Cry of Sorrow (35 page)

Rhiannon drew a breath to speak, but Elen laid her hand over Rhiannon’s lips.

“No, do not tell me you can say nothing. I know that already. But you must know we cannot help you. You have come here for nothing.”

“What do you mean, you can’t help us?” Gwen demanded. Rhiannon said nothing.

“Talorcan knows something is going on. And Regan’s life will be forfeit. I cannot allow her to die.”

“Elen,” Regan said sharply, “we’ve been through this. My life is my own to risk. I will help them do this thing. Though I do not believe they will succeed.”

“I tell you, we cannot! For two years I have done what they wished so that you will live. Do you think I will throw it all away now?” Elen demanded. She turned to Rhiannon, her face set. “You must go. I will not help you.”

“Elen ur Olwen var Kilwch,” Rhiannon said, the words coming unbidden to her lips, as though someone, something else was using her to speak. “I am a Dewin of Kymru. And I say this to you. The High King commands you to surrender Bran’s gift.”

Elen went white to the lips. Abruptly she sat, as though her legs would no longer support her.

“Elen, what is it?” Regan asked, kneeling by the chair.

“My mam’s words. The night before she died. The very words she said would be used. Guard the ring, she said, for one day a Dewin will ask for it, using those exact words. And you did. Oh, Mam, Mam, you knew.” Elen rocked back and forth, her head bent, tears spilling from her eyes. At last she lifted her head. “Yes. I will help you. But I, too, do not think you will succeed.”

“I do not know if we will or not, Elen,” Rhiannon said. “But I tell you this. The one who will be High King is alive. One day he will lead us to victory. I believe that.”

“Then I must believe it, too. If only to keep my sanity here.”

Rhiannon pulled Gwen forward. “This is my daughter, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram. She, too, has her part to play, called by the Hunt, to win back our land.”

“Then you are welcome here,” Elen said, inclining her head.

Gwen flushed and gave an awkward curtsy, overwhelmed by Elen’s dignity.

“Come now,” Regan said, taking the cloth from Gwen. “We must begin work on the dress. And you must tell us how we can help you.”

“First of all, you can start sewing,” Rhiannon said with a smile. “For I cannot.”

“Can’t sew?” Regan stared.

“Not very well. Give me something easy to do in case someone comes in, and I will tell you what I can.”

They set her to hemming the bottom of the gown—after they had pinned it up so that it would be even. Gwen was set to trimming the white, gossamer veil with silver piping. Regan set the sleeves, while Elen sewed pearls on the neck of the snowy smock.

“We will do it at the feast tonight after the service,” Rhiannon said. “Gwen and I must be allowed to help serve the meal at the high table. Regan, can you arrange that?”

“Easily,” Regan said, biting off the thread, then rethreading the needle for the second sleeve. “There are a number of people from the town who will be helping at the feast. I will tell the steward that I said for you to have the high table.”

“Fine. Now, what does the Master-wyrce-jaga like best to drink?”

“Wine from Prydyn, of course.”

“Good. You can be sure that I will keep him well supplied at the feast. I will have a special mixture just for him.”

“Will you kill him?” Elen asked eagerly.

“I think not. We shall just keep him off balance a little bit. It’s all we need.”

“I can assure you, Guthlac will never be so drunk that you can tug that ring off his fat finger without him noticing.”

Rhiannon smiled. “We’ll see about that. There is more than one way to—”

She broke off as the door abruptly opened. A quick glimpse of the man standing there was enough to make her bend her head industriously to her work, even though she knew it was useless. Talorcan would recognize her no matter what she did. She had, after all, spent more than a month in his company in Corania. As her eyes focused on her work, she felt his gaze on her. He had heard it all last night, and done nothing because he had been waiting—waiting to spring the trap she had walked into. Her guess about what he would or would not do had been wrong, then.

General Talorcan walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. He stood before Elen, his green eyes shadowed in his too-thin face. Elen rose to face him, her fists clenched. Regan, pale and mute, gazed up at him.

“Queen Elen, the service at the temple begins in one hour,” Talorcan said quietly. “I will escort you there. You will be ready.”

“I will be ready,” Elen said, her voice fierce with hatred, “to enter that abomination and pray to my gods for your deaths.”

Talorcan’s mouth twisted. “One day, Lady, you will have your wish, I am sure.” He glanced down at Regan, then looked away. His eyes traveled indifferently over Gwen’s bowed head, then came to rest on Rhiannon. As he moved to stand in front of her, Regan rose, her eyes pleading.

Slowly Talorcan reached out and took Rhiannon’s chin in his hand, forcing her head up. He stared down at her for a long moment. “Once you sang ‘The Lament’ for my mother. Do you remember?”

“‘Oh, Elmete,’“ Rhiannon recited softly. “‘We remember you. Bright city of our father’s fathers. We remember you.’ Is this what you would have me sing for Kymru, General? Shall I sing another Lament for another country lost to the enemy?”

His grip tightened on her chin, then he withdrew his hand. “No,” he said harshly. “One is enough.” He went to the door and opened it. He turned around and looked at them all again. Elen’s face was pale as death. Regan’s eyes were hopeless. Gwen stared back in defiance, though she could not control the tremor in her hands.

But Rhiannon, knowing what he was, knowing what he had meant, knowing now what he would do, and how he would pay for it, had only pity on her face.

“Talorcan,” Regan said helplessly, softly. “Oh, Talorcan, please.”

“Never mind, Regan,” Rhiannon said. “There will be no change of plans.”

“You know me better than I do myself,” Talorcan said softly. “Maybe you have since the beginning.” He shut the door quietly behind him.

T
HE REVELRY WAS
at its height when Rhiannon at last made her move.

The great hall was hot and noisy, packed to overflowing with drunken Coranian soldiers. Hazy smoke from hundreds of torches, and from the fire roaring in the huge hearth, seemed to make the hall even hotter. The Coranian banner that hung over the high table showed a stylized boar, stitched in the Warleader’s colors of red and gold. It seemed to shimmer in the heat, as though the boar were about to pounce on the celebrants. Rhiannon only wished it would.

From her place in the corner next to the wine barrels, she glanced up at the high table. Elen sat in the center, with Talorcan to her right and Guthlac on her left. Coolly, Elen took another sip of wine from her goblet of silver and pearls. Dressed all in white, her face frozen in an expression of stony indifference, she seemed impervious to the noise and heat.

Talorcan had not said a word throughout the feast. He looked neither at Elen, nor at Regan, who sat on his other side. He did not scan the room for Rhiannon or Gwen. He simply stared at the far wall, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

Regan, too, had said nothing throughout the meal. She sat pale and mute—which made Rhiannon want to kick her. For the gods’ sake, the least Regan could do was act naturally. Already the Druid, Iago, who sat to Guthlac’s right, was suspicious. He glanced at Regan often, and at Elen even more so. His dark eyes scanned the room continuously. But Rhiannon was careful to keep her back to him as she stood by the barrels. She and Iago had never met, but her description—as well as Gwydion’s—had been sent up and down Kymru for the past two years.

She slowly filled a pitcher with rich Prydyn wine from the barrel, nudging Gwen slightly as she did so.

“It’s time,” she whispered to her daughter. As she passed her hand quickly over the pitcher, she emptied the contents of a small vial into the wine. Swiftly she pressed the bottle into Gwen’s hands. Gwen promptly laid it out of sight behind the barrel.

“Mam, that’s not enough pennyroyal,” she whispered back.

“I told you, we don’t want to kill him. Just put him off balance.”

“Convulsions are not enough for the likes of him. Why not kill him? He’s a wyrce-jaga. You know what they are.”

“Because I don’t want the entire army after us, that’s why. It must look as natural as possible. And remember, do it quickly. Iago’s at that table, and he’s a Druid. He can sense what you do—unless you are quick.”

“I’ll be quick.”

Rhiannon bore the pitcher to the table, heading for Guthlac, who sat to Elen’s left. The wyrce-jaga was a huge man, and his black robe skewed ridiculously over his massive paunch. His scanty brown hair was wispy, and his jowls were greasy from the meal he had eaten. As Rhiannon moved between him and Elen to dispense the wine into his cup, she saw Elen’s hand tighten on the base of her goblet.

Elen, having seen Rhiannon pour the wine and Guthlac begin to drain his cup, turned to the drunken wyrce-jaga with a sneer of disdain on her beautiful face. “Tell me, Guthlac,” she said coldly. “I am curious. How does the Warleader feel about the fact that you can’t capture a single Dewin or Bard, no matter how hard you try?”

Guthlac’s face darkened as he swerved in his chair to face the Queen. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Elen replied, her voice patient, “how does Havgan feel about the fact that you are incompetent? Or is that last word too big for you? Do you need me to explain it to you?”

“Who are you to question me? You are nothing! We keep you alive only for our own amusement. And, believe me, that will soon pass. The moment General Talorcan gives me leave to do to you what you deserve—”

Elen’s lips curved in derision. “You would not dare touch me, wyrce-jaga. One old fat man cannot frighten me.”

“Why, you—” Guthlac slammed down his almost empty goblet and heaved himself to his feet. The pearl ring he wore on his greasy hand shone in the light of the torches as he swung his hand toward Elen’s upturned face.

Iago, who had been closely listening, leapt to his feet, interposing himself between Elen and the enraged Guthlac. It was then that Guthlac’s convulsions began. With a cry, his body jerked, his hand flying out. And as his right hand jerked, the ring flew off, as though impelled by the force of his convulsions, arching through the air and across the table, to land with a splash in the nearly empty jug of wine Gwen held in her hands. Yet no one seemed to notice, their attention held by the wyrce-jaga’s now helpless movements—and, more importantly, by Elen’s calculated scream.

Iago caught at Guthlac’s flailing hands, forcing the man to the floor. “Regan!” he cried. Regan hurried over to him, kneeling on the floor. “What’s wrong with him?” the Druid panted. “He’s convulsing.”

“Too much wine,” Regan said crisply. “He’s wearing out his body with his appetites. It will pass.”

Slowly Talorcan stood, staring at Guthlac’s now-bare ring finger. Yet the General did not move. Nor did he seem to mark that Rhiannon had now joined Gwen, surreptitiously reaching into the pitcher.

The men in the hall were now on their feet, straining to see what was happening to Guthlac. The wyrce-jaga continued to flail as Iago snatched up a part of his robe to put between the convulsing man’s lips.

“Where’s the ring?” Iago cried.

“Why worry about that now?” Regan asked sharply, trying to help Iago still Guthlac’s flailing limbs. “No doubt it flew off. We’ll find it in a minute.”

Iago, his suspicions already alerted, leapt to his feet. His eyes scanned the crowd. As ill luck would have it, he looked Rhiannon full in the face as she turned at the door to be sure Gwen was behind her before slipping out into the night.

Their eyes met—cool green to fiery black—and Iago shouted, pointing to Rhiannon and Gwen. “Don’t let them get away!”

One of the soldiers, less drunk than most, reached out and grabbed Gwen’s skirt. Rhiannon snatched up a nearby platter and brought it down on the man’s head. His eyes rolled up as he fell. Another soldier lashed out with his fist, catching Rhiannon with a glancing blow on her temple. She staggered, her hand going to her head. She could feel blood streaming down her face. She tried to regain her balance as Gwen grabbed her arm and dragged her through the doors and down the steps of the hall.

The doors of the hall slammed behind them, impelled by the force of Gwen’s Shape-Moving. “Hurry,” Gwen panted, “I can’t hold them very long.”

Stumbling, partially supported by Gwen, they made for the still-opened doors of the fortress, when the sound of the alarm made her heart sink. The gates began to close. Behind them, soldiers spilled through the doors of the hall as Gwen’s power weakened. She looked around wildly, trying to make out the buildings in the darkness. Where to go? How to get out of there? They turned, now making for Elen’s ystafell.

A hand shot out of the darkness, closing on her wrist with bruising force, bringing her up sharply.

“This way,” Talorcan said. “Hurry.”

“Mam, no! It’s a trap!”

“You have no choice but to trust me if you want to get out of here alive,” Talorcan said grimly. “It’s up to you.”

Rhiannon’s eyes flickered back to the hall. Soldiers with torches leapt into the courtyard. Any moment now they would be seen. She turned to Talorcan and nodded. “Get us out of here.”

Without another word he spun around, herding them into the ystafell and shutting the door behind them. The room was dark, and Talorcan lit no candles. He rustled behind the canopied throne that stood against the east wall. They heard a click, and the throne swung outward, revealing a trapdoor beneath.

“How did you know—” Rhiannon began.

“Any good soldier thoroughly investigates the enemy.”

“Why haven’t Elen and Regan used this to flee?”

“There is a lock at the door on the other end. I put it there, and only I have the key. Come on.” He dropped down through the door, helping Gwen and Rhiannon to descend. Then he pulled the trapdoor shut and pushed some kind of lever. They heard a scraping above, as the wooden throne returned to its previous position.