Crimson Fire (22 page)

“I think,” Gwydion said slowly, “that your wish will be granted.” Rhiannon said nothing, for she thought so, too.

Athelin, Marc of Ivelas Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire

Ermonath, 496

G

Mandaeg, Sol 1—early afternoon

wydion sat alone on a stone bench in Havgan’s gar- den, idly tuning his harp. It was a
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ne spring day. The sun was warm on his face and a light breeze rus-

tled the hedges of evergreen privet that lined the garden paths. Purple corydalis dotted the garden here and there, and yellow primroses bravely raised their heads to the sun. A few snap- dragons and lemon-yellow globe
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owers had also ventured into the early spring air.

The garden was located in the central open courtyard of the house. The house was three stories high and built of inter- locking planks of light and dark wood. The sloping timber roof glittered with bits of gold leaf, and the eaves were intricately carved with swirling patterns.

Still strumming his harp, Gwydion thought over what they had learned in the month he and Rhiannon had been in Hav- gan’s household.

Many nights Havgan would have guests over to feast, and entertainment was needed. Rhiannon’s dancing was always in demand, a fact that Gwydion secretly did not relish at all. He never bothered to examine why this was so, suspecting, per- haps, that he would not like the answer.

The men who feasted with Havgan were, for the most part, Byshops and Archbyshops, or wyrce-jaga, the witch-hunters. One wyrce-jaga, Sledda of Cantware, was almost always there at Havgan’s elbow, much to Sigerric’s obvious unease. Clearly the wyrce-jaga and the church supported Havgan’s bid for power—a bid that would come to fruition three months from now at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament.

Havgan’s main challenger for position of Warleader and husband to the Princess was Aelbald, the Empress’s nephew. Aelbald’s support came from the Empress herself and her cadre of Eorls and Alders who had learned long ago that Empress Athel
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ead was the real power in Corania. Emperor Athelred, pale and sickly, was an amiable nobody, given to kneeling for hours at a stretch in his private chapel. His daughter and heir, Princess Aelfwyn, was said to be very pretty and as clever as her mother. Clever enough, perhaps, to realize that a marriage with a man of Havgan’s stamp would leave her powerless. She, too, favored a match with her cousin, Aelbald, a man she knew she could control. Rumor had it she declared often (and rather loudly) that she would never submit to a marriage with the son of a common
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sherman.

Still strumming, Gwydion reviewed all he had learned about Havgan’s past and rise as a contender for the throne. Havgan’s father had indeed been a
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sherman, and, if rumor was true, his mother was a madwoman. The father had died

last year. Havgan’s mother was still alive, living quietly in the Shire of Apuldre under the care of Sigerric’s mother.

Havgan had been apprenticed as a kitchen boy to the Alder of Apuldre, Sigerric’s father. When he had saved the life of Siger- ric, the two boys had become fast friends, and Havgan was al- lowed to follow Sigerric into the service of the Eorl of Cantware. At the age of twenty-four, Havgan had won the local Gewin- nan Daeg tournament in Aecesdun where he had, by his own ad- mission, received his revelation from the One God. Gwydion had long since realized that was the very night he had
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rst dreamed of the Golden Man. It had been the dream of the crossroads, where Havgan’s choice was to lead the Kymri into darkness. He struck

a discordant note on his harp at that thought.

Two years later Havgan had again rescued another impor- tant man—Aesc, the brother of the Emperor. Prince Aesc and his warband had been ambushed by thieves on the way to the home of Eorl Wiglaf. Havgan and his friends, sent to greet the Prince, joined in the fray. All the thieves had been killed.

As a result of this rescue, Aesc, impressed by Havgan’s prow- ess, offered him a place in his warband. Havgan accepted, and over the next seven years, he had gathered wealth and power with Aesc’s support, enough wealth to begin his own warband, the nucleus made up of his closest friends. Besides Sigerric, there were Talorcan and Baldred of Dere, and Penda and Catha of Mierce, the sons of Eorls from those tributary coun- tries. Gwydion had not met these other men. They were in their own lands at the moment, using their in
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uence to gather certain lords to Havgan’s cause.

Last year, the previous Warleader, Prince Athelric, had been killed. The story was that a woman whom the Prince had

been raping had gotten away from him long enough to set the bed on
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re. Though she had not confessed, insisting that she had awakened to the sight of the
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ames surrounding the bed, her story was not believed. She had been killed moments later by the guards, who were convinced in spite of her protests that she had set the
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re.
Poor woman
, Gwydion thought, for he was quite certain she had not committed that crime.

After the
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re, the Emperor declared that the winner of this year’s Gewinnan Daeg games would be proclaimed Bana and wed the princess, thereby becoming the future Emperor of the Coranian Empire. And so the stage was set.

Gwydion inhaled deeply, breathing in the shy scent of the primroses, relishing his moment alone. It was not often that he could relax from the stress of either Havgan’s presence or Rhi- annon’s. Both of them, for different reasons, made him tense and wary.

Of course, it would never do to become relaxed around Havgan. The man was stunningly intelligent, as well as a pos- sessor of the gifts, even though he did not seem to realize it. Since the day they had entered his household, Gwydion and Rhiannon had not so much as whispered telepathically to each other, for fear that Havgan would pick up on it. Gwydion had also been exceedingly careful not to use his psychokinesis for any reason whatsoever. Havgan would be capable of sensing its use, though he would not necessarily understand what he was feeling. Gwydion would take no chances with that.

The
fi
rst time Gwydion had projected his awareness into

Havgan’s rooms, he had done so warily, uncertain whether Havgan could sense his Wind-Riding. And Havgan had sensed something, putting his hand to his head, complaining of a sharp

pain. So Gwydion and Rhiannon were careful not to Wind- Ride unless they must.

Gwydion plucked a discordant note, wondering again where Havgan had gotten his gifts. The Wiccan popped up from time to time in Corania, of course. Some possessors of the gifts often did not even admit to themselves that they were in any way dif- ferent from everyone else. Many of them became rabid “witch” haters. No doubt there were quite a few wyrce-jaga and preosts with the gifts themselves. He was sure Havgan had gotten his gifts from his mother, for she was said to be mad. Certainly pos- sessing the gifts and living in a country that feared and hated them would drive any talented man or woman insane.

But it was not just the danger that Havgan might sense the use of the gifts, or their true purpose here, that made Gwydi- on so tense around Havgan. There was far more to it than that. There were times when Gwydion felt that Havgan was hauntingly familiar, like a brother whom he had never known. Like a man who, in another place and time, might have been a friend.

Sometimes he wondered if Rhiannon had sensed this, and what she thought of it. So far, she had said nothing. But that wouldn’t last.

Rhiannon. She was another matter that he didn’t choose to examine too closely. There were nights when he lay next to her on the pallet in their little room, wondering what it would be like to feel her smooth skin beneath his hands; wondering what it would be like to kiss her; wondering what it would be like to seek the warmth of the inner recesses of her body and take comfort there.

But in spite of her close proximity night after night, he had

never made a move to
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nd out. He told himself it wouldn’t be fair to push himself upon her here in Corania where her op- tions, should she wish to decline, were few, and the potential for embarrassment extreme. Or, worse still, she might give in and then try to use that against him, as women will, thinking she had a hold on him simply because he had bodily needs and no other way to satisfy them. The thought of going down to the docks for one of the women there did not appeal to him at all.

That didn’t stop Havgan, who was far less fastidious. Once or twice a week, a woman was brought to the house, easily iden- ti
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able as a whore from the poorer parts of the city. There was nothing particularly special about these women—except that they all had tawny blond hair. They might be thin or fat, clean or dirty, but their hair was always tawny. A little strange, that was. And the fact that Gwydion would never see them again was also strange. They arrived at the house at sundown, they went to Havgan’s room, and Gwydion never saw them leave. Perhaps they left in the middle of the night—he thought it quite conceivable that Havgan would want to use them in the night and never see them in the light of day. He had even dared to ask Sigerric about it, once. Sigerric had muttered something about a dream that Havgan often had, some kind of nightmare. But he refused to say any more.

“. . . asking for you.”

Startled, he looked up and saw Rhiannon scowling down at him. “What?”

“I said, he’s asking for you.” “Havgan?”

“Who else? The Archpreost?”

Gwydion sighed. Conversations with Rhiannon always

seemed to go this way. “Did he say why?”

“Not to me. I’m just a woman,” she said bitterly.

“I see. Tell me, just out of curiosity, is there anything that’s not my fault?”

“I didn’t say it was your fault.”

“You didn’t have to,” he replied shortly. He stood up and stretched. “Well, I’d better go see what he wants. Take the harp, will you?”

She snatched the harp from his hands. “If you’re not too busy later, maybe you can tell me about it,” she snapped. She turned and walked away, her slender back stiff. Gwydion shrugged. She certainly was touchy these days. She didn’t like being in Corania. He smiled sourly. He didn’t like it, either, but he didn’t blame her for it.

They had done the right thing to come here, dangerous as it was. If they could maintain their charade long enough, they would have a chance to learn what they needed to know.

They needed to
fi
nd out what kind of military support Hav-

gan could count on should he become Bana. The Empress did not favor Havgan, but if he were Warleader, would she support him or try to hinder his plans? Just how many warriors would he be able to muster?

They also needed to discover when the invasion was to take place, and how the Coranians planned to take the country. There were plans, of that he was sure. There was a map of Kymru stretched on the wall of Havgan’s chamber. Occasion- ally Havgan would sit in a chair before it, staring at the map.

In addition, there were a great many messages from Cant- ware these days. Why? What was happening there? Whatever it was, it was important. He knew that much.

He knew from his dreams that whatever he learned here would not prevent the coming war. But if he could
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nd answers to these key questions, maybe he could save some lives, salvag- ing something for the future.

When he reached Havgan’s chamber, Sigerric was also there, dressed in a long blue tunic glittering with amethysts at the hem and throat. His light brown hair was braided, as was the fashion for Coranian lords on formal occasions. He wore a cloak of brown wool, lined with fur and clasped at his shoulders with glittering golden brooches.

Havgan, on the other hand, was dressed casually in a brown woolen robe. He was sitting in a chair by the
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replace, with his legs resting on the hearth. He was paring his nails with a knife and whistling.

The chamber was large and airy. A huge four-poster bed rested on the far side of the room, the coverlet of red velvet in disarray. The wood
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oor was covered with
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ne rugs of deep blue. Tapestries studded the walls, except for the wall that held the huge map of Kymru. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, stacked with pieces of parchment, some folded clothes, unwashed dishes, a gold
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agon, and two gold cups stud- ded with rubies.

“Ah, minstrel of Turin,” Havgan said as Gwydion bowed to him. “How good of you to join us.”

“My pardon, lord. I was sitting in the garden,” Gwydion said humbly.

“I have an errand for you. You are to accompany Sigerric to Cynerice Scima and invite the Emperor, the Empress, Prin- cess Aelfwyn, Prince Aesc, Princess Aesthryth, and that mangy weasel, Aelbald, to a feast at my house three days hence. You

are to sing my praises in such a way that the invitation is not refused. It is your task to issue the invitation with style and be sure they agree to attend. Is that clear?”