May Earth Rise (15 page)

Before anyone could even speak, Lludd and the other young man rushed the two Coranians by the door and the guards went down in a welter of blood. Angharad leapt across the room and spitted Guthlac with a short spear. The red-haired woman smiled as she twisted the spear in the Master-wyrce-jaga’s vitals. Guthlac choked and spat blood, all the while looking at Angharad with shocked eyes as he sank to the ground.

From across the room a heavy platter flew, cracking open the heads of the stunned wyrce-jagas as they struggled to rise. They fell back, dead, as the female Druid smiled in satisfaction.

The young man with the reddish-gold hair whirled around and caught Iago round the neck, whipping his dagger up to press the blade against the Druid’s throat. And Angharad flew at Talorcan, her sword drawn.

“No!” Elen screamed as one with Regan. With an almost impossible midair twist Angharad sprang back from Talorcan and whirled to face Elen, her eyes shocked.

“What do you mean, no?” Angharad demanded. “He’s a Coranian! More than that, he’s the Coranian that killed your mother!”

“I know who he is,” Elen cried. “And I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Elen,” Angharad said, her lips twitching.

Before Elen could answer she found herself enveloped in a warm hug.

“Elen,” her brother whispered as he held her close. “Elen.”

“Lludd,” she whispered back as tears streamed down her face. “I knew you’d come some day. I should have known you would be just in time.”

Lludd lifted her tear-stained face and kissed her brow. “So you should have,” he said with a grin.

“You’ve grown, little brother,” she said with a grin of her own.

Ludd nodded to the female Druid. “This is Ceindrech ur Elwystl. She was sent here by High King Arthur to free you.”

The Druid inclined her head to Elen, her eyes proud.

Lludd went on, gesturing to the young man who held a dagger to Iago’s throat. “You remember Prince Rhiwallon of Rheged.”

“Why, Rhiwallon,” Elen exclaimed. “I didn’t recognize you, it’s been so long.”

Rhiwallon grinned and sketched a salute, all the while holding Iago by the throat. His blue eyes lit as he looked at her. “Well met, cousin,” he said cheerfully.

Something about Rhiwallon’s smile fascinated Elen, making her heart beat faster. She opened her mouth to reply, but Angharad forestalled her.

“And why, my Queen,” her captain asked with a gesture of her dagger at Talorcan, “are we not allowed to kill this one?”

“Because he is an honorable man,” Elen said. “He is a good man, and does not deserve to die at our hands.”

“Then at whose?” Angharad retorted.

Regan took one of Talorcan’s hands in hers and faced the others. “This is the man I love,” the Dewin said, her voice proud and strong. “I will have him and no other.”

Lludd came to stand in front of the General, his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed dagger. Lludd’s brown eyes were calm as he spoke. “General Talorcan, you killed my mother in front of the walls of Dinmael.”

Talorcan nodded. “I did. For that was my duty.”

“And your duty now?”

Talorcan bowed his head. “My duty is to call for my men. But I cannot.”

“No, I did not think you could. For we know of you, General Talorcan. The Kymri know that but for you my sister would perhaps have already been dead. We know that her Dewin certainly would be. We know that many of the people of Dinmael would have met their deaths by now. If not for you.”

Talorcan dropped his eyes.

“Are you ashamed?” Lludd asked sternly. “Are you sorry?”

Talorcan raised his tormented face to the Prince, but answered firmly, his green eyes unwavering. “No, I am not sorry. I did what I did out of love of my own country.”

“Love for Dere, the country that the Coranians took for their own many, many years ago.”

“'Oh, Elmete,'” Talorcan murmured. “'We remember you.'”

“Yes, ‘The Lament for Elmete,'” Lludd said. “A sad song you could not bear to have us sing about Kymru.”

“Yes,” Talorcan whispered. “It was heartbreak enough to hear it sung of my own country.”

“We Kymri know you very well, General,” Lludd went on. “Better, I think, than you know yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Talorcan asked. But something in his green eyes told Elen that he knew perfectly well.

“You are what we call Dewin, what you would call a Walker. And what your people would call Wiccan.”

Talorcan stood stock-still, not even bothering to deny it. Elen had thought he would, but she had underestimated him.

“Yes,” Talorcan said. “Somehow, I am.”

“We know how. Through your mother you are the great-grandson of the last king of Dere. And the royal family of Dere has always been blessed with the gifts. Veleda, the last High Priestess of Corania, was of that line.”

“How did you know this?” Talorcan whispered.

“I did not know this,” Lludd said quietly. “But High King Arthur did. He charged Ceindrech to tell me this. So that I may convey to you his offer.”

“Which is?”

“Which is to come home to your true people. Which is to proudly be Dewin, and embrace your gifts.”

“To forsake my country—”

“For another which welcomes you. And values who and what you are.”

The room was silent as Talorcan closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“The blood of Veleda calls to you,” Ceindrech said softly. “It calls to you to be what you truly are, to forsake the false chains that were set around you. It calls to you to be free, to be what you were born to be.”

“And my family?” Talorcan asked. “What of them?”

“Your younger brother, Torhtmund, can be Eorl of Bernice in your stead,” Lludd said. “And Arthur says—”

“Arthur says what?” Talorcan cut in sharply, his green eyes burning.

“Arthur says that you will see your family again. And that he waits for you in Cadair Idris, for he is always grateful to have another Dewin by his side.”

“Cariad,”
Regan said softly. “Oh, beloved, say yes.”

“And my honor?” Talorcan asked.

It was Elen who answered him, for she knew him well. And she knew the truth of it. “Has been smirched by Havgan himself, and no other. Smirched by the things you have done because of the blood oath. But restored to you, should you renounce the evil that the Golden Man has done and is doing.”

“Then you forgive me, Queen of Ederynion?” Talorcan asked. “For the death of your mother?”

“A fair death in battle,” Elen said. “There is no shame in it.”

“Then High King Arthur has won himself another man to serve him. I will do so with all my heart, with all that I truly am, now that I have the freedom to be what I was born to be.” Talorcan turned to Regan. “And you, Regan ur Corfil, I will be your husband if it is your will. And you can teach me the ways of the Dewin.”

Regan smiled and her smile was dazzling. “With all my heart,
cariad
.”

“And Iago?” Rhiwallon asked, as he still held the Druid. “What of him?”

“Iago,” Elen said softly. “What is your will?”

Outside the door they heard shouts and the sound of footsteps coming to the door.

“They were waiting for Guthlac to bring you,” Iago said to Regan. “And they have decided that they have been waiting too long.”

“How many?” Lludd asked.

“Twenty. But they will alert all the others. You must go. Now.”

“And you?”

“I will stay,” Iago said, his dark eyes sad. “And hold them off.”

“Do you expect us to believe that?” Angharad asked sharply.

“I swear by the love I hold Queen Elen, that I am telling the truth. Go, I tell you. Only a Druid could hold them back long enough for you to get away. The entire army in Dinmael is waiting to smash down that door.”

“He is right,” Ceindrech said crisply. “Only a Druid could do that. But where one is good, two are better. I, too, will stay to hold them off.”

“Ceindrech, no!” Angharad cried. “You will never get away from here alive.”

“Yes, I know,” Ceindrech said calmly. “But unless I stay behind neither will any of you. Let Iago go, Prince Rhiwallon. He and I will see to it that you all escape.”

Rhiwallon looked to Elen for his answer and she nodded. The Prince released Iago and stepped back warily. But Iago merely turned to face the door. He closed his eyes and from outside came a scream. A fiery glow came from beneath the door.

“Good,” Ceindrech said. “Hold them back with Druid’s Fire. I will find a few objects outside that will make them uncomfortable.”

“Ceindrech,” Angharad began.

“Go now, all of you,” Ceindrech said. “Do not let Iago and me die in vain. Tell Aergol—” Ceindrech hesitated for a moment as the name of her longtime lover left her lips. “Tell him to take care of our son,” she went on. “And tell him—tell him that I love him. Tell him that I will wait for him in the Land of Summer.”

“I’ll tell him,” Regan said as she took Talorcan’s hand. “I will be sure of it.”

“Then go,” Ceindrech said. “Go quickly. Queen Elen, we will give our lives to save you. Do not make a mockery of it.”

“Regan,” Elen said, suddenly. We must take—”

“I know,” Regan replied, rushing to the stairs. “I’ll get it.”

While Regan took the stairs two at a time, Lludd turned to Elen. “What is she getting?”

“Mam’s helmet.”

“Ah, of course. We couldn’t leave without that, could we?”

“Never,” Elen answered. Regan rushed down the stairs, a leather bag slung over her shoulder. She patted the bag. “Got it.”

“Then go,” Ceindrech said again. “Go.”

Elen turned to leave, the tears almost blinding her. From far, far away she thought she heard the faintest sound of a hunting horn—of the horns blown by the Wild Hunt when they rode the sky. Prince Rhiwallon offered her his hand to help her and she took it. It was large and strong and warm, and she looked up at him and saw him looking down at her. Lludd waited to follow her and she turned around one last time before descending.

Ceindrech and Iago stood hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, their eyes closed. From outside the door came screams and curses. Then Iago opened his eyes and looked at her. In his dark eyes, where she had often seen madness, she now saw peace.

“Go, Elen,” Iago said. “And know that I was a Queen’s man and a Kymri, at the last.”

“Yes,” Elen whispered. “You are all that. At the last.”

And then she was free.

Arberth
Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru
Bedwen Mis, 500

Gwaithdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—evening

P
enda, General of the Coranian forces in Prydyn, sighed inwardly as he mounted the dais and took his seat at the high table in the Great Hall of Caer Tir.

Another meal in the company of those he despised—just another day in Kymru.

If only he was home! Home at the foot of Mount Badon in Mierce. Home, in Lindisfarne with his father and son. Home with his people, the brave and generous folk of Mierce who were themselves crushed beneath the heels of Coranian invaders six generations ago.

Home. Oh, he did miss it so.

Throughout the fire-lit hall his warriors stood at attention, waiting for him to sit before they took their places at the long tables. The Coranian banner shimmered red and gold in the smoky light; the ruby eyes of the boar seemed to gleam maliciously as Penda glanced up at it.

He took his place on the king’s left, signaling his warriors to sit and begin their meal. He contented himself with a mere nod at King Erfin.

King Erfin returned Penda’s nod calmly but his beady brown eyes were angry. The torchlight glittered off his unruly red hair and the golden circlet that rested on his head. It flickered over the long, jagged scar across his right cheek, a scar put there by King Rhoram almost three years ago. Erfin tore into his meal with his usual lack of grace and, mercifully, did not even try to converse with Penda.

Efa, Erfin’s sister, sitting to her brother’s right, leaned forward slightly to catch Penda’s eye. She smiled brilliantly at him as the firelight shimmered off her smooth, pale skin. Her large and beautiful brown eyes spoke of seduction but Penda was not interested. He knew that wouldn’t matter too much, for Efa had been busy since she came to Arberth sampling what the Coranian warriors had to offer. In fact she had already gone through the garrison like a scythe through wheat. It seemed as though she was ready to begin at the top again.

For he had, of course, taken the lady up on her offer the first time out of sheer curiosity. The few times after that had been the result of pure boredom. After the last time he had sworn to himself that he would never allow himself to sink that low ever again. It was hard to explain just what there was about Efa that was so repellent. She was beautiful, sensual, and good in bed. But there was something about her that made his skin crawl. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Efa, the one-time Queen of Prydyn, had betrayed her husband and her people, deserting Rhoram and returning to Arberth to share power with her brother, the false King of Prydyn.

For, no matter how much he said otherwise, Penda was fully aware that Erfin was not the true King of Prydyn, and never would be. The true king, Rhoram ap Rhydderch, was still alive, still leading his Kymric warriors in lightning raids against the enemy, still waiting for his chance to take back his throne.

Penda would not admit to anyone how glad he would be to see it happen.

For the thousandth—no, for the millionth—time he cursed the day he had pledged himself to Havgan in the Coranian Brotherhood Ritual. If he had not done that he might, even now, be a happy man. He would surely not be here in this defeated country knowing he himself had a hand in their defeat. He wondered how his friend Talorcan was faring over in Ederynion. He was another one of their band who also regretted this tie to Havgan. Silently Penda prayed to Lytir that Talorcan was not suffering unbearably. And he spared a thought for another member of the band who he knew was suffering—Sigerric, the man who had once been Havgan’s closest friend.

How was it that the three of them had not seen all those years ago who and what Havgan really was? Oh, but they had been young and foolish and dazzled by the powerful personality of the Golden Man. He shook his head, for no amount of regret could change the past. And it was far too late to turn back now.

He passed platters and took food without even knowing what he was eating. He chewed mechanically, and drank a great deal. His eyes skimmed over the others at the table. Whitred of Sceaping, the Byshop of Prydyn in a robe of green and Eamer of Geddingas, Master-wyrce-jaga in his robe of black with a green tabard ate greedily.

His eye came to rest on the figure of Ellywen. She wore her Druid’s robe of brown with green trim and sipped daintily and sparingly from a golden goblet chased with emeralds. At the sight of her he became very thoughtful indeed. For Ellywen was not who she had once been. She had changed in the past eight months and Penda was now sure why.

She sat now, done with her meal, calm and self-contained, as always. Her glances to her fellows were cold and contemptuous, also as always. But she no longer wore her brown hair closely braided and pulled tightly back. She wore it loose, held back from her flawless face by a green ribbon. Her gray eyes no longer reminded him of treacherous ice but rather of a misty sky on a spring morning. And, if anyone happened to mention Modron the Mother, the Kymric goddess revered by the Druids, she no longer flinched.

And that told him everything.

Having her followed, as he had for the last month, was almost a mere formality.

Two or three times a week she would go to the marketplace. But she rarely bought anything. She would visit a few stalls and exchange a few words. She usually ended up at the smithy and said a few words to the smith there. She occasionally brought her horse to the smith, who would solemnly examine the horse’s hooves. Surely, Penda thought sourly, Ellywen had the best-shod horse in Prydyn.

Thinking of the smith reminded Penda of the news he had heard yesterday. The Master Smiths of Kymru and their families had been rescued. A guard from Caer Siddi had brought the news to Havgan. And the rescuer had been none other than High King Arthur himself. Aided by a number of renegade Druids, as well as by Gwydion, Rhiannon, and King Rhoram’s warriors, Arthur had neatly defeated the Coranian garrison.

Penda had also learned that Gwydion had been captured by Arianrod, Havgan’s Kymric mistress. Gwydion’s current whereabouts were a carefully kept secret. When Penda had heard the news of Gwydion’s capture he had felt a sharp stab of grief for the Dreamer and for the woman who loved him. In Corania, when he had first met Gwydion and Rhiannon, Penda had liked them both. He had known them as Guido and Rhea then, and he had counted the two as his friends. Until, of course, he had learned who they really were. Still, he was grieved for them, for they had done what they had done in order to save their people. And that was something Penda understood very well.

A warrior approached the high table and bowed to Penda. “My Lord, the prisoners are here.”

“What prisoners?” Erfin demanded. “And why was I not informed?”

“You were not informed because it was not necessary,” Penda said absently. “Bring the prisoners to me.”

“What prisoners?” Efa asked repeating her brother’s question.

“They are a few Kymri from town that I believe to be feeding information to the Cerddorian,” Penda answered. “Along with their families.”

“Their families?” Ellywen repeated calmly. But her hand tightened on her goblet as she spoke. “What use for that?”

“Such a question,” Efa said with contempt. “To get them to talk, of course.”

“Of course,” Ellywen said softly.

And though Ellywen did not gasp, did not cry out, did not even move when she saw the prisoners, Penda knew that he had the right people. For Ellywen’s face tightened and for a brief moment he saw the truth in her fine, gray eyes.

For the prisoners were none other than the smith himself and the proprietors of the two stalls Ellywen visited most. The three Kymric men held their heads high as they were brought through the hall and up to the dais. Behind them their wives and children followed silently, their faces solemn and still. One of the women carried a small baby in her arms. Another of them held the hands of two little boys. The third, the wife of the smith, led three young girls and two young men, all with their heads held high, pride in their Kymric faces.

For a moment Penda wished he could be anywhere but here as he studied the three families. Then he mentally shook himself. He had a job to do, and he would do it.

“You are accused of being spies for the Cerddorian of Prydyn,” Penda began.

“I would be proud to be, were it the truth,” the smith interrupted.

“It is the truth,” Penda said. “And one that I will not argue with you. Not here. You will all be taken to the cells and held there until you tell me the details that I wish to know. And be advised that we will do whatever we must to learn what we want to know.”

The three families merely looked at Penda with contempt in their eyes. But they paled nonetheless. Penda hoped that he would not have to actually hurt these folk for he had not had them brought here in order to hear anything from them. They would tell him nothing and he knew it. No, he had them brought here for a different reason—to trap Ellywen ur Saidi. That was another thing he did not wish to do. But his life was not his own; it had not been his own for many years. His life belonged to the Golden Man and Penda would do what he must do to serve him.

“How dare you take these people prisoner without consulting me!” Erfin began.

But Efa knew better than to let Erfin go on. She laid a hand on her brother’s arm and put her finger to her lips. Erfin subsided with a frown, but he subsided nonetheless.

Penda, who had not even glanced over at Erfin, sat quietly. It was harder for him to do this than he had thought. He was not quite sure why—he should be used to doing these kinds of things by now. He looked over at Ellywen. Ellywen was looking back at him with something almost like pity in her eyes. “Take them away,” Penda said after a moment.

Guards led the families from the hall as Ellywen gestured for the Coranian minstrel. The minstrel bowed as he reached the high table.

“What is your wish?” the minstrel asked.

“It is my wish that you should play a tune for General Penda,” Ellywen said.

The minstrel bowed again. “Anything for my lord.”

“Play the ‘Lament to Mierce.'”

The minstrel froze, looking at Ellywen with shocked eyes.

“I—”

“Do you not wish to have it played, General?” Ellywen asked innocently, turning to Penda. “Do you not wish to hear a song from your homeland?”

Penda gripped the armrests of his chair. He would not let Ellywen know how close to the mark she had come. “If you wish to hear it played it is nothing to me.”

“Indeed?” Ellywen said with raised brows. She turned to the minstrel who stood trembling, his face pale. “Then, minstrel, play the song for me.”

The minstrel hesitated a moment, then brought the lute up to playing position. He strummed the opening chords of the song that was written hundreds of years ago when the Coranian king, Sigger, killed the King of Mierce, captured and raped the Queen, spitted the baby prince on his deadly spear, and ground all of Mierce beneath his merciless heel.

That night, Penda dreamed. And wept as he did so.

His spirit flew high in the darkening sky. Purple clouds, swollen with the brewing storm massed above him. Beneath him he recognized Beranburg, nestled at the foot of Mount Badon and tears came to his eyes. Home. He was home.

Mount Badon rose from the silent earth to pierce the brooding sky. Studded with tall pine from its base to near the top of its jagged peak, the mountain itself seemed to glow and pulse with power in the dim, uncertain light.

He saw orange flames dotting an area on the side of the mountain and flew closer, for his knew that it was the Heiden, the Old Believers, come to the mountain to worship the Old Ones on Galdra Necht, the Night of Magic. This was the time when the Heiden would honor Wuotan One-Eye, the God of Magic.

Wuotan had hung on Irminsul, the World Tree, for nine days. The son of Death and War, he had torn out his own eye to obtain knowledge of the runes.

And on Galdra Necht the Wild Hunt, led by Wuotan and by Holda of the Waters, would ride on the wings of the storm over Mount Badon, and may the gods help those mortals that they found in their path.

His spirit spiraled down and he saw that the Heiden had gathered in a clearing surrounded by tall, heady pines draped in long ribbons of gray and lavender. Torches glittered around the clearing, held by the steady hands of the warriors of the Eorl of Lindisfarne. A rough-hewn altar of stone sat in the middle of the clearing. A drinking horn of silver was set in a polished holder of bone on the left side of the altar while a bowl fashioned from glittering gold sat on the right. At the front of the altar the blade of a long knife glinted in the firelight. Laid across the back was a piece of leather strung with tiny bells. Candles of purple and gray sat at each corner. A banner of gray, worked with the purple rune of Wuotan was draped over the front of the altar. The rune, a circle divided into four quarters, shimmered briefly.

The clearing was filled with those Penda knew from the town of Beranburg, over one hundred folk. His heart ached as his eyes went directly to his young son. Readwyth was ten years old now. The boy’s dark blond hair, so like Penda’s, glistened in the torchlight. His blue eyes—so like Penda’s dead wife’s—were shining as he looked up at his grandfather.