Crimson Fire (12 page)

“So long as there is breath in my body, I pledge true friendship.

So long as there is blood in my veins, I will shed it in your defense.

So long as you call, I shall answer. So long as you ride, I shall follow.”

Havgan then stepped back and picked up the wineskin. He took a hearty draught, then passed it to Sigerric, who drank and passed it to Penda. One by one they each drank the blood- red wine.

At last they faced east and said solemnly together, “Air has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” They turned south. “Fire has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” They turned west. “Water has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” At last they turned north. “Earth has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”

When they were
fi
nished, Sigerric could clearly feel the

heaviness, the
fi
nality of what they had done. Then he heard

one other thing. Somewhere, far, far in the distance, he heard the sound of a hunting horn and knew it for what it was.

The Wild Hunt had heard this vow today.

And Havgan’s doom, whatever it may be, had come still closer, reaching out to encompass them all.

T
HEY RETURNED TO
the city as dusk was falling. The streets were still crowded with revelers celebrating Gewinnan Daeg Eve. When they passed the open doors of public taverns, bright lights and noise spilled out onto the streets; the sounds of people singing, shouting, drinking, and laughing tangled in doorways and passed out into the night.

As they traveled north up Lindstrat toward Havgan’s house, they passed Byrnwiga, the black stone fortress belonging to the Warleader of the Empire. The building loomed ominously. Narrow windows with iron shutters pierced the dark walls at irregular intervals. Torches burned in brackets across the blank face of the building, faintly illuminating the roof that glittered with tiny jet-black stones. Carved boars’ heads with ruby eyes sat among the eaves, dangerous and challenging.

The windows glowed with light, and the sounds of men cele- brating came clearly to their ears. Prince Athelric seemed to be fully engulfed in his own celebrations, having evidently turned down the invitation to attend his brother’s festivities at Cynerice Scima this evening. Not that Sigerric blamed the Prince for that—he understood that celebrations at the Emperor’s palace were far too tame for a man of Prince Athelric’s jaded tastes. Faintly he thought he heard the sound of women screaming through the noise.

“The Bana is celebrating Gewinnan Daeg Eve, I see,”

Sigerric said to Havgan.

Havgan’s lip curled in contempt. “He brings shame on the title of Bana. The Warleader ought to at least be one who is skilled at arms.”

“Havgan . . .” Sigerric began, startled by a sudden thought, jolted by the contempt in Havgan’s tone.

“Yes?”

“You can’t possibly think to be made Bana. Prince Athelric holds that title and will do so until the Emperor declares Aelf- wyn’s husband-to-be. And that man will be Warleader until he takes the throne at the Emperor’s death.”

“I am aware of that, Sigerric,” Havgan said, his tone amused. “The only way you could become Warleader is if the Em- peror declares an open tournament and you win. And that he would only do if something happened to Athelric. If Prince Athelric dies while the Emperor still lives, the position can only

be
fi
lled by a tournament.”

“Again, I am fully aware of all this,” Havgan replied smoothly. “You can’t think to—”

“To what?”

“To harm Prince Athelric?”

“Sigerric, even if I wanted to, how could I do this? He is guarded day and night. I would never be able to harm him.”

“But you would, if you could.”

Havgan halted his horse and turned to Sigerric. “Put your mind at ease, Sigerric, for surely you know that God himself is with me. Should something happen to Athelric, you could be sure that it was the will of Lytir.”

Havgan turned away, leaving Sigerric unable to move from the sickening feeling in his stomach. It was not the
fi
rst time he

wondered if Havgan had confused his own will with the will of God. And it would not be the last.

W
HEN
H
AVGAN RETURNED
to his house, he was greeted with the news that he had a visitor. His steward informed him that he had put the man—a Master-wyrce-jaga, no less—to wait in Havgan’s private chambers and had seen to it that he was well fed.

“His name?” Havgan asked as he dismounted his horse, giving no hint that the presence of a wyrce-jaga
fi
lled him with unnamable fear.

“Sledda of Cantware. He says he is known to you—that he is the nephew of your former lord, Eorl Wiglaf.”

“Ah,” Havgan said. “Yes, I know of him. Very well, take me to him.”

Havgan’s three-storied house was richly appointed. The sloping timber roof glittered in the light of the torches that lined the central courtyard. Inside the house, the walls were white- washed and covered with
fi
ne tapestries. Costly rugs adorned the smooth, wood
fl
oors throughout. At last the steward stood before the door to Havgan’s chambers and opened it.

Havgan’s room was large and airy. Huge windows set into the north wall looked out over the city that now glittered with
fi
relight and moonlight. A large four-poster bed was set against the west wall and was dressed with a
fi
ne wool spread. The highly polished
fl
oor was covered with soft rugs of dark blue. A large
fi
replace and hearth took up the east wall. Tapestries of battle scenes depicted in red and amber and fantastic forests of gold and green studded the walls except for the south wall, which was covered with a huge map of Kymru. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, with two golden goblets and a

fl
agon chased with rubies resting upon it.

At Havgan’s entrance, Sledda rose from the table, setting down his goblet carefully. The wyrce-jaga looked much as Hav- gan had remembered him from years ago. His tonsured blond hair was, perhaps, a little scantier. His features were sharp, giv- ing him the look of a cunning weasel. His pale, gray eyes were heavily lidded, shutters over the windows of a soul most had no desire to explore further. He wore the customary black robe of the wyrce-jaga. He had a green tabard over the robe, pro- claiming him to be a Master-wyrce-jaga now. Havgan’s brow rose at that.

Sledda, correctly interpreting Havgan’s expression, spoke. “I am the Master-wyrce-jaga of Ivelas.”

“A very recent promotion, or I would have heard of it.” “Very recent, indeed. Just this afternoon, in fact.” “Which would explain your presence in Athelin.” “Not entirely.”

Sledda looked at the steward who waited in the doorway for Havgan’s orders. Havgan dismissed the man, saying that he would call if anything were needed.

“I saw you in the tournament today,” Sledda said, as he again sat down at the table. “You and your men fought well.”

“My men always
fi
ght well.”

“Indeed. You are to
fi
ght the Eorl’s champion tomorrow. I have little doubt that you will win.”

“Because you are sure of my prowess?” Havgan asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“Because I am sure of our God,” Sledda answered. He gestured to the map of Kymru. “Because I know the task Lytir has given you. To complete that task, how could you not win tomorrow?”

“There are many things,” Havgan said quietly, “that stand between me and my goal.”

“But they do not matter, because our God is with you. You have sworn to cleanse Kymru. And I am here to offer you my aid.”

“Your aid. The aid of a Master-wyrce-jaga is surely much.

But not enough.”

“Yet I bring you more than you think. I bring you the sup- port of all the wyrce-jaga of the Empire.”

Havgan’s breath caught in his throat. Such aid would be invaluable. “How can I be sure you speak the truth?” Havgan asked cautiously.

“The Arch-wyrce-jaga of Corania himself sent me here to- night.”

“And I am to believe that?”

“Believe this, then. That Ethbrand could not come himself, for political reasons. Surely you know that the Eorl of Ivelas, whose champion you will
fi
ght tomorrow, is his brother. He could not take a public stand for you in such a contest. So he sends me.”

Sledda reached into his robe and withdrew a ruby ring. The ring was large and glittered in the candlelight. Gold
fl
ashed in Sledda’s palm as he held the ring out to Havgan.

“This is the ring that belonged to Custhorn, the
fi
rst Master- wyrce-jaga of the Empire. It was he who wrote ‘The Secrets of the Heiden’ and
fi
rst set down on paper their
fi
lthy rites, he who
fi
rst proved that the Y Dawnus of Kymru and the Wiccan of Cor- ania were demons, he who was surely a mouthpiece of God.”

Slowly Havgan reached out and picked up the ring from Sledda’s cold hand. The massive golden setting was carved with tiny
fl
ames that seemed to
fl
icker in the uncertain light. The

ruby glittered like fresh blood as he put the ring on his
fi
nger. “The wryce-jaga are with you, Havgan son of Hengist. To

that end I have been sent here. I will be in your inner circle. I will be the conduit for the wyrce-jaga to you. I will inform them of your needs and desires.”

“My men will take long and long to accept you, I think,” Havgan warned.

“No matter,” Sledda said. “I do not live to be liked.”

“It is as well, wyrce-jaga,” Havgan said with a wol
fi
sh grin, “for you would surely be doomed to disappointment.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Sledda said casually, his eyes gleam- ing with malice at Havgan’s remark. “I do have another mes- sage for you.”

“From whom?” Havgan asked sharply. “From the Lady of Apuldre.” “Sigerric’s mother?”

“She begs that you and Sigerric will return to Angelesford as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

“Your mother, Lord Havgan. Your mother is asking to see you. She will not, apparently, be gainsaid. She comes to Lady Elgiva every day, asking if you have come yet. She insists on seeing you. Lady Elgiva says that your mother cannot be put off any longer. She will likely come to Athelin to look for you unless you go to her.”

“Then Sigerric and I will go to Angelesford after the tour- nament. I have some things to do
fi
rst, you see.”

“Yes,” Sledda said coolly. “I do, as you say, see.”

A
FTER
S
LEDDA LEFT
,
Havgan sat on the hearth for a long time,

gazing into the dancing, golden
fl
ames. In his hands he
fi
n- gered the kranzlein, the prayer wheel that he used in his prayers to Lytir. The string consisted of beads of seven colors—white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet—grouped together in seven groups. He spoke to the beads silently in his head as he had been taught by the preosts long ago:
Praise to the Guard- ian of Heofen; praise to Lytir and his Mind-Plans; praise to him who fashioned every wonder; praise to him who made Heofen as a roof; praise to him who made Middle-Earth for man; praise to the Makar; praise to the Emperor of All.

Over and over and over he said these words as he stared into the crackling, shining
fi
re. He did not chant with these beads often. For some reason he only felt compelled to use them when wrestling with a speci
fi
c problem. But when he did use the beads, speak the words over and over in his mind, concen- trate on the problem—well, then sometimes things happened. He had come to the conclusion long ago that when he used the beads, Lytir heard his prayers better. He sometimes visualized them as arrows arcing into the roof of the sky, piercing Heofen itself, gaining Lytir’s approval and answer.

Over and over he spoke to the beads as he stared at the
fi
re, seeing only the
fl
ames, feeling only the heat, thinking only that he must be Warleader of Corania, he must, or else how could the witches of Kymru fall beneath his hand?

Gewinnan Daeg

H
E ROSE EARLY
,
as was his custom. For some reason he felt very tired. He glanced outside, noting that it was going to be another
fi
ne day. A good day, he thought, to defeat the Eorl’s champion, a good day to once again be crowned Gewinnan

Daeg King. A good day to fasten his hungry gaze on Princess Aelfwyn as she crowned him and watch her haughty face
fl
ush beneath the lust she would see in his eyes.

He went to the basin and splashed cold water on his face, willing himself to fully wake, still conscious of a lingering slug- gish feeling. It would wear off soon, he was sure. He dressed casually, donning only a robe of red velvet, for he would break his fast before arming.

He opened his door, and as he stepped into the hallway, the guards on either side saluted, hand to heart. He nodded at them and made his way to the great hall as they followed.

Though he had risen early, his men had risen earlier still, as was expected of them. The large trestle tables were
fi
lled with food—steaming porridge with mounds of butter melting over the top, platters of sausages and thick, smoky bacon, fresh bread and wheels of yellow cheese, and frothy ale. The
fi
fty members of his warband
fi
lled the benches, eating hugely, call- ing out boisterous remarks to one another. At the head table set on the dais, his closest friends were all there: Catha, Bal- dred, Penda, Talorcan, and Sigerric. They were all dressed and armed, ready to assist him to don his own armor and weapons once he had eaten.

“Havgan,” Sigerric asked as he took his seat, “are you well?”