Crimson Fire (43 page)

At last Gwydion released Cariadas and rose to his feet. He laid a hand on her head. “I charge you, all of you, to care for my daughter. When the Coranians come, I will be far away from her. Promise me.” His voice broke.

“We promise, Gwydion,” Elstar said softly. “We will see that she comes to no harm.”

“No harm,” Gwydion murmured, stroking Cariadas’s hair. “Can any of us come out of this unharmed?”

But to this, they had no answer.

Coed Dulas, Tegeingl, Gwynedd

U
THYR STALKED THROUGH
the undergrowth. Closer and closer he crept to the clearing. So silently did he move that not

even the slightest stir marked his progress.

The stag had just dipped its head to drink and straight- ened up, unalarmed. It was a magni
fi
cent animal, its hide light brown with a massive chest of pure white. Uthyr lifted his bow and took aim. If he released the arrow, it would bury itself deep into the snow-white breast. Blood would spill, staining the pure, shining hide, making a mockery of such proud beauty.

He shook his head. This would not do. He was the King, and he was expected to bring back a trophy from the hunt. Sometimes—many times, kings had to do things they did not want to do. Like give up their sons and never see them again. Like watch their wives miscarry and draw farther and farther into themselves. Like carry on each day as though nothing was wrong, while feeling such soul-killing loneliness with no one to talk to of his misery. No one.

He sighed silently. Then he slowly released the tension in the bow string, letting the arrow fall to the ground, unused. The stag bolted at the noise. He smiled sadly to himself. Be- cause, sometimes, kings could do what they wanted to do.

“I almost frightened him off myself, until I realized you weren’t going to shoot him after all,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the clearing.

“Gwydion!” He bounded across the clearing, enveloping his half-brother in a massive bear hug. “Gwydion, oh, thank the gods, you’re still alive!”

Gwydion grinned up at him. “Well, I was before you broke all my ribs! Oh, I must introduce you to Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.” A woman stepped out into the clearing. She wore a tunic and trousers of forest green. Her black hair was tightly braided to form a crown at the top of her head, and she wore a Dewin’s

torque around her long, slender neck. Her green eyes smiled at him.

“So, you are Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. My brother looked long and long for you.”

“And found me, much to his dismay,” she smiled.

“Ah, so you take him down a peg or two. A woman after my own heart.”

“Thanks, Uthyr. As always, your support and unstinting loyalty mean a great deal to me,” Gwydion said dryly.

“Come, you must return to Caer Gwynt with me. We will feast tonight, and celebrate your return!”

“Uthyr . . .” Gwydion began, then fell silent.

Uthyr let the silence lengthen. So it had come at last. “It’s all right, Gwydion. Say what you need to say.”

But it was Rhiannon who answered. “The Coranians will invade. Soon, though we do not know exactly when. The spirit of Gorwys of Penllyn will rise to give warning one day before they land. They will land off your coasts, two thousand to each cantref. The details are in this document, which we leave with you. The main contingent will put to shore off the coast of Arl- lechwedd and come straight to Tegeingl by river. It will take them eight days to get there. We suggest small contingents to harass them on their way, but no pitched battle.”

“No pitched battle?” Uthyr asked quietly. “Why not?” “Because we will lose. The Coranians will defeat us—for

a time.”

“I see. And when will the time end?”

“When the Treasures are found and your son gains entry with them into Cadair Idris. Then he will become High King and take back the land from our enemy.”

“Ah. You know about my son? Have you seen him?” he asked hungrily. He couldn’t help himself.

“I saw him before I left for Corania. A
fi
ne boy. You would

be proud.”

“I am proud.” Uthyr walked apart a little way and stood with his back to them, leaning for support against a tree. For some reason his legs felt a little weak. Over his shoulder, he said quietly, “I will prepare a place in the mountains for my people to retreat to. I will try to persuade as many people as possible to go. But I cannot lose Gwynedd without a
fi
ght. I cannot.”

“Uthyr, O gods, Uthyr, don’t,” Gwydion said hoarsely. “Please, if you have any regard for me at all, I beg you—”

“Regard for you?” Uthyr turned to his brother. “Gwydion, I gave my son to you because I trusted you. I believed in your dreams and asked no questions, because I loved you. I ask no questions now. But I am King of this land. I must
fi
ght for her. Say no more, brother. Believe me, I understand.”

Tears spilled down Gwydion’s face. “No, no, you don’t un- derstand. You can’t possibly—”

“Gwydion, Gwydion,” Uthyr said sorrowfully, “do you re- ally think that I don’t see my death in your eyes? And did you really think I would run?”

“No,” Gwydion whispered.

“When you see my son, tell him that I love him. Tell him I know he will make the choice he needs to make to save his people. Will you tell him that?”

Gwydion could not seem to speak. Rhiannon nodded. “Tell him that my last thoughts will be of him.”

“Yes,” Rhiannon replied steadily, though tears stood in her eyes. “I will tell him.”

“You will keep him safe.” It was not a question. “We will,” she replied
fi
rmly.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “It is enough.”

Dinas Emrys, Gwynedd

H
E DIPPED THE
ladle into the simmering pot of stew and took a cautious sip. Ah, almost perfect. A little dash of rosemary and it would be a meal
fi
t for a king. Or, in this case, a former Ar- dewin and a High King in the making. Or so he kept hoping.

“Chaos is not to be feared,” Myrrdin said, continuing the evening lesson. “It is to be welcomed, as a necessary part of the turning of the Wheel. The soul that does not face challenges is one that is unful
fi
lled. Cut the bread, will you?”

Arthur took the knife and began to hack at the loaf. “So, chaos is good?”

“Chaos is neither good nor bad. Just as order is neither good nor bad. They are just parts of the Wheel, and the Wheel turns. Pour the ale, please.”

“So we are just at the mercy of the Wheel?”

“Not at all,” he said equably. “The Wheel offers choices to us. We take or leave those choices.” He took a hunk of cheese from the larder and set it on the table. “And we do this know- ing that there is a price both for grasping those choices and for walking away from them. There is always a price.”

“What’s the price for walking away?” Arthur asked eagerly. “The price is death. Death of a part of you that was meant

to be. But some people pay that, and think it a bargain. These are the people who try to stop the Turning Wheel. They kill something inside. It happens sometimes.”

He ladled the stew into trenchers of bread, and they sat

down to eat in silence, Myrrdin unwilling to intrude on Arthur’s thoughts. Why bother? He knew what they were.

There was a rattle at the door. Myrrdin looked up in sur- prise. “Who in the world? Oh. Oh, gods. They’re back.” He leapt up and
fl
ung the door open. “Gwydion! Gwydion, my boy, come in, come in!” He embraced his nephew, noting as he did so that Gwydion’s perpetual mask had slipped. The Dreamer now wore the face of a man living with soul-shattering pain.

Behind Gwydion, Rhiannon stood, looking tired and care- worn. There were dark circles under her eyes. “Rhiannon, my dear,” he said gently, taking her cold hands in his. “Come in. Sit by the
fi
re.”

She embraced him, and he felt her body quiver, as though a sob was working its way up from her wounded heart. But with a mighty effort, she stilled and pulled away, smiling wanly. He settled them both before the
fi
re. Without a word, Arthur poured ale for them, then pulled the sheepskin off his bed, tuck- ing it carefully around Rhiannon.

Myrrdin let them sip their ale and take the chill off their bones. Finally he said, “When do they come?”

Taking a deep breath, Gwydion answered, “Soon. We do not know exactly when. But Gorwys will ride and give us warn- ing. You are to stay here in the village and do nothing.”

“All right,” he agreed equably. “We do nothing.” He knew there was more, and he waited quietly for it to come.

“Uthyr . . .” Gwydion’s voice cracked. He swallowed and began again. “Uthyr is planning to create a refuge for his peo- ple in these mountains. But you must not go there.”

“Why?” Arthur’s eyes
fl
ashed. “Would it be so terrible for

you if I saw my father? Would that ruin all your plans?”

Gwydion ignored him, speaking to Myrrdin. “The gods only know who might
fi
nd their way into that secret haven. We can’t risk anyone knowing that Arthur is alive. Not yet.”

“I asked you a question, Gwydion ap Awst,” Arthur said belligerently. “I want an answer. Why won’t you let me go there and see my father?”

“Oh,” Gwydion said wearily, his head drooping. “Your fa- ther won’t be there.”

Myrrdin understood and said nothing. He closed his eyes brie
fl
y with the pain.

“Then where . . .” The color drained from Arthur’s face. “He’s going to die? And you are going to let that happen?”

Gwydion’s head shot up, his eyes glittering. He rose to his feet, shaking with rage as he grasped the front of Arthur’s tunic. “Let him die?” he shouted into the boy’s startled face. “Don’t you think I’d do anything to stop it?”

“Gwydion!” Rhiannon grasped his hands, pulling him away from the shaken boy. “Gwydion,” she repeated quietly. “Sit down.”

Gwydion sat down heavily, covering his face with his hands. Myrrdin waited. This was not his time to speak. This was her time. He hoped she would choose her words well. There were tears shimmering in Arthur’s dark eyes.

“We saw your da, Arthur, on our way here,” she said qui- etly. “He said to tell you that he loves you. He said to tell you that he knows you will make the choice you need to make to save our people.”

In the now-silent room, her soothing voice went on, as she tried to explain—to Arthur, to Gwydion, to herself. “Choices

. . . choices are hard, Arthur. Sometimes we can’t choose what

we want. Instead, we choose what must be. Sometimes, what must be is terrible. But we cannot turn away from it. Your fa- ther has made a choice for himself. Gwydion cannot choose for your father. No one can.”

Tears spilled down Arthur’s cheeks, which he clumsily tried to wipe away. Gwydion, his head still bowed, did not move.

“So he chooses to die?” Arthur whispered.

“It is a choice he must make to be true to himself. Uthyr is doing what he must do. But you mustn’t think he wants to leave you. You mustn’t think he doesn’t care enough to stay. He said to tell you that his last thoughts will be of you.”

“But, but I never. . .I never said good-bye,” Arthur whis- pered. “I always thought, I always hoped, I would see him again.”

“You can,” Myrrdin said, breaking his long silence. “Look inside yourself, and you will see him. He has left that to you, now and forever. And no one can take that away. As long as you remember those you love, they can never truly die.”

Caer Dathyl, Gwynedd

A
RIANROD GRABBED HOLD
of the sheer, rose-colored silk hang- ings around the four-poster bed, and yanked. The curtains tore from their moorings and
fl
oated to the polished oak
fl
oor. She trampled on them, then snatched the rose silk bedcover from the huge feather bed. She
fl
ung the spread to the
fl
oor and trampled on that, too. She glanced at the large mirror that hung over her bed and thought for a moment. No, the mirror would be less easily replaced. Best leave it alone.

Nothing had ever gone right for her. As a child, her parents had disappeared into the maw of the Coranian Empire. Aunt

Dinaswyn had looked after her out of guilt. Gwydion had used her body for years, then tired of her. Women hated her because they envied her. Men used her body because she was beautiful. She was mistrusted, misused by everyone, because they did not understand her.

And now, now that she had found a lover who actually sat- is
fi
ed her, she had been dragged back home by Dinaswyn, on Gwydion’s orders. It wasn’t fair. One minute she had been at Caer Duir enjoying herself with Aergol, Dinaswyn’s son, and the next Dinaswyn herself had abruptly appeared, given Aergol a message about an important meeting, and then dragged Ari- anrod back to Caer Dathyl, muttering of invasion.

Worse still, when Gwydion came back to Caer Dathyl, he wouldn’t be alone. That bitch, that whining, cowardly, skinny, revolting Rhiannon would be with him. She remembered her cousin Rhiannon very well from the time they had been at Y Ty Dewin together. Rhiannon had been so clever, so intelligent, sailed through all the lessons with hideous ease.

They’d be here soon. She had gone Wind-Riding just a few moments ago and had seen them riding up the mountain. Well, when they came, she’d refused to see them. She’d tell Gw- ydion just what she thought of him. And she’d tell Rhiannon, that fool, who had at last come out of hiding for Gwydion of all people, who had gone with him to the gods knew where . . .

Oh. Surely Rhiannon hadn’t done Gwydion’s bidding for that reason. Surely Rhiannon wasn’t such a fool as to have fallen in love with the Dreamer. But the more she thought about it, the less far-fetched the idea seemed to be. If Rhiannon, her old enemy, thought that she could succeed with Gwydion where Arianrod had failed . . .

She whirled to her wardrobe,
fl
inging open the doors. She donned an elegant, cream-colored undershift, then chose an elaborate, low-cut gown of amber, a color that matched her eyes to perfection. She combed out her long, honey-blond hair, weaving it through with thin, golden chains from which hung tiny amber gems. She painted her lips and eyes, and perfumed her body. Yes, very good. Now she would go to meet them.