Cry of Sorrow (54 page)

He had not known, until now, that he found Gwen beautiful.

He would not let that happen. No matter what Gwydion said, he could not leave them in the hands of the enemy.

And as he made his way down the Dark Path, down the Seeker Mountain, to the place where they had waited for him, he remembered one thing—he did not know how to use a sword.

But that did not matter. Because Taran did.

   
Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—Alban Nerth, dusk

D
INASWYN UR
M
ORVYN
, the former Dreamer of Kymru, walked calmly into the now-silent glade within the hidden camp in Mynydd Tawel. The Cerddorian of Gwynedd gathered here, waiting to celebrate Alban Nerth, the festival in honor of Y Rhyfelwr, Camulos and Agrona, the Warrior Twins.

The warriors that lined the perimeter of the alder grove held lit torches. The stone altar in the north quadrant of the grove was heaped with vines—grapevines, barberry vines, blackberry vines, elderberry vines. Scattered throughout the vines were juicy, red apples. Eight unlit torches were set in brackets around the stone.

Dinaswyn surveyed the men and women gathered there. Morrigan, dressed in a fine gown of dark blue, with a kirtle of light blue beneath, stood quietly, for once. Her auburn hair was bound in a single braid and wrapped around her head and scattered with sapphires. Around her neck she wore the sapphire and silver torque of the House of PenHebog. Beside her, Ygraine stood in her customary white, her expression unreadable, her eyes cool. Yet Ygraine could not fool Dinaswyn, for she saw the slight tightening around her eyes that spoke of fear for her son.

Cai and Susanna stood together, not quite touching. Always Cai was close to Susanna, but never did he reach for her. Dinaswyn almost sighed in irritation. Men were such fools. Cai’s face spoke of his fears, too. For his Lieutenant and nephew, Bedwyr, had not yet returned from Tegeingl. He had been due back yesterday, and there had been no message to explain the delay. Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, stood with Jonas, the Bard who had been sent to them by Anieron before he died.

She lifted her hands, and pointing at the eight torches, lit them with Druid’s Fire, one by one. “This is the Wheel of the year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones: Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Awyr, Calan Llachar, Alban Haf, Calan Olau, and Alban Nerth, which we celebrate tonight.

“We gather here,” she went on, “to honor Camulos and Agrona, Y Rhyfelwr, the Warrior Twins.”

“We honor you,” the crowd responded.

“Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the contest. Taran, King of the Winds. Modron, Great Mother of All. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”

“We honor the Shining Ones,” the warriors intoned.

Cai stepped forward, and began. “Why do we gather here?”

“We gather,” Dinaswyn answered, “to honor Camulos and Agrona, the Warrior Twins, son and daughter of Aertan, Weaver of Fate, and Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.”

“Why do we honor them?” Cai went on.

“Behold, they have braved the depths of Bro Yr Hud, Land of Mystery, and the monsters that guard it, and have returned victorious, laden with gifts.”

“What gifts do they bring?”

“They have returned with the vine harvest, the gift of wine do they bring. And, most wondrous, do they bring the apple tree to us.” So saying, Dinaswyn held up an apple and cut it in half. She raised both halves above her head, turning the inside of the fruit to the crowd. “See, then, the seeds of the apple. Within this fruit is the sign of the Wheel.”

“Today,” Cai said, “we celebrated the strength of our warriors. The strongest and bravest stand before us now.” Cai gestured, and those who had won the archery contests throughout the day stepped forward. There was Morrigan and Cai himself, as well as Duach ap Seithfed, Cynwas Cwryfager, and Dywel ap Gwyn.

“How can we choose Y Rhyfelwr from these fine warriors?” Cai asked.

“The warrior blessed by Camulos and Agrona will be the one who impales the apple. Warriors, stand forth!” Dinaswyn called. The five of them stood apart from the crowd in front of the altar. Each carried a bow and an arrow, fletched in their own colors.

“The one whose arrow pierces the apple first in the air will be honored as the greatest warrior on this Alban Nerth,” Dinaswyn said.

The men and women in the grove fell completely silent. In the stillness only the sound of the fire that wavered from the torches could be heard.

Dinaswyn threw the apple into the night sky. Higher and higher it arched, controlled by Dinaswyn’s Shape-Moving ability, until it reached its apex over the grove and began its descent. Moving swiftly now, it fell toward the earth. As one, the five winners of the contests shot their arrows, which sped toward the moving target overhead.

But the apple jerked sideways, impelled by another force, sidestepping the five arrows. The crowd gasped. Before anyone could even put another arrow to bow, the apple arced over the heads of the crowd, toward the fringes of the grove. Suddenly, from the trees, a shining blade appeared in a brown hand, and cut the apple cleanly in half.

Morrigan threw down her bow and cried out with joy. “Arthur!” For the hand that held the sword did indeed belong to Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine. Arthur stood quietly at the edge of the grove, the point of the sword pressed to the earth, his hands clasped on the hilt. The sapphire eyes of the hawk at the sword’s hilt seemed to glow. The scar on Arthur’s face whitened as he put out a hand to stop Morrigan from launching herself at him. And Morrigan stopped where she was, and, taking in Arthur’s sword, Arthur’s stance, Arthur’s gaze, she sank to her knees and bowed her head.

“Behold,” Gwydion said, walking out of the shadows of the grove followed by Rhiannon and Gwen. “Behold, Taran’s Warrior. He who carries the Sword of Air. He who saved us from our enemies, and brought us out of bondage.”

Dinaswyn looked closely at Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Gwen. Their necks were blistered and red. “You have been wearing enaid-dals,” Dinaswyn said flatly.

“We have,” Gwydion agreed. “For we were captured by the Coranians while Arthur walked Seeker Mountain. But Arthur came for us, and not one enemy soldier now remains alive.”

“He cut the collars from our necks with the Sword of Taran,” Rhiannon said, solemnly. “And the Wind itself carried them away, far up to the sky, to do no one further harm.”

“He saved our lives with the Sword of Taran,” Gwen said, her blue eyes shining. “And called the Wind itself to confound his enemies.”

By now, the entire crowd was on their knees, bowing to Arthur. Dinaswyn, after a moment’s hesitation, having only to do with the nature of her astonishment rather than any false pride, at last sank to her knees also.

Arthur’s dark eyes scanned the crowd, resting for a few moments on the bowed heads of his mother and sister.

“Where is Arianrod?” Gwydion asked quietly.

“Arianrod is not here,” Dinaswyn answered. “She has gone to Carnavon to take the place of the Dewin there who was captured.”

“She has not,” Gwydion said. “She has gone to him.”

Dinaswyn’s breath caught in her throat. “To Havgan?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry with fear.

“To the Golden Man,” Gwydion agreed.

“You know this to be true?” Dinaswyn asked.

“From my dream last night,” Gwydion said. “You must all go south, to Cemais. Begin to leave at first light in groups of no more than five or six. The camp must be cleared within ten days.”

“So long?” Cai asked in astonishment. “Arianrod is Dewin, and could send a message to the soldiers in a matter of moments.”

“But she will not. She will carry her message to Havgan himself, and will entrust her information to no other. She will bargain with him before she reveals where we are,” Gwydion said with calm certainty.

Dinaswyn nodded. Yes, they would have that time, for Gwydion was right. Arianrod would never give the information to any but Havgan himself. And would not give it even to him, until she was sure she would receive what she wished for. They would not be undone by Arianrod’s greed. Instead, her greed would save them.

A rustle in the trees caught their ears. And from the alders burst Bedwyr, Cai’s nephew. He was travel-stained and unshaven. His brown eyes were wild and fierce, and his brown hair was tangled and wet with sweat. His chest heaved, as though he had run all the way from Tegeingl. And perhaps he had, Dinaswyn thought. Perhaps he had.

Without a word he dove through the crowd and with a cry of rage, he launched himself at the throat of Jonas. The two men went down, rolling over and over on the ground, with Bedwyr’s hands locked on the Bard’s throat. At Arthur’s quick gesture, six warriors pulled the two men apart and held them. Bedwyr was gasping in fury at being held back from his prey. And Jonas was clutching at his throat, trying to get air into his heaving lungs, his head hanging down as he was held upright between two warriors.

Arthur strode through the grove, and the crowd parted for him like water. He came to stand before both men, and planted his sword on the ground, crossing both hands on the hilt. His dark eyes bore down on Bedwyr, demanding answers without a word.

“Who are you who carries such a sword?” Bedwyr gasped out.

“I am Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, High King to be of Kymru. This is the Sword of Air. And you are Bedwyr ap Bedrawd, returned from a mission to Tegeingl. Where, I think, you have learned something of great value.”

“I have,” Bedwyr said shortly. “In Tegeingl we have a spy, very highly placed in King Madoc’s confidence, his daughter, Princess Tangwen.”

“And what information has she given you about Jonas?”

“He is a traitor,” Bedwyr spat. “A traitor to us all. It was he who was responsible for the capture of the Y Dawnus at Allt Llwyd. He who was responsible for the prisoners taken, for the people killed in the death-march across Kymru, for the death of Anieron, Master Bard, himself. ‘Shall this not be a fair day of freedom,’ Jonas ap Morgan?” Bedwyr asked, his voice dripping with rage as he recited the refrain from Anieron’s Death-Song.

“You lie, Bedwyr,” Jonas snarled. “You have always hated me. And now you use this false story to be rid of me.”

“How did you come by this knowledge?” Arthur asked Bedwyr.

“Princess Tangwen overheard Madoc and General Catha discussing it. They said that, within the next few days, Jonas was due to come to them in Tegeingl, to bring them news of the whereabouts of the Dreamer and his friends, to give them all the locations of the Cerrddorian camps.”

Dinaswyn came to stand before Bedwyr. “Jonas was due to leave tomorrow,” she said, “to take the place of the Bard in Creuddyn, who had been captured just a few weeks ago.” Dinaswyn turned her gray eyes on Jonas. “He volunteered to go.”

“He sent the message to the soldiers who captured us,” Rhiannon said, her voice harsh and cold. “Or else how did they know we were there?”

“He followed us, the first hour after we left,” Gwen said, her face hard. “He must have, to overhear where we were going, but still not be missed.”

“It was Arianrod who Wind-Rode behind you,” Jonas said, as he bowed his head. “It was she who sent the message where you were. An introduction, she called it, to Havgan.”

“And you, Jonas ap Morgan, who betrayed the location of Allt Llwyd, as you would soon have betrayed those here in Mynydd Tawel,” Gwydion said with certainty. “It was you.”

“It was,” Jonas said, his voice breaking. “But not by my choice. I had to.”

“Your wife and child are dead, Jonas ap Morgan,” Bedwyr said. “They were dead by the hand of Sledda, the Arch-wyrce-jaga, before you even betrayed Anieron and his people.”

“No,” Jonas sobbed. “No.”

“Yes. I heard Catha and Madoc say so,” Bedwyr went on, relentless. “They laughed about it. It was all for nothing, even from the beginning.”

“I see Anieron in my dreams,” Jonas sobbed. “His fingers are cut off, his tongue cut out, an enaid-dal hangs around his neck. He stares at his harp, but has no fingers to play. Then the wind begins. And his song. I hear his song waking or sleeping. He will not leave me. He stares at me with pity in his green eyes. He will not let me go! Let me go!” Jonas screamed, his head thrown up to the sky. “Let me go!”

Taran’s Sword whistled through the air. The shining blade sliced through Jonas’s body, cutting the man cleanly in half. Arthur swung the sword over his head, once, twice, three times, and the blood sheeted off the blade, until it was once again clean and shining.

“You have your wish, Jonas ap Morgan,” Arthur said coldly to the corpse that lay at his feet, as he thrust the now-clean sword into its scabbard. “You are free.”

Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—afternoon

A
rianrod ur Brychan var Arianllyn rode up to the gates of Eiodel with her head held high. She wore a silken shift of soft primrose beneath a kirtle of amber. The shift was cut low, showing off the deep cleavage between her round, high breasts. She wore an amber necklace around her slim throat, and amber earrings. Her honey-blond hair was worn loose, flowing freely down to her slender waist.

She rode proudly, but she was afraid. Yet she was determined to let none of her fear show on her beautiful face. Instinctively she knew that to show fear to the Golden Man was to find oneself in bondage to him forever.

And being in bondage to another person was something she would never do. All her life she had been free from others. And she had done that by caring for no one. Perhaps it might have been different if her parents had lived. But they had been sent away when she was just a child to the land of Corania. And they had never returned.

When she was just a little girl, she had hoped every day, prayed to the gods every night, that they would return. But they had not. And by the time she had been sent away to school at Y Ty Dewin, she had known that they never would.