Authors: Holly Taylor
And each day he became more and more conscious that he was being made a fool of. And each day he had become more and more fearful. For he had thought he recognized the description of one of the old men. He could be wrong—he would give anything if he were—but in his shallow heart he knew that he was not.
His father was here. His da had returned to Tegeingl.
Madoc had thought his father long dead. Twenty-four years ago Rhodri had, at the death of his wife, Queen Rathtyen, rode out of Tegeingl without a word to anyone. Madoc had not seen or heard from him since. He had assumed, he had hoped, that his father was dead.
But even this boon was, apparently, denied him. Nothing, nothing ever went right for him. He had become king of Gwynedd, but no one listened to him. He had a beautiful daughter, but Tangwen was ashamed of him. And now his da had come back. To do the gods only knew what.
An old man walked out of the gate, a torch burning fitfully in his thin hand. His silvery beard was cut close to his lean face. He wore a tunic and trousers of worn, dark gray wool. He walked slowly, as though tired, his brows knit in thought. He kept his eyes on the ground, not even bothering to look around him as he walked.
At Madoc’s gesture, the warriors rose to their feet and they all followed the old man at a discreet distance back to the city. They closed the gap as they shadowed the man through the gates of Tegeingl. Once inside the city, at Madoc’s nod, the four warriors sprinted to the old man and bade him halt. For a moment Madoc thought the old man would not stop. But he did.
“What is going on here?” the man demanded as two of the guards grabbed his arms. The third pointed a spear at the man’s neck. The fourth tied a length of rope around the old man’s thin wrists.
Madoc stepped up to the old man, torch in hand, to examine him. He looked the man over carefully. The man’s dark eyes danced in the wavering light of the torch, though his seamed face was solemn.
“Myrrdin,” Madoc breathed. “So, it is you.”
Myrrdin inclined his head. “Yes, Madoc,” he said quietly. “It is I.”
“What are you doing here?”
Myrrdin smiled. “You don’t really think I am going to tell you that, do you?”
“Oh, I think you will,” Madoc smiled back. “There are so many ways of persuading you to talk to us.”
“Ah,” Myrrdin said soberly. “As unoriginal as ever.”
Madoc’s fist shot out. The old man’s nose began to bleed, but his eyes still laughed. “Do not think to make a game of me, old man,” Madoc began.
“But, Madoc, it is so easy. And so fun.”
Madoc slapped Myrrdin hard, and the sound cracked through the descending night. He reached out and grabbed Myrrdin’s hair, dragging the old man’s face up. “I said, do not make a game of me.”
“Too late, Madoc,” Myrrdin gasped, still laughing. “Far too late for that.”
“My lord,” the captain said, as he moved to halt Madoc’s third swing. “Not here. Back at the fortress.”
Almost Madoc ignored that advice. But the captain was right. Here was not the place to interrogate the former Ardewin of Kymru. It was too open, too exposed. And the gods only knew where his father was. At his gesture the guards pushed Myrrdin forward toward Caer Gwynt.
Madoc followed just behind Myrrdin and the last two guards followed behind him. He noticed that the streets were unusually empty. At this time of night there should have been some people still about, making their way home. But there was no one. Lights shone at all the windows, but not one person seemed to be out of doors.
But he had thought that too soon. For just ahead of them a figure stepped out of the shadows and stood in the center of the road. The coppery taste of terror leapt into Madoc’s throat as he recognized the figure that now blocked his way.
Rhodri ap Erddufyl, Prince of Prydyn, onetime king of Gwynedd, stood motionless in the center of the street. Torchlight glittered off his silvery hair, still tinged here and there with red-gold. His cold, blue eyes surveyed his son, and obviously did not like what they saw.
They never had.
Myrrdin’s nose was bloody but his eyes were keen and steady as he raised his head to look at Rhodri. The four guards halted with their hands on their spears, waiting for orders from Madoc.
But Madoc could not speak past the fear that lay on his heart like lead. For he knew his father. And he knew what his father would do.
“You are not glad to see me, my son?” Rhodri said softly as he took a step forward.
“You!” Madoc breathed at last. “You are alive.”
“So I am,” Rhodri agreed. “Alive. And here to do my duty.”
“Your duty?” Madoc asked weakly.
“Yes. For it is a poor father that does not discipline his son.” With a rasp like the distant thunder of a summer storm, Rhodri drew his blade from the scabbard by his side. Starlight and torchlight glittered on the tempered steel.
“Da,” Madoc whispered.
“My son,” Rhodri said, implacably. “My son. What have you done?”
“I—”
“You betrayed your king.”
“The son of my mother and another man! A man you hated!”
“King Uthyr was the rightful ruler of Gwynedd. Your mother proclaimed him so.”
“Why not me?” Madoc screamed. “I was the son of lawful marriage!”
“Uthyr was destined from birth to be the ruler of Gwynedd. You knew that from the beginning.”
“It wasn’t fair,” Madoc cried. “It was never fair.”
“It is the law,” Rhodri said coldly. “The law that the firstborn, if not of the Y Dawnus, take the royal torque. Uthyr was tested and proved not to be one of the Gifted. Your mother rightly named him her heir.”
“Not fair,” Madoc rasped. “Not fair.”
“And for that, you killed the true king of Gwynedd.”
“It was Catha! General Catha killed him!”
“Because you could not,” Rhodri said his words like fire and ice. “You helped the enemy defeat Kymru. And in those battles, your sister and her husband and their son died.”
“They were killed by the Coranians in the battles in Rheged. I did not kill them!”
“You aided the enemy. The responsibility of all the Kymric deaths belongs to you. Your hands are stained with Kymric blood; the blood of your sister, Ellirri; the blood of your brother-in-law, Urien; the blood of your nephew, Elphin; the blood of your halfbrother, Uthyr. Your hands are red and vile with it. Those of your family that remain alive turn from you. We cast you out, and call you exile.”
Rhodri lifted his hand and beckoned. A slight figure detached itself from the shadows and came to stand next to him. Fiery torchlight glittered off of Tangwen’s unbound hair, turning it to molten gold. Her blue eyes looked at Madoc squarely, fearlessly, and proudly.
Madoc’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at his father and his daughter.
“Your daughter renounces you,” Rhodri went on.
Tangwen drew a deep breath and said in a voice that did not shake, “From this moment forward, I have no father. I name you outcast. I name you without kin. I name you exile.”
Madoc took a step backward, then halted. So, his daughter had shown her true colors at last. As always, as from the very beginning, he was alone, unloved. And did they think that this would stop him? Did they think that they could do this to him? Did they think he was nothing? They would learn better. And he would rejoice in their pain.
“You can name me anything you please,” Madoc shouted. “But I rule here. I rule! Guards, take them!”
The four guards, their spears steady in their hands, stepped forward toward Rhodri and Tangwen. At that moment two more figures detached themselves from the shadows and came to stand on either side of the former king and his grandaughter.
Madoc recognized them both effortlessly. Bedwyr, lieutenant to Uthyr’s daughter, Morrigan, clasped a drawn sword in his capable hands. His brown eyes were fearless as he faced the guards. Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, stood glowing beneath the starlight, her beautiful face cold and implacable, a blade in her hands. The pearl torque of Nantsovelta glittered whitely around her slender neck.
The guards halted, for both Rhodri and Bedwyr stood confident and unyielding. And they knew what a Dewin was capable of.
“Tangwen,” Rhodri said to his granddaughter. “Release Myrrdin.”
T
ANGWEN, HER DAGGER
drawn, stepped forward to do her grandfather’s bidding. She kept her face carefully calm, but inside she was exalting. At last. The day had come when she renounced her father and all his terrible works. The day had finally come when honor was once again restored to her family.
She knew the price of restoring honor. She had always known it. When she had first faced this it had broken her heart. How many nights had she wept for what she knew must be done?
Until tonight, when she had come face to face with her grandfather, she had always thought that she must be the one to punish her father. But Rhodri had claimed that honor for himself, and Tangwen had been glad to let him, glad to be spared the final act she had dreaded.
Briefly she remembered the moment earlier this evening that Bedwyr had come to her, telling her that she must gather her things and come with him. She had stared at him, unable to believe that freedom had come for her at last, and Bedwyr had taken his first kiss from her and it had been sweet, so sweet. She had followed Bedwyr as he spirited them to the stables, saddled her horse, and lead her from Caer Gwynt.
Bedwyr had brought her to a small house not far from the fortress. Neuad had been waiting for her. Morrigan’s Dewin had greeted her warmly and Tangwen had eagerly asked about her friend. Neuad had told her that Morrigan was well and that Tangwen would see her soon.
“You are getting me out of Tegeingl?” Tangwen had asked. “Why now?”
“Because someone has come for you, to take the honor of your family back, to take you with him.”
And she knew, then, that what Arday had told her days before was true. She knew him the instant she saw him. His hair was fading to silver but strands of reddish-gold still shone through. His blue eyes warmed at the sight of her. He had spread his arms and she had, without a moment’s hesitation, launched herself into them. Her granda had come for her. At last.
Now she walked forward confidently, knowing that Rhodri, Bedwyr, and Neuad were behind her. She had almost reached Myrrdin when one of the guards sprang into her path. Quick as thought she thrust her dagger beneath his shining spear, burying it into the guard’s belly. Hot, coppery blood spilled over her hand. She pulled the blade from the guard’s guts as the man went down.
There was a moment—a brief span of time before the others went into action, when everything seemed to stand still. Her father’s eyes were wide with fear. Myrrdin’s dark eyes shone with pity. The guard’s dying moan rattled in his throat.
And she, Tangwen ur Madoc var Bri, shamed daughter of a traitor, soon to be orphaned this night, exalted in the blood that stained her hands. Exalted in the blow she had finally struck for her country. Exalted as she lifted her face to the starry sky, and heard, from far off, the call of hunting horns blowing as the Wild Hunt rode the night.
M
ADOC GASPED AS
his daughter killed the captain of the guard with a smile on her lovely face. Rhodri, Neuad, and Bedwyr leapt forward, making short work of the remaining three guards. It all seemed to happen so fast, too fast for Madoc to run.
Tangwen cut Myrrdin’s bounds with her bloody dagger and the old man turned to Madoc. Quickly Bedwyr, Tangwen, Neuad, and Myrrdin surrounded Madoc, preventing him from fleeing.
In the sudden silence, the sound of Rhodri’s boots on the cobblestones as he made his way to stand before his son echoed like the sound of doom. Madoc knew that surely, irrevocably, death stood in front of him. And there would be no reprieve.
Far, far above him he thought he heard a faint sound of hunting horns riding the back of Taran’s winds. The cry of a hawk that has sighted its prey rang in his ears. He raised his eyes to the blade that his father lifted high overhead. And though he was a coward, he could not close his eyes, could not look away, as his death descended toward him, glittering silver steel and black blood.
The blade buried itself in his chest. And still he could not take his eyes from his father’s face. He sank to his knees, the hilt of his father’s sword moving in time to the beat of his dying heart. A night breeze lightly touched his face as if in farewell. He tried to speak, tried to say something of his regret, but it was too late.
Darkness filled his eyes and he blindly fell forward onto the street, his life’s blood pooling on the cobblestones.
M
YRRDIN KNELT BY
Madoc’s body, his hand searching for a pulse. He sighed and rose to his feet. “He is dead.”
“May Taran’s Wind take your soul to Gwlad Yr Haf, my son,” Rhodri whispered. “And may it be long and long before you are returned to Kymru.”
Tangwen took her grandfather’s hand in hers. Rhodri laid his other hand on her bright hair and stroked it.
“What now?” Tangwen asked. “Where do we go?” “You and your grandfather will go to Queen Morrigan in Cemais. Accompanied by Bedwyr and Neuad,” Myrrdin answered.
“Accompanied by Bedwyr,” Neuad said firmly to Myrrdin. “For I am accompanying you.”
Myrrdin stared at Neuad, his mouth agape. “What do you mean?” he asked weakly.
“I mean, I am not letting you out of my sight. I will go where you go.”
Myrrdin noticed that Bedwyr was struggling not to laugh. And that even Rhodri, his old friend, appeared to be grinning.
“By the way,” Neuad went on, “exactly where are we going?” “I am going to Cadair Idris to await Arthur’s orders. But you—”
“I,” Neuad said, raising her voice slightly, “am going there, too.” “You are not!”
“I am. Do you really think that I am going to let you get away from me again?”
Myrrdin opened his mouth to argue with her, to insist that she stay away from him, to deny that he wished her to do otherwise. But Neuad’s blue eyes were on his and what he saw in them made his heart skip a beat.
“Neuad,” he said quietly. “You are half my age.” “So what?” she asked.
He wanted to answer her. Wanted to tell her why that was important, but for some reason he was having trouble breathing. And a great deal of difficulty remembering just where the problem lay.