make your stay a long one.”