May Earth Rise (31 page)

For a moment she thought her heart would break as joy and fear in equal measure spilled from it. For she loved this man more than she had ever thought possible. And she was so close to losing him, for, if he failed here in Kymru, he would be forced to pay for it with his life. Never had she felt for a man the way she felt about this man. Never had she felt such a kinship, as though he was simply another part of her, two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same whole.

Arianrod smiled slowly as Havgan knelt before her. He kissed her swollen belly through the thin material of her gown and reached up to touch her full breasts that strained against her tawny robe. He slowly loosened the ties of her dress then pulled it off her shoulders. His breath was hot as he teased her with his lips and tongue. She moaned and arched her back against the rough stone.

He pulled her to him, kissing her mouth, her face, her neck, her breasts with such passion that she was dizzy. He yanked up her skirts and then he was inside her and she cried out with pleasure as he took her.

She would not lose him. She would never let him go.

P
RINCESS
A
elfwyn muttered
curses beneath her breath as she reached the stairway leading up to the battlements. Always her husband ended up there, staring over at Cadair Idris, as though the strength of his gaze would accomplish what all other stratagems had not—entry into the hall of the High Kings of Kymru.

He would never get in there, she was convinced. And if he should come close, she would be there to ensure that it did not happen. She cared nothing for the Kymri and their freedom, but she did care that her hated husband would not possess the thing he wanted most.

Starlight and torchlight shimmered over her pristine white gown. Diamonds gleamed within the coils of her blond hair. Her green eyes glittered at the thought of her dearest wish fulfilled—Havgan lying dead at her feet.

So far in her time here she had been able to do very little. She had done her best to keep Arianrod from capturing the Dreamer, but her warning had come too late. She had occasionally been able to get word to Cadair Idris of minor engagements, but nothing much had come of that.

In fact, the most important thing she had done since coming to Kymru was to discover a tool she had never imagined she had—Sigerric of Apuldre. For Sigerric was Havgan’s staunchest friend. Loyal to a fault, he continued to serve Havgan, even though he was sickened by many of the things Havgan did.

Even though he was in love with Havgan’s wife.

Yes, Sigerric was in love with her—a fact she had discovered not along ago. She could say she had done nothing about that because she was still turning over in her mind how best to use him. And that would be true—within limits. Because the other part of the truth was that knowing Sigerric loved her sometimes had the power to make her heart beat faster, to make her skin flush, to make her shiver.

But that was only sometimes. And, even so, it did not really matter. For Aelfwyn was the daughter of the Emperor and Empress of Corania, and she knew better than to be ruled by her heart.

Once she had lost her heart to someone. She had loved her cousin, Aelbald. And Havgan had killed him in the fight for Bana of the Empire, in the fight for the right to wed her, bed her, and rule Corania through her.

She closed her eyes briefly, for the events of her wedding night with Havgan still had the power to make her feel dizzy with hatred and shame. Never would she endure such treatment at anyone’s hands again. Never would she forgive the man who had humiliated her, and so obviously gloried in it.

She shook her head, for these thoughts were useless, and began to climb the stairs. She had some business with her husband. She wanted to ensure that he fully understood that the game was almost up, that Kymru continued to slip through his hands, that it always would.

For the Dreamer had been rescued. Queen Elen of Ederynion had been freed from her captivity, and Talorcan, one of Havgan’s most trusted generals had gone with her. Queen Enid of Rheged had been freed and General Baldred had been killed. General Penda in Prydyn had captured a Dewin and a Druid, and had, inexplicably, let them both slip through his fingers. And King Madoc of Gwynedd had died at the hands of his own father.

And just a few short weeks ago, the Druids had turned from him, giving their allegiance to High King Arthur. The Druids had put the Archdruid to death in a pitiless manner. She had heard that Cathbad had screamed from his barrow beneath the earth for three days and had lingered for some days more before finally dying.

Arthur had been able to seal the island, ensuring that no word could come to Corania that Havgan needed additional troops. Arthur was nearing the endgame, nearing the time when the two men would face each other on the field of battle. And that was a day that Aelfwyn longed for, because surely, in such a contest, Arthur would win and Havgan would die.

She neared the top of the stairs and rounded the last corner, and came to a sudden stop. For there, blocking her way, was Sigerric.

Sigerric stood stolidly, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore tunic and trousers of dark brown, and gold glittered at his throat, his wrists, and his ears. He had a golden dagger at his belt and the hilts of two more daggers glittered from the turned-down cuffs of his high boots.

“General,” she said, inclining her head as he bowed to her. He straightened, then again crossed his arms over his chest. She stepped forward, knowing he would step aside for her. But she sprang back at the last moment to avoid running into him, for he did not move out of her way.

“Sigerric,” she said firmly. “Step aside.”

“I regret to inform you that I cannot, Princess,” Sigerric replied.

“I wish to speak to my husband.”

“Then you must wait,” he said firmly.

He had never taken this tone with her before, and she was at a loss on how to proceed. “He is my husband and I will speak to him when I please.”

Sigerric sighed. “He is busy, Princess. But he will return to the hall shortly. I would be happy to tell him that you wish to see him then.”

“But I wish to see him now,” she said sharply.

“Princess, it pains me to deny you anything, but I must.”

“What is he so busy doing?” she asked. “Staring out at that mountain?”

Sigerric shrugged, but she knew better.

“Is he alone?”

“Princess—”

“Why must you call me that all the time?” she asked irritably. “I have a name.”

He swallowed. “I would not dare to use it, Princess.”

“Am I so frightening then?” she asked. “Such a figure of horror that you must be so formal?”

“I think you know what you are to me,” he said quietly.

She raised her eyes to look into his. They stood face to face like that, not moving, for a very long moment. And in that moment she became aware that her heart was beating faster, that her pulse was racing, that she wanted him to speak of the things she saw in his eyes.

But the hard side of her, the side that belonged to her mother, came uppermost then. She put aside her longing and reached instead for a tool to use to bring down the man she hated. She would speak to Sigerric of Havgan and all that he had done to her. And Sigerric would kill Havgan for her. He would. He must.

“My husband—” she began.

“Will have my loyalty until the day he dies.”

“And me?” she asked bitterly, her hopes dashed. “What will I have?”

“My heart. Forever and ever and ever.”

“Then free me,” she cried.

“I cannot,” he replied, his voice low and sad. “I am what I am. And cannot be anything else.”

Movement behind Sigerric caught her eye and she saw Arianrod, her husband’s whore, his Kymric witch, coming towards them. Her gown was awry and her hair was loosened and disheveled. There were love bites on her neck and her lips were slightly swollen. She moved slowly, awkward from her pregnancy, but her movements were dreamy, and she smiled to herself the smile of a woman who loved and was loved in return.

That was a smile Aelfwyn had never felt on her own face. And the sight of it enraged her. “So this is what you would keep me from interrupting, Sigerric?” she said harshly. “The sight of my husband rutting with his whore?”

Arianrod smiled, as though Aelfwyn’s rage amused her. “Ah, the barren wife. Come to seek out the husband who despises her.”

“You speak to the Princess of Corania, Arianrod,” Sigerric said softly. “And will show her the respect she deserves.”

“Oh, but I do,” Arianrod replied. “I give her all the respect she does indeed deserve.”

Arianrod grinned, her amber eyes alight, her honey-blond hair tumbling around her shoulders in the flickering torchlight. And, for some reason, Sigerric stiffened, drawing his breath in sharply.

“What is it?” Aelfwyn asked.

But Sigerric shook his head and refused to answer.

W
HEN
S
IGERRIC HAD
gazed down at Aelfwyn it had taken all that he had to keep from framing her flawless face with his hands and kissing her. He ached to do it, but he could not. For she was Princess of Corania, daughter to the Emperor. She was the wife of his blood brother. That Havgan did not love her did not matter—Sigerric was simply not capable of betraying his brother like that, no matter how much he longed to do so.

And he did. Oh, he did. More than anyone could ever know, he wished with all his heart that he could take the woman he had loved so dearly for so long into his arms.

But it could not be. It could never be, unless Havgan chose to let Aelfwyn go. But that was something he would never do. For it was only through marriage to Aelfwyn that Havgan would rule Corania. And Havgan would not give up that dream—for anyone or anybody.

And why should he? For he could have both his wife and the throne that came with her as well as his mistress, the woman he loved, the woman who would bear his son.

That was the woman he turned to face when Aelfwyn spoke. And that was when Sigerric saw what he should have seen long ago.

It was, he realized, what Cynan Ardewin had seen. It was what Anieron Master Bard had seen. It was what Dinaswyn, the Dreamer had seen. It was the real reason why those three were dead—dead before they could speak the truth.

Because when Sigerric had looked at Arianrod in the fiery light—she with her amber eyes like Havgan’s and her honey-blond hair like Havgan’s, she with the same lazy smile he sometimes saw on Havgan’s face—he had seen the truth.

Havgan and Arianrod. Two halves of the same whole.

Brother and sister.

Which meant, in turn, that Havgan and Gwydion were cousins, for Sigerric knew full well the story of Arianrod’s parents and how they were related to the Dreamer. He saw for the first time how alike Gwydion and Havgan were. But he had been blinded, as had so many, by their differences. Yet Gwydion—black and silver as the moon in the night sky—and Havgan—red and gold as the morning sun—were merely two sides of the same coin.

Havgan was one of the hated witches of Kymru. He was that very thing that he had been trying to destroy.

Horror flooded him as the truth washed over him. But he would never speak of this to Havgan or to anyone else. He could not. Never would he be able to speak such words past the dark revulsion and horrified pity he felt.

For what was the child that Arianrod carried beneath her heart? What kind of child would brother and sister witches produce to the ruin of them all?

Mandeag, Sol 30—noon

B
Y THE TIME HE
reached Athelin he was weak and dizzy from adequate lack of food and rest, but he did not pause for either. His clothes were filthy, salt-encrusted rags. His beard had grown out in tangled, dirty locks. He was thin, almost skeletal. But he did not stop. He could not.

He staggered from the docks, down Lindstrat, ignoring the offers of food, companionship, and easy money—all the lures that were thrown his way as he left the waterfront and entered the city proper.

People strode by him in a hurry, intent on their own business. Lindstrat was dim, crowded on either side by houses whose upper stories hung over the street, cutting off the sun. It was spring and the air was crisp but warming slightly. He passed the house where Havgan had lived before winning the hand of the Princess, but he kept going, for there was nothing for him there.

He crossed Flanstrat and beheld Byrnwiga, the great, dark fortress that belonged to the Warleaders of the Empire. But he did not halt there, either, for the man he sought would not be there.

He turned west, headed toward the place where the man he had been sent to find would surely be. The four great towers of Cynerice Scima soared up to the sky as though attempting to pierce it and wrest it to the earth. The Emperor’s palace flashed golden and white in the noonday sun. The building, which rested on an island in the center of the city, seemed to float on the River Saefern, like a vision of heaven come to earth. Downstream to his left he could see the shadow of Waelraest Hlaew, where the bodies of the former Emperors and Empresses of the empire came to rest.

He crossed the bridge to the great east gate of Cynerice Scima and waited his turn to enter. Carts full of victuals, men dressed in fine clothes, soldiers in gleaming silver byrnies, all crowded in and out of the palace. After weeks of having only the sound of the sea for company, he felt disoriented and cowed by the din. But he had a job to do. He had promised.

When he reached the guards they took one look at him and rolled their eyes. The captain gestured sharply for one of the guards to help him on his way out with a foot on his backside. But he was prepared for this. Without a word he fished out the ring he had been given.

The great ruby glittered under the sun like a fistful of blood. The captain froze, taking in the gem, then looked up. “What do you do here, with such a fortune, thief?”

“I am not a thief,” he said, with what dignity he could muster.

“What are you then?”

“A messenger.”

He gave the name of the man he had been sent to see. For a moment he thought he would still not be let in. But the captain finally nodded to two guards, detailing them to take the old sailor where he wished to go.