Crimson Fire (17 page)

clear and fair. They had ridden past vineyards laden with pur- ple fruit just moments away from the harvest. They had ridden through the gates of the city and been saluted all the way to Caer Tir. The gates of the King’s fortress were open, and the wolf’s head emblazoned in jet-black onyx and gleaming emer- ald seemed to stare at her with an intensity that made her shiver for a moment.

The courtyard had been crowded with warriors and townsfolk, merchants and farmers, who had come to see King Rhoram, for it was the day he held open court, hearing cases and giving his judgments.

Tallwch, Rhoram’s gatekeeper, had helped Rhiannon from her horse and had smiled his welcome.

“Any news?” Achren asked as she dismounted.

“Only the news of Amatheon’s death that Gwydion sent out. No information has yet been forthcoming on what you were all doing on Afalon.”

“And none will be,” Achren said crisply. “Unless the Dreamer himself gives leave.”

“Rhoram will want to know,” Tallwch said pointedly.

Achren glanced at Tallwch in surprise. “But, of course, I will tell him. He is my King. That was never a question.”

“Of course not,” Tallwch had replied solemnly. “Gwen?” Rhiannon had asked eagerly.

“In the court with Rhoram, Sanon, and Geriant,” Tallwch replied, naming Rhoram’s son and daughter from a previous marriage.

“I must go to her,” Rhiannon had said, intent only on see- ing Gwen.

“Rhiannon,” Tallwch had started to say.

Oh, if she had only listened to his tone. If she had only waited a few moments to
fi
nd out what he had wanted to tell her, she would have been spared much humiliation. But she had not waited. She had gone on ahead, and walked into a pain so great that sometimes she still thought she might die of it. She had left Tallwch behind, not heeding what he was urgently saying to Achren.

She had proceeded up the steps and into the Great Hall. The hall had been packed with those who had come to hear Rhoram’s judgments. Sunlight had streamed through the huge, open doors and through windows set high around the stone walls, but that had not been enough to illuminate the large chamber, so hundreds of torches burned, set in brackets against the walls. A
fi
re had been burning in the huge
fi
replace, send- ing its shifting light to play over the faces of those in the hall.

Rhoram had sat on the dais in a massive chair canopied with green velvet. He was wearing a tunic and breeches of em- erald, with black leather boots stitched with emeralds on the turned-down cuffs. He had worn his emerald ring, and a ring of glittering onyx dangled from his right ear. His golden hair was pulled back and secured at the nape of his neck with a clasp of emerald and gold. His blue eyes were intent as he listened to the man speaking, a merchant who had been presenting his case.

Rhiannon had scanned the faces on the dais, barely not- ing that Queen Efa sat next to her husband; that the Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s chief counselor, was standing by the King’s chair, that golden-haired Geriant and gentle Sanon were stand- ing to one side, listening gravely.

Instead she was looking for Gwen, and she had eyes for no one else now. The glint of familiar golden hair in the
fi
relight

caught her eye. Gwen stood to one side at the foot of the dais, looking bored. She wore a tunic and breeches of brown leather and was tapping one booted foot impatiently, her arms crossed, a frown on her exquisite face. Clearly Gwen was anxious to return to her warrior’s training and resentful of the delay. Rhi- annon determined to speak to her daughter about that at the earliest opportunity.

At that moment Achren joined her at the doorway. Achren did not hesitate, but made her way though the crowd easily, with Rhiannon following in her wake. As they came nearer to the dais, the merchant faltered, aware of a commotion behind him.

Rhoram’s eyes had lit up as he had seen Achren make her way through the crowd. He had risen, prepared to welcome his Captain home after her three-month absence. And then his eyes had met Rhiannon’s and the spark that leapt into his eyes had almost choked her with its intensity. But she tore her gaze from his to seek Gwen. And that was when she clearly saw the turn her life had taken, clearly saw the price that the Shining Ones had demanded of her.

Gwen, gazing at her mother with contempt, had turned away and left the hall.

Rhiannon had stopped midway through the crowd when she had seen that. Rhoram, seeing it, too, had descended the dais, pity in his eyes and the need to explain written on his face.

But she had needed no explanation. It had been clear in her daughter’s blue eyes that she had not been forgiven for leaving. Clear that Gwen would punish Rhiannon for abandoning her, punish her for some time—perhaps forever.

So she had turned away, blinded by her sudden tears, push- ing her way through the crowd and back into the courtyard

where Tallwch still stood by her horse.

“She will forgive you, Rhiannon,” Tallwch had said. “When?” she had asked through the ache in her throat.

But Tallwch had not had an answer for her. She had ridden away, not looking back. Not bidding Achren good-bye, not giving Rhoram a chance to greet her. She had ridden straight to her cave in Coed Aderyn, to the place she had once lived with Gwen.

She knew Gwen would not come here. And she knew her daughter would tell no one the location of the cave. So she had stayed there, alone, during this last year, forcing herself to get up in the mornings, forcing herself to feed and clothe herself, forcing herself to get through each day.

But now she was tired. More tired than she had ever been. She hadn’t been eating well for some time, and she knew her clothes hung awkwardly on her too-thin frame. Her hair had lost its blue-black sheen and lay lank and tangled over her bony shoulders. She had not even bothered to dress today and still wore her cotton, low-cut sleeveless nightshift.

Dirty cups and wooden plates were scattered across the sur- face of the rough table. Her pallet was still unmade, and the blankets were mussed and dirty. Dust covered the surfaces of the shelves and the intricately carved wooden trunk that held her clothes; the same layer of dust lay heavily on the telyn, her father’s harp, and on the books stacked next to it. Even the rough walls of the caves gleamed dully in the
fi
tful light that ended less than a foot from the cave entrance, for there was no other light source. It had seemed too much trouble to light the candles, much less a
fi
re. Water streamed over the mouth of the cave, the sunlight turning the shimmering waterfall into a spray of diamonds, for the one thing she had done this morning was

to pull back the heavy curtain that hid the mouth of the cave. And that was when the light shifted. Someone was stand-

ing at the mouth of the cave, having made their way across the rocks of the pool and behind the curtain of water.

Dully she wondered if it was someone sent to kill her, just as the man from a year ago had tried to murder her. But then she realized that she did not care. She was already dead, so what did it matter what happened to her body? She would welcome a murderer.

But it wasn’t a murderer at all.

It was something worse. Much, much worse.

“R
HIANNON
,”
HE SAID
.
“Wake up.”

He was sitting on the cold, stone
fl
oor, holding her in his lap, cradling her head against his chest.

She opened her eyes and looked up into his face. His short, dark beard was shot here and there with silvery-gray. There were, perhaps, more lines on his handsome face, lines of grief and sorrow and loneliness. But his gray eyes were as cool and watchful as ever, giving nothing away as he gazed down at her, his face carefully expressionless.

“What happened?” she asked tiredly. “You fainted.”

“Ridiculous,” she snorted. “I never faint.” “Do you ever eat?”

“Since when is that any of your business?”

“Ah,” he said, his mouth giving the faintest twitch of hu- mor, “the same old Rhiannon. For a moment there I thought you had changed.”

She sat up, removing herself from his embrace. The move-

ment, slight as it was, made her dizzy, and she sat still for a moment, her eyes closed, willing the cave to stop spinning. She made as if to stand, but Gwydion, laying his hands on her shoul- ders, stopped her.

“No,” he said quietly. “Do not move just yet.”

She would have ignored his command if she had been able to, but she knew he was right—if she stood she would only fall. And he probably wouldn’t bother to catch her.

“Do you have any Penduran’s Rose?” he asked as he rose and searched her shelf of medicines.

“Third bottle from the right,” she answered wearily. She knew what that was for. The plant was known for, among other things,
fi
ghting depression. She wanted to argue with him, to tell him that she was not depressed, but she was too tired.

He picked up a small, dirty pot from the table and went to the waterfall. He washed out the pot, then
fi
lled it and brought it back to the hearth. He went to her dwindling stack of
fi
re- wood and laid a
fi
re in the
fi
replace. Then he raised his hand and gestured, and the wood burst into
fl
ames. The
fi
re crackled cheerfully as he hung the small pot from the spit and settled it to warm over the
fi
re.

He glanced down at her as she sat huddled on the
fl
oor, the dirty blanket still around her thin shoulders. He looked around and spotted her small rocking chair and drew it up before the hearth. Without a word he helped her up and into the chair. He took off his black cloak and, dispensing with the tattered blanket, wrapped her in the warm, woolen cloth. Tears sprang to her eyes because of his unwonted gentleness, but she ducked her head so he wouldn’t see. She must be weaker than she thought to let such a gesture affect her. And from the Dreamer,

of all people.

After a few moments, when the
fi
re had taken the chill off the water, he poured it from the pot into a small, wooden cup— one of the few that were not dirty. He crushed a few leaves of Penduran’s Rose into the cup and swirled the liquid around. He then handed it to her and stood over her as she drank it, which she did without protest, for she knew he was determined. And she was tired. So tired. Too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything else but lay her head against the back of the chair and let the drowsiness wash over her.

Too tired to even care—then—that Gwydion had seen her in her weakness. Later that would matter. And it would matter a great deal.

Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon

S
HE WOKE WITH
a start, uncertain, at
fi
rst, where she was. Sun- light streamed in through the cave mouth, illuminating the rock walls where crystal gleamed in the golden light. A
fi
re crackled, warming a large pot from which came a most wonderful, ap- petizing smell. The dishes were cleared from the table, washed, and put away neatly on their accustomed shelf. Her harp, the bindings of her books, the small trunk all gleamed, free of dust. The
fl
oor had been swept, and candles burned brightly, illu- minating the dark corners where neither sunlight nor
fi
relight could reach. Her chair was still drawn up before the hearth, but now Gwydion was sitting in it, occasionally leaning forward to stir whatever wonderful concoction bubbled in the pot.

She was still wearing her shift, but she noticed that her body had been washed and her hair was combed out of its dreadful tangles. She was still wrapped in Gwydion’s soft, woolen cloak,

and she felt more comfortable than she had been in a long time. Most amazing, her stomach growled at the smell of food, in- stead of responding with nausea, as she was accustomed to.

She sat up and even the dizziness was gone. He turned to her as he sensed her movement. They looked at each other for a long time, silvery-gray eyes meeting emerald green, but they did not speak. Later she would be unable to say what had really passed between them in that look. There had been too much there to allow her to sort it out into neat answers. She
fi
nally made herself to rise, and he hurried over to her.

“Hungry?” he asked as he helped her over to the bench at the table.

“Yes,” she replied in surprise. “I really am.”

“Supper will be ready in one moment. Drink this.” He handed her a cup of watered ale and turned back to the
fi
re. Using a cloth, he opened the door of the small bread oven and pulled out a loaf, the crust done to perfection. He set it down on one of the wooden plates and sliced it. Though she knew it was hot, she took a piece anyway and began to eat, for she could not wait. It burned her mouth slightly, but it was worth it, she rea- soned, for it was the best bread she had ever eaten. That alone boded well for the stew he was still stirring.

In the end she ate three bowls of the rich, savory stew. He had caught a rabbit that morning, he said. A search of her larder had yielded a few edibles to put in the stew—some dried peas and beans, some onions, and some parsley. She had no idea he was capable of making such a wonderful meal from so little. Indeed, she would have told him so, but with her return- ing strength came a keen sense of humiliation.

That he of all people should see her in her weakness! That

was surely something he would hold over her head forever. That he had cleaned her home, that he had washed her body and combed her hair, that he had fed her and wrapped her in his own cloak—it was almost too much to be borne.

She laid down her spoon after eating the last drop in her bowl and looked up at him. He had
fi
nished eating some time ago and had been quietly sitting across from her at the table, waiting for her to
fi
nish. She studied his face, seeking for some hint of superiority, of pity, of contempt. But she could
fi
nd noth- ing. Nothing at all, for his face was as much of a mask as it had always been, and his eyes were shuttered.