Crimson Fire (13 page)

Havgan yawned and reached for a sausage. “I’m
fi
ne. Just a little tired.”

“You could carry away treasure in the bags under your eyes,” Sigerric said.

“So kind of you to point that out,” Havgan said with a grin. Before Havgan even had the chance to begin his meal, his steward came hurrying into the hall, followed closely by a man

dressed in gold, the Emperor’s device sewn on his tunic. Hav- gan’s men fell silent as the steward and the messenger made their way to the head table. Havgan rose, nodding at the messenger. “You are welcome here, sir,” Havgan said formally, as cus-

tom demanded. “May I offer you food and drink?”

The messenger shook his head. “Lord Havgan, I am com- manded to summon you to the palace. At once.”

“Only me?” Havgan asked, his amber eyes sharp. “You may bring with you one of your men.”

“Lord Havgan can hardly go unattended,” the steward began. “Do not fear for your lord,” the messenger said quietly. “All

the lords here in Athelin are summoned to the palace. And all are commanded to restrict their retinue to one.”

Knowing further questions would be useless, Havgan merely nodded at the messenger. “I will dress and come at once.”

“All arms are to be left here, my lord,” the messenger said. “Of course,” Havgan replied smoothly.

A
S
H
AVGAN AND
Sigerric neared Cynerice Scima, they were all but swallowed up by the huge crowd that had converged on the palace at the same time. Havgan recognized all of the lords, a great many of whom had come to the capital to take part in the tournament.

Besides the lords, he also recognized many other important citizens. Ethbrand, the Arch-wyrce-jaga of Coran was there in a black velvet robe and a taBard of deep blue, attended by Sledda. Sledda nodded at Havgan and Sigerric, but Ethbrand did not acknowledge them beyond a sharp glance to ensure that Havgan was wearing the ruby ring Sledda had given him the night before.

They streamed across the bridge that spanned the River Saefern. The spires of the palace soared delicately, shimmering like
fi
ne crystal beneath the clear, blue sky.

At last they came to Gulden Hul. As always, the room shim- mered with golden light. But the jeweled birds in the Golden Tree were silent. Guards ringed the empty dais with the two golden thrones. Havgan noticed that the Archpreost himself, Whitgar, was standing at the foot of the dais, resplendent in vio- let robes. A huge amulet of gold and amethysts hung around his massive neck, representing the tree upon which Lytir had died. Whitgar’s massive white beard stopped just short of covering the amulet, and his gray hair was braided into hundreds of tiny braids, all tied off with gold beads.

They all waited in the golden chamber, for the most part silent. The few who did speak did so in whispers, and only brie
fl
y. At last they heard the sound of trumpets and the Em- peror and Empress entered, ascended the dais, then took their places on the two golden thrones. Princess Aelfwyn, in her customary white and with a spray of diamonds in her blond hair, entered next,
fl
anked by her uncle, Prince Aesc, and her aunt, Princess Aesthryth. The three came to stand between the two thrones.

The faces of the
fi
ve royal family members were carefully expressionless. But Havgan thought he saw traces of grief in the set of Aesc’s mouth, in the tightening of Aesthryth’s chin, in the pale blue eyes of the Emperor. He saw no traces of emotion at all in either the Empress or Aelfwyn.

At that moment Princess Aesthryth’s corn
fl
ower blue eyes

scanned the room until she saw Havgan. As the Emperor’s sister registered his presence, she quickly looked away. But not before

Havgan had seen something in her eyes. The merest whiff of suspicion, the vaguest hint of—could it have been?—fear.
But why?
Havgan thought, completely at a loss. He had done noth- ing. Nothing at all.

In the now-silent hall the Emperor spoke. “I bring sorrow- ful news to you all. Let it be known that last night my brother, Prince Athelric, Warleader of our glorious Empire, died.”

A shocked murmur ran through the room. Havgan started as though from an electric shock. Athelric was dead? How could that possibly be?

The Emperor went on. “He was burned to death in his bed.” “But who?” the Eorl of Ivelas called out. “Who could have

done such a thing?”

“He was sharing his bed with a woman. A woman who, ap- parently, had much cause to hate him,” Prince Aesc answered. “It is obvious that she herself must have set
fi
re to the bed

after he fell asleep,” the Emperor said.

“Must have? She did not confess?” Ethbrand, the Arch- wyrce-jaga asked.

“She said only that she woke to
fl
ames surrounding the bed.

Of course, that is not a story to be believed. However, it is not possible to question her further for my brother’s guards, in a frenzy of anger, killed her.”

“They arrived too late,” Prince Aesc said
fl
atly, “to save my

brother.”

“Why did they arrive so late?” Archpreost Whitgar asked. “Where were they?”

“They were outside Athelric’s door, as they should have been,” the Emperor said. “But they were held up at the door when it refused to open. At last they had to take their axes to it.”

“It was locked?” Whitgar asked.

“It was not. It simply would not open.”

Havgan, his thoughts awhirl, barely noticed that Princess Aesthryth had once again found him with her corn
fl
ower gaze. His prayer. His prayer from the night before had been an- swered. Oh, surely Lytir was with him. Surely he was God’s champion and God himself had proclaimed it by bringing about Athelric’s death.

The Emperor rose then and took his daughter’s hand. Aelf- wyn, her white skin as pale as marble, raised her head proudly and looked out over the assembly. Her expressionless face did not change as her father continued. “The death of my brother means that the post of Bana is vacant. By law, the post must be opened to all those who wish to enter the contest to win it. The vic- tor will be proclaimed Warleader of the Empire and will marry my daughter, she who is known as Steorra Heofen, the Star of Heaven, beautiful and bright.” At this the Emperor’s voice broke. Aelfwyn’s hands trembled for a brief moment, and her mask seemed to slip slightly, showing the fear that lay beneath.

But the Empress, after shooting a venomous look at her hus- band, rose and spoke coldly and clearly. “Formal challenges will be heard by the Witan four months from now, during Er- monath. One year from now, the winner of the Gewinnan Daeg tournament will marry Princess Aelfwyn.”

At her mother’s words, Aelfwyn regained control, standing so still that she seemed like a statue—beautiful and cold, never to be warm again.

Nardaeg, Sol 7—early afternoon

O
VER FIVE WEEKS
later, Sigerric and Havgan at last arrived at

Sigerric’s home in Angelesford. As they passed the cow house and the barn, their horses threading their way through the scur- rying chickens, slaves and serfs looked up from their work and waved greetings to Sigerric. When they entered the gate into the courtyard, slaves took their horses as the two men dismounted.

To their right, the door of the weaving room opened, and Lady Elgiva descended the steps, her distaff still in her hand. Sigerric shouted his greeting and then, upon reaching his mother, boisterously picked her up, swinging her around. Between her demands to be let down, she laughed, her silvery-blond hair shining beneath the sun, her dark eyes alight with welcome.

At last Sigerric set her down and she turned to Havgan, her face
fl
ushed with joy. She gave him her hand and he kissed it gently. “You are both most welcome here,” she said in her rich voice.

“My mother?” Havgan asked anxiously.

“Was here again this morning,” Elgiva said gently. “I as- sured her that you would be along soon.”

“Right as always,” Sigerric said. “Havgan, do you wish to see her alone?”

“No,” Havgan said instantly, before he even thought. He

fl
ushed.

“Of course, I’ll go with you,” Sigerric said swiftly.

“Thank you,” Havgan said gratefully, all his arrogance gone. “Then let us go, for the sooner we go, the sooner we will return,” Sigerric said, in an effort to be cheerful. “Father?” he

asked Elgiva.

“Out surveying the sowing,” Elgiva said. “He will be back for dinner.”

“Then I will greet him upon our return,” Sigerric said.

“The soonest done, the soonest over,” Elgiva said, sympa- thy in her eyes as she gently laid her hand on Havgan’s arm.

He tried to smile at her but could not. He swallowed hard, and without another word, turned and left to make his way through the town.

Sigerric followed silently as they passed houses of wattle and thatch, recently harvested kitchen gardens, chickens scratching for food, small children playing and shouting, and denuded apple trees. Men and women hailed Sigerric, and the children stopped and stared in awe as the two warriors passed.

At last they came to the last house on the outskirts of the town. The dwelling had walls that had once been whitewashed but were now a dirty gray. The thatch was bare in some places, giving the hovel a diseased look. The garden was straggly and unkempt. Two dispirited hens and one rooster rooted for food in the muddy yard. The door was closed, and no sound came from the silent house.

Havgan marched to the door and opened it, Sigerric right behind him. The shutters were closed and the room was dim. A pallet lay against the far wall, covered with a dirty sheepskin. His mother’s spinning wheel was in the far corner, beneath a layer of dust. A
fi
re burned feebly in the hearth, doing little to illuminate the room. A pile of rags huddled in the corner near the
fi
re.

Havgan saw his father
fi
rst, sitting at the rough table in the center of the room, a wooden cup of ale in his large, callused hand. Hengist’s once-massive shoulders were bowed as though under some unseen weight. His golden hair had whitened with age. He raised his head at Havgan’s entrance, and his dark eyes did not register any pleasure at the sight of his son.

“Why are you here?” Hengist demanded quietly. “Why have you come back?”

“Maeder has been asking for me,” Havgan replied, just as quietly. “Where is she?”

The pile of what Havgan had taken to be rags suddenly moved. Havgan’s mother rose, tottering toward him. She was thin almost to the point of emaciation. Her scant gray hair hung lank around her bony shoulders. Her pale, gray eyes in her strangely unlined face were alight as she reached out to him.

“My gift from the sea,” she said in her lilting, singsong voice. “My son.”

He gently took her in his arms and hugged her, careful not to squeeze too hard. “Maeder,” he said softly. “I have come.”

“Why did you send for him?” Hengist asked his wife harshly. Hildegyth did not answer her husband. She looked up at

Havgan and said, very simply, “Come home, my son.”

“I cannot do that, Maeder,” he said as gently as he could. “God has called me.”

“To kill witches,” Hengist rasped with a ghastly smile on his face.

“Yes,” Havgan said evenly. “To kill the witches of Kymru.” “I know a witch who needs killing,” Hengist said, the grin

still on his lined face.

Havgan’s mother stiffened, but still did not address her hus- band. “My son, I beg you. Come home. Do not pursue the witches of Kymru. Do not go over the sea.”

“Why not?” Havgan asked.

“The sea gave you to me. It may take you back again.” “I don’t understand—” Havgan began.

“Really?” Hengist broke in. “Oh, I think you do.”

The room fell silent as Havgan and Hengist confronted each other. Hengist rose to his feet to face Havgan, his face set and bitter. Havgan stood silently, his red cloak glowing like blood, his golden armbands shimmering like
fi
re, his amber eyes bright.

“Faeder,” Havgan began.

“Do not call me that, boy,” Hengist said bitterly. “Never call me that.”

Suddenly Havgan could not stand another moment in that house. He turned blindly and Sigerric was there, Sigerric who was always there when Havgan needed him. “Get me away from here,” Havgan whispered, pleading.

And Sigerric did. He quietly told Hengist and Hildegyth that they would return the next day, saying that the journey had been long and they were tired. He swept Havgan from the house without waiting for any response.

They did not speak as they made their way back to Sigerric’s father’s house. But the sky began to darken. A storm was brew- ing in the west, in the direction of the sea. The merest whiff of tangy salt air reached their nostrils as they at last returned to the courtyard. Overhead, clouds were piling up swiftly, purple and swollen. Lightning laced the western horizon, reaching for the earth with bony
fi
ngers.

Soon after they reached Sigerric’s family home, his father and his men returned from supervising the sowing of wheat and rye. Havgan watched enviously as the Alder greeted his son, as he had watched enviously earlier when Lady Elgiva had welcomed them. He wished bitterly, as he always had, that Lord Sigefrith and Lady Elgiva had been his own mother and father. But his mother was a madwoman. And his father hated him, though he

had never known why. And that would not change, ever.

L
ATE THAT NIGHT
he sat before the hearth in the room he shared with Sigerric. Sigerric was asleep on his pallet, his face serene and peaceful.

How he envied Sigerric that peace. He always would. He stared thoughtfully into the
fl
ames,
fi
ngering the kranzlein in his hands.

Praise to the Guardian of Heofen; praise to Lytir and his Mind- Plans; praise to him who fashioned every wonder; praise to him who made Heofen as a roof; praise to him who made Middle-Earth for man; praise to the Makar; praise to the Emperor of All.