Cry of Sorrow (17 page)

As A
NIERON PASSED
the cavern where the daily lessons for the young Dewin and Bards were taking place, he paused a moment to listen, hovering in the shadows. If the children realized he was there, they might be nervous.

One group of hopeful Bards sat nearest the cave mouth in a ring, reciting the Triads at the prompting of their teacher. “What are the three birthrights of every Kymri?” the teacher asked.

Answering in unison, the children replied, “The right to go where he pleases, the right to protection by his ruler, the right of equal privileges and equal restrictions.”

Anieron smiled. Some of the younger ones had trouble with the words
privileges
and
restrictions
.

“For three things a Kymri is pronounced a traitor and forfeits his rights. What are these three things?”

“Leaving Kymru, aiding the enemy, surrendering himself and living under the enemy.” At this one of the boys raised his hand.

“Yes, Olan?” the teacher prompted.

“How can that be? We are all living under the enemy. Are we all traitors?”

“We do not live under the enemy, Olan. We wait.”

“Ah,” the boy said, and subsided, satisfied.

Anieron turned his attention to another group nearby who were learning the history of the Kymru. “And these were the Great Ones of the fifth generation,” the teacher said. “Bran the Dreamer, Taliesin the Master Bard, Mannawyddan the Ardewin, and Arywen the Archdruid. And these four served High King Lleu Lawrient. When Lleu was killed at the hands of his wife and her lover, these Great Ones hid the Four Treasures at the direction of Bran, saying that, when the need was greatest, they would again be found.”

Well, the gods knew that the need was greatest now. He could only hope with all his heart that Gwydion ap Awst knew what he was doing.

Over in the far corner, a group of children were sitting upright in a light trance state, their short legs extended and their tiny hands resting on their thighs, as the teacher recited softly. “And now the crown of your head is filled with light. You are a vessel of light, lifted by the Wind of Taran. You are weightless, floating in the air. Now, Wind-Speak to me. Tell me your names.”

With a bell-like rush, Anieron heard their names ringing in his mind. Tears came to his eyes as each child named themselves in wonder and awe, listening to the sound of their name reverberating from mind to mind. Their bright laughter, their joy, sounded in his head. Clearly he remembered the day—oh, so long ago—when he had first Wind-Spoken his own name for the Bards to hear.

He had used that gift in joy, in delight, all his life. These little ones would have the same chance he had, he swore to himself. One day they would not have to hide away in this cave. One day they would emerge into the sunlight and proudly Wind-Speak their names to all of Kymru. He would see to it.

He would have liked to stay, but he had lingered long enough already. Elstar and Elidyr would be waiting for him. He slipped away, making his way to the meeting room. As he lifted the curtain that marked the entrance to the cave, he saw his daughter, Elstar, and his nephew, Elidyr, spring apart.

“You don’t have to stop for me,” he said genially.

“I didn’t see you coming,” Elstar said, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed.

“Some Dewin you are. I grant you, however, that you were distracted.”

“I’d certainly like to think so,” Elidyr replied with a grin.

“You two are married, you know. No need to be coy.”

“Elstar’s shy. Even after all these years and two children, she doesn’t want anyone to think she likes me.”

“Elidyr,
cariad
, that’s not true!” Elstar protested. The twinkle in Elidyr’s light brown eyes stopped her. She lightly swatted his arm.

“You see?” Elidyr asked. “You see how she treats me?”

“As your own father would say, Elidyr, no doubt you deserved it.”

“And speaking of my da,” Elidyr began.

Anieron shook his head. “No word from Dudod yet. But I don’t think that’s cause for alarm. He was given orders to stay in Llwynarth for as long as it took.”

“Yes, but you know that sometimes he cuts things a little too close. I’d just feel better if we heard from him, that’s all.”

“I would, too, lad. But I learned a long time ago that it was futile to worry about Dudod. He’s fine, I’m sure. Now, down to business.”

For the next few hours, they talked and planned. All the reports from yesterday were sorted and noted. When necessary, they marked the large map that hung on one rough wall with the latest dispositions of the Coranians, their tribute caravans, new temples to Lytir, and the movements of the wyrce-jaga. They planned the raids for the next week and composed messages to be passed from mind to mind to the Dewin and Bards who waited to pass on the orders to the Cerddorian.

“So, still nothing about the Master Smiths,” Elstar said, frowning.

“Not a word,” Elidyr replied, running a hand through his sandy blond hair.

“Hmm,” Elstar said, absently scanning the map. “Well, we’ll just have to hope for more information. In the meantime, let’s think about how in the world we are going to get Owein to move his people out of Coed Addien. Now that the Coranians have Enid, it won’t be long before she talks.”

“Owein will come to his senses soon, Elstar,” Anieron said. “I am sure of it.” He felt oddly distracted. Strangely tense. Something was coming. Something was badly wrong. He rubbed the back of his neck and briefly closed his eyes.

“Da?” he heard Elstar say, as though from a great distance. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. I—”

The frantic message came crashing into his skull. Dudod did not, apparently, have time for subtleties.
Brother! Hear me!

Dudod! What is it? What’s happened?

Listen to me. The Coranians have an enaid-dal
.

An enaid-dal. A soul-catcher. Oh, gods, no.

Cathbad rediscovered how to make them
.

Dudod! That is why they have taken the Master Smiths
.

To make more of these things. Yes. But, Anieron, think of this. What good does it do them to have these collars unless they know whom to put them on? They need a way to determine who is of the Y Dawnus
.

They would need—

A testing device. As many as they could find
.

And that is why Ellywen left Arberth, why Iago left Dinmael
.

Yes. And why Sabrina left Llwynarth a few days ago
.

They are looking for the Bards. They need the testing devices
.

Dudod, come back as quickly as you can. Cut off all communication with me unless you want your head to be blasted apart
.

Anieron, don’t try it! You—

But it was too late. He cut off his brother, and, turning to Elstar and Elidyr, he ordered them to shield their minds, saying he would answer questions later. At the look in his eyes, they did not question him, but did as they were bid.

Anieron gathered every bit of his considerable mind-strength. The message must go, and go now. With a silent prayer to Taran of the Winds, he crafted the Mind-Shout, the Shout that was used so rarely that few could do it. Books and scrolls had written that it could not be done. But it could. And he would prove it. Now.

The Shout shot away from him clear and clean, riding the winds, making nothing of the hundreds of leagues between the Master Bard and his people. The four Bards, scattered throughout Kymru, heard the call as though Anieron were right beside them.

Esyllt, Talhearn, Susanna, Cian! Turn back now! The enemy comes!

Coed Addien, Kingdom of Rheged

T
ight-lipped and uncommunicative, Trystan trudged through the forest of Coed Addien. He had not wanted to come on the Plentyn Prawf, but Owein had insisted, and Trystan had obeyed.

His eyes were on Esyllt’s slim back as she walked ahead of him. Unwillingly, he remembered all those times he had run his hands down that elegant spine, had kissed that lovely, long neck and those delicate white shoulders, had—

He forced his thoughts away from those memories. He almost winced when he thought of how many years he had been Esyllt’s dupe. Eight years? Nine? How in the name of all the gods had she been able to fool him for that long? Stupid question, really. He knew the answer to that.

She had been able to fool him because he had wanted her to.

All those years, she had managed to keep him on a string, promising to divorce her husband. But she had never delivered on those promises. March had been captured at the last battle of Llwynarth and had not been seen since. If she was concerned over his fate, she concealed it well. In the past two years, no one had heard her so much as speak her husband’s name.

Why only now, after all this time, had he realized the truth about her?

Another question to which he knew the answer. For the last two years had been sheer torment to him, and Esyllt had not been willing, or perhaps had simply not been able, to comfort him. For the first time since he had known her, he had turned to her for help, for guidance out of his anguish. But she had not even tried to understand the nature of the wound that was slowly killing him—the wound he suffered because he had been the Captain of King Urien’s teulu, and his King had died. Yet Trystan had not.

Grimly he hung on to the memory that sustained him these last two years—the memory of Arderydd, the eagle, whom he had seen in the forest the day he had determined to take his own life. The contempt in the eagle’s eyes—for there was no mistaking that—had stopped his blade that day. And the memory of it had stopped him many days since.

It was midmorning, and overhead the sun was shining through the leaves of the trees, splashing on the cold ground. Three days from now, it would be Alban Awyr, the time when the Kymri honored Taran, the King of the Winds, the time to celebrate the coming of spring. The day was mild, with just a slight breeze playing through the tree branches. Just ahead, the forest ended, and the misty hills beckoned. Over the hills lay Sarn Halen, the great northsouth road that extended the entire length of Rheged. Once on the road, they would travel south, away from Llwynarth, which lay a few days north.

Esyllt halted, waiting for him before stepping from the forest. Her gown was plain brown wool, and she wore a rough linen smock beneath it. Her abundant light brown hair was twisted loosely around a white linen cloth, spilling down her back. Her beautiful blue eyes caught and held him.

“You do not look at all like a farmer’s wife,” he said gruffly. And that was true. Her skin was too white, her hands too smooth—even after living in the forest for two years. Esyllt was always very careful of her fine, white skin. “I told you to dirty your hands and face some.”

“I will,” she said absently, scanning the hills. “Do you think it’s safe?”

“Safe? Of course not. No Y Dawnus is safe these days.” Seeing her flinch, he almost regretted his harshness. Almost.

“I—” she began, then stopped abruptly as his hand shot out to cover her mouth. He grabbed her arm and hauled her behind the nearest tree. Speaking so quietly he barely made a sound, he whispered, “Movement in the trees, to the north. Stay here.”

He crept to the source of the sound. Someone was moving through the forest. Silently he had made his way, not one twig snapping beneath his feet to betray his presence. There it was again, a slight rustle to his left. Drawing his knife, he put the blade between his teeth, then leapt into the thicket.

His captive’s struggles were quickly subdued. But not before she had delivered a kick or two to a very important place. By the time she realized it was useless to fight anymore, he was furious. The pain had not been pleasant.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

“Looking for Owein,” Sabrina gasped. “What do you think? Take me to him.”

“You are mad if you think I will take a Druid into his presence. How did you know to come here?”

“Enid, of course.”

He gripped her arms even tighter, drawing her face within inches of his own. She was dressed in a leather tunic and trousers of black. Her dark hair was braided tightly to her scalp, and her blue eyes were wide with urgency, but not fear. He said nothing, searching her face. Her wide mouth quirked under his close regard.

“It’s nice to see you again, too, Trystan. But perhaps we could continue this some other time,” she continued.

A rustle in the bushes heralded Esyllt’s arrival. “You!” Esyllt cried. “Kill her, Trystan, and let’s get out of here.”

Trystan spun around to Esyllt, not certain he had heard her right.

“She must have brought others with her, you fool,” Esyllt went on. “She—”

“I did not bring anyone with me,” Sabrina snapped.

“Then why did they let you leave the city?”

“They thought I was going to find you, of course. They sent me to find you. They are looking for you everywhere—they want a testing device very badly. Now take me to Owein. I have news of Enid that cannot wait.”

“She admits that she is in league with the Coranians, and you just stand there, Trystan! What is the matter with you? I told you to kill her.”

Well, there were a couple of things wrong with killing Sabrina. And none of them, surely, had to do with Sabrina’s blue eyes and raven hair, or his memories of the way she used to look at him. “That’s Owein’s decision,” he said curtly, releasing his hold on Sabrina’s arms.

“I can’t believe this,” Esyllt cried. “Here stands a Druid, one who would give anything to know where the Cerddorian hide, and you invite her to—”

“They do know where the Cerddorian are,” Sabrina cut in. “That’s part of what I have to tell Owein. There isn’t much time. Two days at the most.”

“She talked,” Trystan said, his throat tight.

“She couldn’t help it,” Sabrina replied. “She held out as long as she could.”

“And you let them do that to her?”

The blood drained from Sabrina’s face, and her blue eyes clouded. “I couldn’t stop it. There was nothing I could do.”