Crimson Fire (40 page)

“The sooner the better. I—” she broke off, looking intently at the place where Lindstrat emptied onto the docks. The sun glinted off mailed shirts of armed warriors. “It’s Sledda!” she gasped. Instantly, Gwydion pulled her away from the railing, behind a convenient barrel. They peered around it.

It was Sledda, all right. Two burly warriors pushed through the crowd, knocking people out of Sledda’s path. Behind him were at least twenty more warriors. Sledda’s weasel-like eyes searched the crowd. He stopped, grabbing the arm of a man who was hurrying by. He asked the man a question, and then looked toward the
Fleet Foot
.

“Who was that man?” Rhiannon asked.

“The dockmaster,” Captain Euric said behind them. They jumped, whirling around to face him. “Probably asked him which ship is leaving dock next. That’s us.”

“Now?”

“Now. We’re pulling up anchor. Just thought you’d like to know.”

Rhiannon smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

“Just thought I’d mention it.” The Captain strolled off as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

“There they are!” Sledda shouted. “It’s them. Stop them!” The gangplank was just being pulled up, and two warriors grabbed for it. Unaccountably, they overbalanced and ended up in the dirty water. The rest of the warriors ran toward the ship, but by some coincidence, a pile of barrels tottered and fell,

blocking their way.

“Captain! Captain!” Sledda screamed as the ship moved away.

Captain Euric came to the rail, cupping his hand around his ear.

“Stop! I demand in the name of Lord Havgan of Corania that you stop!”

The Captain shook his head, pointing to his ear. “Can’t hear you,” he bellowed. “What did you say?”

“Stop!”

The Captain shrugged, indicating that he couldn’t under- stand, then turned away. “Best get below,” he said to Gwydion and Rhiannon. “Could be a rough trip.”

They stumbled to the cabin and slammed the door behind them. Gwydion barred it, then they took their places on the narrow bunks.

“Hurry up,” Rhiannon said. “After all this, you don’t want to miss the wedding, do you?” They closed their eyes.

T
HE WEDDING PARTY
was assembled at the eastern bridge lead- ing to the palace. The Archpreost raised his hands high, the sunlight
fl
ashing off his purple robes and his ornate golden pen- dant of the Tree of Lytir.

Havgan and Aelfwyn stood beneath a canopy of gold cloth. Talorcan, Catha, Baldred, and Penda each held one corner over the couple. Sigerric stood, pale and silent, on Havgan’s right.

Aelfwyn, to Havgan’s left, looked deathly pale. Her splen- did dress of bright red trimmed with gold only emphasized the whiteness of her face. Havgan was holding her left hand, say- ing, “With this ring, I thee wed. And this gold and silver I give thee. And with my body I thee worship.” He stopped a moment and grinned unpleasantly down at her, then went on. “And with all my worldly chattels, I thee honor.”

Aelfwyn answered in a voice that was little better than a whis- per. “I take thee to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold. For fairer for fouler, for better for worse. For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. To be bonny and buxom in bed and at board, till death,” she closed her eyes brie
fl
y, “do us part.”

“You may kiss the bride,” the Archpreost said, a benign smile on his face. Slowly Havgan reached out and took Aelf- wyn’s chin in his hands, forcing her to look up at him. Then he bent his head and kissed her passionately. She struggled, and he abruptly let her go, so quickly that she almost fell. He turned away to receive the congratulations of his friends. Siger- ric stumbled away without looking back.

Havgan was laughing with Baldred and Catha when he saw Sledda running up, and his smile faded.

“They got away,” Sledda panted. “The ship sailed and would not stop.”

“Who are they? By the One God, who are they?” Havgan shouted in rage.

I am Gwydion ap Awst, the Dreamer of Kymru.

And I am Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, a Dewin of the House of Llyr.

Havgan froze at hearing their voices in his mind, and lifted his face to the bright sky, as though seeking them there. At his gesture, the talking and laughing abruptly stilled. People stared at him in bewilderment and backed away from him in fear, until the Golden Man stood alone on the palace bridge, glowing with hatred and writhing with rage.

“You—my brother, you betrayed me!” he shouted, his cry shooting up into the sky like a deadly, shining spear.

I was never your brother. I am your enemy. I always will be.

“I will come to Kymru and kill you!” he screamed, draw- ing the Bana’s sword. As the sword whistled from its sheath, he held it up. The sun glinted off the boar’s heads engraved on the killing blade. “I will kill you! I will kill you all!”

Come to Kymru, then,
Rhiannon’s voice rang softly but im- placably in his raging, twisted mind.
We will be waiting for you. Come.

The whole land, every dale and glen,

Weeps its long sorrow
After the graceful summer; No tree-top can do more, Nor weep leaves after that.

Since the earth has covered them,

There is no hope of increase among herds, The woods are barren-crested,

And fruits do not bend down the branching boughs.

Feldema ur Gwen Alarch Ninth Master Bard of Kymru Circa 420

Kymru

Ywen Mis to Helygen Mis, 497

D

Ruthin, Northern Ederynion

inaswyn was waiting at the docks when Gwydion and Rhiannon stepped onto shore. Gwydion looked strained and weary, and there were tired lines brack-

eting Rhiannon’s mouth. Dinaswyn gazed at Gwydion in si- lence, aware of an odd lurch in her heart. For an all-too-brief moment, it was as though Gwydion’s father had returned from the grave.

“You’re late,” was all she said, and deep inside she cursed herself for her coldness.

“We had to wait three weeks in Seville for a ship to Kymru,” Gwydion sighed.

“We’re lucky,” Rhiannon said sharply, “to be back at all.” “Come,” Dinaswyn said coolly. “We must be on our way.”

They mounted the two extra horses she had brought, then fol- lowed her out of the town and into the heavily wooded country- side of northern Ederynion. The early evening shadows were

lengthening, and when they reached a small clearing by the river, they halted.

Without a word they dismounted and set about making camp. Dinaswyn wondered if Gwydion and Rhiannon even noticed that they worked together so smoothly, not even need- ing to exchange words in order to parcel out their tasks. Using his Shape-Moving abilities, Gwydion swiftly scraped out a shal- low pit for the
fi
re. Rhiannon unloaded the packs and, locating a small pot, she
fi
lled it with water from the river. Before long a savory stew was bubbling over a golden
fi
re.

Dinaswyn huddled closer to the
fl
ames, as the autumn chill had a way of creeping into her bones. The waning moon rode overhead, her silvery beams vying with the
fl
ames.

“Tell us the news,” Gwydion said
fi
nally. “We’ve been away for so long.”

So she began. The grape harvest had been especially good this year. The winter was expected to be relatively mild. In Ederynion, Queen Olwen was still infatuated with that Dewin, Llwyd Cilcoed. Sanon of Prydyn and Elphin of Rheged were betrothed. Gwydion’s daughter, Cariadas, had completed her education at Y Ty Dewin and was now at Neuadd Gorsedd, with the Bards. In Prydyn, Rhiannon’s daughter, Gwenhwy- far, was learning swordplay and twisting her father around her little
fi
nger.

“Gwen’s still in Arberth?” Rhiannon asked, puzzled. “She should be in training at Caer Duir by now.”

“She refuses to go,” Dinaswyn said crisply. “Like mother, like daughter.”

In Tegeingl, Uthyr was well, but quieter than he used to be. Queen Ygraine had miscarried earlier in the year but was now

recovering. The child would have been a boy.

In the sudden silence following this pronouncement, she said, “I brought some other things that you might want, besides clothes, food, and horses.” She reached into her saddlebag and pulled out two torques. One was of silver, with a single pearl dangling from a pentagon. “Your Dewin’s torque,” she said, handing it to Rhi- annon, “which you left at Caer Dathyl.” The other torque was of gold. Opals
fl
ashed
fi
re from within the circle dangling from the necklace. “Your Dreamer’s torque, Gwydion.”

As he reached to take it, her hand tightened involuntarily on the necklace. But at his tug she let it go. Her mouth twisted as she watched Gwydion settle the torque around his neck. With an effort, Dinaswyn tore her eyes away from the torque and stared at the
fi
re. “And now for your news. Did you get what you went for?”

“Yes,” Gwydion anwered. “The Coranians plan to in- vade us, and we have seen those plans. Rhiannon and I go on from here to see Queen Olwen. Then to Rheged to see Urien and Ellirri and then to Rhoram in Prydyn. We will meet with the Master Bard, the Ardewin, and the Archdruid at Neuadd Gorsedd two and a half months from now. Arrange that for me. After that we will see Uthyr in Gwynedd. Oh, and where’s Arianrod?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Dinaswyn replied. “You know how she is.”

“So I do,” Gwydion mused, glancing at Rhiannon. “Find her and take her back with you to Caer Dathyl. We’ll be there three months from now, and stay the winter.”

“Then,” Rhiannon said, “we go to my old home in Coed Aderyn—to the cave.”

“To do what?” Dinaswyn asked curiously. “To wait,” she replied.

Caer Dwfr, Dinmael, Ederynion

Q
UEEN
O
LWEN SAT
in her canopied chair, sipping wine from a pearl-encrusted goblet. There were pearls scattered throughout her rich, auburn hair. Her amber eyes surveyed the occupants of the room coldly. Her children and her lover were
fi
ghting again.

Her daughter, Elen, was
fl
ushed, and her blue eyes
fl
ashed angrily. Next to Olwen’s chair stood Llwyd Cilcoed. His hand- some face, too, was
fl
ushed, and his dark eyes smoldered. Her son, Lludd, stood stif
fl
y behind Elen’s chair, as if to underline his side in the debate. She looked at him in distaste. The boy was growing up to look more and more like his father every day.

With no warning, the door swung open and Angharad, her Captain, stalked in. “Angharad,” Olwen said in a bored tone. “I believe I said we were not to be disturbed.”

Then, from behind Angharad, the voice of the man she de- spised most in the world rang out. “Queen Olwen, Princess Elen, Prince Lludd,” Gwydion bowed. He was dressed in a tunic and trousers of black with red trim. Around his neck the Dreamer’s torque gleamed. “I am delighted to see you all again. May I present Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, Dewin of Coed Aderyn?”

He gestured to the woman standing beside him. She wore riding leathers of dark green. Olwen inclined her head brie
fl
y, and Rhiannon inclined hers a fraction in return.