Cry of Sorrow (29 page)

The day Rathtyen died—for she would not eat after she heard what had happened to Awst—King Rhodri thought he had died, too. For he had loved his wife beyond all else. And she had not loved him as he had wished. It was then that he first repeated the triad he had learned long ago, from his Bard, Dudod:

Three things that are worse than sorrow;

To want to die, and to die not;

To try to please, and top lease not;

To wait for someone who comes not
.

Had that not been the story of his life contained in that poem? Had that not been the story of his marriage? And that triad had become his litany, the only song left in his bitter, tired heart.

But on the night he had stared at the sea and begun to grieve—yes, even for that son of Awst—he had finally understood that Rathtyen had loved him as much as she could. There had been room in her generous heart to love both men who had fathered her children. And he had not seen it. He had only seen that she did not love him enough.

After twenty-three years, something was coming alive again, something he thought was dead and gone forever. And he had begun to feel. To feel pride, that some of his family had lived and fought on. To feel shame, that his son had betrayed Kymru. He had never thought to feel again. And he did not know what to do with these new feelings. And so he had waited, wondering what would come to him, what turn of the Wheel would show him the path to take.

And now he had his answer. For now the prisoners had come. And he knew he was being called again to the Wheel, called to take his place there, called back to life.

And so he stepped quietly today, coming to the fringes of the primitive camp where, after a long day of mining lead, the prisoners were allowed to rest before an open campfire. The perimeter of the camp was patrolled, but the guards were slack, having no reason to expect trouble. It was an easy matter to creep close enough to hear the Smiths talking among themselves.

It was Greid’s daughter who spoke first. As her father sat wearily on the ground, she said, “Da, this must stop. You cannot do this.”

“I must, child,” Greid said tiredly. “Or don’t you truly understand?”

“I understand, Da. You know I do. And it is because of that I am saying this. We all,” she said, flinging her hand out to the other families huddled there, “we all know what I am saying. Better we should die, than you should do this thing anymore.”

Greid slowly raised his grizzled head, his gray eyes piercing his daughter’s drawn face. “Say you so?” he asked quietly. “Then you still do not understand. Do you think they would kill us quietly? Do you not understand the torment they would put you through? And the little ones,” he went on softly, stroking the golden hair of his tiny granddaughter, a child not five years of age, who nestled on his lap. “Do you think they would be tender with them? They would not kill quickly. They would make us watch those we loved suffer under their tormenting hands. No, you do not know what you say.”

Greid’s daughter paled, and her own hands trembled as they stroked her child’s bright hair. “But, Da,” she whispered, “what you make here. You know what it does.”

“Yes, child. So I do. Do you think it is an easy thing to make enaid-dals and know that the necks they are bound for belong to some of our dearest friends? Do you think that easy?”

“No, Da,” she whispered. And she laid her head on her father’s broad shoulders, tears streaming down her white face.

“Da, perhaps the Cerddorian will come for us, will rescue us,” she said, faint hope in her voice.

“Child, they do not know where we are.”

“You can’t know that!”

“I do know that. Or didn’t you understand why we traveled at night and in small groups? Didn’t you understand that we were hidden from our friends’ eyes? There will be no rescue. Not for us. And so we must make these soul-catchers, and only beg the gods for an easier death on the next turn of the Wheel.”

Rhodri, who had first thought to speak to Greid, drew back silently. No need to take that risk now. He knew all he needed to know.

Silently he made his sure-footed way back to his cave. He knew whom he must find now—his old Bard, Dudod. He knew it would not be easy. Even in happier times, Dudod had always been on the move. But Rhodri would find him. He would find him and tell him where the Smiths were held, and how they waited for rescue.

Even more importantly, Rhodri knew he had another task concerning Madoc, his son. It was a father’s duty to correct a child who had gone wrong.

As he thought this, he drew his knife and examined it, as it lay gleaming in his palm. It was a father’s duty, indeed.

Meirigdydd Tywyllu Wythnos—morning

T
he hills of Haford Bryn were brown and lifeless. Even the waters of the River Fryn, which wound slowly through the hills, were dull and gray. Rhiannon halted her mount, stooping slightly in the saddle, scanning the ground. No, there was nothing. She had not expected tracks—Rhoram and Achren were too good for that. But she scanned the ground nonetheless. If she found some sign of Rhoram’s Cerddorian, it would at least be good for an opening gambit in the upcoming conversation—a conversation she suspected would be one of the most difficult of her life.

The real question was, which way would Rhoram jump? Would he support her request or stand neutral? Would he openly oppose her? Or, worse still, make a counteroffer that she must, oh, she must, refuse?

After all, she thought hesitantly, almost unwilling to even acknowledge these thoughts, after all, Rhoram’s wife had deserted him. In the eyes of the Kymri, he was now unmarried. What would he do now? More to the point, what would she do?

Unbidden, Gwydion’s face rose in her mind, the way he had been at the Alban Awyr celebration over two weeks ago: his silvery eyes, alight with the laughter she seldom saw, his stern mouth relaxed in a smile that had caught her unaware, his strong arms supporting her in dance after dance.

She shrugged irritably. What did it matter? What did either of these men—Rhoram and Gwydion, the two who had a hold on her heart—matter? She knew what she must do. She herself had seen the Wild Hunt, had endured the amethyst gaze of the goddess Cerridwen, the topaz stare of the god Cerrunnos, and had heard them name her one of those entrusted with the task of seeking the Treasures. The Stone of Water would be her Treasure to find. And it was her duty now to take her daughter, Gwenhwyfar, away from Haford Bryn and set the girl to her chosen task—to find the Cauldron of Earth. For that was what had been sung in the Song of the Caers. And that was what must be.

With Rhoram’s help or without it, she would take her daughter from here and go. It would, of course, be so much easier if he helped. But she would not count on it. It had been many years since she had counted on a man to do anything. Once again she scanned the ground for tracks and examined the sky for telltale signs of smoke. She knew they were around here somewhere. She knew it.

“There’s nothing for you to see.”

The voice, long expected, did not startle her. She straightened in the saddle and turned to face the speaker with a smile. “I know,” she said. “But I had to look. To be sure.”

“Be sure,” Achren, Rhoram’s Captain, said, grinning, as she jumped from the boughs of the tree to the ground. “When I’m in charge, things are done right.” Achren was dressed in black riding leathers. Her hair was braided and bound closely to her head. Her dark eyes brimmed with the welcome Rhiannon had hoped for.

Rhiannon jumped from her horse and embraced Achren. “How are they all? It is well here?”

“As well as can be expected. We lost no one in the move from Ogaf Greu. The enemy does not know where we are. But there are other things that are very ill, indeed.”

“I know,” Rhiannon said quietly, turning to take the reins of her horse. “Allt Llwyd was taken. The Y Dawnus are even now being death-marched across Rheged. They die. And we cannot stop it.”

“No,” Achren agreed soberly. “We cannot stop it. Not today. But soon, perhaps?”

Rhiannon turned, responding to Achren’s underlying question. “Yes. Our vengeance begins now.”

“How?”

“Gwen is to come with me. We will meet the Dreamer and one other in Ederynion. And the four of us go to claim the Treasures.” She stopped and searched her friend’s face. “You are pale, Achren. Are you well?”

“Well?” Achren repeated as she fell in step beside Rhiannon, motioning the way forward. Achren shrugged. “Well enough. Considering what I did to Cian.”

“What you did?” Rhiannon exclaimed, shocked. “You mean what the Druid, Ellywen, did. What the enemy did. You are not to blame.”

“He was in my charge,” Achren said quietly. “And he was captured, and taken to Eiodel. He was my responsibility. Nothing can change that.”

“Achren—”

“Of course, when I returned to Haford Bryn, I told Rhoram that I resigned my post. And he—so clever—he said that he would accept the resignation only if the Master Bard agreed, since Cian belonged to him. And the Master Bard …”

“Of course, Anieron would never have condemned you for what happened.”

“The Master Bard said that I was, indeed, condemned—to continue to serve Rhoram.” Achren’s lips quirked slightly. “He said it was a fate almost worse than death, to serve such a foolish master. And Rhoram played up his outrage to the hilt. And so they all laughed, and treated it as forgotten. But I do not and never will.”

“There is nothing for it, really, than to set yourself the task to hunt down Ellywen,” Rhiannon said, “for her part in the betrayal of Cian.”

“Yes. You do understand, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Come, then. The others are waiting.”

T
HEY FOLLOWED THE
river for some leagues, as the land became wilder, the hills sharpening into cliffs, shale crunching beneath their leather boots. Scrubby bush grew on the banks, offering an occasional handhold. The way was not difficult at first, and Rhiannon’s horse followed easily. Then Achren stopped, gesturing to a shadow in the rocks.

“Leave the horse here. He cannot follow from this point.” Achren gave a shrill whistle, and a warrior came into sight, seeming to spring from the very stones. Achren handed the reins to the man, who took the animal, leading him over the banks and out of sight.

“We keep all the horses here. From here on in, we climb.”

Rhiannon nodded, searching the surrounding cliffs. Another whistle from Achren, and a rope ladder clattered down the face of the cliff. “Hard to get into, I see,” Rhiannon said briefly. “Harder still to get out?”

“Not at all,” Achren replied. “There are many other trails. Rhoram would never have us hole up in a place difficult to get out of. But this is the quickest way. You first. Stop at the first ledge.”

Rhiannon began to climb. As she came to the first ledge, she stepped off the ladder. Turning around, she saw the valley they had come through, her gaze following the river that twined through it. Her eyes, sharp as they were, could detect no sign of movement from the way they came.

“Very good, Achren. I see no one.”

Achren grinned. “But they are there, just the same, guarding.”

“I believe you.”

They set off down the narrow ledge until they came to a passageway bound on either side by heavy boulders. “Welcome, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, to Haford Bryn,” Achren said, gesturing her to go first.

Rhiannon slipped between the rocks, then almost gasped. Here, in this hidden place, was a small, narrow canyon, carpeted with rich moss and grass, nestled between the forbidding cliffs. Hundreds of warriors gathered here, some drilling with bow and arrow, some practicing with dagger and spear. Snug shelters built of wood and stone were huddled against the cliff faces. Children kept close watch on herds of sheep and cows that nibbled at the scrub brush that studded the sides of the valley.

People began to turn, eyeing them as they stood at the entrance to the canyon. A warrior in the midst of those practicing with spears kept her back to the two women after one quick glance, ignoring their presence. Rhiannon had spotted her right away. She would always know her own daughter.

“Come,” Achren said. “Rhoram is waiting for you.”

She followed Achren down the path into the camp. One warrior, shooting arrows at a target, looked up at them, then crowed in delight. He threw down his bow and bounded up to them, catching Rhiannon up in an exuberant embrace.

“Geriant!” Rhiannon laughed. “Put me down!”

Prince Geriant, Rhoram’s son, grinned down at her, setting her gently on the ground. “You are most welcome here! You are well?”

“I was,” she said dryly, straightening her tunic, pretending to glare at him. “Is this how you always greet your elders?”

“And my betters,” he laughed.

Before she could reply, a young woman hurled herself into Rhiannon’s arms. “Sanon,” Rhiannon said gently, holding the girl tightly. “Sanon.”

Rhoram’s daughter clung to her. Gently Rhiannon stepped back, cradling Sanon’s face in her hands. So thin! And so pale. Her face, once so sweetly smooth, was sharpened into harsh angles by grief and loss. Her dark eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness. Sanon’s golden hair, which spilled down her back, was the only part of her that seemed to have life.

“Sanon, my dear,” she began, not knowing quite what to say.

“I know,” Sanon said, trying to smile. “I don’t look well.”

Rhiannon knew that Sanon had been grief-stricken over the death of her betrothed, Elphin of Rheged, two years ago. But she had not, until this moment, truly understood what Elphin’s death had done to the Princess of Prydyn. And, knowing this, Rhiannon’s need for vengeance on the enemy grew ever hotter.

“I’m so sorry, Sanon,” she said quietly, knowing it should be spoken of, acknowledged. “You loved Elphin very much, didn’t you?”

“More than life,” Sanon whispered. “And don’t you tell me that the wound will heal. I think now it never will.”