Crimson Fire (28 page)

Tamworth, Marc of Masensaetan & Beranburg, Marc of Lindisfarne Weal of Mierce, Coranian Empire Dagmonath, 496

G

Nardaeg, Sol 7—evening

wydion sat at the edge of the bed in his room at the inn, trying to follow the advice Uthyr had given him years ago. Uthyr had said that, in a situation like

this, it was best not to think too much. You could plan, but you had to be
fl
exible—because plans had a way of changing. You could never tell for certain what unpremeditated action a man might take when he knew himself to be at the edge of death.

Gwydion wasn’t afraid for himself. He was afraid of what would happen to Rhiannon if he failed. So he tried to follow Uthyr’s advice, because his brother had much more experience in this kind of thing.

Gwydion would certainly do his best, but he had never been a pro
fi
cient murderer.

The room Gwydion shared with Rhiannon was comfort- able and cheery. A
fi
re burned merrily on the hearth, casting a warm glow over the oak-beamed room. A coverlet of blue

and white covered the soft feather bed where Gwydion now brooded.

He was alone, Rhiannon having gone to the baths. He had declined the luxury, saying he would bathe later. If success- ful tonight, he would surely need it. Unless he was careful, he would be covered with blood.

He replayed in his memory the conversation from yesterday that had begun this horror, a horror that would end, one way or another, before the sun rose in the morning.

S
EVENTEEN DAYS AGO
they had disembarked at Windlesora, a small town in northeastern Mierce, then hired horses and rid- den to Tamworth, arriving yesterday. Once there, Havgan had been greeted coldly by Aescwine, the Empress’s brother—and the father of Havgan’s chief rival, Aelbald. Aescwine had tried to insist that they all stay at his palace, but Havgan had gra- ciously declined. Instead, they had taken rooms at the best inn in Tamworth.

Gwydion had been in Havgan’s room, playing the harp for him, when Sigerric had burst in, agitated.

“Why do we stay here?” Sigerric had demanded. “Do you want to die so badly?”

Havgan had given Sigerric a bland look, “What in the world do you mean?”

“You know what I mean! I mean that Aescwine will have your head if he can.”

“Well, he can’t have it,” Havgan replied, “I need it.” “Havgan,” Sigerric had said, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“You are too reckless. There was no need for us to come here in the
fi
rst place, and there is no need to stay.”

“There was a reason to come here. I explained it to you. I wanted to know if I had the full support of the Miercean Arch- wyrce-jaga and the Archbyshop.”

“You didn’t have to come here for that!” Sigerric had ac- cused. “You came here just to irritate Aescwine. And you have. I tell you, your life is in danger.”

“I think not,” Havgan had said in silken tones, looking at Gwydion. “I have my minstrel to protect me.”

“Your minstrel! What’s he supposed to do—sing someone to death?”

“My minstrel, Sigerric, was very quick that night of the feast. So quick that anyone would think he had known some- thing was going to happen.”

At this, Gwydion’s blood had run cold, his
fi
ngers frozen

on his harp.

“You see, Sigerric,” Havgan had gone on, “a good minstrel always has his ear to the ground. A good minstrel can
fi
nd out anything.”

“Guido, forgive me,” Sigerric had said, “but I must point out something to Havgan here. Havgan, minstrels can be bought. Anyone can.”

“So they can,” Havgan agreed. “Why, I myself have re- cently been warned to watch for treachery. But I believe that it is in this minstrel’s best interests to keep me in good health.”

“Why? Because he’d be out of a job?” Sigerric had inquired sarcastically.

“Because, my dear Sigerric,” Havgan had said, watching Gwydion closely, “if something happened to me, you can be sure that Rhea would not enjoy good health and a happy life for long. Sledda might very well decide that he has a place for her

in his household. And I couldn’t very well gainsay him if I were dead, now could I?”

Sigerric had looked at Havgan, looked at Gwydion’s white face, then back to Havgan. “Well,” he had said after a long, long silence, his mouth twisted and bitter. “You do know how to get people to do their best, don’t you?”

Yes, Gwydion thought now as he waited, Havgan did know how to do that.

Gwydion had carefully “watched” Aescwine whenever he could for the rest of yesterday and all of this morning. He had been careful not to be near Havgan when he did so, knowing that Havgan could sense Wind-Riding if he was in the vicin- ity. Rhiannon had been curious so he had picked a
fi
ght with her—never very dif
fi
cult—and she had left him alone.

He had not felt right about that. In fact, if he had room in his heart for anything but fear for her, it would have grieved him to be so cruel. After what she had done on the ship to help him, he had pushed her away. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t tell her of Sledda’s plans for her should Havgan die. And, in spite of what she had said on the boat, he could never tell her that he was planning on saving Havgan’s life—again.

For this morning, as he was Wind-Riding, he had seen Aescwine in conversation with two of his soldiers. These men were to wear plain, shabby clothes and station themselves in the narrow alleyway between the inn and the stables. Havgan and his party were due to leave Tamworth early the next morning. In the confusion of the preparations for departure, the two men were to shoot Havgan full of arrows and run.

So, tonight, Gwydion was waiting for the men to arrive and take up their stations. Waiting to kill them, if he could.

Rhiannon entered the room, her hair wet from her bath. She wore her emerald cloak over a shift of cream-colored linen. She glanced at Gwydion, gauging his mood, then looked away. Tight-lipped, she sat down on a stool by the
fi
re and began to comb out her hair.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” she said after a long silence.

“No, I’m not sleepy.”

Another long pause. She stopped combing her hair and looked at him. “Gwydion, what is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean nothing you’re willing to tell me about.” “Yes,” he said shortly, “that’s what I mean.”

She looked away and gazed into the
fi
re. But not before Gw-

ydion saw the hurt in her eyes. He stretched out his hand to touch her, but slowly drew it back. “Rhiannon,” he said hesitantly.

“Yes?” she answered, without turning around.

“I . . .” He what? What was he to say? “Go to bed.” It came out harshly, because it wasn’t what he had meant to say at all. “I’ll sleep on the
fl
oor.”

At that she did turn around, her face cold and hard. “Fine,” she said in a clipped tone. “Get off the bed.”

Soldaeg, Sol 8—morning

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Havgan was in a hurry to be off. The bustle and confusion in the courtyard was tremendous. Gw- ydion saddled his horse, and Rhiannon’s, also. She was barely civil, but he did not blame her and did not take offense.

It was Sigerric who saw the blood spilling from the alley. He gave a shout and Havgan came running. Rhiannon was

immediately behind him, while Gwydion followed much more slowly.

Two men lay dead, their throats cut. Sigerric knelt down beside one man to examine the wound. “Look,” he said, “do you see this? Blood coming out of their ears, too, in addition to the throat wound.” He frowned. “I wonder why.”

Sledda said impatiently, “Perhaps whoever did this knocked them out
fi
rst, and then cut their throats.”

“But their skulls are not broken, not even cracked. Just blood coming from the ears.”

Rhiannon swiftly looked at Gwydion, and then just as swiftly looked away. He had known she would understand as soon as she saw the bodies.

“Any identi
fi
cation?” Havgan asked. “Badges, marks, any-

thing?”

“No,” Sigerric replied. “Do you think you need it to know who sent them?”

“Innkeeper!” Havgan bellowed, and the poor man came running.

“Lord?” the little man inquired breathlessly. His eyes wid- ened as he took in the two dead bodies.

“There is some
fi
lth in the alley that must be cleaned,” Hav-

gan said, casually kicking one dead man with his foot. “Send a messenger to Lord Aescwine. Tell him to clean up his mess.”

With that, Havgan swung himself into the saddle, and the rest of the company followed suit. He
fi
xed Gwydion with a sharp eye. “You see, Sigerric,” he said, not taking his eyes off Gwydion, “the minstrel is a good-luck charm. I told you as much.” And then he turned his horse and made for the gates of the city, riding away as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

Rhiannon raked Gwydion with her hot gaze. But she said noth- ing and followed Havgan.

Gwydion, following more slowly as their horses made their way through the winding streets of the city, wondered if she would forgive him for the manner of the deaths that he had caused. For Gwydion had killed them in a way that, in Kymru, was forbidden. A mighty shout to the unsuspecting, unshielded mind, directed to a single bright thrust with all the force of one who was supremely gifted in telepathy, could rupture the brain itself, leaving blood leaking from the ears of stunned, uncon- scious men. Leaving them vulnerable to further attack.

A forbidden act in Kymru, punishable by permanent exile. Perhaps when this was done and they returned to Kymru,

he would be exiled for this act. Perhaps Rhiannon would see to it. But at least she would be alive to do so. And that was all that really mattered.

Wynlic Daeg—mid-morning

T
WO WEEKS LATER
they reached the town of Beranburg at the foot of Mount Badon. Gwydion was intrigued by the mountain and the many tales he had heard of it.

Before the Coranians had taken the country of Mierce in battle, the land had been devoted to the Old Religion. The King of Coran, using the Miercean refusal to embrace the New Religion, began a holy war, invading Mierce and putting thou- sands of Old Believers to the sword. Mierce was destroyed as a separate country and became an appendage to Coran, creating the Coranian Empire.

In the old days, before that invasion, Mount Badon was a holy place. It was from this mountain, so legend said, that

Wuotan, the God of Magic, and Holda, the Goddess of Water, led the Wild Hunt.

Havgan had come here to meet up with Penda, the son of the Eorl of Lindisfarne, who ruled this marc. Penda was a prom- inent member of Havgan’s warband and had been a close friend of Havgan for many years. Gwydion understood that Penda’s young wife had died in childbirth six years ago and their son lived here with Penda’s father. Penda and Catha, the brother of the Eorl of Pecsaetan, had come to Mierce some months ago to gather support in Havgan’s bid for power. They were to meet both men here at Beranburg. Then Catha and Penda would join their party and they would all go on to Dere, the other tributary country of the Empire.

Gwydion glanced up at Mount Badon, which seemed to loom over Beranburg. The mountain was heavily forested with tall pine growing almost all the way up to its jagged tip.

He rode behind Rhiannon’s horse, trailing behind as he had been doing now for the last two weeks. For two weeks they had not exchanged a single word. Not one. Rhiannon’s silence had hung over Gwydion like a pall.

The dirt-packed streets of the town were deserted. It was Wynlic Daeg, the day the New Believers celebrated in remem- brance of the beginning of Lytir’s rule over Coran, many, many hundreds of years ago. No doubt the town’s inhabitants were in the church now, celebrating. Gwydion idly wondered how many of those in church this moment would steal up to the mountain later in the dark of the night and secretly celebrate Deore Necht, the festival of the Old Believers, the outlawed Heiden.

They made their way to the church, which stood in the cen- ter of the town. It was a tall, wooden structure, square in design

with a series of roofs of varying heights, all grouped around the central square. The walkway that ran the length of the building was deserted, but a pile of weapons near the closed outer doors indicated that a service was in progress. From the closed doors drifted the sound of singing.

“Blessed Lytir, One God,

Smote his enemies with terror. He grew strong under the clouds And grew in honor great.

“Till each and every peoples, Each and every tribe,

Were forced to obey him And pay him tribute.

“Blessed Lytir, One God, Was rich beyond compare.

Golden plate and jeweled rings, Generous with gold was he.

“He was a goodly King. Blessed Lytir, One God, He was a goodly King.”

“The service is almost over, Havgan,” Sledda said in a gloomy tone. “I knew we were going to miss it.”

“You’ll just have to stand it,” Sigerric said sharply.

Sledda turned his pale, venomous gaze to Sigerric. “I wasn’t talking to you!”

Havgan held up his hand. “Stop your squabbling. Now!”

So, Havgan had also lost his habitual calm detachment. No doubt he was feeling the same thing that Gwydion and Rhian- non were feeling—the tension in the air that emanated from that pine-studded, jagged mountain, like a brooding storm just before it breaks.

They all fell silent and dismounted, hitching their horses to the rail of the wooden arcade. Gwydion looked at Rhiannon and saw that she was pale. Knowing it was useless, that she would just shrug him off as she had done for the last two weeks, he nonetheless held out his arm for her to lean on. And, for a wonder, she did. Her green eyes fastened on the mountain and did not look at him at all, but still she took his arm. He walked her up the wooden steps of the church and sat down with her on a hard, wooden bench resting against the wall of the arcade.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.