Cry of Sorrow (31 page)

“You will come with me, Arthur,” Gwydion said, his voice cold and level. “You will not make a mockery out of Anieron’s pain. You will not make a mockery out of the Y Dawnus who died on the death-march. You will not make a mockery out of those who died in battle against the enemy.”

“I will not go with you.”

“You will not make a mockery out of the courage of your mother and sister, who lead the Cerddorian of Gwynedd.”

“My mother! My sister!” Arthur cried. “You took them away from me and then hold them before me now? You took my da from me! You took everything! Do you think that now, when you want something from me, I will say yes?”

“You will not make a mockery out of the Protectors, out of Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, who cling to life with the barest strand of hope in you.”

“I tell you, I will not—”

“You will not make a mockery out of your father’s death.”

Arthur flinched, and the scar on his face whitened further. His dark eyes shimmered briefly, then hardened. “When my da died, I was leagues away. I was here, unable to help him, unable to fight with him, unable to go to him, because of you. Do not speak of my da to me!”

“I found the song. The song that Taliesin, Master Bard, wrote hundreds of years ago, the song he wrote for us, to guide us to the Treasures. In the last verse are words written only for you. Here, this is Taliesin’s message to you, borne across the years, for your ears alone. This is what all of Kymru says to you:

“The enemy congregates like dogs in a kennel
,

From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge
.

They know not the course of the wind, or the water of the sea
.

They know not the spark of the fire, or the fruit fullness of the earth
.

I will beg the Brenin, the High One
,

That I be not wretched, a prisoner in my own land.”

“I will beg the Brenin, the High One,” Gwydion repeated softly. “Is that what you would have Kymru do? Is that what you would have me do? Must I get on my knees before you? If so, that is what I will do.”

Gwydion sank to his knees at his nephew’s feet, his head bowed. Arthur drew his breath in sharply. Myrrdin rose, making his way slowly to stand before the boy. Then he, too, sank to his knees and bowed his old head.

“I beg you, Arthur, from my knees,” Myrrdin whispered, “that I be not wretched, a prisoner in my own land.”

“Uncle Myrrdin, please, stand up,” Arthur cried, his voice breaking with shame.

Myrrdin shook his head. “I will not rise. Not until you grant my boon. Not until you agree to take up this task, to help find the Treasures, to go to Cadair Idris bearing them in your hands. Not until you agree to become our High King, to save us.”

“Please,” Arthur whispered. “Please don’t make me do this. All my life I have felt the chains of the Hunt waiting for me. Please, I want to be free.”

“Free of your destiny, you mean,” Gwydion said quietly. “But we, all of Kymru, wish to be free to fulfill out destiny, to live our lives in peace and freedom. To sing our songs, to dream our dreams, to love and be loved. This is what we wish. This is what the enemy has taken from us. This is what you can return to us. And this, this is what I have bowed my head to you for, this is what I have gone to my knees for. Do you think I would do that to you—or anyone—for anything less than that? Do you think Myrrdin would do the same for anything less?”

“Please,” Arthur said, his voice breaking. “Please.”

“It is not from us you should ask for release from your place on the Wheel.”

At Myrrdin’s words, the door rattled. The fire blazed, fed by the wind that now blew through the hut. The sound of dogs baying, the pounding of hooves, the cry of a horn, echoed in their ears.

“They come,” Myrrdin said. “Those from whom you must beg for release. But I do not think they will give it to you.”

The door swung open, banging against the wall with the force of the wind. Slowly, as though in a trance, Arthur walked to the door and out onto the road. Myrrdin and Gwydion got to their feet and followed.

A horse, white as snow, cantered down the road. Antlers sprang from the forehead of the rider, and topaz eyes gleamed. Another horse, black as midnight, followed, the rider’s white shift gleaming, her amethyst eyes bright. They halted before Arthur, silent, looking down at him.

Gwydion spoke. “You are most welcome here, Protectors of Kymru. Welcome to Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Welcome to Cerridwen, the White Lady. You are not as you were when I last saw you in my dream.”

“We gather strength, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos said, never taking his topaz eyes from Arthur, “as the High King prepares.”

“He has not yet said he will do this thing,” Gwydion warned.

Cerridwen leaned forward and lightly touched Arthur’s brow, then traced the scar that the eagle had made. “We marked him long ago as the one who would lead the Hunt to take back our land. Blame not the Dreamer, Arthur ap Uthyr, that you were taken from your home, for he did as we instructed him. Do you seek revenge for those lonely years? If so, revenge yourself upon us. Now is the time for you to take up the task for which you were born. Refuse to do so, and your revenge will be complete. For we will fade away, and die, even as the Y Dawnus died from the cruelty of the enemy, even as Kymru dies beneath your feet.”

“Choose now, Arthur ap Uthyr,” Cerrunnos said sternly. “Choose the death of Kymru. Or choose the gamble for freedom.”

“Choose,” Cerridwen echoed.

Arthur stood silently, looking up into the pitiless gaze of the god and goddess. Gwydion’s hands were clenched tightly, but he did not speak. Beside him, Myrrdin also stood unmoving, his head bowed.

High above in the night sky, the cry of an eagle was heard. In a rush of wings, the bird plummeted from the sky to land on the outstretched arm of Cerrunnos. The bird’s cold, gray eyes gazed fiercely at Arthur. And Arthur’s scar whitened almost to luminescence. Slowly, hesitantly, Arthur reached out his hand toward the eagle, and it launched itself from Cerrunnos’s arm to Arthur’s. The bird’s claws dug into the boy’s flesh, but Arthur did not flinch. The bird and the boy looked at each other for a long moment. Then Arthur nodded. The eagle shot from Arthur’s arm back into the night with a victorious cry.

Cerrunnos and Cerridwen bowed their heads briefly, then turned their mounts, cantering down the road. Their forms shimmered, flickered, and then they were gone.

Arthur cradled his arm as blood welled up from the bird’s claw marks. The blood dripped slowly down his arm and onto the dusty earth. He turned to Gwydion, his face tight and still. “We leave in the morning, Gwydion ap Awst, just as you wished. But do not think all is well between us, just because I do this thing you ask of me.”

Gwydion looked at Arthur’s white, set face, at the gleam in his dark eyes. “No,” Gwydion said quietly. “I will not think that.”

“Here, now, is the first of my blood shed for Kymru. It will not be the last.”

Gwydion tore off the sleeve of his undershirt and quickly bound Arthur’s bleeding arm, with no hint of the grief he felt. “No,” he said softly, “it will not be the last.”

Meirigdydd, Disglair Wythnos—early afternoon

T
he Coranian guard watched sourly as two peddlers approached the gates of Sycharth. The older peddler wore a cloak of dull gray, patched here and there with bright, mismatched pieces of cloth. His leather boots were worn and cracked. He wore a tunic and trousers of what had once been blue wool, now faded to a drab, slate color. His hair and beard were dingy gray. He looked humbly at the guard and bowed in a move that shifted the weight of the heavy pack on his shoulders so that the man overbalanced and almost stumbled.

The guard grinned. Obviously the peddlers had little coin between them, but they might be good for some fun, after all. Guard duty in the Kymric towns was dull, for the Kymri were cowed and had little spirit.

The younger peddler’s clothes were in the same worn condition as the older one, but they were of a faded brown color. His face was set in sullen, suspicious lines as he shifted the weight of the pack on his back and his dark eyes flashed. There was a scar on his face that whitened a little as he stared belligerently at the guard.

This one, the guard thought, might be interesting. “Name and business,” he said in a bored tone.

The older man smiled and rubbed his hands. “Well, now, my business may very well be with you—” he began.

“Forget it, da,” the younger man said shortly. “He doesn’t want to buy anything from us. He just wants to take our money.”

“What my son means is—”

“I know what he means,” the guard said. “And he’s right. There is a toll on this gate.”

“A toll!” the older man exclaimed. “Since when is there a toll to enter this city?”

“Since the city belonged to us,” the guard sneered. “If you Kymri don’t like it, you should have fought harder to keep it.”

For a moment the younger man’s eyes flashed. He took a brief step forward toward the guard. But the older man stuck out his foot and the youth went sprawling. “The young,” the older man sighed, “are so impulsive.” The older man helped the younger one to his feet. “All right, boyo?”

“You—”

The older man tossed a small purse to the guard. “This should settle the issue of coming into the city. Is there a toll to get out?”

The guard caught the bag and opened it, then nodded. “Of course, there is,” he said, gesturing them to go through the gates. “Oh, and you had best keep that boy of yours under control. Something nasty might happen to him.”

“I’ll remember that,” the older man said, pulling his companion along.

T
IGHT-LIPPED
, G
WYDION
turned to Arthur as they made their way through the streets of the city. “You are a fool, boy.”

“And you are a coward!” Arthur flashed. “Letting him talk to us like that.”

Grimly, Gwydion restrained himself from delivering a well-aimed kick or two. Once again he reminded himself that Kymru needed a High King, and this sullen boy was it.

Gwydion took a deep breath. “Pay attention, or we’re both dead. Do you understand?” He waited for Arthur’s rejoinder, but the boy said nothing. “Now,” Gwydion went on, “we are here to meet up with the others, not to start a fight against the entire Coranian army. Have you got that?”

“You! You never fight. You just sit in the shadows and plot. And people die!”

“You know, boyo,” Gwydion said in a conversational tone, “there’s nothing that says the hope of Kymru has to be in perfect shape. A broken bone or two might very well teach you some manners.”

“Try it, uncle,” Arthur said, baring his teeth in what was supposed to be a grin, “and see what it gets you.”

“How very pleased Havgan would be to meet you,” Gwydion went on smoothly. “He’d love to know someone who gave me almost as much trouble as he does.”

“Listen, you can’t—”

“And how sorry Uthyr would be, if he could see you now.”

The name of Arthur’s father hung in the suddenly still air between them. Arthur looked away. Gwydion continued to scan the crowd in the marketplace, as though the name he had used hadn’t even hurt him. But it had. Even now, two years later, he still missed his brother terribly. But he would not let Arthur know that. That was his business. Not the boy’s.

There—he glimpsed a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye. He did not turn his head, but slowed his steps, putting his hand on Arthur’s arm to halt him. Arthur looked at Gwydion with a raised brow but, for once, asked no questions.

A red-haired woman who had been examining the glass beakers in one of the stalls turned and began to make her way through the crowd. She wore a tunic and trousers of dark green over a plain, cream-colored undershirt. Her unbound hair gleamed in the afternoon sun and cascaded down her back like a river of fire.

Without a word Gwydion followed the woman through the crowd, Arthur tagging behind. As she reached the edge of the marketplace, she turned north, making her way down quiet side streets. The houses, which had once been so fresh and bright, now seemed to huddle to one another for comfort. Occasionally they passed a man or woman sitting in their doorway. These people always looked up and then quickly looked away again when Gwydion and Arthur passed, a half smile playing on their pale faces.

Once, during the journey, they passed near the junction of two streets patrolled by Coranian guards. But, unaccountably, as the woman neared them, the guards were distracted by a howling cat that ran through their midst, chased by a panting dog, followed by four bright-eyed children, who shouted that the cat was theirs. Their attention diverted, the guards did not even notice the woman and her followers.

Finally the woman led them to the last house on the last street, nestled against the city wall. The woman entered the front door, and they followed.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the open doorway. The chamber seemed to be filled with raggedly dressed men. Gwydion did not stop to speak to any of them, but he nodded at a few. They returned his nod, but said no word. The woman disappeared through another door.

They followed her into a tiny room. A bedstead and a large, wooden chest were the only furnishings. The woman was already on her knees, pushing the chest away from the wall. There was a gaping hole in the floor. Without turning back to look at them, she jumped down the hole. Once down, she lit a candle, dropped to her knees, and crawled away from sight…

Gwydion shed his pack and helped Arthur shed his. “Down there?” Arthur asked.

“Where else?”

Arthur jumped into the hole, and Gwydion threw the packs down to him, then jumped in himself. They found themselves in a long, low tunnel. The roof of the tunnel was crisscrossed with roots, and packed with dirt. They crawled on hands and knees, following the glimmering candle that the woman held. At last the woman halted where the tunnel came to an end. She blew out the candle, then reached up over her head. A slight creak told them that a trapdoor had been opened. Light streamed down into the tunnel. The woman jumped up, catching the sides of the open door with her hands and pulling herself out. Gwydion gestured for Arthur to go next, then followed.