Cry of Sorrow (50 page)

She shrugged the rope from her shoulders. There was nothing to tie it to anyway, and she knew she would not need it. Not now. Not now that Modron had given her access, at last, to that place within her, that place that had always been there, but she had never been able to reach easily or consistently. Because now she could Shape-Move whenever she wanted. She could feel other things inside her that she could now do. She could Fire-Weave, calling fire when needed. These things denied her for so long, were hers now.

“They have always been yours.” The low, musical voice that seemed to come from everywhere, from nowhere, from the pit, from her heart, was warm and kind.

“Who is here?” Gwen asked. “Who are you?”

“I am Arywen ur Cadwy var Isabyr. I was the Fifth Archdruid of Kymru.”

Her heart in her throat, Gwen whispered. “The Archdruid to Lleu Lawrient, the last High King.”

“Yes,” Arywen agreed with a sigh.

A flicker of green and brown shimmered at the end of the pit, then the shade of Arywen coalesced in the emerald light. She had long, black hair, held back from her beautiful face with a band of gold and emeralds. Her Archdruid’s robe was forest green, trimmed in brown at the hem and throat. Around her slender neck hung the ghost of the Archdruid’s torque, shimmering emeralds set in a circle within a circle.

“You—you are here? Have been here all this time?” Gwen asked.

“I have,” Arywen’s shade said.

“How you must have loved him,” Gwen said in awe.

“We all loved Lleu Silver-Hand. Bran and Mannawyddan, Taliesin and I, his four Great Ones, loved him with such a love that death itself could not sunder it. I am glad you have come, White One, so that I may now complete my journey to the Land of Summer and see again those I have loved.” Her green catlike eyes glowed emerald in the shifting verdant glow from the pit.

“I thank you, Archdruid,” Gwen said formally, “that I have been led here. And I thank you, most of all, that Modron’s gifts have at last been given to me.”

“They were always yours, but you would never take them.”

“I was afraid. The caves—”

“Are Modron’s places. The warm, dark places of the earth. Her places just as much as the crops that grow above, the wheat that reaches toward the sun, the apple trees, the wildflowers. To embrace that which she has to give you must embrace all that she is. And this you have never done. Look to yourself, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon, for that reason.”

“My mother—” she began.

“Loves you. And left you for the good of Kymru. Your fears, White One, are your own.”

At last, after so many years, she understood. She knew, now, why her druidic gifts had been so hard to reach. For what gifts could have made their way through a heart so hard?

At last, she said, “I am the White One, the one who comes to take the Cauldron back to the land above, so that we may reclaim Kymru. Joyfully I have come. May I take it?”

“It is yours, daughter. Take it.”

Gwen stretched out her hands toward the bottom of the pit, and the bowl began to rise.

T
HEY WAITED BY
the mouth of the caves as they had waited all day and into the night, rarely speaking, but comforted, nonetheless, by each other’s presence.

Gwydion absently fed another piece of wood to the small fire. Overhead the sky was just beginning to brighten as morning crept over the horizon. He looked over the campfire at Rhiannon. She had not slept—none of them had slept—as they waited. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her fears for Gwen were etched in the tight lines bracketing her mouth.

“I truly do believe she will come back,” Gwydion said quietly.

Arthur rose from his place next to Rhiannon and went to stand by the mouth of the cave. He stared into the entrance and did not bother to answer.

“I have not been able to Wind-Ride after her at all,” Rhiannon said softly. “I can see nothing. Why?”

“Modron,” Gwydion replied. “It is her doing. I have not been able to track her, either.”

Arthur started, then peered even more intently into the cave mouth. “I thought I heard something.”

Rhiannon leapt to her feet and grabbed Arthur’s arm. “Are you sure?”

“No, but I—”

From the mouth of the cave came a faint, emerald glow. The light grew stronger. Gwydion came to stand beside Rhiannon and Arthur.

Gwen walked from the cave to stand before them. In her hands she held the golden Cauldron of Modron. The emeralds on the bowl were glowing, pulsing in time to the emerald on her hand.

Gwen smiled.

“It is done,” Gwydion said.

Gwyntdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—early afternoon

A
rthur gazed at the purple mountains that rose sharply before him, their stark edges outlined against the deep blue sky. Jagged peaks pierced the skyline, still dusted with snow, even at this time of year. He took a deep breath of clean, cool air. Home. At last, he was coming back, to the only home he could remember, Dinas Emrys, the little village where Great-Uncle Myrrdin had raised him.

This portion of Sarn Gwyddelin, the main road through Gwynedd, wound up and down through the mountains. In front of him the wagon creaked along. Gwydion drove slowly here, trying to avoid the worst of the rocks on the road. In a few days they would have to abandon the wagon, as they made their way closer to Mynydd Tawel, the hiding place that Arthur’s father, King Uthyr, had prepared for his people. And there, they would meet Arthur’s sister, Morrigan, who had the ring of King Uthyr in her keeping. At last he would meet the sister he had been too young to remember.

And there, too, would be Ygraine, the mother Arthur barely remembered, for he had not seen her since he was four years old. All because of Gwydion. All because of the Dreamer’s plots. All because his uncle had plans. His hatred of Gwydion, a hatred that sometimes slept but never fully departed, blossomed again in his heart like a deadly rose.

Suddenly Arthur was filled with a longing to go to Dinas Emrys. Of course, Myrrdin was not there. But he so desperately wanted to see again the only home he had ever known. After all, it was on the way to Mynydd Tawel. No reason that they could not take the time. No reason at all. Taking another deep breath, he urged his horse forward next to the wagon box.

“Uncle,” Arthur said sharply.

Gwydion, never taking his gaze from the road, replied quietly, “You are to call me da, boyo. Remember that.”

“There isn’t anyone else around,” Arthur exclaimed, “and you know it.”

“And how would I know that?”

“Because Rhiannon has been Wind-Riding this whole time, looking to be sure we are alone here.”

Rhiannon, in her place next to Gwydion in the wagon box, did not even turn her head. Her gaze was blank, as her spirit roamed the mountainsides, looking for signs of trouble.

Gwen urged her horse up next to Arthur’s. “What are you arguing about now?” she asked.

“What makes you think I’m arguing?”

“You’re talking to Gwydion. And that means you are arguing,” she said smugly.

He flashed her a distinctly unfriendly look. It did not seem to faze her.

“Uncle,” he began again, “we are going to Dinas Emrys.”

“We are not,” Gwydion replied. “We don’t have time.”

“I want to go,” Arthur insisted.

“No,” Gwydion said again.

“Why? Because you know how much I want to?”

Gwydion took his eyes from the road and turned to face Arthur. His cold, gray gaze held a hint of contempt. “There are always reasons for what I do, Arthur. And none of them have to do with pleasing or displeasing you.”

“So I noticed,” Arthur flared, “years ago.”

“Then remember it. And remember, too, what we are doing here and where we are going. And remember that we must be at the Doors of Cadair Idris with the Treasures in our hands by Calan Gaef.”

“Why must we be there at the New Year?” Gwen asked.

“Because that is the time when the nights are the longest, and when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest. If Arthur is to succeed there, he will need all the help he can get.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Arthur spat, “for your great faith in me.”

“I will have faith in you when you are a man.”

“I am a man now!”

“No, you are a boy, one who thinks of yourself first. When you begin to think of Kymru instead, then you will be a man.”

“You—” Arthur began.

But at that moment, Rhiannon stirred by Gwydion’s side. Her lids flickered rapidly over her green eyes, and then her gaze came into focus.

“What is it?” Gwydion asked, one hand still holding the reins, the other on Rhiannon’s arm.

“A wyrce-jaga,” she said quietly. “And some soldiers. And—and some prisoners.”

“Prisoners? Who?” Gwydion asked.

“Dewin,” she whispered. “And Bards. I know them, and so must you. And they are coming this way, down the road. They are wearing enaid-dals. Even if they wanted to Wind-Speak with us, even if we wanted to offer some word of comfort, we could not. We can give them nothing.”

“They wear collars,” Gwydion said flatly. “Collars that the Smiths are making.”

“So they do, and will, until the Smiths can be found and freed,” Rhiannon said.

“The Smiths should never, ever be doing such a thing,” Gwen said fiercely. “They should have died first.”

“The Coranians have the Smith’s families, Gwen.” Rhiannon pointed out. “Their wives and husbands, their children and grandchildren. And so they make the collars.”

“They are cowards!” Gwen insisted.

“And you know all about cowardice, don’t you, Gwen?” Arthur said coldly.

Gwen’s face turned bright red. “You would throw that up to me.”

“Hush,” Gwydion said. “Enough of that. The Smiths know that one day we will find them and rescue them. Until then, they wait. As all Kymru waits.”

“Here they come,” Rhiannon said tightly. “Just around the bend.”

“Will any of them say anything to us?” Arthur asked. “Give us away?”

Rhiannon turned her green eyes on Arthur, then turned away. “No,” she said coldly.

“I was just asking—”

“It was a foolish question. Now hush, boy,” Gwydion said.

The wagon rounded the bend, then halted, as Gwydion pulled the horses to the side of the road to allow the other party to pass. There were ten Coranian soldiers, five in the front and five in the back, surrounding the prisoners. They carried spears and shields carved with the boar’s head, symbol of the Warleader. They wore shirts of woven mail that reached to their thighs. Behind the first five soldiers walked a wyrce-jaga. He was dressed in the customary robe of black, moving like a shadow in the sunlight. Following him were two men, two women, and a young girl, their hands bound behind them, collars of dull, gray metal clasped around their throats. The skin on their necks that bordered the collars was red and blistered.

“Clear the way,” one of the soldiers barked as they neared the wagon.

“We have,” Gwydion said shortly. “There is plenty of room to get by.”

Arthur saw Rhiannon rest her hand on Gwydion’s arm, as though restraining him. A muscle worked in Gwydion’s jaw as he looked at the prisoners.

Slowly, the prisoners raised their heads and gazed back at them. None of them made a sign, but Arthur thought he saw the glint of recognition in the eyes of the four adults. Then, as though they might have feared someone else would see it, too, they lowered their gazes back to the ground.

The wyrce-jaga strode up to them. “You are rude, peasant,” the man sneered. “We will have to teach you manners.”

Arthur tensed, then urged his horse a little closer to the wyrce-jaga. Next to him, Gwen did the same. For a few moments, everyone was quiet as they waited for the next act that would set everything in motion. Arthur’s hand crept closer to his knife.

But just then, one of the women moaned low in her throat, then fainted, dropping heavily to the ground. The other woman and the girl knelt down next to her, but could not help her as their hands were bound.

“You see?” the woman cried as she knelt, “I told you that we were trying to go too far today. Now she’s fainted. I told you that would happen. But, no, you wouldn’t listen to me. We need more water, I said, more food.”

“Coranians always think they know best,” one of the male prisoners agreed. “You can’t convince them of anything they don’t want to hear. Why, just this morning I was trying to explain to that wyrce-jaga what a pig he was, and he didn’t believe me.”

“They never do,” the other man said in a confidential tone. “The more obvious a thing is, the harder time they have understanding it.”

The wyrce-jaga turned from Gwydion, his face red with rage. “The prisoners will be quiet!” he shrieked. “Captain, I insist that you shut them up.”

“You want them killed, wyrce-jaga?” the Captain inquired contemptuously. “Is that what you want?”

The woman who had fainted moaned again, then struggled to sit up. One of the soldiers knelt beside her, then helped her to her feet.

“I—I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “The heat, the collar, it was too much.” For someone who had fainted, the woman’s color was surprisingly good.

“Of course, it was too much!” the other woman exclaimed. “Captain, how much farther until the next town?”

“You know that as well as I do,” the Captain said shortly. “It’s your country.”

“It is our country now!” the wyrce-jaga exclaimed.

One of the male prisoners gave a short laugh. “Enjoy it while you can, pig.”

The Captain stepped between the prisoners and the wyrce-jaga, as the wyrce-jaga raised his hand to strike. The Captain did not speak, but the witch-hunter lowered his hand. The Captain turned away, and, ignoring the wyrce-jaga, shouted the order to march. The witch-hunter fell in behind the Captain, and the party moved on. The prisoners did not look up as they passed.