Crimson Fire (31 page)

Elmete, Marc of Bernice Weal of Dere, Coranian Empire

Falmonath, 496

R

Mandaeg, Sol 37—late afternoon

hiannon sighed in weariness as they made their way through the winding streets of Elmete. They were here at last after six weeks on the road. She shivered,

for the city had a pall of hopelessness over it. Elmete was still in general disrepair, even two generations after their defeat at the hands of Aelle, the present Emperor’s grandfather.

They occasionally passed shells of burned-out houses that seemed to look at them with empty eyes. They passed heaps of rubble from fallen buildings, cairns for the countless war- riors who had died defending their homes. The streets were cobbled in some places, leaving other patches bare,
fi
lled now with mud that splattered freely on their cloaks and coated the legs of their horses.

As they rode by, people stopped their work and stared sul- lenly, resigned to the task of digging a life out of the grave of their once-beautiful city. Sorrow hung over the place like a pall over a corpse. Laughter, warmth, pride—all gone. And Rhiannon’s heart felt cold, for she wondered if this was the fate

in store for Kymru.

Up ahead Havgan was slowing his horse before a large, rambling wooden house. It was three stories high, built with interlocking pieces of light and dark wood. The shutters on the windows were open, and bright
fl
owers of red and yellow grew in boxes beneath them. The roof was made of wood shingles, and there were gables carved in the shapes of eagles, dragons, and falcons.

The large front door was open, and when they dismounted, a man came down the steps to greet them. Sigerric gave a shout and vaulted from his horse, greeting the man with an exuberant hug.

“Talorcan!” Sigerric exclaimed. “Good to see you, man.”

Talorcan grinned. “Here at last. I have been watching for you for over a week now.” Talorcan looked to be in his mid- thirties. His hair was dark blond, pulled back now in a leather thong. His eyes were a startling green in a deeply tanned, somewhat thin face. His high cheekbones stood out like spars. Something about his eyes, Rhiannon thought, made him look haunted. But by what, she could not tell.

Talorcan’s face brightened even more as Penda came up to greet him, and again as he gripped forearms with Catha. Then he turned to Havgan, and it seemed to Rhiannon that some of the light
fl
ed from his face, to be replaced by a tense wariness. “My Lord Havgan,” he said formally.

“Where’s Baldred?” Havgan asked.

“He’s coming,” Talorcan said, gesturing them inside the house. “We got word that you were at the gates, so he left to let the Archbyshop and the Arch-wyrce-jaga know that you had arrived. He’ll be back shortly.”

Rhiannon noticed that Talorcan had not greeted Sledda, and judging by Sledda’s face, the wyrce-jaga had noticed it, too.

“These are my minstrels,” Havgan said. “Guido Asti and Rhea Varins, from Turin.”

Gwydion bowed and Rhiannon curtsied. Talorcan smiled. “You are welcome, minstrels, to Elmete, and to the house of my father. Come, everyone. My father and mother are waiting to greet you.”

“Where is your brother” Sigerric asked. “Not here,” Talrocan replied carefully.

“Where, then?” Havgan asked, his eyes swiftly going to Talorcan’s face.

“Faeder sent him to my grandsire in Gefrin,” Talorcan re- plied, not quite meeting Havgan’s gaze.

“To get him out of my way?” Havgan asked softly.

“He doesn’t want Tohrtmund to join your warband, Hav- gan. You know that. He needs my brother here, particularly when I am away.”

“I am anxious to see your father again,” Penda said, break- ing into the palpable tension. “Is he well?”

“He is,” Talorcan said swiftly. “And my mother, too.” “Then let us greet them,” Havgan said with a genial smile

that did not quite reach his amber eyes, “for I know they are anxious to greet me.”

Without reply Talorcan led them through a large hall, and then through a host of smaller rooms, until they reached the inner courtyard. A garden took up much of the space. Bright
fl
owers and well-trimmed hedges lined the paths. Stone benches were grouped in the middle of the garden. On one bench sat a man and woman.

The man was old but hale. His broad shoulders were un- bent, but his face was heavily lined. His hair was lightening from dark blond to white, and it was braided in the old-fash- ioned manner. He wore a tunic and trousers of dark green.

Traces of beauty still lingered in the woman’s face, her
fi
ne,

high cheekbones and her brilliant green eyes, which matched her emerald dress. She was thin, perhaps too thin. Her once- blond hair was nearly white.

“Havgan, son of Hengist,” Talorcan was saying, pride in his voice, “you remember my father, Talmund, Eorl of Bernice. And my mother, Lady Ingilda.”

The Eorl and his lady stood, and Havgan bowed to them, then introduced the members of his party. Ingilda gestured for them to sit and then signaled a servant to bring them refreshment.

“Welcome, Havgan, to the marc of Bernice,” the Eorl said, though his blue eyes were wary.

“This evening,” Ingilda said warmly, “we shall have a feast in your honor. The lord of my son is most welcome here.”

“Lady Ingilda, I am honored. With your permission, my minstrels will play for us.”

Ingilda’s eyes went to Gwydion and Rhiannon, who, as be
fi
t-

ted servants, were standing off to one side. “Do you know any songs of Dere?” she asked, her eyes lighting up, her voice hungry. “My Lady, we know many,” Gwydion replied. “We know ‘The Words of Ine’ and ‘The Battle of Elmete.’ We know ‘The

Wise Man.’ And we know ‘The Lament.’”

“‘The Lament,’” Ingilda repeated, her eyes taking on the look of one who sees things far away and long ago. “Yes. You must play it tonight.”

Talorcan opened his mouth to speak, but the Eorl fore-

stalled him. “I think, my dear,” he said quietly, “it would be best if—”

“I wish to hear it,” Ingilda said
fi
rmly.

The Eorl nodded and managed a strained smile, shooting a sharp look at his son. “Very well.”

Just then a man in a tunic and trousers of rich blue wool bounded into the garden. The man had light brown hair and brown eyes. He was stocky and heavily muscled. His heavy face lit up as he saw Havgan. Havgan stood, and the two men embraced.

“Baldred!” Havgan exclaimed. “I heard you were too busy to be here when we arrived. No doubt you were trying on the latest fashions?”

“Ha,” Baldred replied. “You’re just jealous of my new clothes. I was busy looking after your business. As usual.” He grinned and then quickly greeted the other members of the party, clapping Catha on the back, sharing a joke with Sigerric and Penda, even properly greeting Sledda with what seemed to be genuine goodwill.

“Tell me,” Havgan said, “how you and Talorcan have been doing here in Dere.”

Things were going well. Baldred and Talorcan had man- aged to gather a great deal of support for Havgan’s plans. Names were mentioned, along with their military strength and political connections.

Rhiannon paid little attention to the details since Gwydion would be listening carefully for that. Instead she studied the Eorl and his wife. The Eorl did not, apparently, completely approve of Talorcan’s lord, though he never even came close to saying so. He spoke little and did not even appear to listen closely.

Ingilda’s expression was uncomfortable at the talk of con- quering another country and Rhiannon knew why, for Ingilda was clearly Derean, a woman who had married a man of Cora- nia, a man who was the enemy. A man she had come to love, apparently. What battles had taken place, were taking place still, in that woman’s heart? What battles had she passed on to her son? For the talk of subjugating another country struck at Ingilda’s heart and, from the look in her son’s eyes, struck at his, too.

“Talorcan,” Ingilda said, breaking in on the conversation. “Havgan has never seen our city. Perhaps a short tour would be in order.”

Talorcan looked at his mother in surprise. Catching his father’s gaze, he
fl
ushed. “Of course,” he said quickly.

“When you return,” Ingilda said, forcing a smile, “the feast will be ready and the guests will have arrived.”

Havgan rose and bowed. “My thanks, lady, for your hos- pitality.”

A
T THE END
of their tour, Talorcan led them to a pile of rubble of considerable size. Moss had lined the stones, and tangled briars reached greedy
fi
ngers throughout. Here and there wild-
fl
owers grew and daisies bobbed gently in the light, mournful breeze.

“This,” Talorcan said, clearing his throat, “was the watch tower. It was here that Queen Hildelinda threw herself off to her death when she saw that King Ingild and her son, Prince Indere, were dead.”

The wind mourned again, and Rhiannon shivered. Queen Hildelinda’s despair laced these stones, surrounding them with

misery and sorrow. Gently, she plucked a daisy and twirled it in her
fi
ngers. She remembered one of the tunes Gwydion had taught her, a song of the words Queen Hildelinda had spoken to her husband as he went to battle that day. Moved by she knew not what, she opened her mouth and sang softly.

“Let not your royal strength droop now, nor your daring— now that the day has come when, son of Ida,

you shall surely either

give over living or a long doom have among after-men, one or other.

“Know that whether you fall or triumph will I hold in my heart always

days that my lord clasped and kissed me, times when on my breast he laid his hand and head and heart.

“The covenants of companionship shall never be broken.

Death cannot touch us. I am yours forever.”

And as the song died away, Rhiannon saw the sheen of tears in Talorcan’s
fi
ne, green eyes.

T
HE HALL WAS
bright, lit by hundreds of candles and by the glow of the roaring
fi
re in the huge hearth. Gwydion and Rhi- annon played their harps softly as the servants brought in nuts

and cheeses, signaling an end to the feast.

At the high table the Eorl sat in the center, with Havgan on his right and Ingilda on his left. Sledda, Sigerric, Catha, Penda, and Baldred sat to Havgan’s right, while Talorcan sat to the left of his mother. Also present were Berwic, the aged Archbyshop of Dere, in his robe of blue, and Oswy, the Byshop of Bernice in green. Next to them sat Hensa the Arch-wyrce-jaga in a robe of black with blue piping around the hem and sleeves.

The hall was warm, and Rhiannon, who had earlier danced for them, was still
fl
ushed. Her white gossamer gown glowed in the light of the
fi
re.

“Sledda and Catha are still drooling,” Gwydion said softly. “Are you sure you don’t want to take advantage of it?”

“Very funny,” she replied. “If you don’t like my dancing, why did you teach me?”

“Because that’s the way things are here,” he said irritably. “I can’t help that.”

At that moment the Arch-wyrce-jaga stood, and the hall fell silent. He raised his cup. “Let us drink now in honor of our guest, Havgan, son of Hengist, who will soon lead us to victory. Death to all witches!”

Rhiannon was grateful that she and Gwydion, as servants, were not required to drink to such a toast.

“I have a gift for our guest,” Hensa went on. He was a thin, cadaverous-looking man, with sharp features and dark eyes. “I have arranged a hunt for you, Lord Havgan.”

Havgan bowed slightly. “I am grateful for the honor.”

“It is not just any hunt. This one is special. Tomorrow we hunt the Heiden!”

“The Heiden?” Sigerric asked blankly. “What do you mean?”

The Eorl’s face was white and still. “Yes, Hensa. What do you mean?” he asked.

“Know that yesterday my wyrce-jaga sniffed out a nest of Old Believers engaging in their
fi
lthy rites in Wodnesbeorg. I have arranged for them to be brought here. We will then turn them loose and hunt them down.”

“We are honored to take part in such a hunt,” Havgan said, his hawk’s eyes shining with enthusiasm.

“Our people?” Talorcan said sharply. “You bring our peo- ple here to be hunted?”

“They are not your people,” Hensa said
fi
rmly. “They are

the Heiden. The people of Sceadu. Enemies of the One God. They are animals. And, as such, they will be hunted by those faithful to Lytir.”

Talorcan, his face white and his green eyes blazing, stood. “My father should have been consulted. He is the Eorl.”

“And I, Talorcan, am the Arch-wyrce-jaga of Dere,” Hensa said, his own eyes lit with
fi
re. “The right is mine. Do you tell me that your father objects to the killing of these evil ones? On what grounds?”

Ingilda put a hand on Talorcan’s arm before he could reply. Then the Eorl said, “We were merely surprised. I am sure that the Lord Havgan and our guests are grati
fi
ed by your care for their entertainment.” The Eorl nearly hissed the last word.

Calmly, Havgan said, “Indeed, we are grati
fi
ed, Arch- wyrce-jaga. We look forward to it.” Havgan obviously meant it, but Sigerric and Penda looked ill. Sledda licked his thin lips in anticipation.

“How many?” Ingilda whispered.

“Fifty men, women, and children. And we captured their

Godia, their priestess, too,” Hensa smiled.

“Women and children?” Ingilda asked, appalled.

“Indeed, yes,” Hensa replied. “May I remind you, lady, that they are all
fi
lth. Even the young ones. Do not distress yourself.”

“You have the Godia?” Havgan asked. “Indeed, we do,” Hensa said proudly.

“I wish to speak to her alone, tomorrow. Keep her out of the hunt.”

“As you wish, Lord Havgan,” Hensa said, obviously curious, but too wary of Havgan’s reputation to press for the reason.

The Archbyshop, an elderly man with a kind face, turned to Ingilda. “Do not distress yourself, my child. The Heiden are those who have willfully refused Lytir. We do but send them on to the One God’s judgment.” He gently patted Ingilda’s thin hand, and she forced herself to smile.