The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (9 page)

“But the door is standing wide open.” Thorne pointed to the small stone chimney on the roof of the old house. “And that fire has been cold almost as long as the horse shit.”

Rhys paused to examine another niggling tingle. “The magic lingers.”

“Good.” Thorne grinned. “That’s the remnants of spellwork you’re feeling. Take a look inside. See if they’ve really gone for good.”

Rhys dismounted and peered through the doorway into the one-room dwelling. “There’s nothing here but a wooden cot and a table. No provisions, no bedding, no belongings of any kind.”

“Three horses.” Thorne spoke as though the thought had just occurred. And then his expression soured. “Who is she travelling with?”

Rhys hesitated, suddenly realizing he’d never mentioned the escort. “A Guardian of the Realms is always accompanied by at least one member of the Crwn Cawr Protectorate.”

“I should have remembered that.” Thorne was obviously annoyed. “But
you
should have told me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Rhys was concerned. He did not want to test the newly forged trust between them. “Finn
MacDonagh
and his son, Pedr.”

“The damned blood oath.” Thorne blew a huff of frustration. “They will die defending her.”

Rhys felt sick. He had not done as good a job assessing the risks and consequences as he’d thought. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

Thorne shook his head at Rhys, as disappointed as he was distressed. “And I hope there isn’t anything else you’ve failed to mention.”

A shard of white lightning fractured the clouded sky. No more than a breath later, thunder exploded, shaking the ground beneath them. Rhys was half afraid he’d evoked a dark omen with his overconfidence, and swore to himself he’d not make the same mistake twice.

Thorne stared at him, hard, and Rhys held the gaze despite the urge to turn away. He intended that Thorne should see his regret, if not some better evidence of his merit. Words, at this moment, were meaningless.

Again lightning cut across the heavens, and Thorne broke the stalemate with a blink and a duck of his head. “Rain,” he muttered.

“We might as well make use of the shelter.” Thorne swung out of his saddle and handed his reins to Rhys, leveling another pointed but less glaring look as he planted himself on the ground and stood eye to eye. “Perhaps the storm will give us time to become more accustomed to one another.”

E
IGHT

G
lain paced at the open end of the west annex corridor. It was too early to call upon anyone, especially the king, but the dream that had invaded her sleep the night before had forced her awake. Its meaning was unmistakable, and the urgency embedded within the imagery would not be suppressed. She had to tell Hywel.

Or so her first impulse had said. It wasn’t that the king had requested it so much as it was that she was certain the message was intended for him. Alwen would not agree. She would want the opportunity to judge the dream for herself and then decide what to tell Hywel, if anything. Glain had seen it before. It was how Alwen leveraged what little influence she had been able to exert over him thus far. If Madoc were here, Glain would never have hesitated. She would have gone to him first, and Madoc would have delivered the message to Hywel exactly as Glain had perceived it. He had always trusted her to know her own dreams. But Alwen was not Madoc, and Glain was conflicted.

And so she paced, waiting for the sun to breach the horizon and for her conscience to decide what she should do. That she was undecided at all was as troubling as the conundrum itself. She owed Alwen the first debt, as both a Steward and as her second, and because Alwen was deserving of the title Madoc had given her. Glain had no doubt as to whom she was duty bound. So why was she even entertaining Hywel’s request?

Because she did doubt. Not whether Alwen should rule the Stewardry, but whether she should rule Hywel. Glain was startled by the thought, but she could not deny it was the truth. At first she had seen Hywel as Alwen had—impulsive and headstrong and in need of guidance. But the man who had presented himself to her these last days was tempered, worldly and wise in ways, she thought, perhaps Alwen was not. He was the king of the
prophecy
—the king the Ancients had foretold would one day rule them all.

And so it was that Glain found herself at Hywel’s door, well before cock’s crow, realizing that the decision was already made. She would tell Hywel first, and then Alwen, honoring her duty to them both as best she could and with as little transgression as possible.

She presented herself to the guard. “I have business with the king.”

The sentry knocked on the door without questioning her, which made Glain feel both entitled and abashed. There was more than one type of business a young woman might have with the king at such an hour.

The click of the door latch startled her, and Glain retreated a step as one half of the double door was pulled in. Hywel greeted her with a sleepy scowl, wearing only a silk undershirt and breeches. This was a second startle, on another account altogether.

His scowl quickly relaxed into bright-eyed curiosity. “And what brings you here so early?”

“I’ve had a vision.” Glain sounded more eager than she intended, but the dream was so vivid, she could not contain it.

Hywel stepped back and waved her in. “And so you’ve brought it to me?”

Glain ignored a pang of regret. “Yes, Sire. Just as you asked. Besides, I believe the message was meant for you.”

Hywel eased the door closed, manipulating the latch so that it re-engaged silently. He then took a touchwood to poke life back into the fire and light an oil lamp, which he placed on a candle stand between the divan and the armchair.

“Alright then.” Hywel seated himself on the divan, folded forward with elbows propped on his splayed thighs and his chin resting on the thumbs of his clasped hands, staring expectantly at her. “Tell me.”

His words were more command than inquiry, and Glain was reminded that favor or not, she was not his equal. Even in his undergarments Hywel could never be mistaken for anything but the powerful ruler that he was. Glain was suddenly as terrified as she was thrilled, and tried not to look at Hywel directly for fear her courage would falter.

“A regal stag preens atop a hill, master and defender of all he surveys. Hidden by the mist below, a pack of black wolves is creeping toward him, encircling his stand. They move silently until they are close enough to strike, and then the wolves let loose a mighty howl. The stag is surprised by the attack, and yet he fights valiantly until his strength begins to fail. The pack is too much for him alone. The wolves tear at his flesh with fang and claw until he is dragged down, to kneel upon his forelegs. The end has come, and just as the stag accepts his fate, another buck appears at his side. The wolves retreat, and the first stag is heartened by the unexpected alliance.”

Hywel’s haunted stare never moved from her face, and he never once interrupted. Glain wondered if he even breathed. She had his full attention as she spoke, which was almost as intimidating as the loose drawstring that allowed the fabric folds at his groin to gap. Given his posture, it was difficult to keep her eyes from focusing where they should not.

“But then the second stag turns on the first, and the battle begins anew, antlers clashing and hooves flailing. Were he not so weakened by the wolves, the first stag would have easily bested the second, but weary and wounded, the best he can do is to hold his ground. The wounds the bucks inflict upon each other are deep, and the blood runs, thick and red, until it becomes a great flood drowning the land. And still they fight.”

Glain took a steadying breath and engaged Hywel’s gaze. “That’s where the dream ends.”

Hywel was silent a long while, holding her captive in that searching gaze that should have completely unraveled her nerves. A proper girl would have made an effort to withdraw from it, but for some reason Glain felt emboldened. His searing scrutiny, however, made her uncomfortably warm and caused her heart to run rampant. Anticipation dampened her palms and the back of her neck, and mortifyingly, the private places beneath her skirts. Why did he stare so? How she wished he would speak. How she wished he were properly dressed.

“And what does this dream mean to you?” Hywel sat back and folded his arms across his chest without breaking his stare, or shifting the position of his legs. “What does it have to do with me?”

That he did not immediately understand the symbolism so surprised her that she forgot everything except the message she had come to deliver. Glain plopped herself on the armchair adjacent to the divan. “Don’t you see? You are the stag, the first stag. The wolves are Machreth, or perhaps your enemies joining forces against you, and the second stag—well, of course,
that
is Clydog.”

Hywel’s frown signaled sobered thoughts. “So this is a
foreshadowing
of betrayal.”

“Yes, but only in part.” Glain was impatient to help him see, and her earnestness brought her to the very edge of her seat. “It is also a warning about the consequences of vengeance and the cost of rivalry.”

He abruptly pulled himself back to his previous perch, knee to knee with Glain and tensed by sudden realization. “The blood flooding the land.”

“Yes!” Glain was pleased that he had gleaned the most valuable part on his own. “As long as it lasts, your feud with Clydog will cost you everything you gain, maybe even more.”

Hywel’s eyes glinted and narrowed. “Then the sooner I end him, the better for us all.”

“No, Sire.” Glain was taken aback. She had misjudged his thoughts and now attempted to counsel him toward a more benevolent solution. “There will be bloodshed and loss and betrayal. This will all come to pass. I would venture a guess that some of it has already. And there will be more. It cannot be avoided. But
I
believe the true meaning of the dream is that in the end, the lasting peace and unified nation you envision is only possible once you’ve made peace with Clydog.”

Hywel’s frown soured, as though he had been force-fed a bucket of maggots. For a moment Glain worried she had
overstepped
her privilege, and wondered what might be the price of his displeasure. Outside the dream, Hywel was far more bear than stag.

Finally, his expression softened to a look that bespoke a more measured line of thought. “You are suggesting an alliance.”

He said it as though the idea were worthy, albeit distasteful, but Glain was gratified that he had heard her.

“It is only one of many destinies, of course,” she admitted, “but yes. United, the sons of Cadell would create a dynasty so strong, few would dare to challenge you, and certainly none would
succeed
. It may well be that Clydog cannot be redeemed, and perhaps he is meant to come to a bitter end after all. But if such an alliance were possible, would it not be worth
considering
?”

Again, his gaze was searching, as if he believed she had the answers he needed. As if he trusted her wisdom. Not until that thought did Glain realize how near she was to violating Madoc’s prohibition against intervening in the fates, nor did she realize she had hold of Hywel’s knee until he covered her hand with his.

Glain was reminded of how harshly she had judged Ariane. Now she understood how easy it was to fall prey to his
magnetism
, how intoxicating his attentions were. Already she had risked too much to please him, and to her disgrace, she thought herself quite likely to risk far more.

“Thank you, Glain.” With her hand still in his, Hywel stood and bade her rise as well. He was so close to her that her nose nearly touched the hollow at the base of his throat. “I am grateful for your confidence. You’ve given me a great deal to
contemplate
.”

And then Hywel was at the door, dismissing her with just a hint of a smile. “I remain in your debt.”

Finally, humility and modesty and some small measure of good sense returned to her. Glain gave a polite nod and escaped before another embarrassing thought could arise. But no sooner had she left his room than she wished herself back. It was like stepping out of the heat of the sun into cold shadow.

“Oh great Gods.” Ynyr confronted her in the hall just outside Hywel’s door. “What were you
doing
in there?”

“Hush, Ynyr.” She was mortified, and yet strangely thrilled. “Keep your voice low. I had honest business with the king.”

Glain turned to make a quick escape, but Ynyr blocked her path. “What business could you possibly have with Hywel, honest or otherwise? Did he summon you? Did Alwen send you?”

And then, because she felt guilty and trapped, without an answer that she could possibly justify to him, Glain employed the only defense she had left. “I am Proctor of the Stewardry, Ynyr. Bear that in mind before you question me.”

“I meant no offense, Glain.” Ynyr looked like he’d been slapped. “It’s only that I…it’s just that you…”

“I’m sorry, Ynyr. There are some things I cannot explain, not even to you.” Glain tried to make light of it, but she was not proud of her behavior. “Bring the others and meet me in the scriptorium after the morning meal. We’ll start a fresh search for the scrolls.”

Glain lingered while Ariane finished primping in front of the mirror on her dressing table, tempted to unburden herself. Her meeting with Alwen had been awkward and tense. Glain felt out of sorts and a little adrift, and without Rhys she felt profoundly alone. Ariane was a good friend, but there were only so many troubles Glain could confess without disclosing more than she should. Besides, Ariane was a little too simple and
unsophisticated
to
offer
any true wisdom. Ynyr was the better choice, but his counsel would come wrapped in reproach. Just now Glain wanted a more sympathetic ear.

“You’re up very early,” Ariane noticed. An innocent observation that Glain knew was actually an invitation to gossip—one of Ariane’s favorite pastimes, much to Glain’s dismay. “What duty was so important that it got you out of bed before dawn? No more demons, I hope.”

“I had business with the king.” She could admit this much. “And then with Alwen.”

“What business could you have with Hywel?” Ariane’s first reaction was defensive, and then concern that bordered on distress overtook her. “Not
personal
business.”

“Of course not.” Glain knew right away what Ariane was suggesting, and was almost annoyed enough to call her out. “I was honoring a request, one I ought to have refused.”

“That doesn’t sound like you—not at all.” Ariane stopped fussing with her hair and turned to face Glain, fully rapt and
trying
a bit too hard to mask her curiosity with concerned interest. “What did he ask?”

As soon as she said it, Glain realized she had fed Ariane’s
slightly perverse fascination with other people’s missteps. “It
doesn’t matter, really, except that I went first to Hywel with
something
and then to Alwen.”

Ariane’s frown unfolded into wide-eyed surprise. “What did Alwen say?”

“Very little,” Glain explained. “But it was clear she was not particularly pleased.”

“You mustn’t be so hard on yourself. Hywel is a man who gets what he wants. It does not surprise me that you could not resist, whatever it is he has asked of you.” Ariane’s earnest expression shifted to a look of knowing and an illicit sort of smile that made Glain uncomfortable. “I certainly can’t.”