“Demons?” Goronwy stepped to Cade’s shoulder.
“They left nearly two hours ago. The dogs were supposed to lead us to them but they ran off and disappeared.”
“Were the demons riding horses?”
The man snorted. “Demons don’t ride.”
Cade shared a look with Goronwy who gave him a wry smile. “Don’t fret, my lord. It’s true that Geraint and Tudur have their work cut out for them, but if Bedwyr can avoid Teregad’s men and ride quickly enough, there is a good possibility he will reach Geraint in time to warn him what is coming.”
Cade turned back to the man. “And what of Arawn?”
“You should know more of that than I, Demon,” the man said, his confidence growing as Cade had so far refrained from killing him.
“Pretend I don’t,” Cade said.
“The hounds are his,” the man said. “Mabon assured us they were reliable, but they ran off—stupid bastards. ‘Course, I don’t know why we needed them in the first place since you can smell a demon half a mile off.” Then his eyes snapped back to Cade’s face. The sneer was gone as he realized he’d forgotten himself. “Not that you smell, my lord.”
“Enough,” Cade said, disgusted with the man and his lack of conscience. Cade dropped the man to the ground and stepped back. “Get up.”
The man made a helpless movement with his arms and tears began to course down his face. “I can’t. I can’t feel anything.”
Cade looked at Goronwy. “Take a walk.”
Goronwy didn’t move. “Would you have killed him anyway?”
“Yes.” Cade gestured with one hand, both helpless and justifying. “Less messy this way, and less painful for him.”
“Then I don’t need to leave,” he said. “If I could have watched that, I can watch this.”
Cade studied Goronwy through three of Goronwy’s heartbeats, and then decided that he did, indeed, trust him. Cade put a hand to the man’s chest, looked into his eyes—and took his life.
Chapter Seven
Rhiann
“Didn’t this entrance have a guard on it?” Siawn said as Berwyn closed the door behind them and dropped the bar.
“Of course,” Berwyn said. “That hasn’t changed from your father’s day. I told him that he was wanted in the keep and that I would stand watch until he returned.”
“And he didn’t think that unusual?” Rhun said.
Berwyn shrugged. “Sure it was unusual, but everything’s been strange these last weeks, and it wasn’t so odd as to invite more than a passing comment.” He indicated the keep with his head. “You know the way, right?”
“Oh, yes,” Siawn said. “Thank you for helping us. If I get caught sooner than I’d like, I won’t mention you.”
Berwyn held out his hand again and Siawn clasped it. “Remember my wedding. I’ll expect you.”
Rhun shook his hand too and then they followed Siawn away from the gate, making their way around the darkened huts. They were just like the ones Rhiann had grown up seeing: rounded walls and thatched roofs with a hole in the center to let out the smoke from the fire and let in a bit of light during the day. Most of the doors were made of leather, attached to the walls by several thongs, although some were blocked merely by a blanket hung from the top of the doorway. The lords of Caer Dathyl owned slaves from the looks, many of them. Her father had never held with that, although whether his refusal was out of a Christian-inspired moral imperative (unlikely) or because he feared to find his throat slit in the night, Rhiann couldn’t decide.
It wasn’t yet midnight but the villagers were long asleep. Taliesin chose not to light his staff, but enough campfires smoldered around the huts such that the companions didn’t have trouble seeing the direction they had to take. They passed the first dozen huts without encountering anyone, and then the next fifty without being accosted, just a nod and a wave to one man, stumbling back to his hut from the latrine.
“If you act like you know what you’re doing, it’s rare that someone questions you,” Taliesin said.
Siawn kept his head down, despite Taliesin’s reassurance that nobody would recognize him unless they looked right at him. Rhiann wondered if a person had to believe to make Taliesin’s disguises work. Siawn clearly didn’t trust him yet, despite everything he’d seen him do.
They left the village’s huts and entered the working center of the fort. This area was better lit, with torches in sconces around the perimeter of the wall. During the day, it would be a hive of activity, with a blacksmith’s forge, craft halls, a wool shed, and the long, low stables, not far from the fort’s main gateway. And, of course, the keep. It towered over the plateau on which it stood, three stories high, and higher again to the ramparts on the top. It wasn’t so dissimilar to Aberffraw where Rhiann had grown up, except Aberffraw was built in wood, not stone, and was not so large a place.
The great double doors remained closed and Rhiann hesitated at the idea of entering there. She hung back from the others, taking it all in, and then cursed inwardly as the hem of her skirt caught on the jagged edge of a piece of splintered firewood, piled with others near the blacksmith’s hut. She bent down to check the damage.
“You there!”
Rhiann lifted her head, but didn’t straighten. She peered around the edge of the woodpile to see three armored soldiers confronting Taliesin and the others. Both Rhun and Siawn checked over their shoulders—presumably for Rhiann—and simultaneously made the same motion, each with a hand behind his back. It was the same one Cade had given her back in the woods after the Menai Strait: stay low; stay quiet. Rhiann scooted into the shadows a little more.
“Can I help you?” Taliesin said, in his most innocent voice.
“Who are these people?” The guard gestured with his chin to Siawn and Rhun.
“We are friends,” Taliesin said. “I am a bard and my fellow travelers are fleeing Saxon incursions in the east.”
Siawn stared hard at the ground and Rhiann wondered what he thought about Taliesin’s deception now, as the guard had not recognized him. The guard studied Taliesin who was undoubtedly smiling in his most winning way, although Rhiann couldn’t see it from where she crouched.
Come with us.” The guard spun on his heel and marched towards the keep. The three friends trailed after him while two other guards took up the rear. All Rhiann could do was watch them go and wonder at her incredible luck to have ripped her skirt. And was it luck? It was hard to know anymore what was luck and what was the hand of God, or a god, reaching down and touching each one of them in turn.
Well, now what? Rhiann retreated inside the blacksmith’s hut and began to pace around it, scuffing at the dirt floor, trying to think. What would Cade do? Cade, of course, could have strode in through those great doors, waving Caledfwlch about and most likely everyone would have been so awed, they would have immediately given way. Either that, or he’d have ended up in the dungeon. Again.
Rhiann wanted to avoid the dungeon at all costs, even if her friends were destined to find themselves inside it. There had to be another way into the keep. She nearly smacked her forehead with her palm when she realized that there was: the kitchens. Since Cade had thoughtfully dressed her as a peasant girl, she would fit right in.
As a little girl at Aberffraw, Rhiann had spent a great deal of time in the kitchens. Even if neither her father nor step-mother cared for her, when she was very little, the staff had viewed her as something like a pet—and one to be pitied at that for her awkward position in the household and scrawny looks. Rhiann’s demotion to serving wench at her father’s behest had hardly been much of a stretch, in truth, as she’d long since learned to work both sides of the kitchen door.
Rhiann tiptoed outside and began to flit her way around the perimeter of the large courtyard in front of the keep, moving from craft hall, to hut, to stables, and then to the back of the keep. From the front, it looked as if it was built on a slightly higher mound than the rest of the fort, but in actuality, this was an illusio
n. Stairs led up to the great hall from the courtyard, but from the rear, the hill was cut away, revealing an entire understory to the keep, into which were built the kitchens.
Nobody was in sight when Rhiann boldly walked to the door and pushed at it. It opened inward. The kitchen was a large, square room, with several rectangular tables in the center of it and multiple doorways leading out, presumably to pantries, cellars, and the great hall. A fire lit it, beside which a young boy, perhaps around ten or twelve years old, dozed. Otherwise, it was deserted.
On the table next to the scrubbing basin sat the remains of dinner. Rhiann spied a small, uneaten loaf of bread on one of the trenchers and her ravenous hunger reasserted itself. Her nerves at entering Caer Dathyl had taken care of any hunger she might have felt in the last half an hour. Now, her stomach growled so loudly she was sure it would wake the boy.
Unable to restrain herself, she picked up the bread. It was cold, but still soft. She took one bite, and then a second. In four, she’d eaten it all. Rhiann looked around for something with which to wash it down. On one of the large, well-scrubbed tables stood a carafe and she peered into it. A few dregs remained at the bottom and she had drained them before she realized that the wine was of very high quality. The carafe had probably belonged to Teregad. Ugh.
As Rhiann finished the last swallow, the boy opened his eyes. He didn’t see Rhiann at first, and then his eyes widened and he sat up straighter. “Who are you?”
Rhiann stopped in the act of putting down the carafe. “I’m ... here to help,” she said, totally at a loss for any more sensible explanation.
“Oh.” The boy subsided. “I think a few men are still awake in the hall, but I wouldn’t go out there if I were you.” He looked her up and down with an objective eye, too young himself to care what she looked like but old enough to understand that other men would.
“I won’t,” Rhiann said. “I thought I would curl up in a corner for the night and then I’ll be able to work right away in the morning.”
“All the girls who have fathers go home to them at night.” He settled back on his stool. “If they don’t have one ... ” He shrugged. “They do what the soldiers want.”
“My father’s dead,” Rhiann said. “That’s why I wanted to stay in the kitchen.”
The boy shrugged again. “Mine too.” He closed his eyes. Rhiann waited through a dozen heartbeats until she realized he was back asleep.
This time she didn’t hesitate. Despite her assurances to the boy that she wouldn’t go into the hall, she crossed the floor in a few strides. She checked each of the doorways in turn, looking for the stairs that would lead her up. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the men in the fort, but she needed to know what had happened to her friends. She hugged the wall of the stairwell, listening hard for the sound of anyone coming down it. All remained quiet.
She reached the top of the stairs, but was surprised to find that it hadn’t led her directly into the hall. Rather, she found herself in an antechamber storage room, perhaps five paces by ten. It contained no weapons, unfortunately—those would be in the guardhouse by the gate. Instead, chests and chairs had been stacked haphazardly around the walls, as spares in case they were needed for a larger gathering in the hall.
A piece of cloth peeked from one of the chests. Rhiann walked to it, a vague plan forming in her mind. She was still Cadfael’s daughter. Perhaps she could convince Teregad that she knew it was he who had seen her father last, and that she was only searching for word of him and the chance to bury his body if he was dead. Teregad wouldn’t need to know that Rhiann knew how her father had died. Rhiann doubted that Teregad would recognize her as the same girl who’d stood beside Cade and tried to put an arrow through him at Caer Ddu.
Rhiann opened the chest to reveal a stack of clothing. She unfolded the top item and shook out a fine, wool cloak in a soft burgundy. The fabric was plush and warm and she swung it around her shoulders. It fell all the way the ground and covered her completely. Better and better. In the kitchens, being mistaken for a peasant girl was necessary; in the hall, if she were to escape the attentions of a rowdy man, it was important that she appear as a noblewoman.
In the same chest, Rhiann found a comb and spent a frustrated quarter of an hour unbraiding and combing out her hair. The salt and physical activity had tangled it and forced her to rip at it to get all the knots out. Finally, she braided it and wound it in a bun on the top of her head.
Now she was ready to search for her friends. She stepped into the hall, only to find it darkened and without a soul awake. The structure of the hall was much like the one at Caer Ddu, and maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised at that, since the same gods had built it. Tapestries hung on the walls, along with ancient weapons. A single torch, guttering in its sconce, lit the space. Thankfully, a dead man did not adorn the empty space above the fireplace. Instead, a giant boar’s head stared down at her. Maybe it had even been there in the time of Lord Iaen, but something in Rhiann doubted it.
Dozens of men had strewn themselves around the hall, but every one was sound asleep, many of them snoring in a near cacophony of noise. At least Rhiann didn’t need to worry about walking softly. What was clear was that Rhun and the others were not present. Concerned and confused, Rhiann spun on one heel and checked behind her. More stairs went up, presumably to the private apartments and offices of Caer Dathyl’s lord.
Siawn had suggested that it might be possible for them to reach the caverns through an entrance located in Teregad’s rooms, as odd as that might seem. Rhiann decided that if anyone might know, Siawn would, and began to climb the stairs to the second floor. The stairs continued up another flight but she followed the second floor hallway a few paces until she found an open door. No candle burned inside the room. Rhiann sniffed the air. She didn’t have to have Cade’s finely tuned nose to know that it smelled like musty parchment. An office.
Rhiann stepped back into the hall. Still nobody else was in evidence. She walked to the second door, which was slightly ajar. A faint light came through the crack between the door and the frame. Rhiann took a deep breath and pushed the door open. She found herself in a standard bedroom, containing a large four-poster bed with hanging curtains around it, a chest, and one window on a side wall.
Teregad stood with his back to her, holding a lit, but mostly burned down, candle in his hand. He’d placed his other hand on the stones of the wall and was feeling along it, hunting for something. At Rhiann’s step, he spun around. Rhiann hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what to say now that she’d found him, and the two stared at each other.
Teregad pointed at her, his mouth open. “You!”
“Teregad,” Rhiann said. She raised her hand, palm outward, to begin her plea. “I’ve come—.”
She stopped when a look of utter panic crossed Teregad’s face. He took a step backward, fumbling behind him. “Stay away! You aren’t real!”
Rhiann opened her mouth to try again, but Teregad banged the wall with his fist. A loud click sounded, and then a portion of the stone swung away, revealing a dark space behind him. With one last terrified look at Rhiann, Teregad threw himself into the space and disappeared.
The door began to swing closed and Rhiann dashed across the room to stop it from clicking shut. She wasn’t as fast as Cade would have been, but she managed to shove her fingers in the crack just before the door closed.
“Ouch!” The stone pinched her fingers. Quickly, she pulled a blanket from the bed and stuffed it in the space so she could remove her hand. She clenched her fist and pressed the throbbing fingers to her cheek. “By the Saints, that hurt.” She hoped that her earlier exclamation hadn’t awakened anyone on the floor, if there was anyone to wake.
The pain eased and Rhiann examined the door. Someone had cleverly fitted the stones together so that when the door was closed, it was impossible to distinguish from the wall around it. Gently, Rhiann pushed the door wide. On the other side, stone steps led down. Of Teregad, there was
no sign, only a deep, impenetrable blackness.
Chapter Eight
Cade
Cade looked up as Dafydd and Hywel moved openly along the path towards them. While he and Goronwy had waited for them to return, they’d hauled the three dead riders off the trail and thrown them down an incline. Even Cade couldn’t distinguish them from the leaves and brush in the dark. Afterwards, they’d rummaged through the saddle bags of the remaining horse for anything they could eat or use. Cade left the food for the others, but appropriated a spare cloak of surprising quality. Then, they’d released the horse, who trotted down the road a ways before stopping to crop the grass along its edge.
“There’s nobody guarding the entrance to the catacombs,” Dafydd said when he reached them. “We walked right in.”
“Mabon, or Teregad, or Arawn even, doesn’t know we’re coming?” Goronwy said. “Is that possible?”
“Perhaps Tudur and Geraint effectively sold the idea that they are the main force, preparing to attack Caer Dathyl as the rider told us,” Hywel said.
“And the storm at sea was coincidence?” Goronwy said.
Dafydd shrugged. “All I know is that there’s nobody there now.”
“Arawn could want us to walk right in,” Goronwy said. “Perhaps it’s a trap.”
“Either way, I don’t know that it changes anything,” Cade said. “We still have to find him. We still have to go in there. I, for one, am not walking all the way back to the entrance to the fort, only to be turned away when I reach it.”
“Then let’s go!” Hywel said.
“All right,” Cade said. “Lead on.”
The entrance to Arawn’s lair (if that was what this was) was only discernable from the path itself. It squatted underneath an overhanging cliff that rose up on both sides. The path marched straight up the mountain to the entrance and Cade didn’t need to wonder why the riders had taken it slowly when they’d come down, not wanting to twist a horse’s hock. Because he couldn’t imagine that Arawn had rooted himself under Caer Dathyl in King Iaen’s time, Cade supposed that the cave was old but the path to it was new.
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