Crimson Fire (34 page)

It had taken them little more than a month to return to the

chief city of the Coranian Empire, and the trip back had not been a merry one. Talorcan, Sigerric, and Penda had been subdued. Havgan had been somewhat subdued himself, ever since his second meeting with the Wild Hunt that had cheated him of Lingyth’s death.

They halted their horses at the eastern bridge to Cynerice Scima. The towers gleamed, impossibly beautiful in the after- noon sun. The guards at the bridge let their party through, and they reached the outer courtyard, dismounted, and made their way to Gulden Hul, where the Emperor and Empress sat in state.

As before, the hall seemed suffused with soft golden light. Gold gleamed from the tapestry-covered walls, the pillars, and the cloth on the
fl
oor. The spreading branches of the golden tree in the center of the hall shimmered.

The Emperor, still insigni
fi
cant in spite of his rich trappings, sat stif
fl
y on his throne, dressed in black trimmed with gold. The jeweled diadem that he wore, the famous Cyst Ercanstan, only served to make him look more insigni
fi
cant. The jewels in the golden crown glowed softly—the large center chunk of amber, for Coran; the emerald, for Mierce; and the sapphire, for Dere. At the top of the helm was a huge amethyst, symbol- izing the church.

Next to the Emperor sat the Empress, cold and stern, ra- diating the power her husband so signally lacked. She wore a robe of gold with delicate chains of amber and gold woven though her rich, light brown hair.

Between them, Princess Aelfwyn stood, dressed in a gown of
fl
owing white, brilliant diamonds threaded through her long, golden hair. Gwydion glanced now at Sigerric, hearing the

man’s quick intake of breath as he drank in the sight.

Behind Havgan, Catha murmured, “There she waits for you, my lord. Warm, willing, eager. What a lucky man. It’s not everyone who gets the chance to bed a viper.”

“Viper or not,” Havgan murmured, “I mean to have her. And there are ways, Catha, of controlling venomous snakes.”

“You cut off their heads,” Baldred suggested. “No,” Havgan said serenely, “you charm them.”

“Good luck,” Baldred said dubiously. “You’ll need it.”

Havgan marched up to the dais, Sledda and Sigerric on either side of him, with Penda, Baldred, Catha, and Talorcan following behind. Gwydion stayed where he was, blending with the crowd. Havgan and his men bowed to the royal family.

“I come to make my greetings upon my return to fair Athe- lin,” Havgan said. “And to feast my eyes on the even fairer Aelfwyn.” He smiled up at the Princess, who colored, but re- mained silent.

“And how did you
fi
nd the state of the country, Lord Hav-

gan?” the Empress asked smoothly. “Was all to your liking?” “You are kind to ask, fair Empress,” Havgan replied easily.

“I regret to say that the city of Tamworth was not as clean as I would like. But I left word with your brother about the trash littering the streets.”

“And was all satisfactory in Dere?” the Emperor inquired innocently.

Havgan smiled genuinely. “Indeed. The Arch-wyrce-jaga Hensa put on a splendid hunt for us. Not one single Heiden was left alive.”

The crowd clapped enthusiastically. “Well done, Lord Havgan. It was our hope that your journey was all that you

could have wished for,” the Empress said with manifest insin- cerity. She must still be irritated over her brother’s failure to kill Havgan, Gwydion thought, or she would have kept her sarcasm under tighter wraps.

Havgan bowed. “Thank you. It was, indeed, all that I could have wished for.” He bowed, then started to move away. He turned back abruptly, as though just struck by a new thought. “Oh, one other thing. I have never seen the gardens of Cynerice Scima. They are reputed to be magni
fi
cent. Might I take a stroll there?”

“You wish to walk in the gardens?” the Empress repeated in a puzzled tone.

“Indeed. They are very
fi
ne, as I understand.”

“Oh. Well, perhaps you wish for some company on your walk,” she said.

“I think not. You are kind to offer.”

The Empress smiled and took her daughter’s hand, turning to Havgan. “Aelfwyn knows every inch of the gardens. Allow her to show them to you.”

Aelfwyn gasped and tried to snatch her hand back. But her mother held tight.

“I do not wish to trouble her,” Havgan said doubtfully. “I really would prefer—”

“No trouble at all, is it, Aelfwyn dear? You must keep Hav- gan company.” She stressed the last word ever so slightly.

After a pause, Aelfwyn nodded. “If you wish for my com- pany, Lord Havgan,” she said coolly, “it is yours.”

Havgan smothered a grin, and reached out to take Aelf- wyn’s cold hand in his own. He bowed, then the two of them left the hall. Havgan signaled for Gwydion to follow them, as

he and the Princess walked out arm in arm. Gwydion smoth- ered a grin himself, for this was what Havgan had been after all along.

T
HE GARDENS WERE
nice, Gwydion admitted, though that was scarcely the point. Delphiniums and snapdragons blossomed in spiky profusion against the low, rocky walls lining the graveled paths. Blue corn
fl
owers and white chamomile set off the red and yellow rockrose that sprawled across the shining stones.

Irises surrounded a pool in the center of the garden, and water lilies
fl
oated on its calm surface. Havgan guided Aelfwyn to a bench beside the pool. He plucked a delicate sprig of lily of the valley and gravely presented it to her. Hesitantly, she took it in her hands.

“Accept a poor adornment from a man who longs to please you. Diamonds you have. And this is but a poor
fl
ower. Yet it is only the
fi
rst of many gifts I will give you.” Smiling, he plucked it from her
fi
ngers and tucked the sprig behind her deli- cate ear.

“The
fi
rst of many gifts you will give me?” she said sweetly. “I think the
fi
rst one of us to give gifts shall be me. After all, it is only by becoming my husband that you can be Emperor.”

“So, Princess. Truly do they call you Steorra Heofen. For you shine as brightly as the stars,” Havgan said. “And as cold.” “To some, perhaps,” she said, idly plucking the
fl
ower from

her hair and twirling it in her slender
fi
ngers. “Aelfwyn, we are to be wed—”

“That,” she said sharply, “remains to be seen.”

“Ah. Do you truly believe that Aelbald can defeat me?” “No,” she said, not looking at him. “But I hope for it.”

“You prefer that weak fool to me?”

“At least he is not the son of a
fi
sherman. I do prefer him to you. Immensely.”

“Of course, you do. Because you will not
fi
nd a
fi
sherman’s son as easy to control. I will not be an Emperor like your be- loved father, my dear. And you will not hold the same place as your mother. And it galls you, doesn’t it?”

Well, so much for charming the viper, Gwydion thought sourly. Apparently Havgan had given up on that tactic.

Aelfwyn rose, but Havgan yanked her back down. “Now, Aelfwyn,” he said in a pleasant tone, his amber eyes glittering, “we can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. But we will do this. You and I are to be married. I will win the tournament. And you can be my partner or my enemy. Whichever you please.”

“You’re hurting me,” Aelfwyn said stif
fl
y.

“I mean to. And it can get worse, Aelfwyn. Much, much worse. Now choose.”

Again she tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “I can call the guards,” she threatened.

“Yes. Today you can. But later, when we are wed, you won’t be so lucky.”

She abruptly stopped struggling and stared at Havgan, her green eyes
fi
nally showing fear.

“Now, Aelfwyn, let’s try this again. Partner or enemy? An- swer.”

“I’ll never feel anything for you but hatred,” Aelfwyn burst out. “Never.”

“Hate me all you want, Aelfwyn. It means nothing to me. But don’t work against me. Don’t even think of it. Or, princess

and heir that you are, your life will be short.” “You dare to threaten me?”

“Yes. I, the son of a
fi
sherman, do indeed dare. And why

not? We all know that peasants have no manners.” He smiled wol
fi
shly. “I will leave you to think about it.” He ran his
fi
nger gently around her ear, down her long neck, and lightly touched the shadow between her breasts. “In the meantime, think of our wedding night. As I will.”

Fear washed over her pale features as he stood abruptly and marched out of the garden, not even bothering to look back.

“What do you think?” Havgan asked Gwydion as they made their way to the outer courtyard where the others were waiting.

“I believe you made your point,” Gwydion said dryly. Havgan laughed. “Yes, I believe I did.”

T
HE MOMENT THEY
returned to the house, Gwydion hurried up to the room he shared with Rhiannon. As he burst through the door, she started. She had been sitting in a chair, looking out the window at the city, just as she had been when he left.

“You’ve just been sitting here?” he asked. “You didn’t try to go anywhere?”

She looked at him in surprise. “You told me not to.”

He studied her for a moment. “What’s wrong, Rhiannon?” he asked gently. “What’s the matter? Ever since we left Dere, you’ve been so . . . so biddable.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” she asked tiredly.

“I thought it was,” he muttered. “Now I’m not so sure.

Talk to me. Please.”

She turned and looked out the window. Gwydion waited quietly. At last, without turning around, she spoke. “I hate it

here, Gwydion. Truly hate it. There is a sickness in the Em- pire, and the stench of it makes me ill.”

“I want to go home, too, Rhiannon. Don’t you think I do?”

She turned and looked at him. “Oh. For a moment I thought we were talking about me. I should have known better.”

Gwydion almost smiled. She sounded more like her old self. “We are. Sorry.”

She looked out the window again. “It’s more than hating it here. It’s Lingyth. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t save her. Worse than that, I killed her.”

“You killed her?” Gwydion was shocked. “Havgan killed her. Or, rather, the Wild Hunt did.”

“She died because she knew about us. And she refused to tell.” “She died because she read the wyrd-galdra. Havgan would never have let her live. You must know that.” Gwydion took her hand. “You know that,” he repeated. “If you must blame some- one, blame me. I saved his life.” He laughed harshly. “Twice.”

She sighed. “You had no choice, Gwydion.”

“Neither did you. Have a choice, I mean. You couldn’t have saved her. No matter what you did. Rhiannon, look at me.” She turned to him, her face expressionless. “Rhiannon, I need you to be in this with me. Completely. I can’t do this alone.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Well, that’s new.”

He nodded, his eyes glued to her face. “Yes, it is. But that’s the truth.”

Some color returned to her pale face then, and she straight- ened a little in her chair, never taking her eyes off him. The gods knew that it cost him to say what he had said. And per- haps she knew it, too.

At last she said, “I am going to bring them down, bring

them all down, for what they have done. Somehow, someday.” “Yes,” Gwydion said. “We are. You and I, remember?” “Is that a promise?”

“It is,” he said steadily.

“All right. I’ll hold you to that. How much longer do you think we will be here?”

“Until the tournament. And until I can
fi
nd those plans.”

“I think I know where they are,” she said mildly. “What?”

“I said—”

“I know what you said. But how did you—” Gwydion broke off, staring at her. “Wait a minute. You said you hadn’t gone anywhere today. You lied!”

“I said I stayed here. Which is true. But I did Wind-Ride.” “Where to?” he asked between gritted teeth.

“I Rode to Havgan’s room while the rest of you were wait- ing in the courtyard to go to the palace. He was there alone. He had just let the corner of that tapestry by the
fi
replace drop down. Then he left.”

“You know he senses something when we Ride.”

“But he doesn’t know what. And it was only for a moment.” Gwydion frowned, thinking of what Rhiannon had seen.

“Something behind the tapestry? A cupboard?”

“I would guess so. And he must keep the plans there.” “Why is he so secretive about the plans in his own house?” “Why do you think? He’s been warned about deception

from those around him twice now.”

Gwydion nodded. “Makes sense. All right, then. That’s where I’ll look on the day of the tournament.”

“Unless we have a chance before then.”

“We can hope, but I doubt it. Whenever he leaves, he takes us with him.”

“I stayed here today. He thought I was really ill. Maybe you should get sick, too. And soon.”

There was a clatter in the courtyard. A man rode up, leading someone on another horse. The man’s black robe proclaimed him for a wyrce-jaga. His companion was not so easily placed. Man or woman, they couldn’t tell, the
fi
gure was so heavily cloaked. And on such a hot day, too. Gwydion looked closely at the
fi
gure. “A woman, I think, from the way she moves,” Gwydion said. “One of Havgan’s whores, probably.”

“In broad daylight? That’s not like him.” She studied the woman as the wyrce-jaga spoke to a guard. “And only if he likes them old now. Look at her hands.”

She was right. The woman’s hands were gnarled and worn. Sledda came out of the house, and the wyrce-jaga lead the woman to him, talking quietly. Sledda looked shocked for a moment, then his face became bland. He nodded and signaled for the woman to follow him. The other wyrce-jaga mounted his horse and rode off.