Crimson Fire (36 page)

“If you can think of something I should say that you haven’t already thought of yourself, by all means let me know,” she said steadily. Her green eyes seemed to look through and beyond

him. “We should have seen this coming. Isn’t this what he did with the inner circle of his warband? Bound them to him through this oath? Bound them so strongly that they would do anything he tells them to do?”

“That’s them,” Gwydion growled. “Not me.” “I didn’t think it was,” she said mildly. “Didn’t you?” he shot back.

“For the gods’ sake, Gwydion, what are you trying to get me to say? That I don’t trust you anymore?”

“Do you?”

“More than you do, apparently. Stop worrying about it. You’re not betraying your brother. Havgan is your enemy. And he always will be.”

Before he could reply, there was a knock on the door. Gw- ydion stiffened. Rhiannon went to the door and opened it. A servant stood there. “Lord Havgan requests the presence of his minstrels in his chambers,” he said.

Rhiannon nodded, then shut the door. “He wants us,” she said. “What, now? It’s getting dark, so he can’t want to go any-

where.”

“Don’t bet on it. Come on, the master calls.” “Don’t call him that!”

She looked at him steadily. “Gwydion, don’t be angry at me because of what happened.”

He ran his hands through his dark hair. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little edgy.”

“Well, that’s new, isn’t it?” She was still angry. “Come on.”

He shrugged and followed her. She was going to be angry as long as she wanted to be. Women. They were so dif
fi
cult to get along with.

When they came to Havgan’s rooms, Sledda was also there. Without preamble, Havgan said, “Sledda and I are going to run an errand. I want you both to come.”

“What’s the errand?” Rhiannon asked.

“There is no need for you to know that,” Sledda snapped. “It is enough that Lord Havgan wishes you to go.”

Rhiannon turned to Havgan, her brows raised. “Touchy, isn’t he?”

Havgan’s stern face softened into an unwilling smile. “It’s his calling in life.”

“So, you’re not going to satisfy my curiosity, either?” she asked
fl
ippantly.

Havgan sighed. “I never could resist the blandishments of a beautiful woman. We go to seek a valla, a fate-teller.”

“A fate-teller,” she repeated slowly.

“Yes. A very famous one right here in the city. She is reputed to be excellent.”

“Then why isn’t she in a dungeon somewhere?” Rhiannon asked. Sledda frowned.

“Some of her customers are very important people. And so she is free, for now,” Havgan answered. “Come, both of you, it is getting dark.”

“Oh,” Rhiannon said, looking sharply at Gwydion. “That’s too bad. Never mind. If you stay up all night, maybe you can
fi
nish it.”

“Finish what?” Havgan asked sharply.

“His song,” Rhiannon said. “The song for the tournament tomorrow.”

Havgan turned to Gwydion with interest. “A song for the tournament?”

Gwydion ground his teeth. He wished that Rhiannon would discuss these clever ideas with him before she put them into action. “A special song that I was working on,” he said. “Praising your exceptional warrior’s skills. Singing of how you won the battle between you and Aelbald.”

“I haven’t fought yet,” Havgan said, his mouth quirking. “But you are sure to win,” Gwydion said earnestly. Then

he sighed. “But Rhea is right. Perhaps I can get it
fi
nished if I

work all night after we return.”

“Hold on a moment,” Havgan said. “The song is more im- portant. Rhea can come with me, and you can stay here. But I expect an excellent song tomorrow.”

“Your honor is mine. The song will be all you could wish for. Trust me.”

“I do,” Havgan said softly. “And I am sure that you won’t disappoint me.” He looked down at Rhiannon. “Come, my dear. Let us pay a visit to the fate-teller.”

Rhiannon swallowed hard. Gwydion knew what she was thinking. They had been lucky so far, when Havgan had the wyrd-galdra read to him. Neither reader had betrayed them to Havgan. But they couldn’t be lucky forever. Gwydion hoped with all his heart that this fate-teller was a fake. If not, Rhian- non might not return.

But she put a smile on her face and laid her hand on Hav- gan’s arm. “Yes, let’s pay her a visit, shall we?” She glanced at Gwydion. “See you when we return, my love.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. Partly for the bene
fi
t of Havgan and Sledda. Partly in tribute to her resource and courage. And partly just because he wanted to.

“I’ll return her safe and sound, brother,” Havgan smiled.

Safe and sound. Yes. Havgan had better do just that.

A
FTER THEY WERE
gone, Gwydion went to the tapestry, lift- ing a corner and peering behind it. There was nothing but the whitewashed wall. He frowned and looked closer. There, a tiny crack, halfway up the wall. The door to a cupboard, obviously. But how to open it? He could not see anything that would do that. He grabbed a candle from the table and held it up, looking closer. Nothing. He pushed and pulled, but nothing moved.

Wonderful. A great hiding place. One that no one but Havgan could get into. No one but Havgan . . . ah. Of course. He closed his eyes and pushed against the tiny door in the wall with his mind. He heard a click as the cupboard swung open. Carefully, he reached in and pulled out the packet. He hurried over to the table, the packet in one hand and the candle in the other. Before he unwrapped the papers, he pushed the cup- board shut with his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he unwrapped the packet, noting the exact folds of the cloth as he did so, in order to wrap them up again properly. He unfolded a paper and found himself gazing at a detailed map of Kymru. Chief cities were marked with red ink—Tegeingl in Gwynedd, Arberth in Prydyn, Llwynarth in Rheged, and Dinmael in Ederynion. In the center of the map, the colleges were marked with green ink—Neuadd Gorsedd, where the Bards dwelled; Y Ty Dewin, where the Dewin lived; and Caer Duir, where the Druids were housed. A splash of gold ink in the center indicated the location of Cadair Idris, the abandoned hall of the High King. Within each country, the individual cantrefs and commotes were marked, as well as the roads and rivers, mountain ranges, and forests.

Lines of blue, green, and amber marked the planned path of Havgan’s armies. Blue probably meant Derean forces, and green was probably for Miercean. Amber would be for Coran- ian warriors. If he were reading this right, a Miercean force under Penda and a Derean force under Talorcan would take Arberth in Prydyn and Dinmael in Ederynion, respectively. Both cities were right on the sea and easily accessible by ship. A second Derean force under Baldred would take Llwynarth in Rheged by using Sarn Ermyn, the great east/west road that cut through Kymru. Another Miercean force, under Catha, would make for Tegeingl in Gwynedd via the River Mawddoch. And the Coranians under Havgan’s leadership would head straight for Gwytheryn, via Sarn Ermyn, where Cadair Idris and the colleges lay.

The door rattled. Gwydion looked up and swiftly shoved the plans beneath the table. Talorcan strode into the room. “Havgan, I want to—” He stopped abruptly, seeing Gwydion alone in the room.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Where is Havgan?” “He and Sledda had to go out,” Gwydion said. His heart was in his throat, and his racing pulse pounded in his ears, but

his voice did not shake. “But they will be back, soon, I think.” Talorcan frowned. “What are you doing here by yourself?” “Writing a song.”

“How? I see no parchment.” “Are you a composer?” Talorcan frowned. “No.”

“Well, then, you don’t really know how it’s done. You see, you must imagine
fi
rst how the song will come. You reach out,” he went on, warming to his theme, “into the void of pure

thought, pure music, pure poetry, and try to pull the song back out with you into the world. Only then, when it is
fi
xed in your mind, do you write it down.”

“I see,” Talorcan said. For a moment, Gwydion was afraid that Talorcan truly did. His eyes were suspicious. “And why are you composing here?”

“It is a song about the prowess of Lord Havgan. What better place from which to get inspiration than here, where he spends so much of his time?”

“Mm. Indeed. I understand from Havgan that I must con- gratulate you.”

“Congratulate me?”

“As a new brother.” Talorcan smiled bitterly.

“Oh, yes. So I am,” Gwydion said, uncertain if Talorcan was truly offering him congratulations or condolences. Perhaps both. The two men looked at each other in silence. He thought he saw pity in Talorcan’s eyes.

“Well,” Talorcan said, clearing his throat. “When Havgan returns, tell him I want to see him, will you?”

Gwydion nodded, not trusting himself to speak. After Tal- orcan left, he reached under the table with shaking hands and grabbed the parchment. He rolled it up quickly, careful to re- turn it to its exact condition. He folded the cloth over it, and, lifting the tapestry, willed the cupboard to open. He placed the plans back inside, then shut the cupboard with his mind. Then he returned to the table, forcing his heartbeat to slow to normal. He took a deep breath. There was a song to compose by tomor- row. He’d best get to it.

H
IS SONG WAS
almost done when Rhiannon returned. He had

left a note for Havgan, giving him Talorcan’s message, then re- turned to his room. When she came in, he sighed in relief.

“Back safe but not very sound,” she said, her face pale. He gestured her to take the chair. “What happened?” “Oh, just the usual.”

“You mean—?

“Oh, yes. The same thing. All of it. The Fool, The Magi- cian. Holda and Wuotan. The Tower. Everything.”

“Even the card of the Moon? The deception card?” She nodded wearily. “Even that.”

“And the valla? Did she know who you were?”

“If she did, she gave no sign at all. And I’m not sure that she did. She didn’t look at me once the whole time.”

“Did he . . . did he kill her?”

“Amazingly enough, no. He thanked her and left.” “I would have thought—”

“I would have, too. But, apparently, she is very famous. The Empress herself has been to see her. Secretly, of course. Did you
fi
nd what you were looking for?”

“I did. Just where you said it would be. There’s a cupboard behind the tapestry. But it can only by opened by Shape-Moving.”

She whistled. “So he thinks they must be very, very safe.”

Gwydion nodded. “Believe me, he won’t have any idea that they have been seen. I was very careful. But Talorcan came in before I was
fi
nished.”

“Oh, gods! What did you do?”

“Threw the plans under the table and waited until he left.” “Do you think he knew?”

Gwydion shook his head. “I’m not sure. All I can say is, be ready to run.”

C
hapter
13

Athelin, Marc of Ivelas Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire

Ostmonath, 496

R

Gewinnan Daeg, Sol 1—late afternoon

hiannon sat next to Gwydion as they waited for the
fi
nal battle of the tournament to begin. She was tired, for they had been watching the
fi
ghting since early

that morning and the day had been hot and close. She sighed longingly, thinking of home. If all went as planned, they would leave Athelin tomorrow—assuming that Gwydion came to his senses and agreed they could indeed leave. Though he had seen the invasion plans, he was still anxious to discover when the invasion was due to take place.

Rhiannon had argued with Gwydion most of the night about that. It was far more important to get out of Corania alive and return with the information they had. “Just think a moment, if it won’t hurt too much,” she had said. “How do you plan to
fi
nd that out? We could stay here for months and never discover it in time.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If I had time, I could perhaps get the

date. It’s worth a try.”

“No, it’s not. And if you were thinking straight, you’d know that.”

“Look,” he had said pointedly, “I have a song to write here, thanks to you. Can we continue this discussion another time?” Gwydion had then suggested she was a coward, and the conver- sation had gone downhill after that. Since then, they had been icily polite to each other, but they were both still furious. The usual state of affairs.

One of the
fi
rst battles of the day had been between Hav-

gan and his men—Sigerric, Penda, Catha, Baldred, and Talor- can—against Aescwine, the Empress’s brother, and
fi
ve of his warriors. Havgan’s band had won that battle and killed two of Aescwine’s men in the process. For the rest of the day, the
fi
ghting between warbands had gone on —with the winners of one battle
fi
ghting the winners of the next. Havgan’s band had now fought over seven battles, and won every time. Baldred had received one cut to his sword arm, but it was shallow. And Penda had a slight cut on his leg. The rest of them had been relatively unscathed. Aelbald’s men, too, had won every battle. And now the chieftains of those unbeaten bands—Havgan and Aelbald—would
fi
ght for mastery, for the position of Warleader, and for the hand of Princess Aelfwyn.

The crowd was hushed as Havgan and Aelbald took their places in the center of the huge outer courtyard of Byrnwiga, the Warleader’s fortress. The building, carved of black stone, loomed ominously over them. The winner of today’s
fi
nal battle would live here from now on. And the loser would be dead.

A tremendous crowd of people ringed the outer courtyard, packed in tightly to view the coming spectacle. A pavilion of

white had been erected on one side of the yard for the royal family to view the proceedings in comfort. The Emperor and Empress were sitting there now, both sipping from goblets of wine. The Empress managed to look as though the outcome of the battle was of no concern to her. But the Emperor showed his agitation in his quick, nervous movements and occasional shrill laughter. Between them sat the Princess. Like her mother, she maintained a calm facade, and only if one looked closely could one see that her hands were clasped tightly together—so tight that the knuckles were white.