Cry of Sorrow (37 page)

Trembling in every limb, her breath constricted in fear, she picked up the log, walked past Gwydion, Arthur, and Gwen without even acknowledging they were there, and stepped into the water. When the water reached her waist, she positioned the log in front of her, putting her hands on it to help keep afloat.

She turned her head to look at them for what might be the last time.

Gwen was kneeling by the water’s edge, leaning forward slightly as though trying to help Rhiannon begin. Their eyes met, and Gwen smiled in encouragement. And then Gwen dropped her eyes as though realizing she had been too kind.

Arthur smiled at her and nodded, though his smile was strained and his shoulders were tense. His eyes searched the lake warily.

And then she turned to Gwydion. He stood stiffly, his hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white. And as she looked at him, he slowly released his fist and held his hand out to her, as though longing to bring her back. She reached out her hand in farewell and then turned to go.

She took another few breaths to try to calm herself and then launched herself into the water, clinging to the log in front of her. She set her sights on the promontory, and propelled herself toward it, willing herself to do that which she had feared for years beyond counting.

And willing herself to live through it. To come back to those who waited, with the Stone in her hands.

G
WYDION WATCHED HER
go without a word. His body was taut with anxiety, his knuckles white with tension. He never took his eyes off of her as she made for the rocks in the center of the lake. She traveled steadily and did not falter. His heart felt as though it would burst with pride—and fear.

And then he felt it. Something was wrong. Where? He wrenched his attention away from Rhiannon’s journey to Ride the Wind, to try to discover what was happening. But before he could even do so, Caras appeared before him as if from thin air.

“Drwys says you were right. The soldiers are here.”

“Where?”

“Over the last hill to the south. There are twenty of them. They carry the banner of Havgan—the white boar on a field of red and gold. Drwys says for you to go, that we will hold them off.”

“We cannot go,” Gwydion said, shaking his head. “Rhiannon is still in the lake.”

“You must go! They will see you.”

“I won’t go without her. Arthur!” he barked. “Take the wagon and move it far back into the forest. Gwen, take your horse and Arthur’s and follow the wagon. The two of you go with Caras. Caras, can your people lead them off?”

“We will do what you wish.”

Arthur, for once not questioning Gwydion’s judgment, climbed into the wagon and grabbed the horses’ reins.

“What about you?” Gwen called out to Gwydion as the wagon lurched forward.

“I’ll stay here,” Gwydion replied as he turned back to the lake to see Rhiannon. “I’ll Wind-Speak to Rhiannon, tell her to—”

But he did not finish what he was going to say. For, as he looked to the rocks, Rhiannon had disappeared, and the log was floating alone.

A
S SHE DREW
closer to the rocks, Rhiannon tried to still her breathing, telling herself to be calm. The water was cold, and she tried to stop herself from wondering what lay beneath the surface. Perhaps the serpent wasn’t dead. Perhaps it was just waiting in the dark below for the chance to pull her down, to fill her lungs with water, to tear her apart, to devour her …

Stop it
, she told herself fiercely.
Stop
.

She needed something else to think about. Riddles, that was it. What is whiter than snow? Truth. What is sharper than the sword? Understanding. What is blacker than the raven? Death. No, that was the last thing she should think about.

Nantsovelta, help me
, she cried deep inside.
Help me. I’m so afraid
. She remembered a prayer to the goddess, which she had been taught long ago, and she recited it in a low voice, her breath coming short and hard with fear.

“O vessel bearing the light
,

O great brightness outshining the sun
,

Draw me ashore
,

Under your protection
,

From the shortlived ship of the world.”

But not now, Nantsovelta, she thought. Do not take me now. Help me to live. Help me to bring back your Treasure to the use of the High King, for whom it was made
.

Don’t let me be taken by the serpent
, she pleaded. Stop. There was no serpent. It was only water. Water was good. It gave life. It did not mean to kill.

Aunt Llawen, why did you die? Why did the water take you from me when I needed you so much? You left me alone, and I was alone for
so very long. Then Rhoram came to me, and loved me, and I wasn’t alone anymore. But he did not stay. No one ever stays. They leave and leave and leave, and I am so alone
.

Da. Da, why did you never love me? What had I done? What was I that you loathed the sight of me? Why was I nothing in your eyes?

No, that was no way to think. She had forgiven him, years ago, when she had finally understood. She would not travel that path again. Her da would have loved her, if his spirit had not died the day she was born, the day her mother died.

But her daughter hated her. Her former lover was nothing to her now. And Gwydion was dangerous. She had no one but herself. And it must, it would be enough. She would do this thing and maybe learn to think better of life and her place in it.

But she was so afraid.

At last she reached the rocks, her thoughts incoherent, her body cold and shivering, her spirit shriveled with fear.

She saw and understood then that the path she must travel was beyond her power to take. She could never do this thing. Never. There were no openings above the water. And the Stone must be inside. And to get inside she would have to dive down, try to find a way in before her breath ran out. Oh, and if there was a tunnel, how could she stand to swim into it? How could she know how long the tunnel was? She would be trapped under there, unable to surface, and she would die.

Gwydion’s face came to her, as she remembered his outstretched hand as she left him on the edge of the lake. She wanted to go to him and lay her fear in his hands. She wanted to feel his strong arms around her, to shelter beside him.

And it was that thought that spurred her. What had she been thinking—that she would find shelter in Gwydion? That was the thought of a fool. She would not return to the shore without that Stone. That would show Gwydion what she could do.

She released the log, keeping her head above water for a few moments. Then she took a deep breath, and dove.

   G
WYDION CROUCHED WITHIN
the shelter of the trees, his eyes fixed on the promontory in the center of the lake. The log she had been holding floated alone and she was gone. He tried to Ride out to her, but he could sense nothing, could see nothing. It was as though she had never been there, as though the rocks were a wall that could not be climbed, could not be brought down, could not be lessened in any way.

She was dead. Drowned. And all because of him. All because of his dreams. All because he had found her that day and forced her to stand with him in his fight for Kymru to be free. He had not valued her as he should have. He had never told her the truth. He had been too afraid.

As the Coranian warriors poured down the hill and to the shores of the lake, he did not move. They must have killed the Cerddorian, for he saw no sign of them. He hoped vaguely that Gwen and Arthur had gotten away, but he could not make himself care too much. He knew the soldiers would eventually find him, but that thought had no meaning. She was dead.

And everything was over.

And so, as they came closer, Gwydion did not move from his place.

He merely waited. And wondered that the heart he thought dead could give him so much pain.

I
T WAS DARK BENEATH
the water. Above her she could see glimmers of light shining through the surface of the lake. But the light died quickly. She put her hands out to the rocks, feeling for a way in. She would always remember that she found it within seconds, as though it had been waiting for her. Perhaps it had.

Knowing that if she stopped to think she would never move, she grasped the rough edges of the tunnel and propelled herself inside. She used her hands to push herself along, shooting through the water as fast as she could. Her lungs were burning, and she could feel a scream building inside her throat.

No. She would not cry out. She would live through this. And she would bring the Stone back. She would do this thing because that was what Nantsovelta required, and for too long she had run from all the things she should have done.

Her hands, feeling the way along the roof of the water-filled tunnel, suddenly grasped nothing. She shot up, knowing that if she did not break the surface she would die. If there was no surface …

But there was. She came up inside the mound of rocks into darkness. She could tell by the sound of the water that slapped at the walls that she was in a narrow cave and the ceiling was low.

She reached out and grabbed hold of the rocks, and rested in the water for a moment. So dark. How could she find the Stone?

But then she saw a glimmer of light and saw that it was coming from the pearl ring she wore. The light grew stronger, a bright, shimmering light, like the path of moonlight dancing on water.

The cave was small. The pool of water where she had surfaced was directly in the center of it. A ledge ran around the water, rough and uneven. Shadows capered and menaced throughout.

Where? Where was the Stone? Surely it was not at the bottom of the lake. Surely it was here somewhere. And then she saw an answering glimmer from the ledge. And she saw Nantsovelta’s treasure, Gwyr Yr Brenin, Seeker of the King.

The Stone was square, each side no more than a foot long. The surface appeared to be granite or something like it, shot through with a lattice of bright threads of silver. At each silvery junction a pearl rested, as though formed by the stone itself. At the center on the top of the Stone was a figure eight, the symbol of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. The symbol was studded with shining onyx, black as night. She reached out a trembling hand to trace that figure. There was a cavity at the center, a narrow slot where something must go. But what?

That did not matter now. The Stone glowed even brighter in response to her touch. She seemed to hear a harp, playing a sweet melody. “Nantsovelta,” she breathed, and bowed her head until it rested against the Stone. “Daughter of Chaos and the Weaver, Bride of the Sun, Lady of the Waters, Queen of the Moon, to you I bend my spirit. Do with me as you will.”

“So you have come at last,” a man’s voice said, low and gentle.

Her head shot up, and she looked wildly around. Who was in here with her?

A slight shimmer next to the Stone solidified and became the figure of a man dressed in a robe of silver trimmed in sea green. His blue eyes were mild and sad, yet something in the set of his fine, drawn mouth spoke of a deeper joy, come from the wisdom that grows from suffering. Around his neck was the glow of ghostly pearls.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her heart in her throat.

“I am Mannawyddan ap Iweridd var Fabel,” he replied.

Her breath caught in her throat. Mannawyddan, the Fifth Ardewin of Kymru, one of the Great Ones of Lleu Lawrient, the last High King! But Lleu had been murdered over two hundred years ago.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

“To guard the Stone. To ensure that no one but you ever found it.”

“All this time?” she asked, shocked.

“All this time,” he replied gravely. “My spirit has been bound here, denied its rest in Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, where the spirits of my love, Queen Siwan of Prydyn, and our son, Merfryn, dwell. Where the spirit of Lleu himself rests—or did,” Mannawyddan said, with a faint smile. “For Lleu has returned.”

“You recognized him.”

“I did. His spirit is strong within young Arthur. The High King does, indeed, return.”

“Oh, Mannawyddan,” she breathed. “I am sorry that you waited so long.”

“It is of no matter. This is what I agreed to when my brother, Bran the Dreamer, gave me this task. And I was glad to do it, as one last gift I could give to my murdered High King.”

“And now that I am here, now that I have come, your spirit may go to its rest?”

“Indeed, it may, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg. For you have come, and faced your fears and conquered them. The fear of water chains you no more. Though you have others that do.”

“What—”

“You know of what I speak. And his fear is even greater than yours. Try to remember that, my Dewin-daughter. Now, take the Treasure and go. But go carefully, for the enemy is near.” The shimmer faded, and she was truly alone.

The enemy! Instantly she was on the Wind-Ride, searching. Mannawyddan had spoken truly. Twenty Coranian warriors were on the shore, searching for her and her companions. But surely Gwydion and the others had gone. Where were the Cerddorian?

Even as she thought that, she saw the warriors’ heads go up and turn as one to the north. She followed their gaze and saw Gwen and Arthur on their horses, shouting taunts at the warriors.

“Fools!” Arthur shouted. “You couldn’t find the sun in the sky on a clear day!”

“Idiots!” Gwen called out, laughing. “You’ll never catch us!”

The warriors leapt to their horses as Gwen and Arthur turned their mounts. And then the chase was on. She saw them disappear over the hill, Arthur and Gwen far ahead of the warriors, leading them into the forest where, surely, the Cerddorian waited.

But where was Gwydion? She scanned the trees, but there was no sign of him. Perhaps something had already happened to him. Perhaps he was hurt, dead, dying.

The thought spurred her on. She grabbed the Stone from the ledge, and as she hauled it into the water, she had a moment of horror. Suppose it sank? Suppose she couldn’t carry it? She couldn’t even swim. How could she—