The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (11 page)

“Madoc told me the story once, as a cautionary tale. In a cloistered society, certain risks are inherent.” Glain quoted his words almost verbatim. “
‘Inbreeding,’ he said, ‘is inevitable.’
”

“Hmm.” Alwen resumed her study of the document. “It seems Madoc’s nephew begat three children by a sorceress of the Eniad clan named Brigid, but it appears the eldest two, both boys, did not survive infancy.”

Her expression skewed to puzzlement. “The birth of this third child is recorded by date,” she sighed, “but not by gender or by name.”

“And even stranger,” Alwen glanced at Glain again, “two days later both Alric and his father died. At each other’s hands, it says here. Another family scandal?”

Glain knew only what Madoc had told her. “A duel to the death between father and son over a debt of honor so immense it cost both their lives. Madoc did not say what the debt was, but it saddened him deeply to speak of it. I always thought it must have had something to do with Saoirse.”

“These writings show that Saoirse abandoned the Stewardry later that same year, along with a handful of devotees, but there is no mention of why. She was a respected elder. I recall Saoirse’s name spoken with great reverence by the docents during my early years here. Losing her must have been difficult for Madoc.” Alwen frowned. “But I never knew any Brigid, and I don’t believe she was ever in residence here. Her name appears in the Eniad family lineage, but not in the Stewardry membership rolls.”

Alwen looked at her pointedly. “Did Madoc never say what became of her, or of Alric’s child?”

Glain had expected this question, but that did not make it easier to answer. “No, Sovereign. He did not.”

“He never mentioned a name?”

“Never.” In the strictest sense, Glain was telling the truth. Madoc had never mentioned the name given to his nephew’s child at birth. Glain did know where it could be found, but so did Alwen.

Alwen rolled the vellum sheet into a tight curl, appearing to struggle a little with the practiced serenity that was her signature trait. This constant calm was the temperament with which she greeted everything, but for the first time Glain saw ripples of disquiet beneath the carefully composed façade.

“This is disappointing.” Alwen tapped the scroll with her fingertips, her eyes focused on some invisible point, speaking to no one in particular. “We need Madoc’s last testament. Apparently it is the only hope of ever finding his heir.”

Unsure whether a response was expected or even wanted, Glain remained silent. Alwen appeared to be searching, somewhere within or beyond herself, for an answer that refused to be found. Glain was hopeful now that the first scroll had been found, and the traitor.

“Now.” Suddenly, Alwen returned to the moment at hand. “You are wondering what I will do with Nerys.”

“She is waiting in the hall, under guard.” Glain was puzzled by Alwen’s comment, which was more an observation than a query. “I assumed you would question her. If she has the one scroll, it stands to reason she has the other.”

“So it would appear,” Alwen said, straightening even more in her seat. “But I have my doubts. Don’t you?”

“I don’t understand.” Glain was now befuddled. “The scroll was found in her possession.”

“In her room,” Alwen corrected, “not on her person. The two are not the same.”

“Are you suggesting that Nerys is
not
the traitor?” Glain did not accept this theory. “That she is but a dupe for the one who is?”

Alwen’s widened eyes and the tilt to her chin seemed to say exactly that. “I suggest the possibility, yes. Nerys has the support of many of her peers, including Ynyr. And I have neither seen nor heard anything to give me cause for concern, aside from your suspicions.”

Glain bristled. “Is that not enough?”

Surprise widened Alwen’s eyes further still. “It would be, if those suspicions were founded on something other than rumor and her petty rivalry with a sister acolyte who has your favor. I trust you take my point.”

“I do.” Glain could not deny the favoritism, but she could still protest. “But it is more than that. My own intuition tells me Nerys has been hiding something all along.”

“Hmm,” Alwen smiled. “We all have secrets, Glain. They are not in and of themselves a sinister thing. Nor is the keeping of them grounds to charge treason, at least not without a better understanding of what has been concealed, and why.”

Glain felt as though she had been caught in a lie. Was Alwen still speaking of Nerys or of her?

“I will speak to Nerys alone. I believe she will open her mind to me freely, but one way or another I will have the truth as she knows it,” Alwen said. “And then I will decide what is to be done. I will expect your support, Glain, even if you do not agree.”

“Of course,” Glain promised, though she had no doubt that her suspicions would be proved. “I have nothing but respect for your wisdom, Sovereign.”

Alwen looked at her for a long time through narrowed, discerning eyes. For a moment, Glain wished she were not immune to Alwen’s probing. Perhaps the best thing for them all would be for Alwen to see Glain’s truth.

Alwen closed her eyes and released a long, slow breath, as though she had resigned herself to an unavoidable conclusion. “Send me Nerys.”

T
EN

T
he entire hearing, in Glain’s opinion, had been a travesty. The interrogation had amounted to little more than a few pointed questions, for which Nerys had no defense but denial. Finally real evidence of betrayal had been found, and Alwen had all but forgiven it. She had taken the accused’s claims of innocence seriously and taken the entire matter under advisement. Alwen had then deferred formal judgment and confined Nerys to her quarters until further notice.

Glain had wanted to argue for a proper inquiry, but she had promised Alwen her support. Which she would give, at least publicly, but it had been difficult to contain how appalled she felt. And so, Glain had silently steeped in her resentment until the hearing was over, and she was finally free to seek refuge in solitude.

The scriptorium was a common gathering place for study and quiet conversation, especially after the evening meal. At this late hour, however, Glain could generally expect to study or
contemplate
alone. She waited for the apprentice to tend to the room, lighting the lamps and stoking a last blaze in the hearth, before settling herself in one of the overstuffed chairs in the
sitting
area to stare at the fire, and sulk. She had called for ginger and spice tea, but what she really wanted was a strong, properly aged claret.

“Is it really so awful?”

Glain winced at the sound of Ynyr’s voice and purposely kept her eyes trained on the hearth. “I was expecting the attendant with my tea.”

“I intercepted him in the hall.” He set the small pewter serving tray on the candle stand nearest her chair and handed her the steaming cup. “It gave me an excuse to intrude on your gloom.”

She accepted the cup but refused to acknowledge him, hoping Ynyr would reconsider and leave. He did not. Glain fought the urge to order him out of the room. Ynyr deserved better from her, and she sensed his concern. But if he forced her to speak on the issue of Nerys at this very moment, she was not at all sure she could be kind. “At your own risk then, Ynyr. Consider yourself warned.”

Ynyr hovered behind her in the half-shadow cast by the firelight against the book stacks and shelving on the near wall. “You think Alwen’s judgment was too lenient.”

Glain sighed aloud, exaggerating the huff to declare her aggravation. “What does it matter what I think? Alwen has said that Nerys deserves the benefit of the doubt, and so it shall be.”

“Yes.” Ynyr took to nervous pacing. “But what do
you
say?”

“It is not my place to
have
a say.” Glain’s indignation
underscored
her tone, despite her intention to temper it. “Alwen is
Sovereign
, not I.”

“And not Madoc.” There was compassion in his voice that Glain felt she did not deserve. “What would he have done?”

“He would not have shown Nerys every little kindness and treated her as though
she
were wronged, I tell you that. Not with only her word against the evidence,” Glain blustered. “Treason is a high crime. The punishment is death.”

“I admit the evidence is damning, but even you must see that there are more questions than answers. Nerys has not been convicted, but neither has she been acquitted. Isn’t it enough that she is confined and under guard?”

“Confined,” Glain scoffed, “in the comfort of her own rooms.”

Now Ynyr sighed, but his exaggerated huff was one of exasperation. “Where would you have her, in the dungeon? I wonder if Madoc would have been so harsh.”

“He might well have set down the same sentence, at least until the whole truth is found out. But he would have respected the concerns of his advisors rather than dismissing them out of hand.” Glain realized she had found the true root of her discontent. “And he would have called for a formal inquiry before
witnesses
and a jury of her peers, as the canons dictate.”

“You are right.” Ynyr finally emerged from the shadows and plopped himself into an adjacent chair. “Madoc certainly had a more democratic bent.”

Glain took his subtle reference as she knew it was intended. It was difficult to accept Alwen’s more solitary and interpretive approach to authority. Madoc had made it a practice to invite th
e co
unsel of others, Glain’s in particular, but in general he t
ook t
he opinions of others into consideration on matters that affected the entire Order. And he strictly adhered to the rules of order that governed the Stewardry.

“We all miss him, Glain,” he said. “But I know it is hardest for you.”

“She has never asked me what you just did.” Glain was too close to tears and swallowed a gulp of the tea, hoping the ginger vapors would help. “Not once has she ever asked me what Madoc would do.”

Ynyr attempted to placate her. “It may be that Alwen believes she already knows.”

“How could she know?” Glain argued. “She lived half her life outside the Fane, away from his company. She tells me every day that she still cannot find his voice in her dreams. Her only connection to him is through me.”

Ynyr’s smile was born of empathy. “No one knew him better than you, and Alwen would do well to seek your insight. Not to speak ill of her, as I confess I am glad for the mercy she has shown Nerys, but Alwen does seem reluctant to take a hard line.”

“I often wonder if she ever will,” Glain said. “Perhaps when there is no other choice. I tend to think that times of unrest require a stronger hand, not a softer one. But as I said,”—she forced a smile over the rim of her cup—“
Alwen
is Sovereign.”

The rain had let up by morning, but the clouds clung to the sky, gray and bloated and soon to start seeping again. Thorne had slept well for the first time in weeks, partly because of the shelter of the old hut and partly because of the company. He had forgotten what a relief it was to share the watch.

Rhys was eager to please after his carelessness the day before and had offered to find food. As it happened, he was particularly skilled with an unusual looking shepherd’s sling, fashioned from exotic leather. There had been rabbit meat on the spit for supper and entrails soup for breakfast—a veritable feast that had gone a long way toward easing Thorne’s misgivings. Today was a new day.

Maelgwn had reappeared during the night and was waiting with the horses in the small lean-to that the last residents had erected as a makeshift stable. Rhys had already loaded the saddle sacks and was now contemplating the warghound. Thorne watched with amusement as Rhys screwed up the courage to approach the animal. It seemed important to him to have
Maelgwn’s
respect.

“Do not bend to him as you would a dog,” Thorne advised. “You put yourself at risk of losing your nose or an eye. And for Gods’ sake, do not just stretch out your hand. Stand close, but stay still and let him decide.”

Rhys did as he was told, waiting for Maelgwn to respond. Thorne wasn’t sure what to expect. Aside from him, the only per
son in this world Maelgwn had truly taken to was Martin
Trev
anion
. It was Martin who had found the warghound pup in the first place and offered him to Thorne to raise. The memory pained him. Everything Thorne valued Martin had given him.

Maelgwn appeared disinterested at first, but Rhys was patient. After a minute or two of completely ignoring the man, Maelgwn began a lazy circle around Rhys while pretending not to notice him. The only sign of the warghound’s interest was the slight
flare a
nd flutter of his nostrils. The second pass was closer than the first, and Thorne found himself feeling a little anxious. Even he could not always predict Maelgwn’s decisions, and he wasn’t absolutely certain the move was not predatory.

Rhys never so much as flinched. He remained calm as Maelgwn prowled around him, which Thorne thought incredibly brave. Maelgwn’s size alone was intimidating—his head was nearly level with the messenger boy’s chest. If the warghound should strike, Rhys would be dead before he realized he’d been attacked.

Maelgwn finished his second circle and came to a standing stop facing Rhys. Thorne’s throat tightened, trapping his breath in his lungs. He wasn’t sure that Rhys knew better than to stare the warghound down, but he didn’t dare speak up for fear of startling either of them into motion.

Then Rhys made an unexpected gesture that gave Thorne a good fright. He knelt on one knee, as he had seen Thorne do the day before, and extended his hand. Rhys placed something wrapped in cloth on the ground and then laid back the folds to reveal its contents. He’d brought an offering—a second rabbit carcass, salvaged from his kill.

It was a good gambit, though Thorne thought Rhys lucky Maelgwn hadn’t decided to take it from him rather than wait for it to be given. The warghound would have smelled the meat on Rhys long before the approach had begun. It was a good sign, though, and Thorne began to breathe again.

Maelgwn barely hesitated before snatching up the rabbit. He swallowed it whole, but without taking his eyes from Rhys, which gave Thorne pause. To his credit, Rhys had not assumed that he’d passed muster and held his position. Then, at last, Maelgwn sat.

Thorne let out a sigh of relief. “You can pet him now, if you like.”

Rhys was tentative, but he took the opportunity to touch the beast. Maelgwn’s fur was softer than it looked, and the
warghound
loved a good scratch. When Rhys went to rub between his ears, Maelgwn tilted his head so that his jowl was exposed and Rhys obliged. “The gray wolf is the sigil of my father’s tribe and an
honored
spirit among his people.”

“Maelgwn is part warg, a Norse wolf,” Thorne said. “Perhaps he senses a kinship.”

“Perhaps,” Rhys grinned. “But I think it was the meat.”

Thorne laughed. “Well, whatever it was, you should know he doesn’t generally take to people.” A change in the air tamped his humor. The hairs on his arm stood on end, and the back of his neck burned. Mage sign. “Someone approaches.”

“From the east,” Rhys said as Maelgwn’s ears flattened. “He hears it too.”

“They are close.” Thorne lunged for his saddle sack to retrieve his septacle and a length of mage tether, thoroughly annoyed that he had not sensed the danger sooner. “There isn’t much time.”

“What do you want me to do?” Rhys stood with his hand poised above the hilt of this sword.

“Tell me again who we’re facing.” Thorne held the coil of mage tether in his teeth while he looped the chain anchored to the seven-chambered silver septacle around his right wrist so that he could cradle it in his palm.

“If it is Cerrigwen, we’ll have her to deal with and then the two soldiers of the Crwn Cawr, the father and son who are her protectorate.” Rhys was staring at the septacle. “What
is
that?”

Thorne tucked the coiled tether into the top of his belt, where it could be easily reached when he needed it. “A tool of the trade.”

“Yes, but what does it do?”

Thorne watched Maelgwn as he edged around the clearing, looking for a place in the trees to hide himself. “The septacle is a spell catcher. It captures the burst of magical energy that drives a hex or an incantation.”

“A protective device?”

“When it works.” Thorne made his stand in the open. “Prepare yourself.”

“I am known to them. Perhaps I can encourage a surrender.”

“Not likely, once they see me, though you’re welcome to try.” Thorne had come to a resolution he hoped he wouldn’t regret.
“I ai
m to take Cerrigwen alive, Rhys, but if it comes to a fight, I will strike to kill. And so should you.”

Both men fell silent, waiting for first sight of the riders closing in on the clearing. Odds were best that it was Cerrigwen and her escort returning to their shelter, but Thorne was prepared for anything. The White Woods were the first and last stronghold of the magical realms, the birthplace of the Ancients, and the final refuge of the mystics and the mageborn. All manner of enchanted beings still made these woods their home, some more deadly than others.

Like all the Ruagaire, Thorne knew this forest well. During the dark era, when the Brotherhood had unwisely turned from their once noble path, they were charged by the Christian
bishops
with ridding the White Woods of the witches and wizards who defended the old religions and sought sanctuary here. To this day every Ruagaire apprentice was required to survive the rite of Twelve Nights and find his way out of the forest alive before receiving his ring.

Thorne alerted to the scuff of hooves thrashing through the duff. The riders made no attempt to conceal their approach. Either they were unaware of the danger, or they had no fear of it. Thorne expected the latter. The back of his neck burned, and a road-ragged sorceress astride a silver mare emerged from the trees.

Despite the dust streaking her face and the nettles matting her long, unraveled locks, she would never be mistaken for ordinary. Her mage sign was stronger than any Thorne had previously encountered. This was not just any sorceress of the Stewardry. She wore the indigo robe, marking her rank at docent or better, and at the base of her throat hung the moss agate—the legendary keystone to the natural realm. This could only be Cerrigwen.