Crimson Fire (26 page)

“Where did you
fi
nd her?”

“At Cirice Garth, in the Archpreost’s dungeons. She is to die tomorrow.”

“What is your name?” Havgan spoke softly to the old woman. “Gytha,” she replied, not raising her head.

“You have been condemned to die, Gytha, as one of the Wiccan, as a witch.”

“Yes,” the old woman said tonelessly. Then she raised her

head and spoke in a nervous, desperate tone, “But I tell you, it’s a lie! I am a good daughter of the church. I believe in Lytir, the One God. I swear it.”

“Gytha,” Havgan said softly, “I will be so disappointed if what you say is true.”

Sledda came to stand by the old woman and cuffed her vi- ciously. “You are insolent to the great Lord Havgan! Learn manners and he may let you live!”

Gytha
fl
inched back, then raised her eyes to Havgan, a des-

perate light in them. “Is that true, lord? You will let me live?” “I may,” Havgan replied, stressing the second word, “if you

can do as I ask.”

“Anything, lord.” Gytha rose from the chair and sank to her knees. “Anything. Let me live,” she cried in a broken, shamed voice, tears streaming down her seamed face.

“Are you a witch?” Havgan pressed. “Can you see the future?” Gytha tensed, looking up at Havgan as though he were Sceadu, the Great Shadow himself. The room was so silent that

when the embers in the hearth shifted, Gytha cringed.

With anguish in her face, misery in every line of her body, Gytha
fi
nally replied, “Yes. Yes, sometimes I can see the fu- ture.” She bowed her old head, tears streaming down her wrin- kled face. “I didn’t want to. I never wanted to,” she sobbed. “I would pray to God to stop it, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t.”

“Do you know how to read the wyrd-galdra?”

“Yes,” the old woman whispered, her voice full of terror. “Yes.”

Wyrd-galdra
, Rhiannon thought. Fate-magic. The word for reading the cards of the Old Gods. Oh, Havgan was tread- ing the brink here, indeed. The wyrd-galdra were pasteboard

cards, painted with representations of the Old Gods themselves. And this was looked upon by the church as magic of the black- est kind.

Suddenly it occurred to her that if this Gytha was really a witch, if she was truly gifted, she might sense something from Gwydion or herself. And she might betray them. At that thought Rhiannon hardly dared to breathe.

“You, Gytha, will read the wyrd-galdra for me. Now.” “Lord, I cannot. I have no cards.”

“Ah, but I do.” Havgan moved to his four-poster bed and reached under the mattress, pulling out a pack of cards bound together with a wisp of red silk. He brought the pack to Gytha, unwrapping them as he did so. “For the past week, I have slept with them under my pillow every night. They are attuned to me. Now, read them.”

With trembling hands, Gytha reached up and took the cards. Havgan sat down at the table, clearing an empty space on its surface.

Gytha took a deep breath, “Ask your question, lord.” “Will I defeat the Kymri?”

Gytha fanned out the brightly colored pack of twenty-two cards, her gnarled hands shaking. She presented the blank sides to Havgan. “Choose a card.”

Havgan chose and laid the card face up on the table. It was a painting of a man with tawny hair, walking happily on the edge of a cliff. At his heels a little dog nipped and yapped. The golden sun shone brightly. He carried a stick on his shoulders, a leather bag attached to the end of it.

“This Covers Him,” Gytha said formally. “This is the card that in
fl
uences your question. This card is you. It is called The Fool.”

“And it means what?”

Gytha licked her lips nervously and hesitated. Havgan reached across the table and yanked Gytha to him, gripping her by her hair. Havgan’s eyes shone
fi
ercely as he glared at the old woman. “Make it a true reading, witch. Hold nothing back. Understood?”

Gytha nodded frantically. Slowly Havgan released her, and the old woman sat back, breathing harshly. After a moment, Gytha went on, “The card that you have chosen is a symbol of the mystic who seeks to
fi
nd his way. A symbol of one who has certain gifts, gifts given to him by the Old Gods.”

“What kind of gifts?” Havgan growled.

“The gifts of the Wiccan. Gifts such as Soul-Speech, such as Fire-Bringing, such as Fate-Telling, such as Wandering the Sky.” Gytha closed her eyes tightly, waiting for the blow. But it did not come. Gytha cautiously opened her eyes.

Havgan’s face seemed to be carved from stone. Only his eyes were alive—alive with knowledge of something dark and dangerous that stalked him, that could not be escaped, twist and turn as he might. The eyes of a trapped man.

“Lord?” Gytha asked nervously. “Should I go on?” “Yes,” Havgan said quietly. “Go on.”

Quickly, Gytha laid out nine cards, face down. One she laid crosswise over The Fool. She placed four around the two center cards making a square, and four more in a vertical line to the right of the square. Gytha cleared her throat, and then tapped the back of the card that lay on top of The Fool.

“This Crosses Him,” she intoned. “This is the card that represents the force that opposes your will.” Gytha turned the card over slowly. It was a painting of a man in a white robe,

with a cloak of red fastened to his shoulders. Above his head was a
fi
gure eight, the sign for Annwyn, the Kymric Lord of Chaos. A vine of red roses bound the man’s brow, a snake curled around his waist. On a table in front of him was a clod of dirt, a
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aming torch, a cup of water, and a feather. “This is The Magician. Before him are the elements—earth,
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re, water, air. He is the opposing force, the force that seeks to stop you.”

“A Magician? You mean one of the Wiccan?” “No, lord. This is a symbol of the Kymri.”

“So,” Havgan said slowly, “you are a true witch, after all.” Gytha bowed her head, but said nothing.

“How do the Kymri seek to stop me?”

Rhiannon tensed and she felt Gwydion do the same. “I cannot say, lord,” Gytha replied. But did her eyes
fl
icker over to them brie
fl
y? Rhiannon thought they did. “The cards will answer one question only, and you have asked it already.”

“Very well,” Havgan replied. “Go on.”

“This Is Beneath Him,” Gytha said, pointing to the card just below the crossed Fool and Magician cards. “This card stands for your past, for that which is a part of you.” Gytha
fl
ipped over the card. “The High Priestess. This is Holda, the Goddess of Water.” The Goddess stood on a rocky shore, the sea streaming out behind her, the folds of her gown pooling at her feet. Havgan jumped as though he had been stung. “My dream,” he breathed, stunned. “The Woman on the Rocks.”

“Lord?”

“Nothing. Go on.” With an effort, Havgan got control of himself, but his face was pale. “What does it mean?”

“It is a symbol for the hidden in
fl
uences at work within you.

For that which you feel, but cannot grasp. Holda is the keeper

of those truths we hide even from ourselves.” “Go on.”

Gytha tapped the card to the left of the Fool and Magician cards. “This Is Behind Him. It is the card for the in
fl
uences in your life that are just passing away.” She turned the card over. A man with a
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owing gray beard hung upside down by one foot from the branch of a mighty tree, his hands bound behind him, his face sad and wise. “The Hanged Man. This is Wuotan. It is he who has in
fl
uenced you, who has gotten you to where you are now.”

“Wuotan?” Havgan said sharply.

“Yes. The . . . the God of Magic.” The silence was heavy. Sledda gave Havgan a sharp look with his pale, glittering eyes, but did not move.

“And it is he who has in
fl
uenced me?”

“Oh, decisively. Without him, you would not be here in this place.”

“Yes, I understand.”

Rhiannon saw from Havgan’s face that he probably did, indeed, and wished with all his soul that he did not. She could almost see him push this away from him, push it away far inside and lock the door against it.

“Go on,” Havgan said.

Gytha tapped the card at the top of the square. “This Crowns Him,” she said. “This card shows your future.” Havgan leaned forward, intent. Gytha turned the card slowly. A war- rior, with accoutrements of gold stood tall and proud within a wooden chariot. Two golden lions were hitched to the vehicle. In the warrior’s strong hand was a sword of silver. “The Chariot,” Gytha smiled. “Oh, very auspicious, my lord. The
fi
gure is Tiw,

the great God of War. The card means victory and success.” “Success? I will defeat the Kymri?”

“Oh, most probably. But remember, this is just one card.

The
fi
nal card, the tenth card, will tell you truly.” “All right. Continue.”

Gytha tapped the card to the right of the crossed Fool and Magician cards. “This Is Before Him. This will tell you some- thing important that will happen in the near future, or that is already happening, though you may not know it.” Gytha turned it over and frowned. “This is not so good,” she muttered. The painting showed a full, silvery moon, shining brightly down on two towers. At the foot of the towers, two wolves howled. “It is Mani, The Moon. And it means peril and deception. Someone close to you will betray you in some way. Sometime soon, if he or she has not done so already.”

Gwydion stiffened slightly beside her. Havgan did not even look their way. Even Sledda did not. Havgan stared down at the card, thinking deeply. “Do you know who?”

“I cannot tell,” Gytha replied easily. But Rhiannon, who was watching her closely, thought she saw a gleam in her eyes. For one split second, Gythas’s eyes met hers, then skittered away. “Shall I continue?” Gytha asked, breaking Havgan’s train

of thought.

“Hm? Oh, yes. Go on.”

Gytha tapped the back of the seventh card, the lowest on the row to the right of the square. “This Is to Come to Him. It is the card to show of a great happening in your life that awaits you.” Gytha turned over the card. A naked man and woman stood before a winged goddess. The goddess’s face was kind and gentle, and the rays of the sun shone in her wise eyes. In

her hands she held two golden apples. “The Lovers,” Gytha said. “They stand before the Goddess Erce, the gentle mother, as she blesses them.”

“This is my great happening? A love affair?” Havgan said sarcastically.

“Not at all,” Gytha replied promptly. “It is not a love af- fair. It is a symbol that shows unity, a union of you with you, harmony with both the inner and the outer aspects. Although,” Gytha frowned, “there seems to be something more intended.”

“What makes you say that?” Havgan said sharply.

“I don’t know. A feeling. I think. . .” Gytha paused, not in fear this time, but in deep thought. “I think, my lord, that somewhere. . .in Kymru itself, perhaps. . .there is someone wait- ing for you. A woman, perhaps. Just a feeling, you understand. Nothing de
fi
nite.”

“Yes,” Havgan said absently. “I understand. Go on.” Gytha tapped the eighth card. “This Is What He Fears,”

she intoned. She turned the card over. It showed a man, cloaked and hooded, carrying a
fl
ame in his hand. The man stood on top of a snowy peak, peering down. “Ah, it is Fal, the God of Light. Here he means the guide for one who seeks what is deep inside. You fear him, and you will not look. This is a danger for you—”

Gytha broke off as Havgan raked her with one burning look from his hawk’s eyes. “No moralizing, Gytha,” Havgan said softly. “Just read the cards.”

Gytha swallowed nervously. “Yes. Yes, lord.” With a shak- ing
fi
nger she pointed to the ninth card. “This Can Change All,” she said in an unsteady voice. “This is the card that sym- bolizes another path you could take, one that in your deepest self

you desire, but do not know it.” Gytha turned the card over. A skeletal
fi
gure, cloaked in black, rode through the sky on a gray steed. The steed had eight legs and shone with a silvery light.

“Oh,” Gytha said, in a small voice. “It is Narve. The God of Death.”

Havgan barked bitter laughter. “Yes. I suppose my death would change things greatly. And this is what I seek but do not know it?”

“You do not understand. Death is the ultimate change. It is renewal, becoming something else entirely, transformation into something wholly different than you are now.”

“Transformation? Into what?”

“I cannot say,” Gytha spoke slowly, her eyes studying the cards. All but the last card had been turned up, and the brightly colored
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gures seemed to dance before their eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. “I cannot say.”

“Witch,” Havgan said, gesturing to the last card, “
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nish this.”

Gytha nodded and pointed to the card. “This shows the
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nal outcome, the ultimate answer to your question. We saw with Tiw, the God of War, that you will defeat them. The last card will show what will happen after.”

“Then show me. I am weary of this game.”

Gytha again pointed to the last card. “The Final Out- come,” she said, and
fl
ipped it over. It was a picture of a mighty, silver tower, jutting up from a mountain peak. In the upper right corner of the card, a huge hand wielded a hammer. The hammer was shooting a bolt of lightning at the tower. The tower was in
fl
ames, and a man and woman were falling to their deaths from the crumbling tower. Gytha swallowed

hard, then spoke with resignation. “The Tower. This is the card for Donar, wielder of the mighty hammer, Molnir, which destroys evil, burning it away.”

“The Tower is evil?”

“The Tower is the tower of ambition built on false grounds. The card means catastrophe for you. An overthrow of all your notions of life. A disruption that may bring true knowledge of yourself in its place. . .if you live long enough.”