Cry of Sorrow (55 page)

Only two years old when they went away, she could not really remember them. Just snatches of long-ago memories—the whisper of honey-blond hair that had belonged to her mother, the brightness of amber eyes that had belonged to her father. These things they had given her. And nothing else, for they had deserted her.

And so she had learned that hard lesson—to never love another person. And she never had. She never would. She would do as she had always done—seek out those with power. Hold them to her with her body until she moved on to another, making sure that she left them before they could leave her.

And never, never, let anyone touch her heart.

The gates of the Golden Man’s fortress were open. The fortress itself was grim, built of dark stone, standing bleak and harsh, facing the closed, jeweled Doors of Cadair Idris, the empty hall of the High King. She wondered if he understood that the Doors would never open for him. Or did he think that they would, someday?

Perhaps she could promise him a way that they would. After all, she did know where the Treasures were. Or, at least, she knew who had them, and that was enough. She would show him how to get these Treasures, show him how to find Gwydion, Rhiannon, Gwen, and Arthur. With the Treasures in his hands, the Doors would open for Havgan. And he would not know until it was too late that the Treasures would kill him. For the gift of getting into Cadair Idris, Arianrod could demand many, many things.

The wild grasses and flowers of the plain swayed before her, disturbed by the faint breeze. Taran’s Wind.
Stop me now, Taran, if you can
, she thought. But the god could not. No one could. She laughed, and spurred her mount toward the gate.

As she neared the gate, a troop of soldiers barred her way. They wore byrnies of woven metal, which reached to their knees. They carried spears and bright shields, blazoned with the sign of the boar’s head. They were hard-eyed and watchful as she slowed her horse to a walk and drew up before them. She eyed them disdainfully.

“I wish to see your master,” she said haughtily. “Show me to him.”

From their midst a man pushed his way through. He had light brown hair, and haunted, dark eyes. He was tall and thin, as though wasting away with a fever from wounds that no one could see. He came to stand before her, holding her horse’s bridle.

“You are not the Golden Man,” she said with certainty.

“I am not,” he agreed, “thanks be to God. I am Sigerric, Overgeneral of Kymru. And you are?”

“My name, for the moment, is my own. I wish to see Havgan, Bana of Corania.”

“Conqueror of Kymru,” he finished for her.

“Not yet,” she said with a twist of her lips. “But I can help to make him so.”

“I see. Then, you of no name, you may dismount, and I will see if Lord Havgan will consent to see you.”

“He will,” she promised.

H
E KEPT HER
waiting for some hours. But she had known that he would and was neither angered nor frightened. She waited in an antechamber, small but comfortable. There was a fire in the hearth. Two chairs were set before the fire, but she disdained them, wishing to be on her feet when he arrived. A beaker of wine and two goblets were placed on a small table between the chairs. She had drunk a glass some hours ago when she had first been shown this room, and had no more, for she would need all her wits for the coming encounter.

She was standing at the window, her back to the doors, looking out at Cadair Idris and watching the shadows begin to gather, when he came to her.

The opening door made no sound, and so she only turned when she heard his whisper, a whisper that made no sense.

“The Woman-on-the-Rocks.”

She turned around then, startled, and looked into the face of the Golden Man. And she saw that she had disturbed him in some way. But how, she did not know.

He was tall, and strong. The muscles of his shoulders swelled against the sleeves of the undershirt he wore beneath his golden tunic. The tunic was embroidered with hundreds of tiny rubies. His breeches were black, and his calf-length black boots were trimmed with gold. His honey-blond locks reached his shoulders. His face was tanned and smooth. And his amber eyes devoured her.

And something in her, something she did not even know was there leapt at the sight of him.

“I want your name, among other things,” he said.

“My name is Arianrod ur Brychan var Arianllyn.”

“Ah. Cousin of the Dreamer, through your father’s brother.”

“Yes.”

“And cousin to Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, through your mother’s sister.”

“You know us well. Anierion, Master Bard, whom you killed, was an uncle of mine. And so was Cynan, the Ardewin whom you killed when you first came to Y Ty Dewin.”

“But you do not care, do you?” he asked, a faint smile on his handsome face.

“You do not know me well enough to know what I do and don’t care about. And you never will.”

“You think not?” He laughed. “We will see about that, Arianrod ur Brychan.”

His nonchalant air, as he strode into the room and seated himself before the fire, did not fool her. She had seen the lust in his eyes.

She, too, took a seat before the fire. He poured out a goblet of wine and handed it to her. For a brief moment their fingers touched. And that moment was like nothing she had ever known. She felt scorched by him. Her pulse quickened. Her heart pounded. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then looked over at him.

And there she saw the telltale beat of his heart at the base of his throat. She saw the fire in his eyes, in eyes that matched her own, even to the shape, even to the amber light. Where in the name of the gods had he come from? From where had sprung this man who was so like her?

“Your soldiers had the Dreamer and his companions in their hands, thanks to me,” she said disdainfully. “But they failed to hold them. They were fools and died because of it. Are all your people so inept?”

“Witch, I would not be too proud here in the depths of Eiodel, were I you,” Havgan replied smoothly, but the undertone clearly held menace. “I would ask you to tell me the location of the hidden camp where Morrigan and the Cerddorian were hiding, but I fear they are no longer there.”

“I am sure they are not.”

“You waited too long, witch, to tell me.”

Arianrod shrugged. “I had to wait, to see if we could deal.”

“And you believe we can?”

Arianrod smiled. “I am sure of it.”

“You are unwise to be so sure.” Havgan’s smile was wolfish, and the naked hunger there made her shiver for a moment.

“If you still seek the Treasures, I know where they can be found,” she said, taking a sip of wine.

“In the hands of Gwydion the Dreamer. This much I know. Surely you don’t think I will let you live if you give me only information I already have?”

“Oh, you will let me live, Havgan of Corania. For many reasons,” she said, letting him see the fire in her eyes, drinking in the heat of him.

He smiled and, dashing the cup from her hands, grabbed her hair, dragging her from her chair to her knees, bending over her.

“Do not tell me what I will or will not do, Arianrod,” he said softly. “And do not make me tell you that again.”

“And do not tell me what I may or may not say, Havgan,” she replied fiercely. “Or I will tell you nothing.”

Their amber eyes locked, testing each other, taking each other’s measure. Slowly he released her, trailing his hands through her hair, then lightly over her breasts as she did so. He sat back in his chair, studying her thoughtfully.

Calmly she rose from her knees, then took her place once again in her chair. She smoothed the front of her dress as though she had not a care in the world. But, in truth, she felt like laughing. She had him. She could see that in his eyes. She did not think, at that moment, that he might have her, too.

“The spy you placed in the camp in Gwynedd is dead,” she said steadily. “The Bard, Jonas.”

“Ah. Which would be why we have not had a message from him all week.”

“Yes. Arthur ap Uthyr, son of the dead King of Gwynedd, killed him.”

Havgan’s amber eyes flickered. “I had been given to understand that Arthur had died in childhood.”

“We had all thought that,” Arianrod said. “Thanks to Gwydion.”

“Who must have spirited the boy away, knowing what he was.”

“The High King of Kymru.”

“Not yet,” Havgan said coldly.

“Arthur killed the Bard with the Sword of Taran, the last of the Treasures to be found,” Arianrod said.

“You were there?”

“In a manner of speaking. I Wind-Rode to the camp that night and saw it all. I am Dewin.”

“Yes. I knew that when I knew who you were.”

“Then you know that I may be of use to you. You know that, among other things, I can find where Gwydion and his friends are now. And I can guide you to them. They have all the Treasures—the Stone of Water, the Cauldron of Earth, the Spear of Fire, the Sword of Air.”

“If it is true that you can do these things, then is it true that you will?”

“I might try. For a price.”

“Yes. Your price. I knew we would come to that. Speak it, then.”

“I will help you, Lord Havgan, if it is truly your wish to be master of Kymru. And my price is that you will keep me with you for as long as I wish to stay. And you will let me go when I wish to leave.”

“But I will not let you go, nor will you wish to leave, Arianrod ur Brychan,” he said, as he stood and reached down to pull her up to him. He ran his hands through her honey-blond hair. “The Woman-on-the-Rocks has come to me at last,” he said, and there was a hunger, a longing, in his voice she did not understand. “I dreamt of this, again just last night.”

“Who is the Woman-on-the-Rocks?” she whispered, as she ran her hands across his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms.

“A dream,” he murmured against her lips. “Just a dream from long ago.”

His lips fastened hungrily on hers. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth, tasting her. He kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts, until they were both breathless. With a cruel smile he grabbed the neckline of her gown and tore it, baring her body to his amber gaze. His lips burned, and the rough touch of his hands made her moan in pleasure and fear. He pushed her to the floor and took her slowly, in passion, in lust, in some other longing that she could not name, and she matched him with a fire of her own. They were burning, spiral-ing up and up, harder and harder, faster and faster. At last they cried out together in an ecstasy so intense that it seemed like agony.

She had found him. The one she had waited for so long. And she would never let him go.

H
AVGAN ROLLED OFF
of her, and they lay side by side on the cold floor, sweat-soaked and gasping for air.

The Woman-on-the-Rocks, he thought to himself, incoherently. At last, the woman in his dreams who only turned and turned toward him but never faced him. She was here. She was the one who had haunted his dreams since he was a child. She was the one whom the cards of the wyrce-galdra had spoken of. She was the one whom the goddess Holda had told him would be here for him. The other half of himself, the one he would find in Kymru.

At last, she had come to him.

At last, he could kill her.

Kill her—not just the pale shadows of her he had taken and murdered throughout the long years. At last, he would read the mystery of who she was, and what she meant, in her dying, amber eyes. At last he could punish her for all those years when she never turned to face him. At last.

When he mounted her again, she gave a satisfied laugh, which was cut off abruptly when his hands encircled her neck and he began to squeeze.

Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at him. But she did not struggle. She did not try to scream. She did not make a sound. Instead, she smiled up at him as he began to murder her.

For she knew, somehow, that he could not do it.

And he could not. Her smile was the answer. It always had been. The Woman-on-the-Rocks had turned to him and faced him at last. And he knew that he would be in bondage to her from now until the day he died. And he knew that he should kill her now. He knew that to leave her alive might solve the mystery of his life—a mystery to which he never wanted to know the answer.

But he could not. And he did not understand why.

His hands dropped away from her neck. Still straddling her naked body, he looked down at her, then leaned forward and kissed her mouth in violence, in passion, in the knowledge that she was his. And the fire began to build again, coursing through his body and hers.

He knew he would let her live.

For now.

Gwyntdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—afternoon
G
WEN SIGHED TO
herself as Gwydion called a halt just outside the gates of Degannwy. Though she loved Gwydion with all her young heart, there were times when he could be just a bit tiresome. She could tell from the expression on his handsome face that he was going to give them the same warning he gave before they entered any village, town, or city. He said it every time, as though they were mental defectives who could not possibly be expected to retain complex information. She could see by Arthur’s expression that he, too, was feeling the customary warning to be a bit worn.

Gwydion’s gray eyes flickered over them; to Gwen, her golden hair bound in a long braid, wearing a brown leather tunic and trousers, the pack on her back hiding the Cauldron of Earth; to Rhiannon, dressed in a tunic and trousers of hunter green, her dark hair pulled back from her face with a leather band, the pack on her back carrying the Stone of Water; to Arthur, whose dark eyes traveled restlessly over the walls of the town, and whose bedroll tossed over his shoulders contained the Sword of Taran.

Gwydion himself, his gray eyes demanding their attention, dressed in a tunic and trousers of black leather, the bedroll on his back containing the Spear of Fire, said sternly, “Remember, we are a poor family down on our luck, and we—”

“—are not to draw any attention to ourselves,” Arthur said in a bored tone, completing Gwydion’s customary sentence.

“Correct,” Gwydion said sternly. “You must remember—”