May Earth Rise (22 page)

Lludd nodded, his face grim. “You were the Queen of Ederynion, and I did not wish to take from you the pleasure of condemning him yourself.”

“In short, you saved him for me.” “I did.”

Elen suddenly smiled. “You did well.” She turned to Arthur. “High King, you have the first right of justice here. But I ask a boon.”

“Ask it, Queen Elen,” Arthur said quietly.

“That you let me dispense your justice to Llywd Cilcoed. For the harm he did my mother, and to us.”

“First, I have business with this Dewin.” Arthur stepped forward until he stood before Llywd. “Llwyd Cilcoed, by the power given me from Elstar, the Ardewin of Kymru, I declare you outcast.” Arthur extended Caladfwlch until the tip of the blade touched the silvery torque of pearl around the Dewin’s neck. With one swift motion the blade sheared through the torque. Llwyd cried out as the silver necklace fell to the ground. It lay there, gleaming in the light of the fitful moon.

“You are no longer one of the Dewin of Kymru,” Arthur said, his voice suddenly huge and powerful in the darkened forest. “Nantsovelta of the Moon, Lady of the Waters, turns her face from you. You no longer belong to her. Your gifts are taken from you.”

In the sky above them a sudden cloud flowed over the waxing moon. From far off came the roar of angry, rushing water. The fresh, salt aroma of the distant sea washed into the clearing then receded. Llwyd arched his back in pain and cried out. Then the night became still once again.

Llwyd Cilcoed’s eyes widened with horror. He twitched in his brother’s hands and all color drained from his face. “You—how could you do that?” the Dewin cried, his voice breaking. “I can not Wind-Ride, or Life-Read! You have changed me.”

“Nantsovelta herself has changed you,” Arthur said implacably. “She has cast you out. Thus you are no longer Dewin.” Arthur sheathed his blade, then stepped back, bowing his head to Elen. “He is now yours to do with as you see fit.”

“No!” Llwyd Cilcoed cried, jumping to his feet. His brother grabbed him by the hair and forced him to tip his head back slightly, exposing his throat.

“Be quiet, brother,” Alun hissed. “And do homage to your queen.”

“Elen,” Llywd gasped. “Elen, we have known each other for so many years. Your mother loved me.”

“So she did, Llywd Cilcoed,” Elen said coldly. “And you repaid that by running away.”

“Please—” Llywd whispered. “Please.”

“Queen Elen,” Alun suddenly said. “I must now beg you for a boon.”

Llwyd, dawning hope on his pale face relaxed a fraction.

“Your boon, Alun Cilcoed?” Elen asked.

“This man is my brother,” Alun began.

Llwyd Cilcoed relaxed a little bit more in his brother’s grip. Confidence began to replace terror on the Dewin’s face.

“So he is,” Elen agreed.

“And as such—”

“Yes?” Elen asked.

“As such, he is mine to kill.”

“No!” Llywd screamed. “No!”

“Very well, Alun,” Elen agreed. “He is yours to kill.”

At Elen’s nod Alun drew the bright blade across his brother’s throat. Llywd’s despairing scream became a gurgle as blood bubbled from the mortal wound. Slowly, he sank to the ground as blood spewed down his robe and bathed the silver torque at his feet.

Alun stood over his dead brother, the bright blade in his hand dimmed with blood. “You have destroyed our family honor for the last time, little brother,” he whispered. Tears ran down his face and fell on his brother’s upturned face. “For the last time.”

Arthur put a hand on Alun’s shoulder. “Lord of Arystli, your family honor is restored to you.”

The faint strains of a hunting horn drifted down to them from the night sky as Alun nodded, dashing away the tears with his sleeve. He bent down and wiped the blade clean on his brother’s robe, then sheathed it in his boot top.

Gwydion felt a gray wave of tiredness, of sickness, wash over him. His head spun and he blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to bring the scene before him back into focus. But he could not. He felt blessed oblivion, a surcease from pain coming for him. But before it took him he reached out his hand and laid it gently against Rhiannon’s lovely face.

“Thank you,” he rasped.

“Rest, Gwydion,” she said and her voice followed him down into the darkness. She was with him, and so he was not afraid.

S
IGERRIC WAITED ON
the battlements of Eiodel, his eyes following the distant torches that came steadily closer across the plain. The man Havgan had been expecting was at last nearing the Golden Man’s dark fortress. He would be here in a few moments, and Sigerric would take the man to his friend.

Friend. That he should still think of Havgan as his friend was almost laughable. Indeed, he would have laughed at that if grief had not welled up in him, closing his throat with unshed tears. For the man who, years ago, he had counted his friend was truly dead and gone, the best in him burned in the flames of his hatred and fear, carried away like ashes on the wind.

He thought of the other four men from Corania who had been friends of Havgan, sworn as blood brothers. Baldred was dead in Rheged at the hands of the Kymri who had snatched Queen Enid from her prison. Catha was alive in Gwynedd, but in disfavor with Havgan for letting that fool, King Madoc, be killed. Penda, too, was alive in Prydyn, but also in disfavor, for Havgan had guessed that Penda had purposely let the Druid, Ellywen, escape.

And Talorcan—ah, that was the biggest blow of all to Havgan. Talorcan had gone with Queen Elen when she escaped from Dinmael. He had given it all up for love of Regan, one of the witches. Yet Sigerric thought there was more to Talorcan’s decision then that. He had long suspected that Talorcan himself was Wiccan, though he had never seen his friend work even the smallest iota of magic. But there had always been something about Talorcan that Sigerric thought suspect.

He closed his eyes briefly and sent up a prayer to Lytir that Talorcan would find what he had always been looking for. For, witch or no, Talorcan was his friend. His true friend, and would always be so, though they would likely never lay eyes on each other again.

He stared off to the northeast where even now, many, many leagues away, outside of the city of Sycharth in Ederynion, Gwydion was laying by a campfire, being used as bait for Rhiannon.

He bent his head in sorrow for what would happen next. Rhiannon would be captured and both she and Gwydion would be brought before Havgan. And, for Havgan, all the hideous tortures in the world that could be inflicted on their helpless bodies and minds would barely begin to satisfy him. The plans he had for Gwydion would be grim enough. But Sigerric knew what Havgan would do to Rhiannon. She would die beneath Havgan, naked and bound, his hands taking the last breath from her violated body. Havgan would force Gwydion to watch. And then Gwydion, Havgan’s false blood brother, would die slowly, hideously, one piece of his body removed at a time until he was nothing more than a bloody husk. And then, perhaps, if Gwydion were lucky, Havgan would let the Dreamer die.

The torches held in the hands of the select group of Havgan’s warriors showed the progress of the small party as it neared the closed gates. Horses tossed their bridles, neighing as they came closer to Havgan’s fortress. Overhead the stars glittered and the waxing moon shone brightly, hung in the sky like a sliver of luminescent pearl. Sigerric signaled and the gate was opened.

The small group rode through. Six warriors, gathered in a circle around a seventh rider, dismounted. One warrior helped the seventh rider off his horse. The seventh rider, wrapped in a voluminous cloak, nodded his thanks. The warrior led the cloaked and hooded figure up the stairs to the battlements where Sigerric waited.

“General Sigerric,” the warrior said, bending his head low. “I have brought to you the one you sent for.”

The figure in the cloak bowed also, then threw back his hood, revealing a wrinkled visage. Scanty gray hair framed his almost toothless old face in wisps. But the old man’s eyes were a bright, alert blue.

“Your name?” Sigerric asked.

“I am called Torgar,” the old man answered.

“Then, Torgar, my name is Sigerric.”

“Sigerric son of Sigefrith, the Alder of Apuldre. I know you, General. There is not a man in Corania who does not.”

“Torgar, do you know why you have been brought here?”

“Great lord, I do not. I have done no wrong.”

“True. You were not brought here to answer for any wrong. But rather to aid our Bana.”

“The Warleader? Havgan the Golden? How could I ever be of aid to one as all-powerful as him?”

“You shall see.” Sigerric dismissed the warrior and motioned for Torgar to follow him. The two men made their way across the battlements until they came upon a golden figure at the wall, facing north across the plain, staring out at Cadair Idris, the glowing mountain that soared up from the earth’s breast, reaching to the sparkling sky.

Torchlight glittered off of Havgan’s golden tunic and shimmered off of the rubies that trimmed his rich clothing. His honey-blond hair glowed in the flames and, as he turned to face them, his amber eyes seemed like the fierce eyes of a hawk that has its prey in its sight at last.

Torgar bowed until he almost touched the ground.

“Rise,” Havgan said.

Torgar groaned a little as he straightened and Sigerric sprang to help the old man. “Your pardon, I beg,” Torgar said as he rose. “Old bones.”

“Yes,” Havgan said dryly. “I am sure. Torgar, do you know what we see across the plain here?”

“I have heard tell of this. Cadair Idris.”

“It glows in the night, Torgar.”

“It does that, lord.”

“It is well that it glows, but it must glow for me, Torgar. For me, and no other.”

“So it should, lord,” Torgar agreed, his old eyes bright. “So it should.”

“But it does not.”

“Nay, lord. It does not. And what can one such as I do for you to make it so?”

“Torgar, did you know I grew up in a little fishing village?”

“Nay, I did not know that. Whereabouts?” the old man asked curiously.

“The village of Dorfas, on the shores of the Weal of Coran.”

“I know that place, lord. Good fishing.”

“My mother, Torgar,” Havgan said softly, “used to call me her gift from the sea.”

“Ah. Yes, they got many ‘gifts’ in Dorfas,” Torgar said comfortably. “Good harvesting there off the rocks, after storms. For many a ship has gone to ground at that place.”

For a moment the night seemed to take on an unnatural silence, as though the land of Kymru itself held its breath. Havgan hesitated then shrugged as though throwing off something that weighted him down, some knowledge that he did not wish to have.

“And you, Torgar?” Havgan asked. “Have you always been a sailor?”

“Ah, ever since I was a young lad.” Then Torgar recited proudly:

“This did say my mother;

That for me should be brought

A ship and shapely oars,

To share the life of warriors

To stand up in the stem and

Steer the goodly galley,

Hold her to the harbor

And hew down those who meet us.”

Torgar shook his head. “I was a young wisp of a boy when I followed Aelle down the River Saefern to take the kingdom of Dere for Corania. Those were great days. And there have been none like them since, until now. The years between now and then I spent fishing in Clastburh, remembering the days of glory and war. And then we heard your call, to destroy the witches of Kymru. I took service in your navy and never once looked back.” The old man’s eyes were fierce with memory and as he spoke he seemed to stand taller and prouder than before.

“I am reminded, Torgar, of that poem written by Sigerad, the first Archpreost of Lytir. He was sailor in his youth, before his brother proclaimed him head of the new church.”

“I know that one, lord,” Torgar said excitedly. And then they both recited Sigerad’s poem together:

They were both silent for a moment. Sigerric said nothing as the two men—one young and golden, the other old and weather-beaten—thought their own thoughts.

“Torgar,” Havgan said after a moment. “Ah, Torgar, you are a man after my own heart.”

Torgar grinned, a nearly toothless grin. “Great lord, you are a man worth serving. This I tell you true. Lytir himself must admire you.”

“Our God may do that, but he surely expects results also,” Havgan said coolly. “And I mean to give them to Him.”

Torgar’s smile faded and his blue eyes became earnest. “In what way can I serve you, lord? Why have you brought me here? What can I do?”

“Torgar, you can do what you do best—sail.”

“Where to?”

“Home. To Corania.”

Torgar was silent for a moment, his blue eyes serious. “I can sail anywhere I have a mind to, in anything that will float. But how in the name of Lytir can I even get on the sea? First those Cerddorian burned all our boats. Then, when we built new ones, they burned those to a crisp. It is said that the blasted witches have eyes everywhere. The few times ships were built and attempted to leave Kymru they were destroyed utterly—and all on board lost.”

“I am fully aware of all that, Torgar,” Havgan said sharply.

“Still,” Torgar went on, as if he had not really heard Havgan at all. “Still, if I could only get in a boat and get off the island, I could make it.”

“In how big a boat?” Havgan asked.

“Oh, not a large one,” Torgar said, making vague measurements with his hands. “A rowboat would do, as long as it had a small sail.”

“A rowboat!” Sigerric exclaimed. “You would attempt to cross the sea to Corania in a rowboat?”