May Earth Rise (37 page)

“Tangwen ur Madoc var Bri,” Morrigan inquired solemnly, though she too had a smile on her face, “do you truly wish to wed Bedwyr ap Bedrawd?”

“I do,” Tangwen answered, blushing still further.

“Then I, too, will announce some news of my own,” Morrigan went on. “As the former Lord of Rhufonoig, Madoc ap Rhodri, is dead, a new ruler must be found for that cantref. And you are my choice. Lady of Rhufonoig, will you swear fealty to me?”

Tangwen’s jaw dropped in surprise. Laughing, Bedwyr pushed her up the steps, for she seemed too shocked to believe what she had heard. Tangwen knelt before Morrigan, tears streaming down her face.

Morrigan drew her sword and lightly touched Tangwen’s left shoulder with the blade, then her right. “In the name of Taran of the Winds, you are mine.”

Well done, sister.

As the Cerddorian applauded first Tangwen’s engagement then her elevation to Lady, all of Cai’s attention was focused on the beautiful face of the woman he so loved. Susanna watched Tangwen and Bedwyr with tears in her eyes, remembering, perhaps, her lover, Griffi, who had been King Uthyr’s Druid. Griffi had died the day King Uthyr had, died defending his king. Died, indeed, only a few days after Cai’s wife and son had died.

Their deaths, the deaths of Nest and Garanwyn, still haunted him. For he had so loved them; they had been his world. And when they died so much of Cai had died also. So much that it had taken him a long time to realize that he was even capable of loving again. And by the time he realized that, it was far too late to change it. For he had fallen in love with Susanna and he could not fall out of love with her, try as he might.

And he had tried, because he hadn’t wanted to love her. He had been too afraid. But there was no going back. His heart simply refused to come back to him. And when he saw the happiness on Tangwen’s and Bedwyr’s faces, he had thought that, for one brief moment, such happiness might be possible for him again.

It is.

Cai knew that voice. It was the voice of the son of the man he had served so faithfully. It was the voice of the High King of Kymru.

Your fears make you foolish, Cai. Be strong. Be brave. Be true.

Be true, Cai thought. Why had he never thought of it that way before? Be true. And his truth was Susanna. As if in a dream he walked forward, past Tangwen, who was rising to her feet, now Lady of Rhufonoig. Past Morrigan, who was sheathing her sword. Down the steps and past Ygraine, whose dark eyes glinted as she guessed what he was going to do. Past Gwyhar, Susanna’s son, whose face tightened with unspoken hope. And up to Susanna.

“Susanna ur Erim, Y Dawnus of Kymru, Bard to Queen Morrigan of Gwynedd, will you take me as your husband?”

Gwyhar gave out a whoop of joy. Bedwyr shouted in glee. Ygraine actually smiled. Morrigan grinned.

But Susanna stood as though rooted to the spot, her beautiful blue eyes misted with tears.

“Susanna?” he asked, uncertainly. “I—I know I am not the best man you have ever known. But I do love you truly. Will you—will you at least think about it?”

“Will I think about it?” she cried with a smile, tears spilling down her face. “You foolish man, I have thought of little else. Yes, Cai ap Cynyr, I will marry you.”

And he took her in his arms and kissed her as he had so longed to do, and it was even sweeter than he had ever imagined. His heart gave a little sigh, for he was home at last.

M
ORRIGAN COULDN’T SEEM
to stop smiling. That Tangwen and Bedwyr were so happy, that Cai had, at last, shown how brave he truly was, touched her. She walked to the edge of the dais and stood looking down at the Cerddorian massed there. She lifted her hands. “Today I declare that Gwynedd is free!” The roar from her warriors was almost deafening.

“Tomorrow we begin muster for the final battle in Gwytheryn. I appoint Rhodri ap Erddufyl, he who was once King of Gwynedd, to rule until I return.”

The roar that accompanied this announcement was almost as deafening. Rhodri’s jaw dropped, for he had not expected this. Tears came to his blue eyes, and he knelt before her.

“I will do as you wish, Queen Morrigan, in expiation for my son. I will not fail you.”

“I never though you would, Prince Rhodri,” Morrigan murmured. “I never thought you would.”

Llwynarth
Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 500

Gwyntdydd, Cynuddu Wythnos—early morning

Enid ur Urien, sometime Queen of Rheged, stood quietly outside the gates of Llwynarth. Dense fog shrouded the city, turning those warriors that surrounded her into ghostlike figures.

Very substantial ghosts, she amended. More substantial than she, for they were whole, and prepared to fight to take back what was once theirs. And she? Well, she was not whole and would not, perhaps, ever be. Morcant and Bledri had seen to that. As for fighting—well, that was another thing she could not do. For all her strength had been sapped out of her during those long nights in a cell beneath the fortress where she had once lived. During those nights when Bledri would come to her, nights when he would strip her and play with her, and force her to do things she still could not think about without shame.

But those were nothing to the nights with her husband, Morcant. For Morcant gloried in pain and had spent his nights trying to force her to cry out, violating her in ways she had not even dreamed were possible.

The only thing she could say about that was that she had kept her silence during those endless hours in hell. In that small way she had measured her victory. It was the only victory she had, the only one she would ever have.

For though her desecrated body had at last been rescued, the rest of her was still in prison. Every night since she was rescued from Caer Erias she woke up in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, certain that Morcant or Bledri was just outside her tent. But she would lock her screams in her throat and had never told anyone of those fears. Nonetheless, she thought they knew. She was certain that her brother, Owein, did. And she thought his wife, Sanon, was also aware of it. They saw it, perhaps, in her drawn face, in the purplish cast beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless hours in the still of the night.

And Geriant would have known, had he been here. Geriant had always known her, better than anyone ever had. But he had returned to Prydyn to aid his father. He had come for her, rescued her, then left her.

She remembered clearly the day he had left her. He had come to her tent and asked her to walk with him. She had not wanted to leave her tent, the only sanctuary she had, but she had wanted even less to have a man—any man—enter that tent. She thought, perhaps, that Geriant had known that very well.

They had walked away from the clearing in Coed Addien where her brother and his Cerddorian made their plans to recapture Rheged. They had walked in silence beneath the trees for a while. Then Geriant had stopped and turned to face her.

“I am leaving tomorrow, Enid,” Geriant had said quietly.

Her jolt of dismay had taken her by surprise. But she had betrayed nothing of it.

“I go to join my da,” Geriant had gone on, in spite of her silence. “It will soon be time for us to free Prydyn, and I must be with him.”

“Of course,” she had said, for it was clear she must say something.

“I would stay if I could.”

“It is best that you don’t.”

“No?” His blue eyes, blazing in intensity, had caught hers. Somehow she tore her gaze away and looked down at the leaf-covered ground.

“Enid,” he had said, reaching out to touch her face.

But she had leapt back, her hand, of its own volition, grasping the dagger at her belt.

Slowly, Geriant had lowered his hand, his eyes bleak. “I see,” he had said quietly.

“I don’t think you do!” she had replied harshly.

“Oh, I think I do.”

And he had. Of course. Hadn’t he always?

“Goodbye, Enid. My dearest love.”

Then he had turned and left her, his shoulders bowed but his steps firm and purposeful.

That had been some days ago. Almost before she knew it the day had come when Owein, with the power of the High King at his back, would gamble all. According to the Dewin, the people in the city were ready and armed, awaiting the signal soon to come. And the Cerddorian massed silently outside the gates, their movements hidden by the fog generated by the Druids through the power of High King Arthur, who was far away in Cadair Idris.

The five Druids, lead by Owein’s Druid, Sabrina, stood still as statues, their eyes closed, their fists clenched, their brown robes barely moving with their shallow breaths. And the Cerddorian stood just as silently, their swords and spears ready. The Cerddorian at the north gate were led by Gwarae Golden-Hair, while those at the east waited with Trystan, Owein’s captain, at their head. Teleri, Owein’s lieutenant, led the forces at the west gate while Owein and his wife Sanon would lead those at the south gate where Enid now stood.

The fog swirled and eddied as one figure came to stand next to her. Without even looking at him, she spoke, her voice muted and hushed. “This is your day, brother.”

“Our day,” Owein replied quietly.

She shook her head. “It is yours. Today you take back what you lost.”

“And you?”

She turned to him, a bitter smile on her face. His red tunic was muted in the fog, giving it the sheen of old blood. Opals and gold flashed from the torque of Rheged clasped around his neck. On his head he wore the helm she had last seen her father wear.

The helmet was made of gold, fashioned like the head of a fierce stallion. The horse’s eyes were fiery opals which shone even in the fog with a light all their own.

She, too, was dressed for battle, wearing a stiff leather tunic of white and breeches of red. Her white leather boots reach to mid-calf and her auburn hair was braided tightly to her scalp. She was armed with a short sword and knives tucked into the top of her boots. Yet for all that, she would not fight this day. Would not fight again, ever. She was only dressed as a warrior due to Owein’s insistence, only here at his firm bidding. She would do this much for him and no more. And nothing at all for herself.

Owein’s blue eyes searched hers and dimmed at what he saw there.

“What I have lost cannot be returned to me,” she said.

“Not if you will not fight to take it back,” Owein replied.

“A lecture from you, brother?” she asked, turning back to look at the fog-shrouded city walls.

Owein shook his head. “Never. But still it seems to me, little sister, that you are a prisoner of your own choosing. If that is not true then why will you not fight today for Kymru’s freedom? Or for your own?”

“I will not fight because I cannot fight. I do not have the strength. It is one of the many things they took from me.”

“It is not the strength you lack. It is the will.”

“So it is,” she agreed mildly. “Leave me be, brother, for there is no help for me.”

“By your choice.”

She turned to him, her eyes blazing. “Much you know of it,” she hissed. “You who have never been helpless before such depravity, you who have never had to endure what I endured while keeping your screams locked in your throat. And all because I was a fool. Well, I have paid for that foolishness. And I will keep paying until the debt is done.”

“The debt is paid, Enid,” Owein said quietly. “Paid in full.”

“Just leave me be, Owein. I will stay here, outside the gates, and wait for word of your victory. And when it comes I will leave this place and return, alone, to Coed Addien. I will build a small house there in the woods, and you and Sanon will visit me once a year, and bring your children with you. I will exclaim how they have grown, and congratulate you on your brood, your loving wife, on the opal torque clasped around your neck. You will pester me, at the end of each visit, to come to the city. You will, in your heart, think to yourself that I live alone because I like to suffer. You will think I could have the choice to be free, but will not take it. In your heart you will blame me for how uncomfortable I will make you feel. But you will let me do this. Because you know there is no other way for me.”

Owein smiled unexpectedly and Enid blinked. “You seem to be very sure of the future, sister,” he said. “At one time I thought I knew what mine would be, too. I thought that I would never marry, I thought that I would never see Caer Erias again, I thought that I would die in bitterness and sorrow. But I was wrong. For Sanon, the love of my heart, is now my wife. And I will see Caer Erias again in a matter of moments. And if I die this day it will not be with either bitterness or sorrow. It will be with gratitude for the happiness I was granted, even if only for a brief time.”

The fog swirled again and Sanon, Enid’s sister-in-law, laid a hand on Owein’s arm. Her golden hair, so like her brother Geri-ant’s, gleamed. Her dark eyes were fastened on her husband, her gaze trusting and strong.

Sanon opened her mouth to speak, but Enid shushed her. “I hear it,” she said.

The others stood still, straining to hear.

“I think you must be mistaken, Enid,” Sanon began, then she stopped as she, too, heard what Enid had heard.

A faint rumbling emanated from the south. Beneath their feet the ground began to shake, trembling with the news of what was rushing toward them. The rumbling grew louder.

“At my signal, Sabrina,” Owein said to his Druid. And though Sabrina did not open her eyes, she nodded.

The rumbling was massive now, though the cause was still hidden by the enshrouding fog. As one the warriors moved back from the gate.

“Now,” Owein called, and Sabrina and her four Druids opened their eyes and raised their faces to the sky. In that moment the fog disappeared, gone as though it had never been. And Owein and his warriors turned to face the south horizon, to see what they knew they would see.

Wild horses crested the horizon, pouring down the hills and toward the city. Horses white as snow, horses black as night, horses golden as the sun, horses brown as newly turned earth raced across the meadow, their eyes fierce.

“Sabrina!” Owein called, and at his command Sabrina and her Druids raised their fists to the sky. And as they did so the gates opened with a crash.

The lead stallion, his golden coat glistening, his fiery gaze on Owein, halted for a moment before the king. The stallion reared and neighed fiercely. And Owein grabbed the horse’s mane and leapt onto the animal’s back. The horse neighed again and whirled to the gate, leading the herd into the city.

The Cerddorian poured in the gates after the horses. Sanon, with Owein’s name on her lips, sprang forward through the gate.

But Enid stayed where she was, holding her ground.

T
HE
C
ERDDORIAN, LED
by Owein, streamed into the city, mingling freely with the wild herd. The horses pounded down the streets, nimbly avoiding the townsfolk who were even now spilling from their houses, weapons in their hands.

A contingent of Coranian warriors, obviously just awakened from a sound sleep, emerged from one of the houses. One of the horses neighed fiercely and sprang toward the warriors, followed by other horses who had caught their scent. The warriors cried out and turned to flee back into the house, but found their way barred by armed townsfolk. They turned back, looking for another way out, but it was too late. The horses reared, striking at the Coranians with their hooves. The men went down in a heap, their heads split open, their bones crushed, their blood spilling onto the cobbled road.

Owein smiled as he clung to the golden stallion’s back. The first blow had gone to the horses. And that was as it should be in the country of Rheged. His smile faded as he saw the Temple of Lytir, erected on what had once been the sacred ground of Nemed Draenenwen, the grove of hawthorn trees where the people of Llwynarth had celebrated their festivals, where the queens of Rheged had gone to bear their children. Owein himself and his brothers and sister had all been born there, beneath the branches of the once-sheltering trees. At this time of year the grove should have been white with the clusters of delicate flowers that should have studded the tree branches. But the trees were gone, uprooted and burned when the Coranians built the huge, wooden temple to their God.

The temple loomed before him, silent and forbidding in the early morning light. It was made of a series of sloping roofs of different heights, grouped around a large, square tower. A walkway ran around the building, enclosed by a low wall and topped by an arcade. The gables were carved with an array of beasts—boars and dragons, horses and eagles, serpents and hinds. Steps led up to the huge, double doors of the main entrance.

Owein urged the stallion forward and the horse leapt up the stairs to the closed doors. Outside the doors two torches were lit, set in iron brackets against the wall. He grabbed one of the torches and leapt from the stallion’s back. He thrust against the doors and entered the building. This was the place where his sister had been forced to wed Morcant. This was the place dedicated to the Coranian’s jealous god. This would be the place that must be destroyed. Today.

He raced down the nave and touched the torch to the white and gold banner of Lytir that lay on the stone altar. The cloth ignited, as though eager to be cleansed by the fire. He backed away, lighting pew after wooden pew. The interior began to fill with smoke, crackling wildly as the hungry fire consumed its prey. He reached the doors and flung the torch down the aisle, whirling around and out again down the stairs.

The stallion was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps, his eyes glowing in the light of the fire. The animal neighed, calling out his challenge. He rose on his hind legs, his forelegs kicking out to the sky. Owein leapt back onto the horse’s back and gave his own cry, calling out his challenge to his warriors and the townsfolk gathered there.

“Forward Kymri! Fight the enemy and take back what was ours! I charge you with this in the name of my murdered father, King Urien; in the name of my murdered mother, Queen Ellirri, in the name of my murdered brother, Prince Elphin!”

His wife, Sanon, ran to him, her sword already red with Coranian blood, her dark eyes fierce and glowing. He reached out his hand and pulled her behind him onto the stallion’s back.

The horse leapt forward, making for Caer Erias, the fortress where he knew Morcant and Bledri huddled, hatching pathetic schemes to spare their lives.