May Earth Rise (35 page)

Angharad screamed in rage and raised her sword, leaping forward over Emrys prone body and plunging the blade into the Coranians’ guts. Hot blood poured over her hand as she twisted the blade, making sure the Coranian suffered the maximum of agony before he died. He slumped down and she contemptuously pulled the weapon out and let him fall.

She whirled around again and knelt down beside Emrys, taking his dying body in her arms. She sensed Lludd behind her, guarding her back. And she saw Elen kneel on Emrys’ other side. The queen laid a suddenly gentle hand on Emrys’ brow, stroking his hair back from his face. Elen gestured for one of the Dewin to attend to Emrys. The Dewin knelt down beside him and laid her hands on the wound. She closed her eyes and Life-Read. After a brief moment she opened her eyes and looked at Elen. The Dewin shook her head.

“Go, then,” Elen said quietly, “to those who need your services.” The Dewin bowed and left.

Emrys looked up at them and tried to speak. But Angharad hushed him. “Hush,” she murmured, as she cradled his head against her breast. “Hush, you mustn’t try to talk. Save your strength.”

But Emrys knew—of course he did—that he did not need to save his strength. And she knew it, too.

“Angharad,” he whispered, raising one bloody hand to touch her tear-streamed face. “Did I not tell you what would happen today? Did I not say?”

“You told me,” she agreed. “You said. Oh, Emrys, I am sorry I didn’t believe you. Sorry that I became your death.”

“You who were always my life could never be my death. It was not you who killed me, but the Coranian.”

Her tears fell on his upturned face, but she made no move to wipe them away. Blood flowed from his mouth, but his dark eyes were clear and steady as he gazed up at her.

“Emrys ap Naw, I owe you a kiss,” she said steadily. “And I always pay my debts.” She bent down and kissed his bloody mouth, slowly, lingering, knowing somehow that he had always dreamed of it that way. When she at last released his lips from hers she drew back and looked down at him again. His eyes were beginning to cloud, but his mouth smiled up at her. With a small sigh he was gone.

Angharad stroked his hair then gently laid his head on the ground. She rose, gripping her sword, and Elen rose with her, standing on Emrys’ other side. Angharad knew her mouth was bloody but she did not wipe the blood away. It belonged to Emrys. She had sent him to his death, no matter what anyone else said. She would not wipe away the proof of what she had done.

Elen’s blue eyes were rimed with tears, but her face was stern and set. She looked at Angharad and did not say anything about the blood lining her captain’s mouth. And Angharad saw that Elen fully understood and would not cheapen this moment by protesting.

Angharad looked at Lludd, and the Prince’s brown eyes gazed steadily back. He, too, said nothing, but his eyes said he understood it all.

Then the three of them turned away as one from Emrys’ body, and began to kill. They did not shout war cries, but killed silently, implacably, with deadly earnest. Their blades rose and fell, rose and fell again as they cut through the remaining Coranian warriors, showing no mercy as they finished taking back what had once been theirs.

And that was how they mourned for their friend in the only way open to them on that long, bloody day.

E
LEN SAT ON THE GREAT,
canopied chair of silver and pearl that had been her mother’s, surveying the Cerddorian packed before her in the Great Hall. Her swan helm was still on her head, her auburn hair braided and tucked under the helmet. Her white tunic and trousers were stained with blood and smoke, but she had refused to change them yet, knowing in her heart that it was too soon to wash away the blood from this day. The ornate pearl-studded silver torque of Ederynion hung around her slender neck, gleaming softly.

When she had last seen this hall the red and gold boar banner of the Warleader had hung over the dais. But that banner had been pulled down and burned. The white banner of the swan, outlined in silver and pearls with emerald eyes, once again hung on the wall.

The Bards had already shared the greatest of this day’s news with her—Ederynion was free. In the four northern cantrefs, the Cerddorian under Drwst Iron-Fist had been victorious, freeing the cantref of Dinan. Mechain had been freed under the leadership of Sima, Emrys’ sister. Cilyddas, the Lady of Rhwny, had led the forces that took back her cantref. Meilwen, the Lady of Cydewain, had escaped and retaken her cantref. The cantref of Penllyn was freed under the leadership of Llawra of Cynllaith, sister of Susanna, Queen Morrigan’s Bard. In Arystli, Angharad’s sister Eiodar had led her forces to victory.

All that the Coranians had taken was returned to them. Elen thought that, perhaps, her mother was watching this day. Watching with pride and a smile on her lovely face. Watching with pride not only in Elen, but also in her son, Lludd, whom she had not valued. But Elen did, and always had, from the very beginning. And Lludd had returned that loyalty tenfold, continuing to fight on against the enemy even when she had been captured, then coming for her and setting her free.

Now Lludd stood on her right and his tunic and trousers of sea green were stained and blood splattered. His left arm was in a sling, but he had so far refused medical attention, saying his hurt was not great. Elen made a mental note to ensure a Dewin gave him a Life-Reading before the day was done.

Rhiwallon, King Owein’s younger brother, stood on her left. She had not invited him to, he had simply done it, mounting the dais and standing by her chair as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It should have made Elen uneasy to recognize that it did, indeed, feel natural. But she simply accepted his presence and let herself be warmed by it.

Her captain, Angharad, stood at the bottom of the dais, her sword drawn, the point resting on the stone floor. Angharad’s mouth was still faintly stained with Emrys’ blood. Much as she wished to, Elen would not order Angharad to wash off that blood.

Talhearn stood at Angharad’s elbow, his quiet presence doing more for Angharad than any words.

Elen nodded to Angharad, and Angharad nodded to a Kymric warrior who stood just beside the entrance to the Great Hall. The warrior called out, and a prisoner was brought in.

The Byshop’s robe was torn and bloodstained, and his hands were tied behind his back. His graying blond hair was matted with sweat. He had belted a sword around his waist, but the scabbard was now empty. It had been Cuthwine who had rallied the Coranians to fight, for he had been the only one with authority left in the citadel. For General Talorcan had thrown in his lot with the Kymri when Elen had been rescued. And Guthlac, the Master-wyrce-jaga, had been killed that same night. That had happened little less than a month ago, and Havgan had not had the opportunity to put someone else in command.

The two warriors that escorted Cuthwine through the hall and to the bottom of the dais now stepped back at Angharad’s gesture. Elen’s captain quietly told Cuthwine to sink to his knees before Elen, and the Byshop did. He inclined his head briefly to her, then remained kneeling. His blue eyes gazed up at her stoically as he waited to hear his fate.

Elen knew Cuthwine of Cyncacestir very well from her years of captivity. The Byshop had been neither a particularly bad man, nor a particularly good one. He was simply a Coranian, who believed that, in bringing the word of his God, Lytir, he was doing what his God required of him. And he had not been overly squeamish about how he had attempted to convert the Kymri, for he had been sure that, for the good of their souls, he should be harsh when necessary. Yet he had been polite to Elen, giving her a certain amount of deference as nominal ruler of Ederynion. And he had never overtly threatened her Dewin, Regan, although he had certainly thought of her as one of the witches that needed to be carefully watched and controlled.

Yet for all that, he had not been cruel, only misguided, and she almost did not want to have him put to death.

Then don’t.

The voice in her head startled her, even as she recognized it. Intellectually she knew that the High King had that kind of power to Mind-Speak from such a tremendous distance. But it was another thing altogether to hear him so clearly.

“What would you have me do, High King?” she asked.

He is to take a message to Havgan for me. This message I believe you know.

Elen nodded, for she did, indeed, know the message. She rose to stand at the top of the stairs of the dais. She looked briefly down at her victorious warriors gathered in the Great Hall. Her heart felt full to overflowing as they gazed steadily back at her, as her hall once again housed the warriors of Ederynion, not of Corania.

Her gaze came to rest on the Byshop who still knelt at the bottom of the stairs. “Cuthwine of Cyncacestir, I had thought to kill you today. But High King Arthur has a task for you.”

“I regret I cannot do his bidding, Queen Elen,” Cuthwine said softly. “For my loyalty is to my church. And to the Warleader.”

“This task does not conflict with that loyalty, Cuthwine,” Elen said.

“Then tell me.”

“High King Arthur wishes you to go to the Warleader. You are to say to Havgan the Golden that he must leave Kymru. He must leave Kymru, or die. This is the message the High King wishes you to give your Bana. Will you do so?”

“I will do so, Queen of Ederynion,” Cuthwine said. “But I will do so in an attempt to spare my Warleader’s life, rather than because your High King wills it.”

“It does not matter why you do so, as long as you do it,” Elen said crisply. “But I do understand that you are a man who is loyal to what he believes in. It is an admirable trait. But one that does not, I fear, bring you much joy.”

“Joy is for another world, Elen,” Cuthwine said, his tone almost regretful.

“It is for this one, Byshop,” Elen said. “And for all of them. Did you not know?”

Cuthwine shook his head in disbelief. “I will not bandy words with you. But I must warn you, Elen. Havgan is not defeated. Today you have turned him out of Dinmael, but you have not beaten him.”

“Oh, but we have,” Elen said softly. “For not only is Dinmael freed, but all of Ederynion. And not only Ederynion, but Prydyn also, for Arberth was retaken yesterday. General Penda is even now on his way to Havgan with the same message you will carry.”

“Does your High King really think to persuade Havgan to run away?”

“He does not. He only hopes.”

“Then he will be doomed to disappointment, I fear. For Havgan will never run.”

“Then he will die,” Elen said.

“We shall see, Queen of Ederynion.”

At her nod a warrior led the Byshop from the hall and began preparations for his journey.

Elen rose and stood at the edge of the dais, looking out onto the sea of faces gathered in the hall. Lludd and Rhiwallon stepped forward with her, flanking her.

“Today,” she said, lifting her arms, “Ederynion is free!”

The warriors cheered until she gestured for silence. “Tomorrow we begin to muster for another great battle—the last one in this long game. We will go to join the High King on the fields of Gwytheryn.”

She gestured to Alun Cilcoed, who stood at the foot of the dais. Surprised, the Lord of Arystli came to stand before her. “Alun Cilcoed, loyal and true, I appoint you ruler here in Dinmael until I return.”

“Elen,” he gasped.

“I know I ask a great deal of you, my friend,” she said quietly. “I know you want to join us. But I must have someone my people trust to guide them. Will you say yes?”

“I will do as you will, my Queen,” Alun replied, bowing his head. “You will return to a Dinmael that will have been cleansed of the Coranian taint.”

Elen smiled. “Of course,” she said. “For now we are free.”

Tegeingl
Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 500

Meirgdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early morning

A
rday ur Medyr, mistress to General Catha of Corania and one-time mistress to the now dead King Madoc of Gwynedd, opened her dark eyes, instantly awake when she heard the call.

Arday.

She sat up in bed cautiously, careful not to wake Catha. He slept with his back to her, his breathing even. The hawk worked in silver threads and brown silk on the coverlet of dark blue seemed to flutter in the dull light of the glowing embers on the hearth. She had shared this bed many times before, but with King Madoc. But now Madoc was dead at the hands of his own father. And Catha, who had ruled Gwynedd in all but name for the last few years, had moved into Madoc’s room, the room that had once belonged to King Uthyr.

Arday.

She could not answer, for she was not a Bard. But she knew that Susanna would know that her call was heard.

It has begun.

Arday smiled and glanced out the window. Thick fog pressed against the glass. Silently she got out of bed, cautiously pulling her long, dark hair out of Catha’s sleeping grasp. She put on her robe, fastening the red, velvet garment around her waist. Not taking her eyes from Catha’s still form, she gently ran her hands beneath the feather-stuffed mattress and pulled out a long gleaming dagger.

For a moment she stood on the other side of the bed, eyeing Catha’s muscular back, contemplating. But, in the end, she decided to carry out her original plan. Family honor was more important than killing Catha just now. Catha’s turn would come. And come, no doubt, at the hands of Morrigan, King Uthyr’s daughter. A just punishment, she thought, for it had been Catha who had killed Uthyr. She would not steal that away from Morrigan, the queen whom Arday had worked in secret for so long to bring back.

She knew that Susanna had awakened her so that Arday could get to safety before the attack began. But she had business to take care of first. She felt that the gods were with her, for the man she must now see had come to Tegeingl just a few days ago. There would be no need for her to hunt him down, and no chance that another might steal her vengeance from her.

She crept from the room, noiselessly opening then closing the door behind her. She made her way silently down the dark corridor, halting at the door of the chamber she sought. Catha had allowed the man to stay in what had once been Queen Ygraine’s chamber, saying that he was an honored guest. Her lip had curled at that, but she was glad now, for that meant she had not had to go far to find him. She briefly closed her eyes as she steeled herself. She must do what she must do. And may the gods accept the sacrifice.

She silently opened the door and slipped inside. He lay on his back, deep asleep, linens in a tangle around his sweat-soaked body. So, he had been having nightmares. That was good. For he deserved all of them and then some.

She crept to the bed then called his name. He needed to understand why, or it would mean nothing.

“Menwaed,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

Her brother stirred and opened his eyes. “Arday?” he asked, his voice blurred with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

Without another word she thrust her dagger into his heart. He gasped, his hands flying up to close on hers around the hilt of the dagger in his chest. His dark eyes were wide with shock and pain as he looked up at her, his back arching in agony.

Her eyes were limned with tears, but her face was stern as she looked down at him, her hands, covered with his warm blood, still on the hilt of the dagger that impaled him. “You were Lord of Arllechwedd, Menwaed,” she whispered. “Your duty was to fight by King Uthyr’s side. But you betrayed him, for Madoc and the Coranians.”

Menwaed looked up at her in disbelief, even as his blood soaked the mattress, even as the light began to fade from his eyes. She twisted the hilt of the dagger and he stiffened with the added pain.

“You should never have done that, brother,” she said gently. “You ruined our family honor. I was only too eager to put things right when Anieron Master Bard asked me to. For the past years I have been his source of information, gleaning for him what I could from both Madoc and Catha. Helping to keep Princess Tangwen safe. Doing whatever I could to aid the Cerddorian and ensure Queen Morrigan returns to her rightful place in Caer Gwynt. Did you really think I would betray my people? Did you really think I was like you?”

But Menwaed did not answer, for his spirit had fled his dead body. Arday thought that he would have a bad time of it in Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer. For surely Aertan the Weaver would ensure that Menwaed paid dearly for his crimes.

She had waited a long time for this day. She was looking forward to welcoming Queen Morrigan to the Great Hall.

But when she heard the door open behind her, she knew that was not to be.

M
ORRIGAN WAITED PATIENTLY
—though that was a struggle, for it was not really in her nature—for her Bard, Susanna, to finish Mind-Speaking. Although Susanna’s eyes were opened, they were slightly glazed, so Morrigan knew she must wait a little while longer.

Mist swirled and eddied as the Cerddorian silently took their places before the closed gates of Tegeingl. The Dewin had already informed her that her lieutenant, Bedwyr, was in position at the western gate, while Duach, Lord of Dunoding, was in position at the southern gate. Morrigan, along with her captain, Cai, was now ready at the eastern gate.

She briefly touched the helm on her head, fashioned in silver and sapphire like a hawk with spread wings. Her father had given it to her mother the day he had sent Ygraine away from Tegeingl. He had also given her the ornate torque of silver and sapphire that now hung around Morrigan’s slender neck.

Morrigan was dressed in a tunic and trousers of dark blue, with a brown leather belt and high, brown leather boots. The scabbard of her sword was fastened to her belt, and the hilts of two daggers showed at the cuffs of her boots. Her auburn hair had been tightly braided to her scalp and bound beneath her helm.

On the other side of Susanna stood Yrth, one of the Druids that had been sent here by Aergol. Yrth’s seamed face was calm and his eyes were open, but sweat beaded his brow at the effort he was making, for he, along with four other Druids, was linked with her brother, Arthur, making the fog that seemed to rise from the grass at their feet.

Slightly to the right of Susanna stood Cai, Morrigan’s captain. Cai held a hunting horn in his hands as he scanned the sky above them. Yet, as often as he eyed the sky, his dark brown gaze went to Susanna’s flawless face. The love and fear Morrigan saw in Cai’s eyes was so intense she could barely watch. For Morrigan knew that he loved the Bard, but he was afraid to tell her so. For it had been here, at the last battle in Tegeingl, that Cai had lost his wife and son, and the pain of that had marked him forever. His fear of being hurt that way again was just as strong as his love for Susanna. Perhaps, Morrigan thought, it always would be.

At last Susanna turned to Morrigan, her blue eyes sparkling. “Our spy has been awakened. She knows we are here.”

“Now will you tell me who it is?” Morrigan asked, somewhat acidly.

“Her secret was shared with me by Anieron Master Bard, and passed on to Elidyr Master Bard and so to High King Arthur, your brother. And without their permission, I have not been able to tell you,” Susanna said mildly. “But now Arthur says that I may tell you who it is. It is Arday, your father’s former steward.”

“Arday!” Morrigan cried softly. “I can’t believe it. Why, she has been Madoc’s mistress—and Catha’s—for years.”

“And, therefore, in a perfect position to hear the things that we must know,” Susanna pointed out. “I would have thought that Tangwen, at least, would have suspected her, for Arday did much to save Tangwen from Catha’s desires.”

Morrigan eyed her childhood friend, who had been standing on her left. “Well, Tangwen?” Morrigan asked. “Did you suspect Arday?”

“In truth, Morrigan, I did not,” Tangwen replied softly. “Though I was aware that, once or twice, she helped me steer clear of Catha.” A slight shiver seemed to go through Tangwen as she said that.

Prince Rhodri stood on Tangwen’s left, and at his granddaughter’s tone he briefly put a hand on her shoulder. He balefully eyed the fog, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His once red-gold hair was silvery now, but his blue eyes were as alert as ever. Since he had killed his son, Madoc, Rhodri had become more personable, less defensive, and Morrigan had come to know him a little better. And she now trusted him a great deal.

The fog eddied before her as a figure moved through it, coming to stand by her shoulder. Morrigan’s mother was dressed in brown leather tunic and trousers and her auburn hair, touched by frost, was tightly braided and tucked beneath a simple helmet. Ygraine’s dark eyes, cool and watchful as always, scanned the sky, though Morrigan knew she would not be able to see anything through the fog.

“Susanna,” Morrigan said, “please ensure that the other Bards tell our warriors to spare Arday. I want her brought to me unharmed, so that I may give her my thanks.”

“I will, my Queen,” Susanna said and began to do Morrigan’s bidding.

Morrigan put an arm on her mother’s slim shoulders. She knew her mother was thinking of the last time she had been in Tegeingl. It had been the day that Uthyr had sent her away, knowing that the enemy would soon be at the gates, knowing that his death was near. Although this day meant much to Morrigan she knew how much this day also meant to her mother.

And then she heard it. The sound of hundreds upon hundreds of wings beating the air above. The fog swirled as the air over Tegeingl stirred.

The signal that Arthur had promised. It had come.

“Cai, blow the horn!” Morrigan called.

And Cai brought the horn to his lips and blew. At this the fog blew away, showing a clear dawn. Above them hundreds of hawks flew, their fierce cries vying with the cry of the hunting horn.

Yrth lifted his hands and threw back his head to the sky. And with a mighty shout, the gates of Tegeingl came crashing down.

C
ATHA’S EYES OPENED
the moment Arday stepped out into the corridor, softly closing the door to their room after her. He wondered just whom she was thinking of visiting in the middle of the night. Some Coranian warrior, perhaps, who had caught her eye? Perhaps she thought he would not mind, for he had shared her with Madoc for the past few years. But he did mind. Madoc was gone. Arday was his and his alone. He would not share her. When he tired of her, he would discard her without a second thought. But share her? No. Not any more.

He went to the door, quietly opening it a crack. He was just in time to see her enter the queen’s chamber. So, she was going to see her brother. But why? Were they both in league against him? Plotting, perhaps, to take the throne of Gwynedd? If they were, they would both learn better.

He took a moment to pull on trousers and his boots. He picked up his dagger and crossed to the door. The embers of the dying fire glowed, lighting his blond hair, his cold, blue eyes, and his handsome, cruel face.

He reached the door to the queen’s chambers, where the Lord of Arllechwedd slept. He was not prepared for the sight that reached his eyes when he opened the door.

Menwaed was dead and the mattress was drenched in his blood. Arday’s dagger protruded from her brother’s chest. She whirled around as she heard the door open, her hand pulling the bloody dagger from Menwaed’s body.

Catha stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. Arday stood in a semi-crouch next to the bed, her dagger ready. He almost smiled. For this would be a moment he would savor for years. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“So,” he said softly. “All this time. It was you.”

“It was,” she replied. “You are, I believe, surprised.”

“I admit that I am,” he said, stepping nearer. “I knew someone was giving information to the Cerddorian. Not too much. Not enough to pinpoint the source. But enough to cause some upsets. A caravan attacked here, a secret raid gone wrong there. Just enough. You were clever. But not, my dear, clever enough. For now you are well and truly caught. Do you think that I will let you live?”

“Do you think that you will survive this day?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

She gestured to the window where a white mist pressed heavily. “Did you not notice? A very heavy fog—so unusual for this time of year. And dawn just a few moments away.”

“What are you saying?” he demanded, stepping still closer.

“You know what I am saying,” she answered, shaking her long, dark hair back from her face, taking a fresh hold of her dagger. “Today is the end for you. Surely you didn’t think that you could hold back Morrigan forever?”

“If she is here as you say, then today will be the day she dies. I killed her father. I can kill her.”

“I think not,” Arday said, a smile on her beautiful face. “For her brother, High King Arthur, directs this battle from afar. He is stronger than you can even imagine. Today will be your death-day.”

“And yours,” he cried as he leapt forward.

Arday lifted her dagger but he was too quick for her. He grabbed her wrist and twisted. With a cry she let go of the dagger. He pulled her to him, feeling her lush body through her red robe full length against his. He bent his head and kissed her, forcing her mouth open.

It was when he felt her change in his grip, when he knew that she hoped to use his passion against him, when he knew she thought she might live, that he struck. He plunged the knife between her beautiful breasts and into her heart.

He should have seen shock in her dark eyes. He should have seen terror. He should have seen the knowledge of her defeat. But instead he saw a smile. Saw her sureness that today he would die. Saw clearly that, in the end, he was the one defeated.

And then the light in her eyes died and she went limp in his arms. He dropped her heavily to the floor, like a broken toy he no longer wanted. He opened his mouth to call for the guards, but the call died on his lips. For that was the moment he heard the fierce cries of hundreds of hawks, and then the call of a hunting horn. Then crash after crash as what he knew to be the gates of Tegeingl came down.