Cry of Sorrow (6 page)

“There is,” Enid said. Her face was pale, but her voice was firm as she rose to speak. “It has long been on my mind that there is another way to strike at Morcant Whledig. A way to deprive him of someone on whom he depends.”

Oh, gods
, Owein thought.
Not again
. “Enid—”

“No. Hear me out. Bledri, our own father’s Dewin, sits at Morcant’s feet in Llwynarth, in his own way a captive, too.”

“He is hardly a captive, Enid,” Teleri said in exasperation. “He is an advisor to Morcant, protected from the wyrce-jaga by the fact that he, too, is a traitor. Or have you forgotten that he was in on the plot with Morcant from the beginning? Have you forgotten that it was his work that delayed the warriors of Amgoed from reaching your parents until it was almost too late? It was he who prevented Hetwin Silver-Brow from coming to their aid. If Hetwin had come to the final battle, perhaps your mother and father would still be alive.”

Enid flushed, but held her ground. “How can we know what pressure Morcant had brought to bear on Bledri? How can we know that Bledri does not now repent of his betrayal? All I ask is that you send someone to Llwynarth to talk to him, to determine if he is happy with the path he has chosen.”

“And if he is? Just who do you think should put themselves in that kind of danger?” Teleri snapped.

“I myself will go. I am sure that he would give anything to turn back to us.”

“To you, you mean,” Owein said harshly. “And just what is it that makes you think he wishes to repent of his traitorous acts?”

“I—I just feel it in my heart to be true.”

“No,” Owein went on relentlessly, “you just wish it to be true. Because he is handsome and charming and he was always kind to you. But then you were a child. Now you are a woman. Set your heart on the Prince of Prydyn. Leave Bledri to the past. And don’t forget his hand had a part in mam and da’s death. Don’t forget they are dead, in part due to him. Don’t forget that Elphin, too, lost his life due to Bledri’s treachery.”

“I don’t forget!” Enid cried, stung. “Who could forget that you wanted all Elphin had, even offering for his betrothed! And she refused you. Rightly, she flung your greed and jealousy back to your face!”

“Enid!” Rhiwallon gasped as Owein turned pale. “You forget yourself!”

“I forget nothing! I am like Owein in that!” Enid spat out, as she ran from the clearing.

T
HE FOREST CLOSED
in around her like a prison. She darted in and out between the trees, but she knew that, no matter how far she might run, she was trapped here, as she had been for the past few years. Trapped, and kept away from Bledri who had won her heart when she was just a girl.

And now, as Owein had said, she was a woman. And a woman with her mind made up. No longer would she try to convince the others of what she knew in her heart to be true. She would show them, instead.

Out of breath, she stopped running. Panting, she clutched at the bark of a sturdy oak to steady herself. She rested her cheek against the rough trunk and dashed the tears from her face. She would cry for Bledri no more. Now she would act.

She knew—oh, she knew—that Bledri loved her. She herself would go to Llwynarth. She would tell him that Owein had forgiven him. And he would return to the forest with her. With Bledri by her side, the wood would no longer be a prison, but a haven instead, a place in which she and Bledri would be together. A place from which they would emerge triumphant and set Owein back on his throne.

But she knew Bledri would not believe that Owein would take him back. Without that assurance, he would not come. She must show Bledri a token, something that would make him believe.

And she knew what that would be. She knew she could take this token from her brother. For didn’t the ring of Rheged, the ring her own father had worn, belong to all those of the House of PenMarch? The ring was as much hers as it was Owein’s.

She had heard the story from Esyllt. She knew the words that had been passed down from ruler to ruler for hundreds of years. The ring was to be surrendered only to the Dreamer who asked for it using these words: “The High King commands you to surrender Bran’s gift.” Well, she was not a Dreamer. But she would murmur those words when she took the ring. Just to be safe.

She would take the ring tonight, and be on her way. In three days she could reach Llwynarth. She would find Bledri and hand him Owein’s ring as a sign of forgiveness. Why, by this time next week, she might even be returning to these woods with Bledri by her side.

Prince Geriant of Prydyn, her betrothed, was far from her thoughts then. She had only agreed to the marriage to please her brother. And though Geriant was golden and handsome and had looked at her with love, he had not touched her heart. For her heart had been given to Bledri long ago.

And so she turned to go back to camp, her mind made up. And there, as she turned, her eye lighted on a small, fernlike plant, nestled at the base of the oak. And as she saw it, she understood that her decision had been right. For why else would she see valerian, the herb that, when mixed with wine or ale, would bring deep, deep sleep?

Truly the gods were with her. She would not fail.

   
Meirigdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—midmorning

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, when Enid crested the last rise of Sarn Halen, the main road to Llwynarth, and saw the city in which she had been born, her heart nearly failed her. Almost she turned back, and, oh, what a difference that would have made to so many, she would think later. But she went on.

The walls that circled the city were still broken and torn in some places, even after two years. So hard had her father and mother fought to hold Llwynarth, so hard had Morcant Whledig fought to take it, that the destruction had been even more extensive than she had dreamed.

The last time she had seen the city, when she and her brother Rhiwallon had been sent away before the battles, it had been white and shining, like purest flame in the midst of the golden wheat fields. But the fields had been burned, and scarred, and soaked in blood. And now they yielded little, if at all. They were nothing compared to what they had once been. Neither was the city. A heaviness, a gloom hung over it. Never, she knew, would the city shine again until her brother came back in triumph to claim his own.

Nervously, she touched the leather strip around her neck from which her brother’s ring hung, hidden beneath her plain, linen smock. She had taken the ring (she would not say
stolen)
from her brother’s hand as he had slept a deep, unnatural sleep—the result of the valerian-laced wine she had given him.

She was dressed plainly, like a servant girl, for that was the part she needed to play. Her kirtle was of dull brown, and she had wrapped her telltale red-gold hair with a plain linen band. She felt awkward in these clothes and hoped that the woman back at the camp from whom she had taken them (she would not say
stolen)
had not been too attached to them.

They would not follow her, she knew, for she had chosen her time wisely. With the prospect of a band of wyrce-jaga to kill, Owein would not have split his warriors to send some after her. And she had been careful, as she had moved through the forest, knowing the places where the Dewin and Bards were set.

It was so strange to be here on the road in the full light of day. The faces of the people around her were pinched with hunger. Even those who looked better-fed showed another kind of want, as though remembering the days when King Urien and Queen Ellirri held the city and the land was fair.

What she saw as she continued through the gate and up the road toward the marketplace nearly made her weep with rage. In that moment, if she had seen Morcant, she would certainly have killed him and never mind what would have happened to her after. For Nemed Draenenwen, the grove of hawthorn trees, the sacred grove where she and her family and the people of Rheged had celebrated the festivals, the grove where the white petals had shone in spring and the red berries had dripped like fire in autumn, was no more.

Every last tree had been cut down. And in its place a temple now stood, consecrated to Lytir, the god of the Coranians. They had built it on this sacred ground, and it was a wonder to her that the Great Mother had not vomited up the temple, spewing it into the air, to be laced with fire, and blown away as ashes in the wind.

One day, she told herself fiercely, her blue eyes sharp and cold, one day the temple would be destroyed. And the grove replanted, and hawthorn would again flower in the city of Llwynarth.

But today was not the day. So she blinked back her tears of helpless fury and continued on to the marketplace. Compared to days gone by, the market was quiet. Of food there was little, for it was early spring and the harvest last autumn—and the autumn before that—had been poor and meager. But there were other wares there, and she made her way straight to the nearest weaver’s booth.

“Fine cloth, my girl, for your mistress?” the proprietor said in a tone that was meant to be cheerful but was forced and tight. “I have cloth made in Tegeingl itself, from Gwynedd. The finest cloth in all of Kymru.”

“They still weave in Tegeingl, do they?” she asked absently, her mind still on the destruction of the grove. “I suppose they must keep themselves busy while they wait.”

The proprietor paled a little at her words. Then he spoke so softly that only she could hear. “Be careful, girl. We all wait, but we none of us speak of it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. What a fool she had been already, and she had just arrived. How little skill she had for intrigue. Too much time in the forest, she thought wildly, among those where she did not have to watch her words.

“Don’t be sorry lass. Be careful.” He then raised his voice in a normal tone. “You seek fine cloth for your mistress, do you?”

“For my master,” she said. “He wants something in silver, perhaps. Or sea green.” These were the colors of the Dewin, and she needed a reason to see Bledri.

“Something for your mistress would be better,” the man replied swiftly. “Something in green or brown.”

Her mistress? Green or brown? Those were the colors of the Druids. Oh, surely not, for the Druids had fought for the enemy. What was the man trying to tell her?

“Yes. Green or brown,” he continued in a firm tone. “Your mistress will surely like that best of all. And will reward you for a job well done.”

And then she had it, and wondered what it truly meant. For surely the man was trying to tell her something about Sabrina ur Dadweir, who had been the Druid to her mother and father. Sabrina had fought with them in the last battles, but had in the end bowed to the Archdruid and joined with the enemy after she was captured when the city was lost. Or so they had been told in Coed Addien. Maybe green or brown would be best after all. To start.

So she said she would take something in green. And the proprietor cut and measured and handed her a length of cloth, folded into a square. Another sign, she knew.

“Tell your mistress that Menestyr ap Naw wishes her well.”

“I will,” she said, smiling for the first time in many days.

“And, lass,” he said, very low, “pull your linen cap down a bit. The color of your hair is showing.”

“Thank you,” she said, as she adjusted the band. “And wish me luck.”

“If you’re going where I think you are going, you will need more than luck.” And with that he turned away, his eyes sad.

O
N HER WAY
through the city to Caer Erias, she detoured slightly. She had to see Crug Mawr, the burial place of the rulers of Rheged. Her mother and father had been laid here with honor, at the insistence of General Baldred. Morcant had wanted them to be left on the field to be picked over by the wolves and the ravens. But Baldred had overruled him, and the bodies had been interred within the stones.

   A company of Coranian warriors ringed around the standing stones. So, it was true. She had heard that Morcant and Baldred had set a guard here. Did they fear the dead? She remembered asking Owein when she had first heard of it. And Owein had said, no, they feared the living. For the people of Llwynarth had begun leaving gifts at the stones. They had often gathered here to mourn—or to call on—the spirits of their dead King and Queen. So Morcant had set his guard, and she could not linger at the stones, for they might have asked her what she wanted there.

So she walked by, with her head bowed, and did not let the tears fall. And silently, in her heart, she said good-bye again—oh, once again—to the mother who had borne her, to the father who had nurtured her, to the brother who had loved her. In this world she would never behold their bright faces again.

She came at last to Caer Erias, which had once been her father’s fortress. The gate to her home was swung back wide, and as she walked through, she gazed on the sight of the horse of Rheged, white on a field of red-gold, its mane outlined in opals. Its fiery opal eyes gleamed at her, knowing her, she felt, as one of the House of PenMarch.

And then she was through the gate and into the fortress. It was all the same, yet so different. The servants in the courtyard scurried about their tasks, their heads down, moving as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible.

Warriors drilled outside their quarters, but instead of the red and white tunics of Rheged, they wore the metal, sleeved byrnies of the Coranians. Instead of helmets fashioned like the head of a horse, they wore helmets with the figure of a boar on top. Instead of short spears, they drilled with double-bladed axes.

There were no cheerful greetings being bandied back and forth, no joking, or laughing. Her home had turned into a grim, dark place, and she could barely stand to return here.

A flash of bright color seen out of the corner of her eye caused her to turn, and what she saw made her dart behind the stables. Her heart beating wildly, she peered around the corner.

The flash of color had come from the bright red cloak Morcant Whledig wore as he came out of the King’s ystafell, a host of people behind him. Morcant’s black, shoulder-length hair shone like a raven’s wing. Around his head he wore a golden circlet. Of course, Enid thought. The torque was not here. Owein had it. So they had given Morcant something to show he was a King, like the master throwing a bone to a dog. His tunic and trousers were of red and white, worked with gold thread and opals. She gritted her teeth to see that the traitor of Rheged wore her father’s colors.