Crimson Fire (19 page)

Woe that I was ever born

And my mother and father reared me, That I did not die

With the milk of the breast Before losing my heart’s brother.

From Bran’s Poems of Sorrow Circa 275

Athelin, Marc of Ivelas Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire Holdmonath & Nemonath, 496

R

Sar Daeg, Sol 35—early afternoon

hiannon stood on the deck of the gently swaying ship, gazing at the city sprawled on the shore. She could just make out the skyline, pierced by sharp spires of

gray stone, by soaring bell towers of pine, by tall, sloping roofs of gold-inlaid timber glittering harshly beneath the sun. Here and there she could see the inky shadows of closely packed hovels, huddled together as if in shame.

She found it hard to believe they were
fi
nally here, ready

to dock at the great city of Athelin, the capital of the Coranian Empire. It had taken them four and a half months to get here, though a journey by ship straight from Kymru to this city would have taken merely a matter of two weeks. But they had not trav- eled directly to the capital, for it was imperative that their Kym- ric background be kept secret. So Rhiannon and Gwydion had left Kymru by ship and traveled to Seville, the chief coastal city of Austarias on the western shores of the continent.

From there they had traveled by horse and on foot through Frankia and Lombardy, until
fi
nally reaching Ancona, a city on the eastern shores of the continent. There Gwydion judged that they were safe from suspicion and that no one would be able to identify them as Kymri. It was then that they took a ship around the eastern coast of Corania itself and made their
fi
nal way to Athelin. As they traveled, Rhiannon slowly gained back her strength. It felt good—oh, so good—to be strong again.

They advertised themselves as minstrels from Turin, a land in the south of Lombardy, where the people were dark of hair and light of eyes. He gave their names as Guido Asti and Rhea Varins. He taught her how to speak Coranian, which had not been as dif
fi
cult as she had feared. He taught her song after song, and she was an apt pupil, singing accompaniment to the ballads in a clear, mellow tone. Gwydion was an accomplished musician and could play any instrument he had a mind to. When they performed, they collected what she considered to be an astonishing amount of money.

He had taught her dancing, too, which, to her amazement, she was quite good at. In her costume of clinging white linen, gold belt, and heavy golden collar, she danced to the sensuous beat of Gwydion’s drums in the smoke -
fi
lled rooms of inns along the way, catching all eyes. All eyes but Gwydion’s, it seemed. Not that she wanted to catch his eye—or any other part of his anatomy, for that matter.

They tolerated each other, and had lapsed into a caustic, sharp way of talking, waging a continuous verbal battle to keep each other at bay. For her part, she was still angry he had seen her in her weakness, sure that he was going to
fi
nd a way to use that against her.

As for him, she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling beneath his habitual mask. He treated her as someone whose company he had to endure, making it clear that he was trying to make the best of a bad situation.

Once again, she gazed at Athelin. The Kymri and the Cor- anians had been enemies for time eternal. But never had there been so much hatred as when the new religion of Lytir, the One God, had swept through Coran like wild
fi
re, two hundred years before.

So many had died because of this new religion. One of the
fi
rst to die had been Branwen, the sister of Bran the Dreamer, who had married a Coranian Prince. When she had refused to embrace the new religion, she had been imprisoned, and though she was rescued from burning by her brother, she had later died of grief. The Kymri had never forgiven the Coranians for that— and never would. The countries of Mierce and Dere, which had refused to convert, had been invaded by the Coranians, their Kings and Queens killed, their cities and
fi
elds burned, their people taken as slaves and absorbed into the greedy maw of the Empire. Thule, the country to the north, still clung to the Old Gods—Wuotan and Holda, Fro and Freya, Donar and Tiw. Separated from the continent by a narrow channel, they had been able to maintain their independence from the Empire.

The other three countries to the south of the Coranian Empire—Austarias, Frankia, and Lombardy—had accepted the new religion. They kept their own rulers, but they were subject to the Coranian Emperor and the Archpreost. And the Archpreost had at his disposal the wyrce-jaga, the arm of the church that gleefully rooted out and killed those of the old religion. The wyrce-jaga were feared and hated, both by the

common folk and the nobility, but they were obeyed.

Gwydion explained more than once that arousing the suspi- cions of the wyrce-jaga was to be avoided at all costs. Countless times on their trip across the continent, Gwydion and Rhian- non had attended the Sundaeg services in whatever town they found themselves in order to avoid even a hint of suspicion. And they both wore the amulets of the new religion—a medallion carved in the shape of an oak tree.

Gwydion had also impressed on her the need to use her telepathy and clairvoyance as little as possible. The Kymri did not have a monopoly on the gifts, and there were also Coran- ians who were born with telepathy, clairvoyance, and the like. They were called Wiccans and their gifts were the same as the Y Dawnus of Kymru. Rhiannon thought she would rather be dead than to be one of those poor wretches, for their choices were cruel. They could deny their birthright and live in fear of discovery. Or they could practice the old religion secretly. Many of them were drawn to it because in the old religion these talents were viewed as gifts by the gods, but they risked death if discovered. Some of them became fortune-tellers and mystics, attaching themselves to traveling carnivals. They paid the wyrce-jaga to leave them be, but sometimes more payment than they could afford would be demanded and then they, too, would die.

No, she hadn’t wanted to come to Corania at all. As Athe- lin, the city from which all the darkness sprang, came closer, she shuddered again.

“Get your cloak if you’re cold,” Gwydion said harshly from his place to the right of her on the deck.

“I’m not cold. I’m nervous. Can’t you feel it? There’s

something terribly wrong with this place.”

“You could say that about any place in this Empire and be right.”

“Oh, yes. But here,” she lifted her hands and gestured at the tall buildings, at the crowded, noisome dock, at the closely packed houses, at the ragged sailors and the yoked slaves. “It’s worse here.”

“Get used to it. We’ll be here quite a while.” “We hope,” she said.

“We will.” He sounded con
fi
dent as always.

She set her teeth and willed herself not to toss him into the harbor. “You’re sure we will
fi
nd him here?”

“He’ll be here. I’ll
fi
nd him.”

“You’ll
fi
nd him,” she said
fl
atly. “Wonderful. Maybe if I’m very, very good you’ll at least let me watch.”

“All right,” he said in that mild way of his, like an adult soothing a child about to burst into a tantrum. “We’ll
fi
nd him, then. Is that better?”

In their journey they had heard of two men, one of which was surely the man they sought, the Golden Man from Gwydi- on’s dreams. One was Aelbald, the Empress’s nephew. The other was Havgan, a
fi
sherman’s son from Cantware. Both men were vying for the position of Bana, Warleader of the Empire. The man who would be proclaimed Warleader would one day rule all of Corania through marriage to Princess Aelwyn, heir to the throne. The matter would be decided at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament, some months from now.

“Now that we’re here,” she said acidly, ignoring his ques- tion, “perhaps you would care to tell me just how we are to get inside the Golden Man’s household to do our spying?”

She hardly expected a response, for she had asked that ques- tion of him many times. But to her surprise, he actually an- swered her as the ship docked, the plank was let down, and they found themselves on the crowded docks of Athelin.

“We sing for him,” he said. “What else?”

T
HEY MADE THEIR
way away from the docks, traveling some distance down Lindstrat. The street was cobbled and houses were crowded narrowly on either side, hanging over the road, cutting out the sun and making it dim even in the bright after- noon. To their right the River Saefern
fl
owed through the center of the city, spanned here and there with wooden bridges, arched high enough to allow passage of ships on their way to the sea.

At last they found an inn, somewhat run-down, but lively enough. Gwydion made a deal with the innkeeper for room and board in exchange for entertainment, and they were led to a small, shabby attic room. There was one bed, a small table with a basin and pitcher, and a brazier of coals.

“How long will we be here?” she asked wearily, depositing her bag and harp on the
fl
oor.

“Not long,” he answered, in an equally tired voice. “We’ll rest for a while, play here tonight, and go looking for him to- morrow.”

“I think we had best look today.” He looked at her quickly. “Why?”

“We have to go to their temple. Didn’t you notice the marks on people’s foreheads? As I recall from your interminable les- sons, today is Sar Daeg, when all good Coranians, and those not so good, go to church and get the mark in bull’s blood. That means we’d best go, too, unless we want the wyrce-jaga to pay

us a visit.”

“Ah. Yes. Just what I was going to say.” In spite of his airy statement his mouth quirked, acknowledging that she had scored a point. Unaccountably she laughed.

His gray eyes lit up as he looked down at her laughing face. He smiled and her heart skipped a beat. Abruptly she stopped laughing and his smile faded.

Stif
fl
y, she turned toward the door. “Coming?” she asked

without turning her head. For a moment she thought he was going to say something, but then he changed his mind and fol- lowed her out the door.

T
HEY CROSSED THE
Bogastrat Bridge for Gwydion had decided that the best church to go to was the largest one, Ealh Athe- lin, on the western side of the city. That was the place where most of the rich and in
fl
uential people of Athelin gathered, and therefore was the best place to locate the Golden Man.

The water in the River Saefern had a brown, muddy cast to it, though it
fl
owed swiftly out to the sea. The late afternoon sun was waning, as the days were short this time of year. The air was crisp and cool, but Rhiannon was unable to enjoy it, scented as it was with the smells of the huge city—ill-dug privies, carelessly tossed trash, unwashed bodies. Occasionally they passed other people, but the streets were mostly silent and subdued.

“And tomorrow,” she said, gesturing at the empty streets, “this will all change?”

“Oh, yes. Tomorrow is Undeadlic Daeg, when they cel- ebrate the day Lytir came back to life. Today is Sar Daeg, when they mourn his death. It’s the last day of Modcerau, which lasts for about a month. During that time it’s gloomy and quiet.

People give up something they like during Modcerau. Not much merrymaking this time of year.”

“What do you mean—give up something?”

“For instance, if someone likes their wine, they don’t drink it for all of Modcerau. They think of it as a sacri
fi
ce to their God, by giving up what they like best.”

“Ah.” She cocked a sardonic eyebrow. “And does their God appreciate this?”

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t believe he’s ever said.”

“As closemouthed as you, apparently.”

“Do I detect a note of censure?” He shot her a swift glance, his gray eyes keen.

“Would you care?” she demanded.