Crimson Fire (23 page)

Gwydion bowed again. “Indeed, it is clear. But—”

Havgan’s brows raised and his hawk’s eyes were keen. “But what?”

“I fear they will turn me away at the palace gate.” He spread his hands, indicating his plain, gray attire. “I have no rich clothes for such an occasion.”

“No, I didn’t think you did.” Havgan nodded to the pile of clothing on the table. “Put those on. You have a very few mo- ments, so hurry.”

Gwydion bowed and picked up the clothing. “Oh, and Guido . . .”

“Yes, lord?” Gwydion tensed and stopped with his hand on the latch.

“I expect you to prepare suitable entertainment for our royal guests.”

“Yes, lord.” Again, Gwydion attempted to leave, but Hav- gan called him back.

“Do not let them refuse,” Havgan said softly. “Or I shall have to
fi
nd a new minstrel who is more persuasive. You may go.” Havgan smiled a wintry smile, and Gwydion left, chilled to the bone. It was times like these when Gwydion remembered that Havgan was his enemy. Remembered very well, indeed.

A
S THEIR CAVALCADE
left the courtyard and made their way down Landstrat, Gwydion urged his horse up to the front, next to Sigerric. They were followed by an honor guard of ten men, dressed in byrnies trimmed with gold and armed with brightly

burnished swords.

They were a colorful group, Sigerric in his dark blue and Gwydion himself in a splendid tunic and trousers of rich scarlet, trimmed with pearls. His cloak was black, lined with fur, and clasped at his shoulders with huge silver, spiral-shaped brooches. Gwydion grimaced to himself, remembering the few mo- ments when he had hurried to his room to change and found Rhiannon there. She had been angry (which was nothing new) when she learned that she would be unable to accompany him

to the palace.

“I can’t help that,” he had said wearily. “You know you can’t come, and I can’t make Havgan let you. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

“Now why do I doubt that?’ she had said dryly. “I tell you everything you need to know.”

“Your interpretation of what I need to know is a little too narrow for my taste.”

“So, Wind-Ride along with us, if you want to go so badly,” he had retorted and left. He knew she would not do such a thing, since Havgan would sense it, though he would not under- stand his own reaction. Going to the palace was not important enough to risk that.

“Lord Sigerric,” Gwydion said quietly, turning his thoughts away from Rhiannon.

Sigerric turned to him with a brief smile. But the man’s eyes were worried. He always seemed to have that look these days. But why? Everything seemed to be going according to Havgan’s plans. Maybe that’s what Sigerric was worried about.

“Yes, Guido?”

“What if they refuse to come? Would . . .” he made himself

sound frightened, not as hard a task as he would like, “would Lord Havgan really get rid of me?”

“Very likely.”

“Would he . . . would he hurt us, Rhea and me?” “Probably.”

Gwydion studied Sigerric carefully. “Would you let him?”

Sigerric glanced at Gwydion. “Do you think I could stop him?”

“Well, you have some in
fl
uence . . .”

“At one time, yes. But that was a long time ago. Things were different then.”

They were nearing the palace now, coming up on the bridge that would lead them to the island where Cynerice Scima stood. Sigerric nodded to their left. “Look there.”

Gwydion turned and saw a huge, forbidding building made of black stone. The stone gleamed in the afternoon sun, like the obsidian eyes of a snake.

“That is Byrnwiga,” Sigerric went on, “the palace of the War- leader, the Bana. And that, dear minstrel, is one thing that has come between Havgan and I. That, and the map on his wall.”

“And Sledda,” Gwydion said. Surely he could say that much. “And Sledda, yes.”

“The princess is very beautiful, I hear.” It was a shot in the dark, and, to Gwydion’s surprise, it hit the mark.

“More beautiful than anyone I have ever seen,” Sigerric said quietly. “More beautiful than a spring morning, more beautiful than the storm over the sea, more beautiful than the snowcapped mountains of Thule.”

“And destined to be the wife of Havgan.” “Yes.”

They reached the eastern bridge that stretched from the riverbank to the island where the palace stood. Armed men guarded the bridge. Their iron shields were rimmed with gold, and in the center was the Emperor’s device, the Fly
fl
ot—a circle from which four golden bars radiated outward, each curving upward to the left.

The Captain of the guard stepped forward. “Who seeks to enter Cynerice Scima, the Light of the Empire?”

“I, Sigerric, Alder of Apuldre, do seek this in the name of the warrior chief Havgan, son of Hengist.”

The Captain hesitated for a moment, then barked a com- mand to his soldiers to step aside. “You may enter here. May the light of Lytir brighten your way.”

The cavalcade clattered across the wooden bridge and onto the island. The white stone walls of Cynerice Scima glimmered in the sun, its four slender towers rising gracefully from each corner. They brought their horses to a halt and dismounted outside the east gate. Men came to take their horses, as the iron gate slowly opened.

When they came to the end of a long corridor, they stood in front of closed, golden doors. Smoothly, the doors opened inward and Gwydion almost gasped aloud.

This was Gulden Hul, the golden hall of the Rulers of the Coranian Empire, and it had been aptly named. Eight golden pillars, carved in the likeness of trees, held up the high, golden ceiling. The
fl
oor was made of golden tiles, and even the walls shimmered with golden light. Candles
fi
lled the hall, making it glow brightly. In the center a huge, golden tree, the symbol of the New Religion, spread its branches. Tiny jeweled birds nested there, glimmering rubies, amethysts, sapphires, and pearls.

At the north end, a dais stood, covered with a cloth of gold, upon which sat two thrones. On the golden wall behind the thrones hung a large tapestry, worked in gold and amethysts with the Fly
fl
ot, the Emperor’s symbol. Four ranks of guards stood on either side of the dais.

Emperor Athelred sat stif
fl
y on the largest golden throne. He was pale and had mild blue eyes. His scant,
fi
ne blond hair hung lankly to his shoulders. He wore a cloak of purple and a tunic and trousers of gold. On his head he wore a jeweled diadem and his thin neck seemed bent under the weight. In his hands he held a scepter, carved with the names of the rul- ing houses throughout Corania’s history—the Cynmaegth and Wufmaegth; the Ealmaegth and the Sigmaegth; and the cur- rent ruling house, the Aelmaegth; a house that would end when Princess Aelfwyn’s husand came to the throne.

Empress Athel
fl
ead sat on the smaller throne. Her rich, light brown hair was elaborately curled and braided, piled on top of her head, and held in place by a delicate golden crown. Her green eyes were sharp and cold.

Between the Emperor and the Empress, Princess Aelfwyn stood. She had long, light blond hair that hung freely to her knees—another cascade of light in this golden hall. Her eyes were cool green. She was dressed in white with a girdle of silver and pearls. She wore a single pearl pendant on a
fi
ne silver chain around her slender neck, the pearl resting in the deep pool between her breasts. Steorra Heofen they called her, as bright and as cold as the stars themselves. Beautiful, as Sigerric had proclaimed. But so very cold.

Princess Aesthryth, the Emperor’s sister, stood to the right of her brother’s throne. She wore a dress of blue silk with a

girdle of silver and sapphires around her slender waist. A circlet of sapphires bound her long, blond hair back from her delicate face. Her clear, corn
fl
ower blue eyes gave Gwydion the feeling that she could see right through him. But what she thought about him remained a mystery.

Sigerric and Gwydion came to stand in front of the dais, then bowed deeply.

“My Emperor,” Sigerric said as he went to his knees. Emper- or Athelred nodded, then bade Sigerric to rise. “My Empress,” Sigerric said, and again bowed. Empress Athel
fl
ead said nothing but watched him closely, her green eyes hard as emeralds.

“Princess,” Sigerric said as he bowed again, his heart in his eyes. She would have seen it, if she had bothered to look at him. But she did not.

“Princess Aesthryth,” Sigerric went on, bowing low. Aes- thryth nodded to Sigerric but did not speak.

The silence spun out and Gwydion knew his time had come. He took a deep breath, preparing to do what minstrels did best—spread it on thick. Rhiannon would say that’s what Dreamers did best, too. “O great Emperor, mighty ruler of this mighty land, I greet thee humbly in the name of Havgan, son of Hengist, a great warrior whose reverence for you is un- bounded.”

Quickly, Gwydion turned to the Empress. “O Empress Athel
fl
ead, helpmeet and heart’s love of our mighty Emperor, I greet thee in the name of Havgan, son of Hengist, whose mighty sword arm is ever at thy service.”

“O Princess Aelfwyn,” he went on, “Star of Heaven. Fairer than silver, fairer than gold, you outshine the very hall itself, until the eyes of Havgan, son of Hengist, are dimmed by thy

heavenly beauty.”

“O Princess Aesthryth, one-time Queen of the Franks, how grateful we are that such a jewel was returned to the Empire, for while you were gone from us, the sun itself was dimmed and cold.” It was a
fi
ne speech, but the royal family said nothing. The silence was smothering. Gwydion cleared his throat. “Hav- gan longs to taste the joy of your presence. Many nights has he paced the
fl
oor, anxious hours has he spent, hoping against hope that you will grace him. Restless has been his sleep in his longing. Pale has he grown with fears that he is unworthy of the supreme joy your presence would bring to him. Until, lo, as he walked in the deep watches of the night, he resolved to put his fate to the test. A brave man, surely, who knows in truth how humble, how unworthy he is, yet still hopes on that his years of

loyal service may count for even a little.”

The silence was deafening. “And so he begs the honor, begs from the depths of his heart, that you will come to his house, three days hence, and let him feast his weary soul in your pres- ence and bask in your glory. He begs that you, mighty Em- peror and Empress, and you, two beauteous Princesses, and the mighty Princes Aesc and Aelbald come to his house.”

Still silence. Then the Emperor spoke, hesitantly, while turning to the Empress, “I think, my dear, that we should—”

“No,” Princess Aelfwyn said. Her voice was clear and cold. “I think not.”

“No, indeed,” a young man to the right of the dais said as he came bounding up to stand next to the Emperor. He was tall and broad shouldered. His light brown hair and green eyes showed a great resemblance to the Empress. So this must be Aelbald, the Empress’s nephew, Havgan’s chief rival. “We cannot come.

And that,” Aelbald said, “is
fi
nal.”

Gwydion opened his mouth, to say he knew not what, but the Empress forestalled him. “Yes,” she said crisply. “We will come.” The Princess turned to her mother, her jaw dropping in sur-

prise. “What?” Her voice rose. “What do you—”

The Empress held up her hand and her daughter instantly fell silent. Empress Athel
fl
ead turned to her husband. “Hav- gan is a loyal subject, a great and worthy man. I believe that we should go as he requests.” She stressed the last word somewhat. “Do you not agree?”

Athelred nodded. Aesthryth smiled gently, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Aelbald and Aelfwyn were furious, but said nothing, subsiding after a sharp glance from the Empress’s cold eyes.

It was then that Gwydion felt a prickling at the nape of his neck. She was here, Rhiannon, watching him. She had chosen to come Wind-Riding after all. He felt her presence like a pres- sure in the air around him against his skin. Oh, he was angry with her for taking this chance. But there was nothing he could do about it now. In fact, he was so angry that he did not notice Princess Aesthryth’s eyes widen, then
fl
icker, searching the hall for something, but saying nothing.

Empress Athel
fl
ead turned to Sigerric, ignoring Gwydion. “Tell Havgan that we will honor him. You may go now.”

Bowing, Sigerric and Gwydion backed away from the throne, then left the hall, their entourage following.

W
HEN HE RETURNED
to the house, Gwydion bounded up the stairs and into their room as fast as he could. Rhiannon sat next to the window, calmly plying her needle to one of her gowns.

“Oh, you’re back,” she said.

Panting, Gwydion growled, “Yes, I’m back. And so, appar- ently, are you.”

“So I am,” she agreed pleasantly, still stitching.

Gwydion reached out and grabbed the dress she was sew- ing on, throwing it to the
fl
oor. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he demanded.

“You seem a little upset,” she said mildly.

“Upset? Upset? Just because you risked your life to follow us to the palace? Just because if you had been caught Wind-Rid- ing you would have been killed? Why should that upset me?”

“Why, indeed?” she asked, raising her brows.

“Because it would have gotten me killed, too,” he snarled. “Oh, yes. That explains it. Don’t you want to know what

happened after you left the palace?”

Gwydion took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. “What do you mean?”

“After you left, the Empress had a few quiet words with Aelfwyn.”

Curiosity got the better of his anger. “What did she say?” “Maybe you would rather not talk about it. You seem a

little upset.”

“Tell me, right now, what she said,” he replied through grit- ted teeth.

“She said that Aelfwyn could not marry a dead man. She said that the feast at Havgan’s house would prove dangerous for the host.”