Cry of Sorrow (36 page)

“Put your hand on my shoulder, Rhiannon. And you—” he turned to Gwen, “whoever you are, put your hand on her shoulder. We can’t risk a light.”

They did as they were told, following Talorcan into the darkness. It seemed to go on forever. Rhiannon, through her dizziness, was acutely aware of Gwen’s trembling hand on her shoulder. Gwen did not like dark, underground places.

They were slowing now. At last Talorcan halted. He stood silently for a moment, then nodded, as though satisfied. The sound of a key fitting into a lock, another click, and above them, the barest glimmer of starlight could be seen. Talorcan leapt up, grasping either side of the trapdoor, pulling himself out. He reached down, searching for Rhiannon’s hand. His hand was cold and much too thin, but strong. He pulled her out, and she saw they were on the edge of the forest just outside the town walls. She crouched down beside him on her knees, cradling her head in her hands. So dizzy. And so much blood. She could feel it, sticky and wet on her face.

Talorcan pulled Gwen out of the tunnel, then spun on his knees to face them. In the faint starlight, his face was no more than a shadow.

“I called Gwydion,” he said quietly. “I think he heard me. He should be here soon.”

“Talorcan,” Rhiannon began, “how can I, how can we—”

“Don’t thank me,” he said coldly. “That is the last thing I want to hear. Or don’t you understand what I have become?”

“I know what you have become. You have become what you were meant to be from the beginning. You are one of us.”

From far off, drifting over the night sky, the faint sound of a hunting horn could be heard. A tinkling of silver bells, the barest hint of a hoofbeat, and the sounds were gone, the night still again.

“The Wild Hunt,” Rhiannon said softly. “It’s Calan Llachar. Of course, they would come.”

“Farewell, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, and farewell to your companion. I must go. Tell Gwydion ap Awst that, if I should see him again, I will kill him, as is my duty.”

“I understand,” Rhiannon said.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Keep Elen and Regan safe, against the day when they will be free again. And the day when you, too, will be free.”

“That day will be never. I am a fool, but not such a fool as to believe I could ever be free.” He melted away in the shadows, without even waiting for her answer.

And then she felt strong, warm hands, cradling her head, a soft cloth mopping her face, the sound of his voice, whispering that she would be all right. And she knew that was true, for Gwydion had come.

Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—late morning

G
wydion observed Rhiannon closely out of the corner of his eye as she sat next to him on the wagon box. By now she was fully recovered from the blow to the head she had received in Dinmael thirteen days ago, but Gwydion continued to be anxious.

Not anxious, really—enraged would be more like it.

He was enraged because someone had dared to harm her, enraged because she had come so close to being captured and the thought of that still twisted his heart with cold, harsh fear. He was enraged because she had been determined to take such a terrible chance and he had not known how to stop her—indeed, he had known from the beginning that he could not. And that powerlessness alone was enough to infuriate him.

“You’re doing it again, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said crisply. “And I feel fine. Or did you just want to yell at me some more? You haven’t done that yet today, so you’re long overdue.”

He looked away from her without replying and glanced over at Gwen and Arthur, who rode their horses on either side of the wagon. Sometimes he thought he saw something in their eyes that told him they knew exactly why he was so angry. But, if so, neither one of them had said a word about it. Gwen had continued to treat her mother as if Rhiannon didn’t exist. And Arthur continued to treat Gwydion as less than the dirt beneath his feet.

The wagon creaked as they made their way to the lake of Llyn Wiber in northern Ederynion. They had been drawn here by the power and the pull from the pearl ring Rhiannon wore. She had guided them here all the way from Dinmael, from the moment she had put on Elen’s ring and it had begun to glow. North, she had said then, the blood still dripping down her face. North. The Stone was there.

So in the last two weeks, north was where they had gone. Just a few days ago they had passed into the cantref of Dinan, into the commote of Mawddwy. And there they had again reviewed the clues from the song.

“Under the gravestone

In the land of glass

The serpent líes coiled
.

Beneath the water líes the seeker.”

   “The serpent lies coiled,” Gwydion had mused, “beneath the water.”

“I know where it is. And you do, too,” Rhiannon had answered. “Isn’t Llyn Wiber, Lake of the Serpent, just a day away? ‘Under the gravestone,’ the song says. In the center of the lake is the cairn of Carreg Fedd, the Gravestone. It’s there. The Stone is there.”

He felt her shiver slightly as the lake came into view. Overhead the sky was a clear, cool blue. The forest, which gave way at the water’s edge, stood silent guard over the lake. The water had an emerald cast to it, as though the serpent still slept beneath.

Gravestone, indeed. It would not be Rhiannon’s, he vowed silently. And he knew that he would willingly leave the Stone in this lake rather than see her harmed. He wondered at himself, because he knew that was the truth.

Slightly ahead of them, he saw Gwen and Arthur on their horses, cantering up to the water’s edge. The horses dipped their heads and drank noisily. Gwydion halted the wagon, set the brake, and climbed down. Rhiannon stayed where she was, absently fingering the ring she wore.

“Hold,” a powerful voice boomed from the trees.

At these words thirty men and women melted from the forest to surround their tiny band. Arthur and Gwen leapt from their horses, their hands flying to loosen their weapons. Rhiannon sat unmoving on the wagon box, calmly eyeing the newcomers.

The man who had spoken stepped from the trees and came to stand before Gwydion, his sword drawn and his face grim. The man was huge, his powerful shoulders straining against the brown leather of his tunic. His hair was iron gray, and his blue eyes were bright in his tanned face. Two women closely flanked him. One had fierce dark eyes and her dark hair was braided and wound around her head. The other had light brown hair and cool gray eyes. Both had arrows nocked and ready as they watched Arthur and Gwen narrowly.

“Have the cubs put up their weapons,” the huge man said, gesturing to Arthur and Gwen, who had both pulled short spears from their packs.

“Arthur, Gwen,” Gwydion said from beside the wagon. “Put your spears down.”

“But, Gwydion,” Gwen began in protest. The woman with the dark hair shifted slightly so she was aiming directly at Gwen.

“Do as I say,” Gwydion said calmly. He turned to the huge man. “Well-met, Drwys Iron-Fist.”

The huge man smiled as he put up his sword. “Well-met, Gwydion ap Awst, Dreamer of Kymru. The Cerddorian of Penbeullt are here, as you have Wind-Spoken for us to be. How may we serve you?”

“You might help me down,” Rhiannon said, as she extended her hand to the huge man. “And then introductions are probably in order.”

“Ah, you are Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, and every bit as beautiful as I have heard.”

Gwen and Arthur put up their weapons and came to stand beside Gwydion as Drwys helped Rhiannon down from the wagon.

“If only the Dreamer had thought to tell us he had called you,” Arthur said with a cold glance at Gwydion, “you might have found a warmer welcome from us.”

“It is of no matter,” Drwys said. “We would not have harmed you.”

“I was thinking of the harm we might have done to you.”

Drwys grinned, and the Cerddorian tried to hide their smiles. “I do not think we would have come to harm from you, boyo,” he said.

“Do you not?” Arthur asked belligerently, his hand going to his dagger.

Gwydion said hastily, “Let me introduce to you the Lord of Dinan. He is not called Iron-Fist for nothing, and I urge you to treat him respectfully. In his day even Queen Olwen’s father, King Custennin, always trod lightly around Drwys.”

“Ah, well,” Drwys boomed. “I was a hothead then.”

“And so different now,” the woman with the dark hair murmured, a hint of laughter in her dark eyes.

“And this is Sima ur Naw, the Gwarda of Is Fechyn. Her brother, Emrys, is Lieutenant to Prince Lludd in Coed Ddu.”

“We met your brother,” Rhiannon said. “He was very kind.”

“Unlike his sister,” the other woman with light brown hair put in.

“And this is Caras ur Saidi, the Gwarda of Mawddwy,” Drwys went on.

Before anyone else could speak, Caras said, “My sister is Ellywen, she who was once Druid to King Rhoram of Prydyn, she who betrayed Cian the Bard into the hands of the Coranians. Know this before you greet me.”

“Caras ur Saidi,” Rhiannon said, “there are some of us who are related to those who have betrayed Kymru. The shame is theirs, not ours.”

Caras lowered her bow. “People must know who I am before they give me greetings. It is only right.”

“The honor of your family is whole, because of you,” Rhiannon said. “There is no dishonor here.”

Drwys gestured to Gwen and Arthur. “And these children are?”

“This is my daughter, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram,” Rhiannon said as Gwen sketched a curtsy.

“And the boy is the son of an old friend,” Gwydion broke in before Rhiannon could continue.

“Ah,” Drwys said. His bright blue eyes gazed knowingly on Arthur, but he did not say what he was thinking. “Tell us now what you wish.”

“The first few days we were dogged by a contingent of Coranian solders.”

“Led by Iago,” Gwen put in.

“Druids,” Caras said, snorting in contempt. But she fooled no one, for the sheen of angry tears was in her gray eyes.

“We lost them by the time we reached the commote of Elfael,” Gwydion went on. “By the time we crossed into Cydewain, we were sure the pursuit was over.”

“Both the Dreamer and I Wind-Ride each day, and we have seen only lone Coranian messengers and a few soldiers here and there,” Rhiannon said.

“And?” Drwys asked.

“And we don’t for one moment believe that we lost the pursuit,” Gwydion said. “Havgan wants us too badly. We think they have gotten word to a contingent up here. We need you to guard our back as we do now what we must do.”

“And that is?” Drwys asked.

“That is something we may not name.”

“I see. Well, then, Dreamer, you shall have what you wish. My Cerddorian will fan out, and we will be sure you do what you must do undisturbed.”

“You simply do as he asks?” Arthur asked indignantly. “No questions?”

“We do not question the Dreamer, boyo,” the Lord of Dinan said with finality. “You would do well to follow our example.” Before Arthur could answer, Drwys and his people melted back into the forest and the quiet descended, as though the Cerddorian had never even been there.

“You might have told us,” Arthur began fiercely.

But Gwydion ignored the boy and turned to Rhiannon, taking her cold hands in his own. His mind was now made up. “You’re not going into that water,” he said firmly.

She turned to him in surprise. “The Stone is mine to find.”

“You can’t swim,” he said. “Or did you forget that?”

She flushed. “Of course. Throw that up to my face.”

“I’m not throwing that up to you! I’m telling you that I will go. You will not risk your life for this.”

“If not for this, then for what?”

“Not for anything. You’re not going,” he said flatly. “And that is that.”

“I am going. Find me a log.”

“A what?”

“A log,” she said patiently. “A piece of wood. Something that floats.”

“No.”

“Yes. You cannot find the Stone and you know it. The ring is for my finger alone, and it alone can guide the way to the Stone. Without that Stone Arthur will not be High King. And without that, we are lost. Now get me that log. Now.”

He stared at her, his anger at fever pitch. Why would she never do what he asked her to do?

“Now, Gwydion. I will not be cheated of what is my rightful task.”

“Rhiannon,” Arthur said hesitantly. “I don’t think Uncle Gwydion’s trying to cheat you. I think he’s trying to help.”

“Fine,” Rhiannon replied between gritted teeth. “He can help by getting that log.”

Gwydion turned away, thrashing through the bushes at the edge of the forest. He found a short log on the forest floor and brought it back to her, flinging it at her feet.

“There,” he said tightly. “Anything else?”

Anything else? She wanted to say
yes
. She wanted to say,
go in my place. Call the Stone and waft it into my hands
. But she said none of these things.

“You can have a blanket handy,” she said, “for when I come back.”

She knew what Gwydion had been trying to do. As always, he thought he was the only one who could do things right. He thought he should be the one to get the Stone, because he didn’t trust her to do it. She knew what he thought of her.

She turned to face the lake. In the middle was a pinnacle of rocks jutting up like jagged teeth. The water rippled against it, as though begging to be let in.

Yes, the Stone was there, in Carreg Fedd. In the center of the lake, of course. It was too much to expect it to be at the edge. And she would have said that out loud, but she seemed to have trouble breathing.

She also seemed to be shaking. She had to stop. It was water. Only water. If she kept her head above it, held on to the log, propelled herself to those rocks, she’d find a way in. Get the Stone. Come back. And they’d be on their way. That’s the way it would happen. It would be all right.

With a silent prayer to Nantsovelta, Queen of the Waters, Lady of the Moon, she unlaced her kirtle and stepped out of her wool dress. Her cream-colored linen smock hung to just past her thighs. She unlaced her boots and took them off. She checked that her hair was still tightly braided and bound.