Crimson Fire (42 page)

K
ING
R
HORAM WAS
sweating profusely. His muscles cramped, aching with the strain. Even his face hurt, so hard was he try- ing to hold his nonchalant smile. He looked as though he was preparing to savor a coming victory. But really, he wondered if he was going to have a stroke instead.

Parry. Raise his shield. Move his feet. Keep moving. Keep away from the stinging, shining net of steel she was steadily weaving around him. Parry. Attack. Move, move, move.
Gods
,

he thought,
if I’m ever fool enough to challenge her again, just kill me then and there
. “Do you yield?” he called.

Achren laughed mockingly. Her black hair braided tightly to her scalp shone in the bright sunlight. Her dark eyes
fl
ashed. “You’re out of shape,” she mocked. “You drink too much. Stay up all hours. Wench too much.”

“Can a man ever wench too much?” he asked, trying not to sound out of breath. She was right, but she was wrong. He did do all of those things. But he was in better shape than he had been in for years. And she knew it. It seemed to him that her breath was rasping a little, too. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

His folk laughed, calling out wagers—and other sugges- tions. He grinned at their jests, but kept a close eye on her feet. If she would just move one more inch to the left—

She did. And then Rhoram’s blade
fl
ashed, far to the right,

distracting her for one brief moment. Grinding her shield against his own, he hooked his foot around her ankles and yanked. She went down. His blade launched itself at her un- protected throat, and stopped.

“Do you yield?” he inquired politely.

Her dark eyes laughed up at him. “The Captain of a teulu never yields.”

“The Captain yields to her King. That’s in the law books, Achren.”

“Very well, then. I yield.”

Grinning, he held out his hand to help her up. She took his hand and suddenly yanked hard, throwing him off balance, and he stumbled to the ground. Quick as a
fl
ash, she grabbed the knife tucked in her boot and held it against his throat.

“The Captain, my King, never, ever yields,” she said solemnly. “A draw!” his son, Geriant, called.

“Ha!” Gwenhwyfar called. “Achren wins!”

“How can you say that!” his daughter, Sanon, said hotly. “He—”

“She let him win,” Gwen answered.

Rhoram grinned from where he lay prone. “Maybe she did, my sweetling. But have you no pity for your da?”

Gwen laughed. She ran across the courtyard, helping him to his feet,
fl
inging her arms around his neck. “Of course, I pity you, Da.”

“Thank you, dear heart. You are the joy of my old age.”

Movement at the fringes of the crowd caught his eye. The courtyard was packed with people who had come to watch the challenge, and the gates of the fortress were open. Someone had apparently joined the crowd, someone who was causing quite a stir. He began to catch a few muttered words from those on the fringes of the crowd.

“Dream . . . the Dreamer . . . what dream does he bring to us now?”

Ah. Gwydion had returned from the gods knew where.

And Rhiannon? Where was she? And then he heard it. “The Dewin . . . Rhiannon . . . she has returned to us.”

He craned his neck to see them coming. Beside him, Gwen tensed and began to pull away. “No, no, sweetheart,” he pleaded. “Don’t run away.” He tried to hold her, but she slipped away and disappeared into the crowd.

Then he saw her. She wore riding leathers of dark green. A green headband held her dark hair from her face. She was thin- ner than he remembered, and her skin was stretched too tightly

over her high cheekbones. She had changed—in more ways than he expected—in more ways than she, perhaps, even knew.

“King Rhoram,” Gwydion said, as the crowd parted to let them through.

“Gwydion,” Rhoram clasped his hand, but he had eyes only for Rhiannon. He gave her his most charming smile, but she did not seem to really see him at all. “Rhiannon,” Rhoram said, reaching for her hand and kissing it.

“Rhoram,” she said absently, looking around. “Is . . . is Gwen here?”

“She’ll be right back,” Rhoram temporized.

“Rhoram, we must speak to you. Alone,” Gwydion said.

His brows raised in surprise. “We will be undisturbed in my chambers.”

“Achren, please join us,” Rhiannon said.

Rhoram led the way through the crowd to his chambers. As they
fi
led in after him, Geriant and Sanon stopped Rhian- non at the door. “Rhiannon? Won’t you even greet us?” Geri- ant asked.

Rhiannon hugged them both
fi
ercely. “I’ve missed you two,” she said, tears standing in her eyes. “Is Gwen—”

“She is well,” Geriant said hastily. “And in her room, I think. Upstairs. Why don’t I just go fetch her?”

“Oh, would you? Thank you. Bring her here as soon as you can. Please.”

Geriant nodded, exchanging a look with his father. Rhoram nodded back, giving his son permission to try. Well, maybe Geriant could do it. Gwen adored him.

He ushered them into the audience chamber and they sat down. Without preamble, he asked, “Where have you been?”

“In Corania,” Gwydion answered. “Very soon they will invade Kymru.”

Rhoram’s breath caught in his throat. This was worse, much, much worse than he had expected. Achren, suddenly attentive, went still.

“I have seen the plans and will leave a copy of the details with you. They will land off your shores, bringing with them over two thousand men for each cantref. The largest force will land here at Arberth. Gorwys of Penllyn will rise and give warning one day before.”

Achren shot him a sharp glance. “Not much time.”

“As much as we need, though,” Rhoram answered absently. “We take up positions on the cliffs. Have Aidan take command of the defense of the city. Or maybe Geriant.”

“No!” Rhiannon said harshly. “You must not be here.” “You will not—you cannot—win,” Gwydion said evenly.

“You must not try.”

Rhoram smiled sadly. It was a shame, really. He did so much enjoy living. “Ah, Gwydion. I have no choice.”

“At least,” Rhiannon pleaded, “send the children away. All of them.”

“I can’t send Geriant away. But the Queen, the girls. . .what do you think, Achren?”

“The caves,” Achren said succinctly. “Ogaf Greu. Send them there.”

A clatter on the stairs halted the conversation. Geriant entered the room slowly. “I’m sorry. She . . . she won’t come down.”

Rhiannon drew in a sharp breath and turned deathly pale. Before Rhoram had even taken a step toward her, Gwydion had grasped her hands tightly in his.

“Rhiannon . . .” Gwydion said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She turned toward him, her face tight with pain. “She still hasn’t forgiven me for deserting her.”

“You didn’t desert her,” Rhoram said sharply.

Rhiannon laughed harshly. “Tell that to Gwen. Oh, the Wheel turns round. My father. My turn to pay.” She stood up, turning away from them.

“Rhiannon,” Geriant whispered. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“There is. Look after her. See that she comes to no harm.

Promise me.”

Rhoram looked at Gwydion, sitting so quietly now, his face a calm mask. But there were things behind that mask. Maybe Gwydion ap Awst wouldn’t be brokenhearted if something hap- pened to the King of Prydyn. Ah, what a fool he had been all those years ago, when he had let her go. He supposed that Gwydion owed him thanks for that. But maybe the man didn’t know that yet. And maybe he did, but wouldn’t admit it.

Poor Rhiannon. She always did have a way of attracting fools.

Llyn Mwyngil, Gwytheryn

R
HUFON
,
DESCENDENT OF
the Stewards of Cadair Idris, smiled brie
fl
y as he sighted the two
fi
gures on horseback. He knew them instantly, though they were still over a league away, for he had expected them. He knew something was coming, had known of something for over a year now. Exactly what it was, he was unsure, but now there was someone come to tell him, and he waited patiently for his answer.

At last they neared him enough for him to read their faces.

The news, then, was bad, indeed, from the look in the silvery eyes of the Dreamer, from the tightness in the beautiful counte- nance of the Dewin of Coed Aderyn.

He lifted his arm in greeting and hailed them as they halted their horses. “Gwydion ap Awst and Rhiannon ur Hefeyedd,” he said quietly as he gently grasped the bridles of their mounts. “You and the news you bring are welcome.”

“Welcome news?” Gwydion asked, his brow raised sardoni- cally. “And how is my news welcome?”

“It is always best to know the truth of what must be faced.

Turning away from it will surely gain us nothing.”

“The Coranians will invade Kymru and defeat us,” Gw- ydion said bluntly. “Is that the truth you wished to hear?”

Rhufon looked up at the Dreamer. “It is not the truth I wished.

But it is the truth I needed. The Stewards will be ready.” “Ready to what? You cannot
fi
ght them.”

“Ready to greet you when we see you again. Ready to ful-
fi
ll our task of caring for Cadair Idris and the High King who will once again live there.”

“Be warned, Rhufon. For the Coranian leader, Havgan, will try to enter Cadair Idris,” Rhiannon said quietly.

“And gain nothing for his pains,” Rhufon said serenely. “The Doors will open for no one who does not possess the Trea- sures. And the Doors cannot be forced.”

“Yet you and yours can enter Cadair Idris,” Gwydion pointed out. “Can you be so sure that Havgan will not
fi
nd the way in?”

“We can be so sure, Dreamer,” Rhufon said. “Fear not, for that way cannot take any but those guided by the Stewards. Ca- dair Idris will remain inviolate. Caladfwlch awaits inside, resting

in the golden fountain that stands in the center of Brenin Llys. No one’s hand but the High King’s will take hold of that hilt.”

“You are sure?” Gwydion pressed. “I am sure, Dreamer. Very sure.”

Neuadd Gorsedd, Gwytheryn

C
ARIADAS UR
G
WYDION
var Isalyn waited impatiently for the meeting to be over. She had known from the
fi
rst that the news her father brought was terrible. She had caught just a glimpse of his face as he had come striding up the stairs, and she had seen the tortured lines beneath the surface of his stern counte- nance. He had not stopped for a moment to even look for her, but had swept into the Master Bard’s chambers accompanied by a woman with dark hair and glittering, emerald eyes.

Now, after almost an hour, he was still in there talking to the Master Bard, the Ardewin, the Archdruid, and their heirs. She sighed. It seemed as though she had been waiting to talk to him for so very long. She remembered when she was just a little girl—a long time ago, for she was all of twelve years old now—when her father had nothing but time for her. From dawn to dusk he had played with her, taken her for walks, car- ried her when she was tired, helped her to make daisy chains

with which she crowned them both.

But then she had been tested and had gone away to school to begin the long, arduous task of learning to be the Thirteenth Dreamer of Kymru. After she completed her studies here at Neuadd Gorsedd, she would go to Caer Duir to learn from the Druids. She could hardly wait, for now she had met Sinend, who, in the space of the last three days, had become her very best friend in all the world. Sinend lived at Caer Duir. Her

father was Dinaswyn’s son, Aergol, the Archdruid’s heir.

She turned to look at her friend, waiting so patiently with her. Sinend was thirteen years old. She had her grandmother Dinaswyn’s gray eyes, and the reddish brown hair of her mother, a princess of Rheged. Like Cariadas, Sinend had never known her mother, for the Princess had died in childbirth.

“How much longer?” Cariadas asked, twirling her red-gold hair around her
fi
nger.

“Stop that,” Sinend chided. “Your hair looks like a rat’s nest.” Cariadas laughed. “If it was smooth, my father wouldn’t recognize me!” She thought for a moment, then said in a small

voice, “Maybe he won’t recognize me anyway.”

“He will,” Sinend said
fi
rmly, taking her hand. “You know he will.”

They sat together huddled in a corner, just down the hall from Anieron’s chambers. They weren’t supposed to be there, of course. But there was no one to disturb them, for Elidyr, Anier- on’s heir; his wife, Elstar, the Ardewin’s heir; and Aergol, Sinend’s father, were all in Anieron’s chambers with the rest of them.

They could just make out the murmur of voices from be- hind the door. Anieron’s mellow tones predominated for a moment. Once she heard the Ardewin’s startled exclamation. Great-Uncle Cynan was a good man, she knew, but not a very good Ardewin. At least, that’s what Elidyr had said one time when he didn’t know Cariadas was listening. Cathbad’s rich voice murmured something. Then Cariadas heard her father’s anguished tone.

And though she had known the news her father brought was bad, the sound of his sorrow chilled her heart. At last the door opened and her father came out, his eyes searching for

her. Finally.

“Daughter!” Gwydion called to her and held out his arms, crouching down to hold her.

In a
fl
ash, Cariadas hurled herself at her father. “Da. Oh,

Da. I missed you.”

“And I missed you, dear heart. You know I did.”

She studied his face and was startled to see the tracks of tears. “Da,” she began in a small voice.

“Don’t be afraid, little one,” he said, his voice soft. “But, Da, you’ve been crying.”

The others spilled out into the corridor. Anieron Master Bard’s face was impassive. Cynan Ardewin’s face was white and drawn. Cathbad Archdruid’s dark eyes were awash with pity. El- star and Elidyr stood closely together, clasping each other’s hands tightly. Aergol held out his arms and Sinend came running to him. The woman with dark hair who had come with her father stood alone, her back to the wall, her green eyes sorrowful.