Crimson Fire (21 page)

The Golden Man and the wyrce-jaga hurried up the steps to their companion just as Gwydion was helping him up. Rhi- annon ran up and threw her arms around Gwydion. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously scanning his face. “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed, wiping at a trickle of blood running down his cheek. “Oh, my love, you scared me so!”

The Golden Man helped up his friend, his face pale and anx- ious. “Sigerric,” he asked, “what happened, man? Are you hurt?” “Not in the least. Thanks to him,” Sigerric said, gesturing

at Gwydion. The Golden Man turned to Gwydion and sur- veyed him, his hawk-like amber eyes looking into Gwydion’s quicksilver gray ones. For a moment everything was still as they studied each other.

At last, the Golden Man smiled brie
fl
y. “You have my

thanks. Sigerric’s a good friend of mine, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. What is your name?”

Gwydion bowed politely, “I am Guido Asti, a minstrel of Turin. And this is my woman, Rhea Varins.”

“Your woman?” the man replied, looking Rhiannon over as he had done earlier. “Not your sister, then?”

“No,” Gwydion said
fi
rmly. “My woman.”

“What a pity,” the Golden Man replied absently, still look- ing Rhiannon over leisurely from head to toe. She
fl
ushed and looked down at the ground.

“And you, great lord?” Gwydion asked. “Whom have I the honor of addressing?”

“Down on your knees,” the wyrce-jaga said haughtily, “this is the great Havgan of Dorsetas, soon to be the Bana of the Empire.”

Gwydion bowed, but declined to get on his knees. “This is true luck to meet a great lord such as yourself, for we have heard of your greatness even as far as Turin.”

“And what,” Havgan asked, “is a minstrel from Turin doing so far from home?”

“Alas, great lord, the lords of Turin have no ear for
fi
ne mu-

sic, and their purse strings are tight. So we have come to Athelin, looking for a lord who can truly appreciate
fi
ne entertainment. Dare I hope that you know of someone with discerning taste?”

“He means do you know of someone with a fat purse,” Sigerric said cheerfully, apparently fully recovered from his brush with death.

“Give the man a coin,” the black-robed wyrce-jaga said im- patiently, “and let’s go.”

“Nay, Sledda, that would be churlish,” Havgan replied softly but
fi
rmly. Sledda
fl
ushed at the reproof and gave Gw- ydion a venomous glance.

“Perhaps I do know of someone with discerning taste,” Havgan went on, “but he would have to hear you play
fi
rst.”

“My woman and I will be playing at the festival tomorrow.

Will you be there?”

“I’ll be there. Perhaps our paths will cross again. Good day to you.” Havgan turned away with one last bold look at Rhiannon, then marched down the steps.

“Our paths will cross again,” Gwydion muttered. “Count on it.”

“What happened between you two?” Rhiannon asked. “Something was going on.”

“I’m not really sure,” Gwydion said in a puzzled tone. He shrugged, then turned to her. “Enough of that. We have work to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like practice. As of this time tomorrow, we’ll be part of his household.”

“How can you be so sure?” “Trust me,” he grinned.

Undeadlic Daeg, Sol 1—late afternoon

T
HE MARKETPLACE WAS
packed with laughing, dancing crowds, and crammed with booth after booth selling food and drink, with wandering performers in search of audiences, with hundreds of
fi
nely crafted goods made over the long winter and now offered for sale at the Undeadlic Daeg festival. The festival marked the beginning of spring, commemorating the day that, according to legend, Lytir came back from the dead to begin his prosperous rule over the Coranians.

Gwydion and Rhiannon had arrived early, staking out a small space at the edge of the cobbled square. They had been

singing songs and chanting poems for many hours now. They were good, much better than the other performers, and each performance gathered a sizable crowd—and many coins when they passed the bag around.

Whenever they spotted preosts in the crowd—they were easy to identify by their brightly colored robes—they sang the festival song,

“Fair and strong, Lytir is his name. In Heofen he lives.

Dauntless he surveys it.

Death shall not touch him

for as long as the world lasts.”

This song usually earned them an extra coin or two from approving churchmen, but by the late afternoon Rhiannon was sick of singing it.

So far they had seen nothing of Havgan, and Rhiannon was torn between relief and worry. Relief, because he made her so uneasy, and worry, because they still had to get into his house- hold, and his absence showed a lack of interest. They had just
fi
nished singing Deor’s Song and Rhiannon had decided that Havgan wasn’t coming when she saw a glint of golden hair at the edge of the crowd. They began to sing Queen Ean
fl
ed’s Lament, a song that she sang alone while Gwydion piped in a minor key, producing a haunting counterpoint to the sad melody.

“I have wrought these words together out of a fated life, the heart’s tally, telling of

the grief I have undergone. For I loved my lord, and he I.

Our lips had smiled to swear hourly

that nothing should split us—save dying— nothing else. All that has changed:

it is now as if it never had been, our friendship. I feel in the wind

that the man dearest to me detests me.

Some lovers in this world

live dear to each other, lie warm together at day’s beginning; I go by myself

about this prison.

Here I must sit the summer day through, here weep out the woes of exile,

the hardships heaped upon me.”

After she
fi
nished, the crowd applauded loudly, and Hav- gan made his way to the front of the throng. He was dressed magni
fi
cently in red and gold, and he shone in the afternoon light like a
fi
ery sun come to earth. “Very well done, minstrels of Turin,” he said. “Very well done, indeed.”

Gwydion bowed while Rhiannon curtsied. Sigerric, who was by Havgan’s side, also congratulated them. “Excellent. If you’re looking for a patron, I believe I could recommend someone.”

“But not now, Sigerric,” Havgan said casually. “It’s get- ting dark. Time to go down to the river.” He nodded coolly at them, then turned away.

Thanks to Gwydion’s lessons, Rhiannon knew what Hav- gan meant. One of the festivities on Undeadlic Daeg was to launch tiny boats into the river. Each boat carried a lit candle,

and as each person lowered their boat into the water, they made a wish. If their boat reached the opposite bank with its candle still lit, their wish would come true.

“Come on,” Gwydion said to Rhiannon, grabbing up his pipes and drum. She grabbed her harp and the bag of coins, and followed. He set a tremendous pace and when she
fi
nally caught up with him, she grabbed his arm. “Where are we going?”

“To the river. We’ve got to stay close to him.”

Most of the crowd was also going down to the river, and they pushed their way through, trying to stay close to Havgan. From up ahead she caught glimpses of his golden hair, but the crowd parted easily for him, and they straggled far behind.

“Are you sure he’s interested in hiring us?” she asked breath- lessly. “He doesn’t act like it.”

“Of course, he’s interested. But he loses dignity if he shows it directly. Sigerric showed interest, and he’s Havgan’s mouth- piece. That’s how you can tell.”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I just do. Hurry up, or we’ll lose him.” “And men say that women are strange,” she muttered.

At last they came to the river that ran through the center of the city. On the bank was a pile of tiny wooden boats, hollowed out of small blocks of wood, each with a small candle resting inside it. Gwydion grabbed one of the boats and tore a small strip from the sleeve of his forest green tunic, tying the cloth to the tiny mast to make a sail. All around them people were do- ing the same, marking the boats as their own.

The shadows were gathering as the sun swiftly descended from the sky. Up and down the river people gathered in groups, lighting torches, making laughing wagers on whose boat would

likely capsize and whose would make it across. Then, group by group, they lit the candles and lowered their boats into the water.

Hundreds of tiny candle
fl
ames
fl
ickered over the surface of

the water, bobbing and dodging. Many boats collided or cap- sized, very few of them making it safely across to the opposite bank.

They edged up close to Havgan so that when Havgan set his boat on the water, Gwydion was right beside him.

Havgan glanced at Gwydion and nodded coolly. Sigerric smiled and gestured to the tiny
fl
eet. “Feel lucky today?” he asked Gwydion.

“Indeed, yes, lord,” Gwydion replied. “I’ll wager any man here that my boat makes it to the other side.”

“And do you care to place a wager on your wish being granted, if your boat gains the bank?” Sigerric inquired.

“When my boat gains the banks, you mean,” Gwydion replied. “Come, Havgan, let’s bet with this man,” Sigerric proposed.

“I like his con
fi
dence.”

“Very well,” Havgan replied smoothly. “What is your wager, minstrel?”

“My wager is that my boat makes it across. If I win, you grant my wish.”

“Very steep. How do I know what your wish is?” Havgan said. “You know,” Gwydion replied in a level tone. “And the

price is not too steep.”

“No? I wonder,” Havgan said absently, his eyes searching Gw- ydion’s face. “And if you lose?” he went on, softly. “What then?”

“Why,” Gwydion said casually, “if I lose, you may take my woman.”

Rhiannon gasped. For a brief moment she considered knocking out every single one of Gwydion’s teeth.

Don’t,
Gwydion spoke in her mind.
Trust me.

You pig,
she raged, her Wind Shout so loud that Gwydion winced slightly.

Havgan cocked his head and looked around. “Did you hear something?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Sigerric replied. “I hear lots of things.

It’s a noisy crowd.”

Still looking around, Havgan did not answer. Rhiannon was horri
fi
ed. Havgan was telepathic—and he didn’t even know it. Oh, this man was even more dangerous than they had ever suspected.

She did not look at Gwydion, afraid her expression would give them away, so she kept her eyes on the ground, as became a woman in Corania who was being given away like a bundle of bad cloth. Grimly she promised herself that, when this was over and she was alone with Gwydion, she would personally rip out his beard, whisker by whisker. It didn’t matter that she knew his boat would make it across—with a little psychokinetic help. She knew that he was in no danger of losing his wager—and her with it. But she was furious nonetheless.

Havgan shrugged, giving up looking for the source of the cry he had heard, and turned his attention back to Gwydion. “Done,” he said.

They lowered their boats into the water. Halfway across, Sigerric’s boat
fl
oundered and capsized. “So much for your wish, Sigerric,” Havgan crowed.

Sigerric smiled sadly. “It always was a foolish wish,” was all he said.

Gwydion’s boat with its strip of green cloth and Havgan’s boat with its strip of gold sailed side by side. All around them other boats were capsizing, but these two sailed proudly across, matching each other measure for measure.

If Rhiannon hadn’t known better, she could have sworn that Havgan was himself using psychokinesis to help his boat along. Or did she know better? She herself did not have this gift and wouldn’t know if Havgan were using it or not. Gwydion would know. She’d ask him later. Just before she killed him.

Both boats had almost reached the opposite bank, the only two left a
fl
oat. The light of their candles glimmered in the gath- ering dusk. At last, the boats reached the opposite shore, both at the same moment.

“You did it. You both did it!” Sigerric exclaimed, slapping both men on their shoulders. “Now for your wishes. You
fi
rst, minstrel.”

“My wish is to
fi
nd a man like that spoken of in the Makar’s Song.” Softly, he began to sing.

“The Makar’s fate is to be a wanderer:

the poets of mankind go through many countries, speak their needs, say their thanks.

Always they meet with someone, in the south lands or the north,

who understands their art, an open-handed man who would not have his fame fail among the guard nor rest from great deeds before the end cuts off light and life together.

Lasting honor shall be his,

a name that shall never die beneath Heofen.”

“I look for a man who wishes for lasting honor,” Gwydion said when his song was done. “Are you that man, Lord Havgan?”

“I am. And I accept your service. You shall be my minstrel.” “And my woman?”

“Shall be safe in my household. More’s the pity. Unless, of course, she changes her mind.” For the
fi
rst time since they had met him, Havgan grinned, a genuine grin without even a touch of arrogance.

“Your wish is granted, too, Havgan,” Sigerric said. “I don’t suppose I have to ask what it was.”

“No, my old friend, you don’t have to ask, for it never changes.” “May I ask your wish, great lord?” Gwydion asked. His

voice was humble, but his eyes were keen and alert.

“It is something I have wished for these many years, since God himself spoke to me at a Gewinnan Daeg tournament long ago,” Havgan replied, his voice faraway, walking through the past. “A wish which I have dedicated my life to making a reality.”

“And that wish is?” Gwydion prompted.

“To make the command of the God come true. For he said to me that I must bring death to the witches of Kymru—those that they call the Y Dawnus—who rule that dark, unholy place. What say you to that, minstrel?”