Crimson Fire (25 page)

If only she could.

T
HE DOOR TO
Havgan’s chamber was open, and she hurried inside. The door shut
fi
rmly behind her, and she blinked with eyes still dazzled by the sunlight outside, trying to make out who was there in the sudden shadows.

“Ah, Rhea. Please, sit here,” Havgan said as he took her arm and guided her to a chair at the long table in the middle of the room. She didn’t like it when he touched her. He loomed over her, looking impossibly handsome, impossibly virile, and hideously alive. O gods, how she wished he was dead. She blinked again and realized that, thank the gods, they were not alone. Sigerric was there, looking slightly uncomfortable, as he always seemed to look these days.

A slight movement by the hearth caught her attention. It was Gwydion. He was haggard, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. Rhiannon, looking at him fully in the face for the
fi
rst time in a week—for he had always turned his head away when they were alone—was shocked by his appearance.

Havgan caught her looking hard at Gwydion. Oh, he was always so quick. How much more of this man could she stand? “I was just saying that Guido seems to be unwell. I see that you feel the same, my dear Rhea. You don’t seem to be taking

good care of your lover.”

The word
lover
was almost a question. Did he think that they had quarreled? Did he hope for that? Or could he pos- sibly suspect that Gwydion was regretting his action that saved Havgan’s life?

With a sharp tone in her voice, she replied, “A slight diges- tive problem. I’ve been trying to give him some potions to help, but he refuses to take them.”

“Yes,” Gwydion said with a ghost of a smile. “I keep telling her that the cure is worse than the illness.”

“Now, you must take care of yourself, minstrel,” Havgan said. “After what you have done for me, I insist.”

Rhiannon saw Gwydion’s
fi
ngers tighten together and knew

that Havgan saw it, too. She hurried over and put an arm around his shoulders. “Another cramp, my love?” she asked gently.

Gwydion nodded. “I’ll be all right.” He straightened then, determined to act as if nothing very much was the matter. She sat down next to him on the hearth, her arm still around his shoulders.

“Perhaps we could get on with this,” Sigerric suggested in a mild tone.

“Of course, Sigerric. Rhea, you must perform a task for me.” Rhiannon straightened. “Yes, lord?”

“You are to come with us to the palace where the Witan, the Emperor’s council, will be in session. You are to announce my formal challenge at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament for the position of Bana.”

“I am to announce that?” she asked in surprise.

“You are a minstrel. Presenting formal challenges are all part of a minstrel’s tasks.”

“Of course, but—”

“But what?” There was an edge to his tone, but his eyes were laughing at her.

“It is an insult,” she said slowly, “for a formal challenge to be spoken by a woman.”

“Is it?” Havgan said, his brows raised in mock surprise. “I hadn’t realized that.”

She sighed. “All right. When do we leave?” “At noon.”

“I have nothing to wear.”

Havgan sighed. “That’s all you minstrels say to me. You will
fi
nd a new gown in your chambers. Guido, I expect you to wear the clothes I provided for you last week. That is, if you feel up to going.”

“Oh, yes,” Gwydion said, as heartily as he could. “I shall go.” “Good.” Havgan walked them to the door. “As you know,

I will be leaving Athelin in four days. I have decided to take you both with me. I am beginning to
fi
nd the services of minstrels to be very valuable.” He warmly clasped Gwydion’s shoulder and smiled. “Very valuable, indeed.”

After the door closed behind them, Gwydion winced, his face crumbling into a spasm of pain. Rhiannon saw it clearly, and, for a moment, thought of offering a bit of comfort to him, after all.

But as this thought passed through her mind, the image of Rhoram stopped her. Rhoram who, as King of Prydyn, would surely lead his warriors against the Coranians on that fateful day. And just as surely would die at their hands.

And it occurred to her then, for the
fi
rst time, that perhaps

it was the image of King Uthyr, Gwydion’s half-brother, lead- ing his own warriors to their deaths, which brought the haunted

look to his pale face.

For a moment she almost felt pity for him. Almost.

T
HE CHAMBER WHERE
the Witan met was high up within the Emperor’s Tower at the north end of the palace. Their party climbed up the stone steps single
fi
le, with Rhiannon in the lead. Havgan was just behind her, then Sigerric, with Gwydion following last.

Rhiannon walked with her head high, but she felt a little self-conscious in her new gown. It was of dark, green velvet, and
fi
tted her breasts and hips like a glove. A girdle of gold embroidered cloth was doubled around her waist and then tied in front to lie low on her hips. Her dark hair was worn loose, held back from her face by a matching band of gold. It was a beautiful gown, but it was cut very low in front. She knew that she had Havgan to thank for that. It was times like these when she most wanted to kill him.

Finally, they reached the closed door of the chamber at the top of the tower. Two guards stood outside the door, their swords drawn. One guard said formally, “Why have you come here to the Witan?”

“To present a challenge,” Rhiannon answered.

The other guard sneered, after looking her up and down. “You are presenting a challenge?”

“As a minstrel of Turin, I have the right. Should you wish to contest that right, Lord Havgan himself would be happy to discuss it further with you.”

The guard, taking in Havgan’s silent presence behind her, swallowed nervously. “Uh, never mind. You may enter.” He

opened the door quickly and stood aside.

Around a large table sat the Emperor, looking vague, as always; the Empress, who looked up coldly, her face tightening; Archpreost Whitgar, dazzling in his purple robe and golden medallion; Aesc, the King’s brother, the frown on his face light- ening at their entrance; Sethwald, the Archbyshop of Coran in a robe of blue; and Ethbrand, the Arch-wyrce-jaga, his black robe trimmed in blue and his pale eyes like chips of ice.

Havgan bowed low to the Emperor and Empress, drew his sword, then stood stif
fl
y, legs planted slightly apart, hands on his sword hilt, the point resting on the
fl
oor.

Rhiannon began, “Mighty Emperor and Empress, great lords, I greet you in the name of Havgan, son of Hengist. He is a warrior of great renown, eager to serve you to the utmost of his ability, a warrior proven as master in death skills. A warrior whose mind is keen and whose sword is sharp. He begs for a moment of your time.”

Smoothly, Archpreost Whitgar rose to his feet. He was a broad-shouldered bear of a man, his hands covered with scars from the years when he had been a warrior, before he had received his call from the One God to enter the church. He had a bushy, gray beard that spilled down the front of his rich robe. “You are welcome here, Havgan, son of Hengist. How may we—”

Whitgar broke off as a disheveled, breathless Aelbald sprint- ed into the council chamber. Aelbald skidded to a halt next to Havgan. It was an unfortunate place to stop, for the juxtaposi- tion of the two men did not show Aelbald to his best advantage. Havgan, dressed magni
fi
cently in red and gold, seemed to glow in the small chamber. Aelbald, who was dressed in a casual woolen tunic and trousers of brown, looked insigni
fi
cant beside

his enemy.

“What’s going on here?” Aelbald demanded. “I hear Hav- gan has dared to disturb this council. I insist you tell me the meaning of this.”

Aesc replied shortly, “You are not a member of the Witan and, as such, are not owed an explanation of our business.”

Aelbald, his mouth opening and closing like a
fi
sh out of

water, cast a pleading glance at the Empress, who spoke in her
fi
rm, clear voice, “We do not yet know Havgan’s business, Ael- bald. And though you are not a member of the Witan, my hus- band feels that you should stay, since we suspect his business concerns you also. You may be seated.” Aelbald spotted a chair in a corner and swiftly sat.

Now that the council room was quiet, Rhiannon began again. “The mighty Havgan—”

Aelbald jumped to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?” Rhiannon turned swiftly to him, her green eyes
fl
ashing. “That question has been asked already, Aelbald, son of Aesc-

wine. And I will answer it just as soon as you shut up.”

Aelbald stiffened. Gwydion and Havgan hid smiles behind their hands. Sigerric coughed lightly. Aesc was openly grin- ning. Archpreost Whitgar, after a mighty internal battle, man- aged to keep a straight face. The Emperor did not seem to be paying the slightest attention. And the Empress looked at Rhiannon as though she were a new kind of insect.

“You insult this council by speaking here. You—a woman!” Aelbald continued.

Rhiannon looked at Aelbald, her brows raised. “It is my understanding that in the Coranian Empire, minstrels may pronounce challenges.”

“You are a woman! A woman has no right—” At the last moment, Aelbald remembered the Empress and broke off what he had been about to say. Rhiannon let the silence spin out long enough for Aelbald’s
fl
ush to brighten as much as it would.

“As I was saying,” she went on, “the mighty Havgan will test his prowess at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament. If there are any who will gainsay him the right to
fi
ght for the hand of Princess Aelfwyn, and for the of
fi
ce of Bana, let that person come forth now.”

Complete silence. Aelbald stirred, but the Empress shot him a venomous look that seemed to nail him to his chair.

At last, the Empress spoke. “We, the members of the Wi- tan, acknowledge the right of Havgan, son of Hengist, to battle for the hand of Princess Aelfwyn and the of
fi
ce of Bana,” the Queen said formally.

Havgan bowed his head in acknowledgment that his chal- lenge was accepted.

“Are there others in this room who also wish to register their challenge?” the Empress went on.

“Yes.” Aelbald stood and brushed past Rhiannon to stand in front of Havgan. It should have been a dramatic moment, but Rhiannon, as she stumbled, swiftly thrust out her foot, and Aelbald promptly went
fl
ying into Havgan’s arms. Gravely, Havgan hauled Aelbald upright and set the Prince back on his feet, but Havgan’s lips were twitching with amusement.

Aelbald turned to Rhiannon in a fury, “You—”

“Your pardon,” Rhiannon said, bending down to rub her ankle. “I slipped.”

Another choking sound from Sigerric greeted this statement. Gwydion had his head down so no one could see his face, but his

shoulders were shaking. The rest maintained sober faces as best they could. The Empress sighed. She prompted Aelbald before he could say anything else. “Do you wish to challenge, nephew?”

“I do.” Aelbald turned to Havgan again, standing almost nose to nose. “I, too, will
fi
ght in that tournament. I will win the hand of Princess Aelfwyn and the of
fi
ce of Bana for myself. And I will leave your guts scattered across the
fi
eld.”

“Well,” Havgan said softly, “you can always try.” He smiled, but with such menace that Aelbald actually stepped back a pace. “Very well,” said the Empress. “The challenges are noted.

You may all go.”

They left the room quickly, Aelbald trailing as far behind as he could. Havgan led the way, with Rhiannon behind him, followed by Gwydion and Sigerric. Halfway down the stairs, Havgan said to her, over his shoulder, “I slipped?”

“Well, I did,” she said defensively.

“I can’t believe that you told the great and mighty Aelbald to shut up,” Havgan grinned. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that before.”

“Wrong, my lord,” Rhiannon grinned in return. “The Em- press tells him that all the time.”

Havgan laughed. His amber eyes sparkled, his handsome face lit with genuine amusement. And as they all began to laugh, Rhiannon saw what Gwydion had seen all along. As she heard her enemy laugh with her, he seemed to be a friend.

Soldaeg, Sol 15—late evening

T
WO NIGHTS LATER
,
Gwydion and Rhiannon sat with Havgan in his chambers. It was very late, and most of the candles had burned down, tiny
fl
ames gleaming through mounds of hot, soft

wax. Each time she or Gwydion
fi
nished a song or a story, she expected Havgan to dismiss them. But he did not. Instead, he paced. He paced as they sang, paced as they played their tunes, paced as they told story after story.

What was Havgan waiting for? Every moment tightened and stretched her nerves. They were ready to break, had been ready, would have broken by now, but for Gwydion’s calm voice, his steady hands on his harp, and his occasional light touch on her cold arm.

And then they heard the soft tap on the door.

Swiftly, Havgan crossed the room and opened it. Sledda, dressed in a nondescript tunic and trousers of brown wool, stepped into the room, followed by two soldiers who were drag- ging an old woman between them.

The old woman was clearly terri
fi
ed. Her scant gray locks

hung to her shoulders. She was pale and blinked constantly, as though even the dim light in Havgan’s room hurt her eyes. The eyes themselves were dark with fear and hopelessness as the sol- diers tossed her into a chair, then left, closing the door.

“You are sure of her?” Havgan asked Sledda, gazing
fi
xedly at

the old woman, who huddled in the chair with her head bowed. “Quite sure,” Sledda replied
fi
rmly.