Cry of Sorrow (42 page)

The man and woman who had spoken approached the wagon. The woman carried a drawn sword in her fist. She bowed to Gwydion, who inclined his head. Her long, dark brown hair was braided tightly, and her emerald green eyes were fierce. The man had flaming red hair and a short-cropped beard. His brown eyes were sharp and fiery. He, too, bowed to Gwydion.

“Children,” Gwydion said quietly, “this is Atlantas ur Naf, the Lady of Maelienydd, and the sister of King Owein’s Captain, Trystan. And this is Tyrnon Twrf Liant, the Lord of Gwent. They are the leaders of the Cerddorian in southern Rheged.”

Arthur and Gwen took their hands from their weapons and bowed to the two Cerddorian.

“We are sorry we were not prepared to greet friends,” Arthur said, shooting a venomous glance at Gwydion. “But, as usual, we were not told to expect your arrival.”

“Why should you have been?” Atlantas said, with a palpable lack of sympathy. “The Dreamer’s business is his own.”

“You have called us, Dreamer, and we are here,” Tyrnon said swiftly, before anyone could reply. “How may we serve you?”

“I fear the Coranians recognized us at the checkpoint today. I ask that you prevent them from following us.”

“Where do you go?” Tyrnon asked.

“To the Storm Tree.”

“Ah,” Atlantas said. “Then Mabon’s Fire calls to you.”

In the uncertain light only Rhiannon noticed Gwydion’s involuntary shiver. “It does,” she agreed. “And the Coranians follow us.”

“How many?” Tyrnon asked.

“Twenty,” Rhiannon replied.

“The entire guard, then,” Atlantas said to Tyrnon. “I will enjoy this.”

“Be careful, Atlantas,” Gwydion warned. “If you massacre the guard the entire Coranian army will descend on Gwent.”

“We are not fools, Gwydion ap Awst,” Tyrnon said quietly. “We will merely—ah, misdirect them.”

“And if a few of them get hurt along the way,” Atlantas said grimly, “well, accidents will happen.”

“So they will,” Tyrnon agreed dryly. At his gesture a third figure detached from the group within the shelter of the trees and came to stand by the wagon.

“This is Cimin ap Cof, the Gwarda of Gwent Uchcoed. He will see to it that your wagon and its contents are here when you return,” Tyrnon said.

The man had black hair and dark eyes. His expression was set as he spoke to Gwydion. “You must know, Dreamer, who I am.”

“I do know you, Cimin ap Cof. There is no need. And no shame.”

“Then the others must know.” The man turned to Rhiannon, Gwen, and Arthur. “My brother is Iago, he who was once the Druid to Queen Olwen of Ederynion, he who now aids the enemy in imprisoning Queen Elen. It is right that you should know this before you leave the guarding of your possessions to me.”

Surprisingly, it was Arthur who answered. “Cimin ap Cof, the Dreamer is right when he says there is no shame. You serve your rightful Lord, and do your part to reclaim Kymru. For this your family will be honored.”

Arthur spoke with such conviction, and with authority well beyond his years, that even Rhiannon was surprised by the underlying power they all sensed in him.

“You honor me,” Cimin said quietly, bowing to Arthur. His brow was furrowed as he tried to sort out who Arthur might be, but, wisely, he asked no questions.

“Fear not, Dreamer,” Atlantas said, her tone fierce. “The Cerddorian of Coed Sarrug will not fail you.”

“I did not think you would,” Gwydion said. “Come,” he continued, speaking to Rhiannon, Arthur, and Gwen. “It is time.” He turned his horse to the forest and disappeared into the shadows.

Rhiannon, Arthur, and Gwen mounted their horses and followed. Before entering the forest, Rhiannon turned to look back at Atlantas, Tyrnon, and Cimin. She raised her hand in farewell, in case she never saw them again.

T
HE FOREST WAS
dark, so dark she could see nothing but the tail of Gwen’s horse in front of her.

“How long before we reach Bryn Duir?” Gwen asked, turning in the saddle.

“At least two leagues.”

“Then we had better go faster. There is no telling how many soldiers might make it through the Cerddorian.”

“We will go no faster than the Dreamer rides, Gwen,” Rhiannon replied shortly. “The Spear is his to find, and the pace is his to set.”

“But, mam—”

“It is his to set.”

G
WYDION RODE THROUGH
the forest as if in a trance. Lightning began to play across the sky, faster and faster. The light flashed through the dense forest, sometimes making their path seem as bright as day.

Soon they would reach Tymestl Pren, the Storm Tree. And there, he knew, he would find the Spear. And he knew, too, what he would have to face to get it.

Fire.

Lightning flashed again and again. Gwydion found it hard to breathe, so great was his fear. The fire, the fire. He knew what fire could do. It burned. It burned and burned and burned and would not stop.

Fire. Mabon’s Fire. Mabon, King of the Sun, did not make gentle fires. No, Mabon’s fires were hungry. And they waited for him, waited for their chance to devour him. And he was afraid. So afraid.

And so he neared Bryn Duir, the lonely hill that rose up on the middle of the forest. And there, at the top of the hill, was a mighty oak tree. The middle of its huge trunk was split, but the tree still stood. Here and there he could see old scars from previous storms. Yet the tree had not died. The fire had attacked the tree again and again, but the tree still stood.

He dismounted, no longer aware of the others with him. Slowly he walked up the hill, with eyes only for the blasted oak.

When he was halfway up the hill, lightning laced over the tree itself, enclosing it with bright, bony fingers. Then the lightning withdrew, spent. And the tree still stood. But it was burning.

Burning. The tree was burning. Flames licked hungrily at the wood. It was burning, just like the tree in Coed Dulas had done years ago, when he and Uthyr were children. That tree had burned and the fire had tried to kill him. But it had not, because Uthyr had been there to protect him.

But Uthyr was not here now. Uthyr was dead.

When the time had come, Gwydion had been unable to save his brother. He had been far away when Uthyr died on the field before Tegeingl. He had been in Coed Aderyn, waiting to confront Havgan at Cadair Idris. He had not been there for his brother, and so his brother was no longer here for him.

“Uthyr,” he whispered as he approached the now-burning tree. “Uthyr, I am sorry. So sorry.”

But there was no answer, other than the crackling of the fire. And that was answer enough.

In Gwydion’s mind he was back again in Coed Dulas, trapped within the branches of a burning tree, and Uthyr was not there this time. This time, the fire would take him.

He shook with fear as he faced the tree, feeling the heat on his face, knowing that there was no Uthyr to save him. His brother was dead.

He saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing, but the flames as he stood there, transfixed, gazing at what he knew was his death.

So when the four Coranian soldiers burst out from the surrounding forest and sped up the hill toward him, he did not even know they were there.

“G
WYDION!”
R
HIANNON SCREAMED
from the bottom of the hill where they had halted. But Gwydion did not even move, did not seem to even be aware of anything but the burning tree as the soldiers who had somehow eluded the Cerddorians’ trap went straight up the hill toward him, their weapons drawn.

Rhiannon hiked up her skirt and pulled out her knife. She threw it in an overhand cast and it sped up the hill, plunging through the back of one of the soldiers. The man went down in a welter of blood. Beside her Arthur’s spear shot true, finding its mark in the back of another soldier. But the two remaining soldiers were gaining on Gwydion, and she leapt up after them. Arthur was right beside her, with Gwen already ahead.

Rhiannon screamed Gwydion’s name again. But only the soldiers seemed to hear her. One of them turned at her cry, while the other one continued on, closing swiftly on Gwydion.

Gwen, who had sprinted up the hill, shot across the path of the remaining soldier, bringing him down by rolling in front of him. The soldier fell facedown, and Gwen drew her knife and stabbed him in the back.

But the last soldier was still on his feet; his short spear in his hand, only a few feet now from Gwydion’s unprotected back.

Knowing she would be too late, Rhiannon hared after him, still screaming Gwydion’s name.

W
ITHIN THE DIM
reaches of his consciousness, Gwydion heard Rhiannon call out to him. But even that had no power to bring him back from where he was—the past.

Close to dying, again.

The flames licked at the tree; the heat seared his face. Sweat ran down his body.

The burning. It burned. It burned.

And then he saw it—the gleam of opal in the heart of the tree. His eyes traced the pattern, and he marveled at what he saw.

For there, in the very center of the oak, stood the Spear. The shaft was made of twined silver and gold. The base was circled with fiery opals. Where the shaft joined with the gleaming tip was another grouping of the shining gems. And set into the tip of the Spear itself, black onyx, formed in the figure eight of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, gleamed like hungry night.

He had never really thought that the Spear, that the Sign of Fire belonging to Mabon of the Sun, that Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge, would be so beautiful. He had thought only of his fear.

“Take it, my son,” a voice from within the fire called to him. “It is yours.”

“Who calls me?” Gwydion whispered.

“It is I, Dreamer. Bran ap Iweridd var Fabel.”

Bran, Dreamer to murdered High King Lleu Silver-Hand. Bran, who had guided Gwydion in the search for Caladfwlch. Bran, whose spirit was still not at rest.

A flicker within the flame, and the dead Dreamer showed himself. He was dressed in the Dreamer’s robe of black trimmed with red. The ghost of the Dreamer’s opal torque gleamed at his neck. His dark hair hung to his broad shoulders, and Bran’s gray eyes—so like Gwydion’s own—bore into Gwydion’s.

“Why?” Gwydion whispered. “Why did you do this thing?” he asked, understanding the sacrifice Bran had made.

“To guard the Spear. To ensure that no one but you would claim it. When you take it, my task is done and I may rest, at last, in the Land of Summer with those I love. Take it. Set me free.”

Gwydion swallowed hard. “But the fire,” he whispered helplessly. “It burns.”

“It does. And still you must reach through your fear to take what you must. Do what you were born to do.”

“Will the fire burn me if I do?”

“All fire burns, Gwydion ap Awst. All. For that is its nature.”

Gwydion gritted his teeth. This was not the past. This was now. Uthyr was dead and could not save him. But Bran had given even his soul to give Gwydion this chance. He would not fail. If he was brave, if he was quick, he might live.

And so, heedless of the Coranian warrior at his back, he reached through the flames. And the fire burned.

W
ITH A CRY
Rhiannon leapt for the last soldier. His spear was set to throw at Gwydion’s back, but one second before the spear left his hands, Rhiannon barreled into him with both feet, pushing him to the ground. The spear cast was wild, far off the mark. The soldier came to his feet, pulling out his sword from its sheath, and leapt for her with death in his eyes.

She tried to rise, but he was too quick. She grabbed his sword arm, deflecting his blow just enough so that he cut her shoulder.

She cried out. Gwen and Arthur were too far away, and the man was raising his sword for his next blow.

At least, she thought, as she prepared to die, the Dreamer would live. Her part was done, for the Stone was retrieved. Gwydion would see to it that the other two did their duty and then all the Treasures would be in their possession. Arthur would go to Cadair Idris with the Treasures in his hands and face the Tynged Mawr, the Great Test. He would survive this and be High King. And the powers that he would have then would drive the enemy from their land.

And Kymru would be at peace. And she would be dead. But her life would have meant something.

And that, at the last, was enough.

T
HE SOLDIER RAISED
his sword, his blue eyes glittering with hate. He brought it down toward her unprotected face, and her green eyes held his, for she would not flinch from this.

And so she saw the moment when the sword halted in midair, clanging against the Spear of Fire, breaking the sword in two.

And she saw clearly when the fiery Spear caught the man full in the chest, and fire blossomed where his heart had been.

The soldier fell back, dead before he hit the ground.

She looked up to see Gwydion standing there, holding the burning Spear, the skin of his hands blackened and smoking, the sleeves of his tunic in flames.

She leapt up and pushed him to the ground, making him drop the Spear. She smothered the flames with her body, then drew back, bending over him, her hands on his chest to see if he still breathed.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her, his gaze filled with pain. And yet a strange peace was in his gray eyes. And she knew that look—the look of fear faced and mastered.

“And so you save my life,” he rasped.

“And so you save mine,” she replied. “Again.”

“Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” he murmured, “you are wounded. What am I to do with you?”

Gwen and Arthur helped them both to their feet. For a moment Gwydion faced the burning tree. Then he straightened his shoulders and turned to her, cradling his burned hands. His eyes were suddenly cold as he stared at her, the tenderness of a moment ago quenched.

“You will never do that again,” he said harshly.

“Never do what again?” she asked in surprise.

“Interfere.”

“He was going to kill you!”

“The Spear was mine to find, mine to take.”

“You bastard,” she spat at him. “I risked my life for you.”

“And I am telling you not to. Ever.”

She turned from him, too furious to speak. And there, on the forest floor, the Spear gleamed, its physical fire spent. Yet the opals burned still, blossoming with a fire of their own.