May Earth Rise (19 page)

Geriant tugged at the rope and it tensed and held. He nodded to Owein that he was ready.

“Go,” Owein breathed.

Geriant wrapped the slack around his upper arm and shoulder. Lightly, quickly, he walked up the wall, hanging on to the rope. When he reached the shutter he put his eye to the crack.

Enid had tears on her face as she paced back and forth across the room. She hugged herself tightly, her jaw clenched hard as though to hold back screams. She was dressed in brown riding leathers and her auburn hair was braided tightly to her skull. Every few moments she impatiently dashed away the tears that continued to fall.

Geriant’s heart broke a little more when he saw her in her bravery, her fear, her hope and her despair. Oh, Enid, he thought to himself. I have come.
Cariad,
I have come for you.

Geriant turned to look down at Owein. He gave a nod to indicate Enid was within, and was alone.

Now, Druid, Geriant thought as he turned again back to the window. Now.

A
T
G
ERIANT’S SIGNAL
Owein pulled out a white kerchief from his tunic. He glanced back to his left, to the open door of the watchtower and the hidden forms of Sanon and Trystan that he knew stood there. He looked back, further still, to the dark bathhouse, to where he knew Teleri, Gwarae, and Yrth waited. He turned and looked up at Geriant.

He raised the kerchief and waved it.

Now, Druid, he thought. Now.

Y
RTH WAS OLD,
over seventy now. He had served the Mother for almost all of his life, having been brought to Caer Duir when he was only six years old. He had been a student, a journeyman, and a full-fledged Druid. When he was fifty, he had returned to Caer Duir as a teacher of the almanac. His whole life he had been happy and satisfied, serving Modron the Mother with his gifts and skill.

When he had first understood that the Archdruid had plans to once again make the Druids preeminent in Kymru, he had rejoiced. The Mother would again be supreme, as she had been in lost Lynonesse, before ever there were Dreamers or Bards or Dewin. When the Coranians invaded and he understood the price of that preeminence, he was less pleased. But still he had thought that the Mother would bless their efforts. But She had not. The land had given little in the few years since the invasion. The harvests had been scant and the winters had seemed longer and colder. He had doubted still more and, when approached by Aergol, he had been more than ready. At first, when he had determined to follow Aergol and reject all the Cathbad had stood for, he had been afraid that the Mother would take back the gifts she had bestowed on him at birth.

But it was not so. His gift was as strong as ever. And because he had used these gifts for so long, he had no need to concentrate, to finger the dwyvach-breichled, the bracelet of Modron that encircled his wrist. It was not even necessary to close his eyes. But, because he always did so, he briefly touched the emerald set in the golden torque around his neck. Then he reached out with his mind to the stable some hundred feet away.

T
HE WOODEN BAR
that closed the stable doors lifted and hovered briefly, then gently floated to the ground. The doors opened inward. After a few moments, a wisp of smoke floated out of the upper loft. Inside the stable, horses snorted. The smoke became thicker, and the horses began to neigh loudly. The doors of their stalls opened all at once, and the horses screamed as they rushed from the stable. Hungry tongues of fire began to lick their way to the roof as smoke poured off the building.

One of the guards in the east watchtower cried out and another guard came out of the tower, speeding toward the hall at a dead run. He opened the hall doors and shouted. Warriors came boiling out, shouting for water, shouting to watch for enemies, some with blades drawn or spears in their hands, some with tankards of ale and bread in their fists.

From the ystafell General Baldred, King Morcant, and Bledri rushed out of the building to behold the fire.

The courtyard was in chaos, as Owein had intended. He nodded to Geriant and the Prince swiftly unlatched the shutters, throwing them open wide. Enid rushed to the window and Geriant guided her hands to the rope. At his direction she grabbed the rope and jumped from the windowsill. She slid down into Owein’s waiting arms.

“Owein,” she sobbed as he held her close. “Brother.”

“We came for you, Enid. I am so sorry it took so long.”

Enid continued to weep as he set her on her feet but she stood straight and steady. “Now what?” she asked.

“To the watchtower,” Owein nodded. “Then away from this place. We will go out the tower window with ropes. Then make our way to the west wall where some Cerddorian are ready to help us over. March is waiting on the other side with horses for us all.”

“All?”

“You, me, Teleri, Gwarae, Sanon, Trystan, our Druid, and, of course, Geriant.”

“Geriant,” Enid said softly as she turned to the Prince. “Geriant. Thank you.”

Geriant bowed briefly but did not speak. The sheen of tears glittered in his blue eyes, but he smiled at her.

“Come,” Owein said. “We must be going.”

The three of them ran swiftly to the watchtower, bent low. Sanon and Trystan stood on either side just inside the door, weapons ready.

“Go,” Trystan said, nodding to the stairs.

“The others?” Owein asked.

“Upstairs already,” Trystan answered.

“Any trouble?” Owein asked.

“Gwarae had to kill a guard who almost blundered right into them,” Sanon answered. She nodded toward the bathhouse. Huddled against the wall in the shadows between the fortress wall and the bathhouse lay a darker shadow. “But no one else saw.”

Then Trystan looked briefly out the door and what he saw made him grip his sword tighter. “Hurry. General Baldred appears to have seen something he does not like.”

Owein glanced out the door. Trystan was right. General Baldred was not looking at the stable, but was eyeing the watchtower instead. Had he perhaps seen the Kymri reenter? It was too dark for him to know who was in the tower, but if he had seen anyone go back in, he would have wondered who it was, since all the Coranians were coming from the buildings, not going into them. Baldred, unnoticed by his companions, pulled his sword and walked quietly toward the tower and the open tower door.

“Go,” Trystan said again. “Baldred is mine.”

“He is mine,” Owein said grimly. “He killed my mam.”

“He is mine,” Enid said tightly. “He and Bledri and Morcant. They belong to me.”

Sanon sighed and pulled her dagger from her belt. Without a word she threw the dagger in a swift, underhand cast. The blade gleamed briefly in the light of the fire as it sped clear and true through the smoke, burying itself in Baldred’s gut. The General dropped to his knees, clutching the knife’s protruding hilt, then slumped forward to the ground, burying the blade deeper still into his dying body.

Trystan, Owein, and Enid stared at Sanon. “There was no time to argue precedence,” Sanon said crisply. “Now, we go.”

As they silently made their way from the fortress the far-off strains of a hunting horn—the horn of the Wild Hunt—sounded faintly in their ears.

A
RTHUR REACHED OUT
to move the raven with the fiery opal eyes across the tarbell game board. But as he touched the piece his hand froze. He cocked his head as though listening to something, something Rhiannon could not make out.

The scar on Arthur’s lean face whitened momentarily. Then he looked over at her and smiled. “Enid is free,” he said simply.

“Thank the gods,” Rhiannon breathed.

The torque of emerald and sapphire, of opal and pearl and onyx, glowed around Arthur’s neck in the golden light of the game room. The pieces on the tarbell board glittered and gleamed. Arthur picked up the raven that represented the Dreamer, and moved it forward, placing it in the black square where the Dewin with eyes of pearl had rested. He picked up the Dewin and set it to the side of the board, then looked back at her.

Rhiannon returned his gaze squarely, but she did not really see him. Soon she would be able to leave Cadair Idris, in the dead of the night, to journey to Sycharth. Somewhere in the woods outside the city Gwydion wandered, lost and disoriented, possibly wounded, certainly ill. Her heart ached knowing that he waited for her, weak and bewildered. But she had not been able to leave before tonight, not before Enid’s rescue had been completed.

Gwydion had begged for her to come alone, so there would be no witnesses to his weakness and humiliation. And that was so very like him. So very like the man she loved. For she admitted it and was at last determined to live with that truth. She did love Gwydion ap Awst past all reason, past all logic, past all hope of true happiness. She loved him and she would not leave him to his enemies. Not while she still had breath left in her body.

Arthur’s dark gaze made her wonder if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Without a word, for she feared that if she spoke the shaking in her voice might betray her, she rose from the gaming board. It was time to go to her chambers and change for her journey.

“Rhiannon,” Arthur said softly as she made her way to the door.

She turned her head to look back at him as the door opened.

“Yes, Arthur?”

His dark eyes glittered. “It’s your move.”

Tegeingl
Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru
Bedwen Mis, 500

Merigdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—morning

T
here are strangers in town.”

When Madoc did not answer immediately, General Catha continued. “Find them,” he said to the King of Gwynedd, as one would order a dog to hunt.

Madoc’s cold blue eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to challenge Catha’s tone—or his authority. “What do you mean, there are strangers in town? There are always strangers, here and there.”

Catha sighed to himself. The morning sun that streamed in through the windows of the ystafell burnished his blond hair to a golden sheen, but his light blue eyes were cold and frosty. His proud, handsome face clearly showed the contempt he had for the man who called himself the King of Gwynedd. For Madoc would have been king of nothing without the Coranians behind him. There were times, Catha thought, when it appeared Madoc forgot that. This was perhaps one of those times.

The floor of the audience chamber was polished to an almost deadly sheen and scattered with beautifully woven rugs in blue and brown. Bright banners stitched with silver and sapphires hung on the walls between the windows. On the canopy over the high-backed chair where Madoc sat a hawk, stitched in silver, spread his wings and his sapphire eyes glared. Catha looked back at the hawk balefully. The hawk had no authority here in Gwynedd. The only authority now was the Coranian boar, sign of Catha’s master,Havgan, the Golden Man, the man who was, essentially, Madoc’s master also. For without Havgan, Madoc would be nothing more than a lord in Gwynedd, half-brother of the ruling king.

But King Uthyr was dead, by Catha’s own hand, and Madoc had been set in his place to be the ruler of Gwynedd. And besides, Catha thought to himself, Madoc wasn’t completely useless. He did have a beautiful daughter, a daughter that figured prominently into Catha’s plans. One day soon he would have her, in his bed and bound to him by law. Catha would be the next ruler of Gwynedd, as his reward. In the meantime, he had to suffer Madoc’s foolishness. But this state of affairs would not last forever.

“These strangers presented themselves to the wool works as expert dyers, were taken in and put to work,” Catha said. “They have been here for almost seven days. I want you to determine who and what they really are.”

“What makes you think they aren’t exactly who they say they are?” Madoc asked sourly. Clearly he was put out with Catha this morning. And Catha knew why. For when he snapped his fingers Madoc’s mistress came running, which is exactly what had happened again last night. And Madoc was still smarting over it.

“There is a whiff of something here I do not like. Find out what it is.”

Catha watched Madoc closely as the King of Gwynedd struggled between two courses of action—between pretending he had authority and between knowing that he must do as he was told. One day, Catha thought, Madoc will lose that inner battle and say and do something he should not. On that day Catha would kill him and be done with this nonsense.

But Madoc chose the wiser way, and so lived a little longer. “I will find them myself and question them. What do they look like?”

“They are both old, well past their prime. One of them has a short, gray, beard and dark eyes. The other has hair that is almost all gray, though it was probably something more like your color when he was younger. He has blue eyes and carries himself as though he is the lord of creation.”

Madoc paled a little, and his hand shook slightly as he brought his silver and sapphire cup of ale to his lips. Catha’s brow rose at that. “What, King of Gwynedd, do you think you know these men?”

Madoc mutely shook his head as he drank.

“You are certain you do not know them?”

“I don’t know them,” Madoc said shortly. “And, anyway, it is almost time to go.”

“Go?” Catha asked as though puzzled. Inside, he smiled.

“On the hunt.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” he asked lazily as he put on his leather gloves. “You are not going on the hunt this morning.”

“Not going?” Madoc rose from his ornate chair, his silver goblet still clutched in his hand.

“You begin your investigation this morning. The rest of us will go on the hunt.”

“The rest of us? Including—”

“Including Arday. Your beloved mistress, and mine.” Catha grinned. “Nor will your daughter be spared. Tangwen goes with us this morning.”

“Tangwen is not—”

“Is not what?” Catha asked sharply, cutting into Madoc’s sentence.

“Is—is not—not fond of the hunt.”

“But,” Catha said with a smile, “I am. And I always catch my quarry. Tangwen had best remember that.”

He turned and left the chamber, stepping out into the cool morning. In the courtyard men and dogs and horses wandered in controlled chaos. Arday, the sister of the Lord of Arllechwedd and former Steward to King Uthyr, made her way toward him. Her black hair shone almost blue, like the raven’s wing, in the morning light. Her sensual, dark eyes glittered as she slowly walked up to him. In spite of himself his pulse quickened at the sight of her. He had no love, but he did have passion, and Arday flamed that passion effortlessly. He would never be brought down by his desires, but he acknowledged them and fulfilled them as he wished.

Arday smiled slowly as she bowed gracefully to him. She rose and lightly touched his strong, muscled arm with her fingertips. She wore black riding leathers that emphasized every graceful curve of her rich body.

“My lord,” she said her voice musical and throaty. “Are you ready?”

“For the hunt?” he asked, as he took her hand and lazily kissed her fingers, his tongue teasing each one slowly.

“For the hunt,” she agreed with a throaty laugh. “Where is Madoc?” she purred.

“Staying here.”

“Why does he not hunt with us?” Arday asked with a very slight frown above her silky brows.

“Why, will you miss him?”

“Not I,” she said softly. “Yet I wonder what mischief he might get up to without you here to watch him.”

“He will be about my business. There are two strangers in town—two old men, dyers down at the wool works. I have told him to find out who they are.”

“Ah,” Arday said. “And he will no doubt obey.”

“No doubt.” Catha was momentarily distracted from Arday as he saw Tangwen feeding her horse an apple. The golden mare lipped the treat off of Tangwen’s delicate palm. The princess was dressed in riding leathers of brown and sapphires glittered in her reddish-gold hair. Arday followed his gaze.

“Do you really think she is the woman for you, General?” Arday asked with a sardonic smile on her face.

Catha grasped Arday’s wrist and squeezed. He knew it hurt her, but Arday did not cry out, though a sweat broke out on her brow and her dark eyes widened in pain. “Do not even think to criticize me, Arday,” he said softly. He let go her wrist where the bruises of his fingers were already beginning to darken on her white skin. The sight of those bruises excited him and he licked his lips in anticipation.

Arday, gently cradling her wrist smiled again. Her eyes flickered with something that Catha could not fully identify. It might have been contempt. It might have been a dark knowledge. It might have been something else entirely. He did identify it, much later, but by then it was far too late.

T
ANGWEN UR MADOC
bent her eyes to her horse’s golden mane, so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge that Catha’s eyes were on her. The forest of Coed Dulas was dark and silent even in the bright morning. Sunlight managed to pierce the dense branches and pool on the forest floor, illuminating piles of dead leaves and scrawny underbrush. Far ahead dogs coursed along, baying and barking, calling to each other, scenting for prey. She was surrounded by people—Coranian warriors in bright byrnies of woven metal and holding short spears, Kymric huntsmen in muted green and brown, officers of her father’s court in soft riding leathers—but, as always, she felt so alone behind her wall of dishonor.

Shame covered her like a mantle, a shame she never got used to enough to ignore. For her father had no business calling himself the King of Gwynedd. The true ruler of Gwynedd was Morrigan ur Uthyr var Ygraine, her dear, bright, generous friend and cousin. For Tangwen, having both won and lost the battle of conflicting loves in her heart, had thrown in her lot with her cousin, abandoning her father to his fate. He didn’t know it yet, of course. Very few did—those in Tegeingl who secretly did the bidding of the Cerddorian, Morrigan herself, and, of course, the man who claimed her heart, Bedwyr, Morrigan’s lieutenant.

She smiled to herself at the thought of Bedwyr, his fearless brown eyes and the love she thought she sometimes saw there. She did not see him often, for things were far too dangerous for that. But, sometimes, as she went to the marketplace to pass on the information that she learned in her father’s fortress, she caught a glimpse of him, standing at one of the stalls or hawking wares of his own. Sometimes she was able to speak to him directly and at those times her heart leapt in her breast, though she would only speak her message. Sometimes she had to content herself with a mere glimpse, a smile, a look. Sometimes she did not even see him for days on end. But she always knew that he was alive, for she would know it in her heart if he were dead, though no words of love had ever been spoken between them. She was too conscious of her father, of who she was and of what she was doing to risk telling Bedwyr the state of her heart. But she thought he must know it. And hoped with all her soul that he might feel the same way. If not now, then some day.

She sensed someone else’s eyes on her and looked up to find Arday riding beside her. Her father’s mistress smiled at Tangwen, though the smile did not seem to reach the dark eyes. As always, Tangwen found herself confused and uncertain with Arday. For she was convinced that things were not all that they seemed with her father’s—and Catha’s—mistress. But she did not know what to make of the things she thought she saw. Sometimes she thought Arday took up Catha’s attention to deflect it from Tangwen. And sometimes she thought Arday was simply what she seemed—a greedy, sensual, amoral—and clever, woman.

“Princess,” Arday said equably. All around them the hunt cantered, people laughing and talking. Up ahead Catha had turned away to say something to one of his officers. The insistent sound of the barking dogs cut across the bright morning.

Tangwen inclined her head but did not answer. She bent her head and fingered the bright jewels in her horses’ reins.

“There are two old men, two strangers in Tegeingl. At the wool works,” Arday murmured.

Tangwen’s head came up swiftly, but she did not turn to Arday, afraid that the older woman would see the truth in her eyes. “And what is that to me?” she asked, feigning puzzlement. For she did know that, indeed, two strangers, sent by High King Arthur, had arrived in Tegeingl. But she did not know who they were. Nor what their mission was.

“I am certain that you would not wish anything to happen to them. And it will, unless you act fast.”

“Again, I do not know—”

“Yes you do,” Arday said swiftly, quietly. “And it will be up to you to ensure they live long enough to do what they came here to do.”

“I tell you—”

“Catha knows that they are here. He does not know who they are, but he is suspicious. He has set your father to discovering these men. Whether or not your father suspects who they really are, I do not know.”

“Who they really are?” Tangwen asked softly, turning slightly in the saddle to face Arday.

“Do you not know?” Arday asked, studying Tangwen’s face. Whatever she saw there made her smile. “One of them is Myrrdin ap Morvryn, the former Ardewin of Kymru.”

“And the other?” Tangwen asked, her heart in her throat, although she could not have said why.

“Ah. The other is Rhodri ap Erddufyl, your grandfather. But I do not think that Madoc will be pleased to see his da.”

“Who are you?” Tangwen breathed. “Who are you really?”

“Arday ur Medyr, onetime servant to King Uthyr. Which was always enough for me.”

Arday turned her horse and rode off up the line. She reached Catha’s side and smiled wickedly at him, resting her hand for a moment on his thigh.

Tangwen turned away, her head in a whirl. Arday’s motives were still murky to her. But her information might be true. True or not, she would not take the risk of doing nothing. She would send word to the Cerddorian that the two men High King Arthur had sent were in danger. She would keep her eyes and ears open and hope to hear more.

And she would, if Arday’s information was true, perhaps come face to face with her grandfather, the man many had thought dead long ago. It might be that he had come to Tegeingl to help her lift the shame from her family.

If so, she would be ready.

Meirwydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—twilight

M
ADOC AP RHODRI
crouched in the lengthening shadows cast by the open gates of the wool works just outside the city walls. Four Coranian warriors huddled silently beside him, their spears held tight in their competent hands. In twos and threes the Kymri of Tegeingl left the wool works for the evening, going home to their snug houses within the city walls. Torches glittered in their hands as they made their way home, easily passing Madoc and his hidden warriors by, laughing and talking as though they did not have a care in the world.

It had been three days since Madoc had been set to finding the two old men Catha had told him about. Madoc had not for one moment expected it to take so long. But, somehow, he had kept just missing his chances to catch up with the two men. Every time he had come to the wool works they were not there. They had either just left, or were to arrive momentarily. No one knew where the two old men lived. Some thought they had set up camp in the forest. Some thought they were staying just the other side of the river. Some were sure that they were staying with this man or that one, but no one could quite agree on exactly with whom.

Those times he had chosen to wait for them to come to work had been fruitless. The Kymri around him had gone calmly about their business as he and his guards waited inside the wool works walls. His folk had bowed to him when they passed. They had not smiled or been anything but respectful. But Madoc knew that they were laughing at him. His people had always laughed at him. He had imagined that this would stop when he became their king but it had not.