by Karen Myers
That’s it, she thought, and stood up.
In just a few minutes, she had packed some things and said goodbye to Alun, closing the door of the huntsman’s house behind her.
She walked to the stable and left instructions to prepare her horse, then went on to find Gwyn in his chamber, waiting for the first news from Edgewood.
He took one look at her face and stood up. “What’s happened?”
“I don’t know, exactly, but it’s very bad. I’m going to Edgewood, right now. I need a token.” She held out her hand.
Gwyn reached into a drawer on his desk and put one in her hand, folding her fingers around it. “I’m coming, too, and bringing Rhian.”
Gwyn and Rhian emerged from the Edgewood Way in the late afternoon at the head of several more wagons of supplies and made for the main hall. They were intercepted by Rhodri, wearing a very somber expression, and he led them around to the conservatory.
They found it a scene of chaos, with bedding piled at one end, an impromptu meeting table in the middle, and much of the room given over to tables with maps, drawings, and small objects. There was the bell, hanging on a wall, the one he’d read about in the couriers’ reports.
Angharad had preceded them by a few hours. She rose to greet them and introduced them to Seething Magma.
The description Gwyn had read in the dispatches did not prepare him for her sheer size and strange featureless appearance. He’d been warned about touching her directly, and he appreciated how daintily she maneuvered her bulk to avoid accidental contacts.
He bowed deeply to her. “My lady, it’s a great honor to meet you. I’m sorry that it took these melancholy circumstances to make it possible.”
She dipped her leading edge to him, which he understood as a matching courtesy.
Angharad pointed at a small stuffed lion. This, he learned, was his symbol. Gwyn introduced Rhian to her. Rhian curtsied, and Mag led her over to the picture of cells with a small crown.
“Is that Rhys?” she asked.
One knock.
“That’s yes,” Angharad said.
Mag went to the table of unused objects and came up with a small pyramid which she dropped in front of Rhian.
Eluned said to Rhian, “Sometimes we don’t understand her metaphors. Rhodri’s a sun, for example.”
“That’s easy,” Rhian said. “It’s ’cause he’s always sunny.”
One knock.
Eluned shook her head ruefully. “That was too simple, we never thought of it.”
Angharad said, “The pyramid’s for Rhian, because it always lands right side up. It’s solid, you can’t knock it over.” Rhian looked surprised, but Mag confirmed the guess with a knock.
Gwyn looked up as Edern came over and they clasped each other’s arms. He was shocked at his brother’s appearance. He clearly hadn’t slept for some time. It had disquieted him when Ceridwen reported in his stead last night. Edern had to be deeply distressed not to be able to write. He reflected that his brother had never been as good as he was at walling off his emotions from his responsibilities.
Gwyn had waited for the mid-day dispatches before leaving, and he knew what Mag had been able to relay about Madog’s interrogation, painfully, with many halts. He needed more details about Cernunnos’s role in all of this, but that could wait until later.
He turned to her now. “Are they still alive, my lady?” he asked.
“You have to phrase it so she can answer yes or no, it’s easier that way,” Angharad said.
“George?” he asked.
One knock.
“Rhys?”
Three knocks.
“She doesn’t know.” This time it was Cydifor who spoke.
Gwyn made note of him. He’d heard, from Eluned and Rhodri’s notes, how useful he’d been in getting details from Mag. He seemed to have a real empathy with her, a talent for understanding what she meant.
Edern pulled himself together. “Gwyn, I’d appreciate your help with this gathering tomorrow, all the delegates from the recovering people. It’s the one good thing to come out of all this.”
Gwyn had come partly for this purpose. He walked off with Edern and Cadugan to discuss their plans, leaving Rhian behind with Angharad to talk quietly with Mag.
George woke, sometime in the night, to an empty room with a closed door. He was still strapped to the chair, and the straps that had been broken by Cernunnos had been replaced and reinforced. Some sort of metal framework had been added to the chair, jutting out above his head.
The pain in his back was insistent and he could feel it throbbing with his pulse. He’d had nothing to drink since his capture—he wasn’t sure how many days it had been—and his thirst was the only thing more acute than his injuries.
His body had partially numbed to the unchanging position but everything ached and he couldn’t move to make any small adjustments for relief. He tried to go back to sleep in the chair, but there was nothing to lean his head on and it hurt too much to just drop his head forward and let it dangle.
He tried anyway, and succeeded for a little while. But there were dreams, bad dreams. Dreams of death, but worse, dreams of Angharad’s death, in childbirth, torn by unnatural creatures. He woke with a start, afraid to sleep again.
Mag, are you there?`
*Here.*
Sorry you saw all that, Mag. I hope you’re alright.
*Picture of George, crumpled. Sorrow.*
Yeah, well, I thought something like this might happen. Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon. I can’t give Madog what he wants.
*Picture of Seething Magma.*
That’s right. He wants to own you, like Cloudie, and take over Annwn. Cernunnos couldn’t stop him today, but you can. Don’t come.
*Picture of George, crumpled.*
Doesn’t matter. Don’t come, no matter what. While Madog works on convincing me, he’s probably leaving Rhys alone, in case he needs him as a second choice. The longer I last, the longer that should work. Madog thinks I’ve claimed you and can bring you here. Once that happens, all he’d have to do is kill me and claim you himself. Don’t let that happen. That would be the end of Rhys and me, and eventually hundreds of people.
*Agreement.*
The effort to convince her to stay away exhausted him. His head nodded forward and he tried to doze again, but the dreams returned, haunted with unnatural creatures and blood. From somewhere far away he heard a familiar voice humming a tune, a lullaby. It was soothing, and he followed it down, away from his thirst and his pain.
CHAPTER 23
Edern had dressed with care in the morning. He wanted to look reassuring and in command for all the Edgewood people who’d been living in darkness for so long.
He knew his own disinclination to rule made him rather different from others in his family. Gwyn had always been tougher, but they’d reached an accommodation over the centuries that suited them both. These last several days had been very hard on him, and he appreciated the work of Cadugan, Ceridwen, and Eluned in taking as much of it as possible out of his hands. Still, these people were in his care, as custodian for his grandson (don’t think about him not coming back, he told himself), and all his breeding made that a sacred responsibility for him, one he didn’t intend to shirk.
The speech was scheduled for the afternoon. Here, at the mid-day meal, he was stunned by the number of delegates that had appeared. There were at least a hundred fae, and a couple of dozen korrigans. The lutins had surprised him, sending more than twenty. More of all kinds were still trickling in.
He was determined to weld them back into a functioning domain, not a group of wounded animals trying to survive. They had it in them to restore their lives from this point forward, if he could just inspire them to try stay focused on rebuilding, not on dwelling on what they had lost.
The opening of the door woke George from his doze. He watched blearily as Madog took his accustomed seat and Scilti moved behind him, out of sight, and fed more fuel to the brazier
which had subsided overnight. One of the guards carried a tray with a pitcher and two glasses. Another guard walked around the chamber and lit the torches from the one he carried.
Madog said, “Perhaps you’re wondering about the new iron roof over your head?”
George glanced up without comment.
“I thought some special preparations were in order. If your friend Cernunnos wants to join us again, he should break his head nicely.”
George could feel the frustration, deep inside.
He laughed out loud, he couldn’t help it. All that iron over his head when his very name, Traherne, meant iron-hard.
Madog looked disconcerted, but recovered his stride
“Now, I’d like to see that beast of yours, huntsman. You can sign it right over and I may let you live.”
George opened his mouth, but his tongue was too swollen and dry to talk.
“Oh, so sorry,” Madog said. “Let me get you something to drink.”
He poured a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to a guard. George gulped it down as the guard held it to his mouth, licking every drop he could reach.
Madog watched him with an unreadable expression for a few minutes.
George wished he could drink the entire pitcher, but the water helped. The face of Madog began to shine for him, to pulse. As Madog began speaking in an even, reasonable voice, George heard an echo behind the words. Drugged, the water was drugged, he realized.
The knowledge didn’t matter. The hypnotic was reinforced by Madog’s tone and he had to listen to him. Madog pulled him along on a smooth course.
“Now huntsman, just invite your beast here and give it to me. It’ll all be over quickly, and then you can take a nice long rest. We’ll see to your unfortunate injuries and you can have all the water you want.”
The voice went on and on, soothing, liquid, and deadly. George’s head nodded involuntarily but he kept his eyes on Madog’s face, on his eyes.
A small voice inside him cried false, false, all false. Don’t talk to him. It was very hard to obey, but he trusted it, it rang true to his own stubborn nature.
The seductive voice murmured some more. George tried to shut his eyes to break the focus.
“Look at me, huntsman.” George obeyed. “Will you do this one thing for me?”
George could see nothing but Madog’s eyes. He shut his own and shook his head. It was all he could manage.
There was blessed silence for a moment.
“Too bad,” Madog said, with a sorrowful tone.
Scilti walked around to the front of the chair with a long thin red-hot needle of iron. He wrapped an arm around George’s head to immobilize it and held the needle in front of his left eye with his other hand to give him a good long look at it, smoking, a few small cinders from the fire stuck to it. Then he delicately inserted it and blinded him. George couldn’t remember screaming but he felt the echo of it in the room. The shock reverberated through and through him.
Madog leaned forward and patted him on the arm, consolingly. “Now, now, you still have one eye left. Don’t you want to see your beast again? Why don’t you bring it here?”
George curled himself up tight in a ball inside. Ignore him, he told himself. Why? Don’t remember.
Somewhere outside of himself, he heard Madog say, “Hard to hunt the hounds if you can’t ride, huntsman. Bring your beast and all this will stop.”
George huddled inside and tuned him out. Silence was the only fight he could win.
His retreat was broken when Scilti smashed his left knee from the side with an iron sledge. With his remaining eye he could see bone fragments mixed in with the blood. He retched but there was nothing to bring up.
“So sad. One more chance. No?” Madog paused.
“Well, I think we can keep you a long time if we’re careful. One more persuader, I think. If you can’t see the ways, it’ll be easier to manage you.”
Scilti returned with the red-hot needle, smoking and sputtering. George watched him in terror and wept, but he refused to speak as he lost what remained of his sight.
Seething Magma was alone in the conservatory except for Angharad. Everyone else was off listening to Edern in the main hall of the manor.
Mag wasn’t completely sure about what was happening, but she understood that it was important to the recovery of the people here, and she knew their former state had been caused by a way her daughter had made, even if she’d had no choice in the matter. She felt responsible somehow.
She wished she could discuss this with Angharad. So, this was a second parent. She looked carefully and, sure enough, she saw the tiny new bud.
She rummaged through the unused objects and selected a magnifying glass. She placed it gently at Angharad’s feet.
“This is me? What is it, someone who looks at small things?”
Cydifor walked in. “No, someone who sees clearly.”
One knock.
“I thought you’d be at Edern’s speech,” Angharad said.
“I was there. Hard to make music out of politics, though, however well intended.”
She laughed.
Mag went back to the table. Hard to choose for a bud, so she settled for good wishes. She found a small bell and brought it back to Angharad.
“I don’t understand, what does the second symbol mean?”
Mag gestured with a pseudopod and Angharad put down the magnifying glass. Mag took the magnifying glass and the collar and put them together on the table.
“Yes, that’s right. We’re married,” Angharad said.
Mag added the bell, below them.
Angharad blushed and Cydifor stared at her. “Are you…?”
“I don’t know. This is a child?”
One knock. Mag didn’t understand the fuss, but she tasted Angharad’s deep joy and was satisfied.
She felt George wake up, but she saw he wasn’t alone and decided not to distract him. She followed along and felt Madog’s insistence on having her. She agreed with George’s argument last night, that she couldn’t let that happen.
It was terrible that she couldn’t help him. She’d been pleased that her recollection of the woman’s night song to her child, the one she’d learned after their evening of music a few days ago, had worked on him and let him rest. She’d have to try that again if it seemed necessary.
Pain. That’s wrong. She heard Angharad cry out and tasted the echo she felt, too.
George’s thoughts became strange and he listened to Madog. Mag worried. She thought George might be able to claim her, even from far away. She didn’t completely understand the skills of these people, the ones who manipulated the ways. She trusted him but now he tasted different and she could feel him struggling to resist.
More pain. Were they killing him? And finally, the last blow. She didn’t understand their senses, how localized they were, since her own were diffused throughout her body, but she had looked out through George’s eyes and now she couldn’t. Horrified, she realized he couldn’t either. That’s what blind meant.
She felt Angharad’s distress.
“What’s happened?” Cydifor asked. He held a weeping Angharad. Angharad shook her head, and he looked to Mag.
“Is George dead?”
Two knocks.
“Hurt?”
One knock. Pause. One knock. Pause. One knock.
“Badly?”
One knock.
“How? Show me.”
Reluctantly, Mag sketched George. She drew two broad lines down and across his back in an “X” shape. She dropped a blot of ink on his left knee. She dropped a blot on each eye.
Angharad watched and moaned, shoving a fist against her mouth. She pushed away from Cydifor and walked over to a west-facing window and stood with her back to the room, shaking.
Mag headed slowly towards the bell on the wall to let the others know, but Cydifor stopped her.
“Don’t. There’s no point in interrupting, there’s nothing they can do. Tell th
em afterward. That’ll be soon enough.”
She tasted his thoughts. Yes, he was right.
“Is it over?” Cydifor asked.
One knock.
“Thank goodness for that,” he said. And then sat down himself in the nearest chair and wept.
Gwyn strode into the conservatory with Edern, congratulating him on the success of his speech. Rhys’s council, now Edern’s, followed hard on their heels, talking with each other.
Something was wrong, and Gwyn stopped. Angharad turned from the window where she’d been standing, tears on her face, and Cydifor looked up from his seat, in the same state.
Gwyn’s heart sank. “What’s happened?” he asked, in hushed tones.
Cydifor stood up. “No one’s dead,” he said, right away, trying to soften the blow. “But George…” He choked.
Rhian pushed past Gwyn and Edern and went to Angharad. “Come on, cousin, come sit down.” Gwyn had never heard her call Angharad “cousin” before, though it was correct since George was indeed her cousin. And he’d never seen her take charge like, well, like an older woman making sure everyone was well looked after. She would be fifteen soon, he thought, irrelevantly. This is what she was becoming.
“Tell me,” he said to Cydifor.
“We need to let Mag tell it, my lord, we just got the… the damage report.” He picked up the sketch of George that Mag had drawn and handed it over. Gwyn glanced down at it briefly and closed his eyes. He felt Edern take it from his hand and he could hear the intakes of breath as it was passed around and each interpreted what they saw.
He reached for a chair at random and sat down. “Tell us, my lady, if you please,” he said to Seething Magma.
Angharad sat stupefied by what had happened to George, listening to Gwyn and Eluned attempting to get the full story from Seething Magma by adroit questioning and occasional inspired guesses.
Why was Madog so insistent on this interrogation? She interrupted Eluned chasing another detail and asked Mag directly, “What is it Madog wants of George? Why is it so important to him?”