Crimson Fire (61 page)

A
NIERON
, M
ASTER
B
ARD
of Kymru, sat on a convenient log and took off his boot with a sigh. He upended it, and a stone fell out onto the forest
fl
oor.

“I told you,” Anieron said to his brother. “And you said it was because I was old.”

“You are old,” Dudod replied equably.

“You are only two years younger than me,” Anieron pointed out. “If I am old, what does that make you?”

“Younger,” Dudod said with a grin, his green eyes laugh- ing. “As always.”

Cariadas turned her head to hide a smile, but it died almost before it had begun.

“Leave my da alone, Dudod,” Elstar said as she tethered her horse to a tree at the edge of the clearing. “Here, gather
fi
rewood. Make yourself useful.”

Dudod, still grinning, made his way back into the forest. “Da,” Elstar went on, “those horses could use some looking

after. And then why don’t you scrounge around in the packs, see what we’ve got for dinner?”

Anieron cocked a brow at the daughter who was so care- lessly ordering him about. But perhaps something he saw in Elstar’s face set him limping off to the horses without another word. He began to murmur softly to the tired horses as he un- loaded their saddlebags.

“Come here, Cariadas,” Elstar said gently, taking Anieron’s place on the log.

Obediently, Cariadas came to sit next to the Ardewin’s heir. “Where did Elidyr go?” Cariadas asked.

“My husband is Wind-Riding, gathering news.” Gently, the woman put her arms around the girl’s taut shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Cariadas sat quietly,
fi
ghting to hold back a rush of tears.

Finally, she whispered, “Da. I’m scared something has hap- pened to him.”

“Believe me, child,” Elstar said in an acerbic tone, “if there is anyone who can look out for himself, it’s Gwydion ap Awst.” “But no one even knows where he is. There’s been no word

at all.”

“He’s in hiding. The Warleader and his Coranian generals know him by sight.”

“And will kill him,” Cariadas whispered.

“If they can,” Elstar agreed. “But your Da is clever. And Rhiannon is with him. She can be trusted to keep him from doing anything too crazy.”

“No one can stop Da from doing anything he wants to do,” Cariadas said with an odd sort of pride.

“I think Rhiannon might very well be up to that job,” El- star retorted crisply.

At that moment Dudod returned to the clearing, holding armfuls of dead wood. Dudod spotted Anieron rummaging through the packs. “You’re not cooking, are you?” Dudod asked nervously.

“What if I am?” Anieron demanded.

“Then I’ll eat bark tonight. It’s better than anything you can put together.”

Young as she was, Cariadas understood that the two men were trying to distract them from the cares and grief that weighed upon them in the twelfth day of their desperate
fl
ight through war-torn Rheged to reach the caves of Allt Llwyd.

Theirs had been the last group of Dewin and Bards to leave Gwytheryn—a group the Coranians would love to get their hands on: Anieron, the Master Bard, and his brother, Dudod; Elstar, Anieron’s daughter and the Ardewin’s heir; Elstar’s hus- band, Elidyr, Dudod’s son and heir to the Master Bard; and Cariadas herself, heir to the Dreamer.

Elidyr came back to the clearing. Elstar looked up from the tiny
fi
re she was kindling. Her face tightened at the look in her husband’s eyes. “The children?”

“They are well. Their band is still four days ahead of us.” Very gently, he went on, “I have news of Cynan.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Elstar asked quietly. “The illness?” “No. The Warleader,” Elidyr said, his voice clipped.

“The Ardewin dead. Oh, poor Cynan,” Elstar said, her voice full of tears.

Anieron pulled something from his tunic. He came to Elstar and held out a shimmering torque of silver and pearls. With- out a word, he clasped the torque around his daughter’s neck. Elstar, her head still bowed, laid her hand hesitantly against her throat,
fi
ngering the necklace.

“You are Ardewin, now, daughter,” Anieron said. “There is no sacred grove of ash trees where The Lady of the Waters can come to you. But she is here nonetheless. Tonight you must go into the woods and hear her words to you.”

Dudod made a swift gesture of negation, then just as swiftly suppressed it as Anieron caught Dudod’s eye. “It would be best, brother, if you gathered more
fi
rewood,” Anieron said
fi
rmly.

“Ah, yes. Good idea.”

Before Cariadas could even gather her wits to ask what was going on, Dudod vanished into the forest. Both Elstar and Elidyr were frowning in puzzlement at Anieron.

Say nothing,
Anieron spoke to their minds.
Act naturally.
“What did you
fi
nd for dinner?” Elstar asked her father. “Cheese and bread. How about that?” Anieron replied ca-

sually.

“Lazy,” Elidyr grinned. “Let’s take a look at those packs. I think a nice stew would go down very smoothly. Stew is my specialty.”

A rustling in the bushes made them all jump. Anieron, moving very swiftly for an old man, darted toward the sound and was lost to sight. “What’s he doing?” Cariadas asked of no

one in particular. “I don’t—”

And then, as Dudod and Anieron between them led a small
fi
gure into the clearing, she did understand. The girl was disheveled and dirty as though she had been sleeping on the ground for many nights. Her reddish brown hair was dusty and tangled. Her gray eyes were red-rimmed as though she had been weeping continuously.

“Sinend?” Cariadas asked, in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Now that’s a good question,” Anieron said smoothly. “Just what is the daughter of the Archdruid’s heir doing here? You’ve been following us since we left Gwytheryn.”

“Were you spying on us? For the Archdruid?” Elidyr asked roughly. Sinend’s head shot up. She shook her head, but did not reply.

“Does he know where you are?” Elstar asked.

“No,” Sinend replied, speaking for the
fi
rst time. “Oh, no.” “You found out, didn’t you?” Cariadas guessed. “You found out what Cathbad and your Da were doing. You didn’t

know before.”

Sinend’s shoulders began to shake. Cariadas went to her friend and put her arms around her. “She didn’t know,” Caria- das said pleadingly, looking up at Anieron and Dudod. The two men said nothing but exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

“Why don’t we let Sinend speak for herself?” Elstar sug- gested coldly.

Sinend fought for control. Slowly the tremors died down. Grief and shame were written in the tired lines of her face. At last, she whispered, “I heard them talking. They didn’t know I was there.”

“I knew Cathbad was planning something with the enemy, and that Aergol was fully aware of it,” Anieron said coolly. “But I don’t understand what they get by supporting the Warleader. The Coranians think that the Druids, like the Bards and the Dewin, are witches. How does Cathbad get protection for the Druids? What does he hope to gain?”

“Cathbad wants the old days of Lyonesse back,” Sinend said tonelessly, “when the Druids were the only power. When there were no Bards, no Dewin. No Dreamers.”

“So Cathbad wants to rid Kymru of all but his Druids. And the Warleader will gladly kill any witches he can get his hands on. But what does the warleader get for sparing the Druids after they have helped him win his battles?”

“Kymric priests of the Coranian god.” “What?” Cariadas exclaimed.

“The Druids will give their allegiance to Lytir, the Warlead- er’s god. They will help to convert all of Kymru. That’s what the Warleader wants.”

“The Warleader wants to convert Kymru?” Anieron asked incredulously.

Sinend nodded. Anieron and Dudod looked blankly at each other for a moment. Then Dudod began to grin. And Anieron grinned back. And then the two men were laughing in genuine delight.

“Convert the Kymri,” Anieron managed to say through his laughter.

Dudod sputtered. “Oh, this is really something. I can’t believe it.”

“Cathbad’s mad,” Elstar said wonderingly. “Quite mad.” “They all are,” Sinend said quietly.

Addiendydd, Lleihau Wythnos—early evening

T
HE MAN STOOD
silently in front of the doors of Caer Duir, the college of the Druids. The golden doors glimmered in the torchlight. The emeralds that marked out the runes for Mo- dron, the Great Mother, winked balefully.

The steps to the great, round building of black stone were lined with Druids in their cowled brown robes, silently watching Havgan and Sigerric mount the steps. To the west of the main structure, a slim tower rose up, piercing the night sky. Havgan had been told that this was the observation tower, which the Druids used to study the stars. To the east a grove of oak trees stood dark and silent.

The man at the top of the steps bowed. “I am Aergol, heir to the Archdruid,” he said. His smooth saturnine features gave nothing away. His dark eyes were opaque as he glanced at Havgan’s army settling down to camp for the night in front of the college.

“And the Archdruid? Where is he?” Sigerric asked.

“He waits to greet you in his quarters. Please follow me.” Torches burned at regular intervals throughout the corri-

dors. The stairs were worn smooth with generations of scur- rying feet. The Druid led them down another corridor, then opened a plain door of sturdy oak.

The room was bright with the light of hundreds of candles. A
fi
re burned in the massive hearth. The
fl
oor was covered with
fi
ne, intricately woven carpets of green and brown. Tap- estries covered the walls, worked in black and silver, each show- ing a different segment of the night sky. Massive tables of oak were covered with papers and books and strange instruments,

the purpose of which Havgan did not know. Jeweled vessels of gold were strewn carelessly about the room, goblets and chal- ices chased with emeralds, platters and plates rimmed with pre- cious stones.

Before the hearth a gray-haired man sat in a massive chair of oak. He wore a
fi
ne robe of green, trimmed with bands of brown. A torque with two circles of gold-studded emeralds glit- tered around his thin neck. His eyes were dark and—this was something Havgan had already been prepared for—quite mad.

Cathbad rose and lifted a thin hand, gesturing for Havgan to sit in the other chair in front of the
fi
re. Havgan sat while Sigerric stood behind Havgan’s chair, and Aergol took up a similar position behind Cathbad’s.

The Archdruid silently poured wine into a golden goblet and handed it to Havgan. “My lord Havgan, Bana of the Coranian Empire, I am Cathbad ap Goreu var Efa. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“The Dewin and the Bards have gone,” Havgan said abruptly. “Where?”

Cathbad’s face hardened. “Anieron, the Master Bard. That fox. He found out. He must have, else he would have included the Druids in his plans for escape.”

“You were clumsy.”

“I was not clumsy,” Cathbad said sharply. “Anieron is wily.

And clever. There is nothing that man cannot discover.” “Then you do not know where they have gone,” Havgan

said
fl
atly. “I am displeased.” The understatement was pal-

pable. Cathbad stiffened.

“I have done as we agreed. I have given you the support of my Druids in your battles. I have given you their services

for your God. And you will rid Kymru of the Dewin and the Bards. And the Dreamer. That was our agreement.”

“We of the Coranian Empire call Druids witches, too,” Sigerric said softly.

“You would be unwise to turn on me now. There is far too much to be gained by working together. Now, to business,” Cath- bad went on briskly, anxious to turn the conversation. “Aergol here is my heir. His daughter, Sinend, will be Archdruid after him. Aergol, fetch Sinend so that she may greet the Warleader.” But Aergol did not move. Instead, he gazed into the
fi
re as though he had never seen one before. “I cannot,” Aergol said

softly. “She is gone.”

“Gone! When? Where?” Cathbad asked in a shrill voice.

Aergol shrugged. “I am not sure. It has been some days since she has been seen.”

“You saw her go,” Havgan accused.

“She is my daughter,” Aergol said de
fi
antly. “If I let her go, it is no business of yours, Warleader.”

“So, your daughter did not agree to your plans. How many more Druids will feel that way when you make them fully known?”

“None,” Cathbad said sharply. “I have made sure of that.” “As sure as you were about Sinend?”

“She is young. And idealistic. The rest of my Druids are not.” “Where is Gwydion ap Awst?” Havgan asked suddenly. “I

want that Dreamer.”

Cathbad’s face was
fi
lmed over by a look of stony hatred. “I do not know.”

“He told you about the invasion, I know. Did he say any- thing else?”

“Nothing.” Cathbad’s eyes
fl
ickered. “Just that you were coming.”

“You lie. I can see it.” Havgan reached forth and grasped the Archdruid by the neck of his robe. Swiftly he pulled the old man toward him. “Tell me. Now. Or I will snap your neck in two.”

Aergol took a step forward, but Sigerric was there, his dag- ger pressed against the man’s neck.

“Do not think to try your witch’s tricks on me,” Havgan said softly. “You will be dead before you do.”

Cathbad swallowed hard. “He spoke of. . .of a High King.

One who waits to take back Kymru from you.” Contemptuously, Havgan released the Archdruid. Cath-

bad subsided back into his chair, his dark eyes wide. Havgan sat back, reaching for his goblet of wine. He sipped, never tak- ing his amber eyes from Cathbad’s face.

“Who?”

Cathbad shook his head. “He would not say. And I do not know.”

“There is much you do not know,” Havgan cut in.