Crimson Fire (35 page)

Rhiannon looked at Gwydion blankly. “Another reading, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” He stood still for a moment. “Quickly, bar the door.”

Rhiannon did so as Gwydion settled himself down on the bed. “Watch over me. I’m Riding to Havgan’s room.”

“But what about Havgan?”

“If he senses me too strongly, I’ll come right back.”

“You don’t know that they have taken her to Havgan’s rooms.” “Where else would they take her?”

“He might send for us.”

“If he does, nudge me and I’ll come back. Gods, I can’t believe that I wanted you to be the way you were. You’d argue with me all the way down if we both fell off a cliff.”

“No one’s perfect,” she said with a grin. “Go on. I’ll keep watch.”

G
WYDION
’
S AWARENESS FLOATED
down into Havgan’s cham- bers, unseen. Havgan was seated at the large table, surrounded by Sigerric, Penda, Catha, Baldred, and Talorcan. He was re- galing them with portions of his conversation with Aelfwyn. Sigerric sat silent and white-faced. Talorcan, too, kept silent. But the rest were laughing.

“And then I said ‘choose—enemy or friend,’” Havgan was saying.

“And she chose enemy, of course,” Baldred said. “So she did.”

Penda laughed. “You really know how to turn on the charm, don’t you?”

“Women just throw themselves at his feet when he does that,” Catha said.

The door opened and Sledda entered, alone. “Lord Hav- gan, you have a visitor.”

“Who?” Havgan asked in surprise, as he absently rubbed his forehead.

“The headache again?” Sigerric asked quietly.

Havgan nodded. “It is of no matter. It will stop soon. It always does. Show the visitor in, Sledda.”

“I think, my lord, that it would be best for you to see this visitor alone.”

“Except for you, eh, Sledda?” Talorcan asked, as he, too, rubbed his forehead.

“It will be as Lord Havgan commands,” Sledda said smoothly. “You have a headache, too?” Penda asked Talorcan. “Caught from Havgan, no doubt,” Baldred said with a grin. “No doubt,” Talorcan said softly.

Havgan frowned, studying Sledda’s impassive face, obviously not listening to their banter. “Very well, I’ll see this visitor alone.” He turned to his friends. “I’ll
fi
nish the story another time.”

“Do,” Catha urged. “I’m interested in learning your tech- nique!”

One by one, they
fi
led out past Sledda. When they were

gone, Havgan asked quietly, “Who is it?” “Your mother.”

Havgan froze, staring at Sledda. “My mother? How did she get here?”

“Guthlac, Master-wyrce-jaga of Cantware, brought her here at her urging. It seems that some days ago she slipped out of Sigerric’s mother’s house and made her way secretly to him. She insisted that he bring her here.”

“So no one but Guthlac knows where she is,” Havgan said slowly. “Well, as long as she is here, I will see her. But after that, she goes right back to Apuldre. And I want her watched more closely.”

Sledda bowed and left. His brows knit, Havgan began to pace the room slowly, absently rubbing the back of his neck. Gwydion was intrigued, too intrigued to leave just yet, though he knew Havgan was sensing something. Gwydion had heard hints before that Hildegyth, Havgan’s mother, was a madwoman. It was no wonder that Havgan would wish to keep that quiet, par-

ticularly now, at the very threshold of his
fi
nal bid for power.

The door opened, and Sledda escorted Havgan’s mother into the room. She threw off her hood and stood still, gaz- ing at Havgan. Neither one moved. Sledda, stationed by the door, said nothing, but his pale gaze glittered as he looked from mother to son.

Hildegyth was thin almost to the point of emaciation. Her cheekbones stood out sharply beneath pale gray eyes. Her hair was white and hung over her bony shoulders. Her face was strangely unlined, as though nothing that had ever happened to her had the power to truly mark her. She stepped forward, holding out her arms.

“My son. My gift from the sea.” Her voice was off-key, with a strange lilt to it.

Slowly, Havgan took her thin hands in his. “Maeder. Why have you come?”

“Are you not pleased to see me, my son? It’s been a long time. Or so they tell me. But it doesn’t really feel that way. Time bends strangely, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” he asked evenly. “I ask you again, why have you come?”

“Why have I escaped my jailers, you mean?”

“The Lady of Apuldre is not your jailer. She is Sigerric’s mother. A kind and worthy woman. She took you in when I begged her to.”

“Took me in when your father was murdered and I had no one to look after me.”

He sighed. “Faeder was not murdered. It was an accident.” “Was it?” Her strange eyes glittered.

“Yes. You remember. It was lightning. Lightning that

struck the house. It was an accident.”

“Yes. Accidents do happen, don’t they? Particularly when you want them to,” Hildegyth mocked. Havgan paled but did not answer, and Hildegyth went on. “There, there, my son,” she said, putting a wasted hand on his arm. “It doesn’t matter. We never needed him, anyway.”

“I don’t know what you are trying to say—”

“Yes, you do.” Her gray eyes, no longer vague, looked at him sharply. “As to why I have come—I come to warn you.”

He sighed. “Of what, Maeder?”

“Of the sea. Of your plan to defeat the Kymri. To tell you that you are a fool.”

Sledda jumped as though he had been stung. “Be careful what you say, woman,” he said harshly. “You speak to—”

“I know to whom I speak. Do you?” Hildegyth asked, a strange smile on her face.

“I believe that I do,” Sledda said, his voice steady.

Hildegyth studied him for a moment. “Yes, I believe that you do.” She turned back to Havgan. “I have come to warn you, my son. You must not go to Kymru. I have told you again and again, you must stay away from the sea. Become Warleader, if that is your wish. Send men to take Kymru, if you need to. But do not go yourself!”

“Come, Maeder,” Havgan said, his eyes glittering. “You can’t tell me that and not tell me why.”

“I cannot tell you why. I cannot! You mustn’t ask me. No one must ever ask me!” She was becoming agitated. Havgan took her hands to calm her down, but she began to wail. “No, no! You mustn’t ask me. I mustn’t tell! You can’t make me!”

“Maeder . . .” Havgan said. “Maeder, don’t . . .”

Instantly she stopped. Her face became blank and she im- mediately began to gaze off into space. Slowly, she pulled her hands away and sat down on a chair at the table, her back to the door. She huddled there, hugging herself. “Oh,” she said softly. “I must. I must tell.” She rocked back and forth. “Oh, he’ll never believe me otherwise. Must tell. Must.”

“Maeder?” Havgan said, kneeling beside her. She raised her head and opened her mouth to speak.

And that was when Sledda sprang forward, grasped Hilde- gyth by the hair, and broke her neck. Gwydion heard it snap cleanly.

Havgan was frozen in shock, still kneeling on the
fl
oor.

Sledda let Hildegyth’s limp body sink back down into the chair. Havgan looked up at Sledda. And Sledda looked down at Hav- gan, his face impassive. “You did not want to hear what she was going to say, did you?” Sledda said.

Slowly Havgan shook his head.

“Now you don’t have to,” Sledda said simply. “Now no one will ever hear it.” Effortlessly, Sledda picked up Hildegyth’s body. “I’ll take care of this. No one will ever even know she was here.”

“Guthlac . . .” Havgan said, his amber eyes still wide with shock.

“Will say nothing. Believe me, Lord Havgan, this is the best way. She’s out of her misery now.” Sledda nodded down at Hildegyth’s still face. Havgan reached out, touched her face gently, and then turned away.

Nardaeg, Sol 35—morning

F
IVE DAYS LATER
,
Havgan summoned Gwydion as soon as it

was light, and the two men rode out of the city. Havgan had offered no explanation, and Gwydion had not pressed, but his thoughts were in turmoil. Perhaps Havgan had found out the truth and he was taking Gwydion out of the city to kill him in private. After what he had seen last week, nothing would sur- prise him about Havgan anymore.

They passed
fi
elds and trees by the score. It was a beautiful

morning, with just a touch of crispness to the air. Autumn was coming. And soon, very, very soon, Gwydion would be on his way back home. Unless he died today.

At last they reached a grove of trees, set back a little from the road. Havgan turned off and dismounted, tethering his horse at the edge of the grove. Gwydion did the same. Without a word, Havgan plucked his saddlebag from the horse’s back and walked through the trees. Gwydion followed, more appre- hensive than ever.

There was a tiny clearing inside the grove, and a brook babbled through it. Birds sang, and the sunlight beamed shafts of gold through the trees and onto the forest
fl
oor. Havgan dumped the saddlebag on the ground, then turned to face Gw- ydion. He was smiling. Uncertainly, Gwydion smiled back.

“You have been very patient, minstrel. You ask no questions.” “My lord will tell me in his own time,” Gwydion replied

humbly.

“The time is now. Twice you have saved my life. You have proven yourself to be a true friend to me. Tomorrow my fate hangs in the balance. And I feel a need to be bound with my friends. Therefore, today we will become brothers.”

Gwydion swallowed hard. “My . .my lord,” he stuttered. “I am only a servant . . .”

“No, you are more than a servant. You are a true and loyal man. You have saved my life. And now you shall be my brother.” Oh, gods. This was worse than he had expected. His mind raced, but he knew it was useless. Havgan was deter- mined. This was almost more than he could stand. He had no choice—and he would not be able to keep the solemn oath he gave today. His word would be broken. He felt sick. And deep inside, he was ashamed at the level of deception he was being

compelled to practice. “My lord—” “No more protests, brother.”

Havgan opened the saddlebag and took out a sharp knife, a wineskin, and a small cup. Then he faced the east and chanted, “O place of air, write our words before the wind.” He turned south. “O place of
fi
re, burn our words in the sun.” Then west. “O place of water, write our words upon the sea.” Finally, he turned to the north. “O place of earth, chisel our words in stone.”

He
fi
lled the cup with water from the brook and poured it over the ground. Then he placed his foot over the soaked earth, making a footprint. He gestured and Gwydion placed his own footprint on top of it.

Then Havgan cut his thumb and handed the knife to Gwydion, who did the same. They held their hands over the footprints, letting the blood drop into the ground. Then they grasped each other’s right wrists with their bleeding hands. Havgan spoke:

“So long as there is breath in my body, I pledge true friendship.

So long as there is blood in my veins, I will shed it in your defense.

So long as you call, I shall answer. So long as you ride, I shall follow.”

Gwydion took a deep breath. Then he, in his turn, chanted the same formula. He kept his voice steady, but inside he was screaming. His mind was chaos. Contempt for himself, con- tempt for Havgan, sorrow, pain, genuine love, genuine hate, all boiled inside, creating a maelstrom of hopeless misery.

Havgan poured wine in the cup and drank. Then he handed the cup to Gwydion, who drank in his turn. Havgan placed his arm around Gwydion’s shoulders, and turned until they faced east. “Air has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”

They turned to the south. And Gwydion said, “Fire has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”

Turning west, Havgan said, “Water has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”

They turned north. “Earth has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another,” Gwydion said.

Havgan embraced Gwydion, his amber eyes shining. “To- morrow I
fi
ght Aelbald. And I will win. You shall have a great place in my household, brother.”

Gwydion nodded with a tight smile on his face. But beneath his contempt for the part he played today, he felt a stirring of anger. Since the death of Amatheon, only Uthyr had the right to call him brother—only Uthyr, who would die because of this man standing before him now. Gwydion bowed his head, afraid that Havgan would see something in his eyes, something he should not see—not yet.
The day will come, “brother,”
Gwydion thought

savagely,
when you shall truly know me. And I hope it destroys you.

A
FTER THEY RETURNED
to the house, Gwydion went straight up to his room without speaking to anyone.

“Are you all right?” Rhiannon asked sympathetically, tak- ing in his white face and clenched hands.

“No,” he said carefully. “Not at all.” She helped him over to the chair and poured him a cup of wine. She handed it to him, closing both his hands around the goblet. She gave the cup a little push toward his lips to get him going, and Gwydion downed a healthy swallow. He waited a moment to see whether his stomach was going to accept or reject it. The issue was in doubt for several moments, but, at last, the queasiness subsided. He drank again, draining the goblet to the dregs.

“Do you know what happened?” Gwydion asked.

“I heard Sigerric and the others talking about it. He made you his brother, didn’t he?”

Gwydion turned to her, his eyes glittering. “I feel sick.” “I’m sure you do. Tell me, is it because you hated it or be-

cause you liked it?”

“Both,” he shuddered. “Both.”

She nodded. “Yes, that does make it worse, doesn’t it?” Again she fell silent.

He cocked a brow at her. “That’s it? No lectures? No reminders that Havgan is a cold-blooded killer? No comments about how I saved the bastard’s life? I, his greatest enemy? Nothing about divided loyalties?”