Cry of Sorrow (43 page)

Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—early afternoon

T
en days, Arthur thought tiredly, was a very long time for two people not to exchange one word. He had not thought it would last this long. It was not that he had underestimated his uncle’s stubbornness—far from it. It was something else he had underestimated—just how much Gwydion ap Awst loved Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. And how frightened Gwydion was at the thought of harm coming to her.

The two of them walked in front of Arthur in single file, for the woods of Coed Coch were too dense to allow the passage of a wagon. Rhiannon insisted on carrying the Stone in a sling across her un-wounded shoulder. The weight of it did not seem to bother her. And Gwydion had rolled the Spear into an innocuous-looking blanket and carried it across his shoulders.

Gwydion’s hands were still bandaged, for they had been badly burned. Every night Gwen would smear on the salve Rhiannon had told her how to make from mallow, then rebandage Gwydion’s hands. Gwen had been the one to do that, since Rhiannon flatly refused to. Nor would Gwydion have allowed it, in any case.

The sword cut in Rhiannon’s shoulder was healing the way it should, and she should be able to take the bandage off by tomorrow. Every night it had been Arthur who would smear on the salve of rosemary and sage at Rhiannon’s direction—under Gwydion’s fierce gaze, as though his uncle was daring Arthur to make a false move. But Arthur knew better, and he was very careful.

Arthur sighed inwardly as he scanned the path through the woods. He knew that any moment now, King Owein and his Cerddorian would greet them. Arthur found himself actually looking forward to seeing other people again—ten days of silence from one half of the party was ten days too long.

Gwen quickened her pace behind him to walk alongside. “How much longer, do you think?” she asked in a low voice.

“To get to the camp?” Arthur asked.

“No, until they start speaking to each other again.”

Arthur shrugged. “However long it takes for Rhiannon to understand.”

“Don’t you mean, however long it takes for Gwydion to stop being a fool?”

“Oh, so at last my uncle does something you don’t approve of. That’s a change.”

“At last, you see my mother is not perfect. That’s a change, too.”

There was no one else, Arthur thought, who could irritate him like Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram. “You don’t understand,” he said loftily. “I don’t think you ever will.”

“Oh, I understand all right. I understand them, and I understand you.”

“What about me?”

“Yes, what about you? My thoughts exactly. You come on this journey with us, against your will, to help retrieve the Treasures. But never, not even once, have you said you will be High King. So, what are you doing here?”

“I am here,” he said, raising his voice, “because the Lord and Lady of the Hunt gave me no choice. For Kymru I will help find the Treasures. But as for being High King, that I tell you I will not do. Let them find another. All I wish is to be left alone!”

“Then Kymru dies,” Gwydion said as he halted and turned to face Arthur.

“Kymru will still have you to fight for her,” Arthur retorted. “That is enough.”

“It is not enough,” Gwydion said quietly, “and you know it. Do you hate me so much that you will see Kymru beaten forever just to spite me? Is that why you will not take your true place at the Wheel? Or are you just a coward?”

Before Arthur could answer, a rustle in the underbrush heralded the arrival of Owein and his people. As Arthur expected, the first person he saw was Cariadas, Gwydion’s daughter. She came running up to her father, but stopped at the sight of Gwydion’s bandaged hands.

“Oh, Da,” she whispered. “You are hurt.”

“I am better now,” Gwydion said as he gently took his daughter in his arms, careful not to use his hands, “just at the sight of you.”

The forest now seemed full of people. There was King Owein, looking tired and grim. Captain Trystan and Sabrina the Druid carefully supported March, who had recently been freed from Llwynarth. March’s bardic wife, Esyllt, stood a little off to one side, her face cold. Elidyr and Elstar, the Master Bard and the Ardewin, were there, as was Sinend, the Archdruid’s heir, and Dudod, Rhiannon’s uncle.

“Did you get it?” Cariadas asked, with tears in her eyes, nodding toward the pack across Gwydion’s shoulders. “Did you get the Spear? Is that why your hands are burned?”

“Yes, we have the Spear of Fire,” Gwydion answered. “And, yes, that is how my hands were burned.”

“Rhiannon,” Dudod said, as he came up to his niece. “You are hurt.”

“It is much better than it was,” she replied. “In a few more days, I will hardly notice it anymore.”

“How were you wounded?”

“Interfering,” Gwydion snapped.

“She was saving the Dreamer’s life,” Gwen said coldly, coming up to stand by her mother. “I suppose that could be called interfering, now that I think of it.”

They all seemed to freeze for a moment. Then Dudod slowly walked up to Gwydion, his face impassive. “My niece risked her life for you? And was wounded because of that? And all you can think to say about it is that she was interfering? Have I got that right?”

“You have got it right,” Gwydion agreed, turning away to greet Elidyr and Elstar.

“Dudod, no!” Cariadas cried, as Dudod cocked his fist back to swing.

Gwydion spun around to face Dudod. For a moment the two men looked at one another. Then Dudod seemed to see something. The same thing, Arthur thought, that he himself had seen.

“Fool,” Dudod said quietly, dropping his arm.

“Yes,” Gwydion agreed. “But I have no choice.”

“Fool again. Because you do.”

Owein crossed over to Gwydion. “Trystan has told me all that happened in Llwynarth. We thank you for bringing March back to us.”

Gwydion faced the King. Owein’s face was drawn, his eyes filled with anguish. “Believe me, Owein, I wish I could have brought her out, too.”

“I don’t believe you, Dreamer. But then, you did not think I would.”

“No, I did not. There are many things that people don’t believe about me. But here is one thing you will believe.” He gestured to where Arthur stood. “This is my nephew, Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, the Prince of Gwynedd.”

“Arthur?” Owein asked, astonished. “The Prince we all thought dead years ago?”

“The same,” Gwydion answered. “The man who will be our High King.”

Instantly Owein was on his knees. Every last one of them there followed suit. Arthur stared at them as they knelt. They should not do that, he thought incoherently. They must not.

“I will not be High King,” Arthur rasped. “Do not kneel to me. I am not the one who will save you.”

“If not you,” Dudod asked quietly, “then who?”

“Get up!” Arthur shouted in frustration and anger. “Get up! I am not the one.”

“You mean, you will not be the one,” Dudod went on. “A shame. When I first saw you, I saw Uthyr and Ygraine in you. But there are not enough of them inside you after all. You must be more like your Uncle Madoc, the traitor.”

For a moment Arthur could not speak. The contempt in Dudod’s eyes hit him like a blow. To be compared to Madoc! To be likened to the man who had betrayed Arthur’s father! It was not to be borne.

“Get up,” Arthur said once again, his voice cold and distant. “Find another man to save you. It will not be me.”

A
LL THIS TIME
, Cariadas thought, as she knelt down next to Gwydion, all this time, all her life, she had known what her father was. And it was only now that she was angry, only now, when she truly saw what he was capable of.

The tent Owein had given the Dreamer and Arthur was small and snug. Gwydion sat on his bedroll as Cariadas unbandaged his hands. She did not look at him.

“Where are Prince Rhiwallon and Lieutenant Teleri?” Gwydion asked.

“Owein put them in charge of a raid in Clwyd. Rhiwallon could not bear to be doing nothing while Enid was—was getting married.”

“Do you believe that I would not save Enid? Or do you believe that I could not?”

“I believe that you could not, Da.”

“Then, what is wrong?”

She shook her head and gently smeared the salve onto his hands. He was silent while she bandaged them. Done at last, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“I despise you,” she said quietly, her eyes full of tears.

“Cariadas—”

“No. Not for Enid. For Rhiannon. For what you are doing to her—after what she did for you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do. And let me tell you something, Da.” She rose to her feet. “You are worse than a fool. You are cruel. And you say I don’t understand and you know I do. How could you do this to her? How could you turn love away like that? Do you think it is so cheap? So easily had that you could throw it away?”

“Cariadas—”

“I love you, Da. But I can’t watch you do this and say nothing. All my life I have loved you. And I know you have loved me. And nothing is ever going to change that. Not even this. Not even what you have become. But, Da, you are wrong to run from love. You can give any reason you want why you do that. Duty, you say, no doubt. But you are only afraid.”

“Daughter—”

“Only afraid. And that is all.”

A
NIERON, ONE-TIME
Master Bard of Kymru, stirred in his bed of filthy straw. He slept often now, for when he was sleeping, he dreamed. And when he dreamed, he did not know that he lay in the dungeon of Eiodel, Havgan’s fortress. He did not see the slimy walls, hear the rats, feel the cold. He did not remember what they had done to him.

In his dreams he was young and free again. In his dreams he spent busy days in the Bards’ college of Neuadd Gorsedd, surrounded by fellow Bards, singing songs, chanting poetry. In his dreams he walked the fields of Gwytheryn, and the wind flew down to make patterns in the grass, patterns he could almost understand. In his dreams the air was fresh and clean and Taran of the Winds was at his back. In his dreams he Wind-Spoke to his brother, to his colleagues, to his daughter, to his grandsons.

But then, as was happening now, he would wake. And he would remember that he was not free, that he could no longer Wind-Speak, that he, since he had cut out his own tongue, could no longer speak or sing at all.

And he would remember that he no longer had fingers left to pluck a harp string, to play the pipe, to make music. For they had cut them off, one by one, when he would not tell them what they wanted to know.

The same questions over and over as they cut him. Who was the man the Kymri believed to be the High King? Where had the Ardewin and her husband gone? What did he know of the Treasures?

But that was why Anieron had cut out his tongue—so he could not answer their questions. They gave him paper and ink and told him to hold the pen between his palms and write the answer.

But he had not. He had only screamed.

And when they left him alone, he had his dreams. And his hope of death.

But now something had awakened him. He painfully drew himself up from the straw as far as he could. It was not far, for they had shackled his wrists to the wall and the best he could do was rise to his knees.

“Anieron?” whispered Cian, his fellow Bard. His fellow prisoner. “Did you hear it? Someone’s coming.”

Anieron could not answer, so he grunted.

“So you are awake,” Cian said. Anieron heard a rustle in the cell across from him. There was no light, but he could tell from the sounds that Cian was rising to his feet.

“They come again,” Cian said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Why don’t they just kill us? You will not answer their questions, and I have no answers. Why do they keep doing this?”

Anieron knew why. When Sledda would come to question him, Havgan would come, too. In the light of the torches, Havgan would sit before Anieron, gleaming in gold and rubies. His handsome face would betray nothing—no anger, no joy. He would simply look at Anieron as the Master Bard screamed.

Only one time had Havgan showed anything. That was the time when Anieron had finally recognized him. Anieron would never forget that moment. Sledda had been bending over him like a night crow, cutting off Anieron’s forefinger. And he had cried out, and turned his gaze to Havgan. And he had seen what he should have seen long ago.

He had seen that, except for his honey-blond hair, except for his amber eyes, Havgan was enough like Gwydion to be his twin. And Anieron had known then, who Havgan was: the brother of Arianrod; the son of Arianllyn, Rhiannon’s aunt; the son of Brychan, Gwydion’s uncle; the son of a Bard and a Dewin who had been sent to Corania years ago as a result of a dream. And this was what had come of that dream—a nightmare. A nightmare for Kymru.

Havgan had risen, for he had seen the recognition in Anieron’s eyes. He had stood before Anieron, gleaming golden in the torchlight.

“The Ardewin at Y Ty Dewin had such a look in his eyes when he saw me,” Havgan said gently. “I killed him, before he could speak. But you cannot speak. And to kill you would be a boon to you. And so I will not. You will live here in Eiodel a long, long time. And I will bring you a gift, Master Bard. A gift to help you while away the hours.” Havgan had turned and opened the cell door. “Cut off all his fingers,” he had said carelessly to Sledda. “He will never write anything for us.”

That had been two nights ago. The thought of a gift from Havgan made Anieron’s heart pound with dread.

Someone was coming down the steps. The growing light of a torch made him blink as his eyes burned from the light.

It was Sledda, along with a band of soldiers. The Master-wyrce-jaga’s sharp features wavered in the light as he gestured to the guards to open Cian’s cell.

“Where are you taking me?” Cian demanded weakly as they hauled him out into the corridor.

“To join your friends,” Sledda answered with a cruel smile. His remaining gray eye gleamed. The empty socket, twisted with scar tissue, was like a pit of darkness in his pale face. “To join the Y Dawnus on the isle of Afalon.”