Crimson Fire (62 page)

“I know enough to give you Kymru on a platter,” Cathbad said quickly. “Enough to turn this country over to your God.” “So you do,” Havgan said, smiling coldly. “I suggest that you pray to my God that this will be enough to keep you alive

for a while yet.”

Meriwdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
Havgan and his army were camped around Cadair Idris, the hall of the High King. The mountain stood like a silent, unmoving sentinel under the waning midnight

moon, waiting.

It was not him that the mountain waited for, Havgan thought.

No, he would not think that. He would enter here, at to- morrow’s
fi
rst light. This place would be his. He would be High King of Kymru.

In the moonlight he could just make out the outline of what they called Drwys Idris, the Doors. The jewels
fl
ashed gray and black under the silvery light. By day they would
fl
ash all colors of the rainbow. By day the Doors would shine and beck- on him in.

The mountain did wait for him. It did.

A stirring by his side did not even make him jump. He knew who it was.

“I’ve been around and around that mountain,” Sigerric said quietly, settling down on the lowest step next to Havgan. “It’s not made of anything I can understand.”

“It’s rock. It’s stone.”

“It’s something else. Something, I think, that will with- stand you tomorrow.”

“I’ll get in.”

“The old man, that Ardewin, said that you would not. Give it up, Havgan. Please. Like the old man said.”

“Sigerric,” he sighed, “what is it that makes you try my patience at every turn?”

“Do rescue attempts try the patience of a drowning man?” “If I am ever in danger of drowning, you have my permis- sion to try my patience as much as you please. But for now—”

“You are drowning. Can’t you see that?”

Havgan turned to the man who had been his only friend

when he was a boy, to the man who perhaps was still the only friend he had ever had, or would have. Havgan’s amber eyes gleamed in the moonlight. The rest of his face was in the shad- ow cast by the mountain that was not a mountain. “At last my dreams are coming true. And you say that I am drowning?”

“Your dreams. Your diseased dreams,” Sigerric said bit- terly. “You came all the way across the sea to
fi
nd the Woman on the Rocks, the woman from your dreams. And when you do, what will happen? Will you kill her like all the others?”

“Not like all the others. I have not harmed Aelfwyn,” Hav- gan reminded him.

“Not killed her, you mean. As for harm . . .”

Havgan shrugged. “When her father is dead and I am Em- peror, when she bears me a son who I am sure is mine, then— and only then—you may have her.”

Sigerric’s face became very still. But Havgan had known his friend for a long time. “Sigerric, I know you love her. And you can have her when I am done, for all that I care. But I tell you that she is poison. She’ll dine on your heart if it suits her, and wash it down with my blood. That’s the way she is. Twisted.”

“Twisted? Coming from the man who strangles whores to see the look in their dying eyes, that’s laughable!”

Swift as a snake, Havgan reached out and grasped Sigerric’s tunic. But Sigerric looked at him steadily, unafraid. Slowly, Havgan released his friend. “If you are so sure I am doomed, why do you try to save me?”

“I hardly know anymore. Habit, I suppose,” Sigerric shrug- ged. “Like going to the graveyard to leave offerings for the dead. You know they can’t hear or see you, but you do it just the same.”

Calan Llachar—early morning

O
NE
,
TWO
. . .
HE
counted silently to himself as he began to mount the eight once-white and shining steps to the High King’s hall.

Three, four.
Red rockrose trailed the broken stairs like beads of blood.

Five, six.
White alyssum twisted over the cracked stones like skeletal
fi
ngers.

Seven, eight.

He was here. Now would the doors open to him. Now. But Drwys Idris remained closed.

Yet something was happening. A humming sound came from the air around him, building in intensity. The jewels on the door began to glow. In the center, Arderydd, the High Ea- gle, came to life. The symbol of the High King shimmered and beckoned and glowed in the eerie light.

The wind moaned softly. The Coranian soldiers surround- ing the mountain tensed and gripped their weapons tighter. Sigerric, close to Havgan’s back, stiffened. Sledda, at the base of the mountain, heading a full contingent of black-robed wyrce-jaga began a chant designed to break this evil power of the witches of Kymru. Eadwig, the Archbyshop, led his yellow- robed cadre of Lytir’s preosts in prayers for the protection of the Warleader. Cathbad, standing next to Sigerric, smiled mock- ingly at the chants and prayers of the Coranians.

And Havgan, glimmering like the jewels in the morning sun, golden from head to toe, stood un
fl
inching. Now was his moment. Now would the mountain open to him.

Then a voice spoke, light and musical, coming from nowhere,

from everywhere, “Who comes here to Drwys Idris? Who de- mands entry to Cadair Idris, the hall of the High King?”

“It is I, Havgan, son of Hengist. I demand that you open to me.”

“The halls are silent. The throne is empty. We await the coming of the High King. He shall be proven by the signs he brings,” the voice went on. “Have you Y Pair, the Cauldron of Earth, Buarth Y Greu, the Circle of Blood?”

“I am the Bana. The Slayer. None can withstand me.” “Have you Y Llech, the Stone of Water, Gwyr Yr Brenin,

Seeker of the King?” “I demand—”

“Have you Y Cleddyf, the Sword of Air, Meirig Yr Llech, Guardian of the Stone?”

“—that you—”

“Have you Y Honneit, the Spear of Fire, Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge?”

“—open to me!”

“You have not the signs. You may not enter here. Still must I wait in silence and sorrow for the coming of the King.”

“I will be your King!” Havgan shouted. “I am here. Open to me!”

But there was only implacable silence from the mountain. Without even turning his gaze from the jeweled doors, Hav-

gan snarled to Sigerric, “Batter them down.” “Havgan, it won’t—”

“Do it!” he screamed. He must get in, he must! “Do it!”

Sigerric leapt down the steps and gave the necessary orders to the waiting army. The wyrce-jaga chanted louder, as though to be sure that the gods and goddesses of Kymru could hear

their threats. The preosts of Lytir raised their voices in prayer, to ensure that Lytir himself would turn to them and see their plight.

Cathbad stepped up next to Havgan. “Let me try.”

At Havgan’s furious gesture to proceed, the Archdruid called, “Bloudewedd! It is Cathbad ap Goreu. I have brought you the High King! Open to him.”

“He has not the signs. He may not enter.” “Bloudewedd—”

“I am not Bloudewedd. I am Drwys Idris, Archdruid. Call me that, traitor to Kymru. I hear you not.”

“You will let me in,” Havgan broke in, his voice trembling with rage. “You will let me in, or I will break you. You will die.” “I am already dead. And you cannot break me,” the voice

said in a tone of in
fi
nite calm.

“We shall see,” Havgan threatened. He turned and marched down the steps, Cathbad scurrying after. The ram was ready, so huge it took more than twenty men to lift it, banded with iron and covered with pitch. The head was carved in the shape of a boar with mad, red eyes. Goltre-Bana, they called it. Boar-Slayer.

And then, at Havgan’s signal, the ram began to pound the doors.

L
ESS THAN TWENTY
leagues away to the west, on the other side of the lake of Llyn Mwyngil, Gwydion and Rhiannon lay still in the patchy shelter of the reeds that surrounded the lake.

They faced the east, though Havgan’s army was too far to be seen with the naked eye. They could just make out the point of Cadair Idris piercing the horizon. They could just make out a rhythmic booming, carried on the wind like a faint rumor of

thunder.

“It’s time,” Gwydion said, reaching for Rhiannon’s hand. She put her hand in his as they both closed their eyes and

Rode the Wind.

T
HE RAM WAS
having no effect on the doors. None at all. Even the jewels remained whole and shining. The unscarred surface of the doors mocked him. Eluded him. Refused to acknowl- edge his might, his power.

He would not be defeated. He would not. Again, he gave the signal. Again, Boar-Slayer hammered on the doors of the mountain.

And then he saw a glimmer. No, two glimmers, one on either side of the doors. Two glowing fragments of light took shape. One was a swirl of black and red. The other a weave of green and silver. The shapes elongated, hemmed in, solidi
fi
ed.

And they were there, standing before him, yet beyond his reach still.

Gwydion was clothed in a formal black robe lined with red. Around his neck he wore a torque of gold, opals studding the dangling two interlocking circles. Rhiannon wore a robe of sparkling sea green, trimmed with silver. Around her neck she wore a slender torque of silver with a single pearl dangling from a pentagon.

The warriors bearing the ram leapt back. The ram slipped through their now-uncertain hold and clattered down the bro- ken stairs. As one, the warriors drew their axes.

Sledda came panting up the stairs, the Archbyshop just be- hind him, to join Havgan, Sigerric, and Cathbad.

“Kill them!” Sledda shouted to the warriors. “Kill the witches!”

The warriors gave a cry, then leapt forward, their axes raised for the kill. But the axes bit deep into the two
fi
gures, passed through the
fl
ickering shapes, and rang against the mountainside. And still the
fi
gures stood, un
fl
inching.

“It is called Wind-Riding,” Cathbad murmured. “They project a picture of themselves to this place. But their bodies could be leagues and leagues away.”

“How many?” Sigerric said sharply. “Up to thirty leagues.”

Sigerric signaled to the warriors, giving them the task of
fi
nding those living bodies. Soon the entire army would be beating the plain, moving west, east, north, and south. Havgan did not countermand Sigerric’s orders, though he knew it was useless. They would be gone long before his warriors could
fi
nd their bodies.

Havgan stepped forward until he could almost touch the
fi
gures of the man and woman in front of the doors. Without turning away from them, Havgan asked over his shoulder, “Can they hear me? Will I be able to hear them?”

“They are both telepathic. They will be able to project their thoughts to us in such a way that they will seem to be speaking,” Cathbad replied.

For a moment, no one spoke. Havgan stared at the man who had betrayed him, at the man he had sworn to kill. “I loved you as a brother,” Havgan whispered. “And you betrayed me.” “No. I was never your brother,” Gwydion replied, his voice

clear and cold. “I was your enemy. From the beginning.” “Yet you saved my life. Twice. Why did you do that?” It was

a question that Havgan had wanted to ask for a very long time. “I . . . I no longer remember.”

“Then perhaps Rhiannon does. Well, Rhiannon? Do you remember?”

“He saved you because he loved you,” Rhiannon replied gently. “He felt a kinship with you. A bond that, for a moment in time, was stronger than his resolve.”

“And that moment is over.”

“No. That moment lasts forever,” Gwydion rasped. “But the resolve will never falter again. I have come to tell you to leave Kymru. Cadair Idris will never let you in.”

“Unless I bear the signs. The Treasures.”

Gwydion shot a look at Cathbad that actually made the Archdruid momentarily cringe. “You have been well schooled, I see. But that is of no matter. You will never
fi
nd the Trea- sures. You do not know how to seek them.”

“Nor do you, or they would be in your hands by now,” Cathbad spat.

“I do not have them because it is not time. When the time comes, I will.”

“Words, Gwydion. Only words,” Havgan spoke. “I will
fi
nd those Treasures. And I will seek you out, both of you, and kill you. I will
fi
nd that High King of yours. And kill him, too. Kymru is mine. I have taken your land.”

“Kymru is not yours. She will never be yours,” Rhiannon replied. “Never. As long as this mountain is closed to you. As long as the Dewin and the Bards live. As long as there is one man or woman of Kymru with breath in their body, this land is not yours.”

Havgan laughed. “Your rulers are dead. Their kingdoms belong to me. King Urien and his wife and son, Queen Olwen, King Rhoram—they are dead.”

“I would not count someone as dead unless I saw their body, Havgan,” Gwydion said, a note of amusement in his voice.

So, King Rhoram did live, after all. Well, that would soon be remedied. “And King Uthyr, your beloved brother, Dreamer, lies cold and lifeless in Tegeingl.” Havgan smiled. “Catha, cut him down.”

“And Catha will die for it,” Gwydion said steadily, but the agony in his silver eyes
fl
ared and burned.

“Just a few days ago,” Havgan went on in silken tones, “I killed your Ardewin.”

“But another has already taken his place,” Rhiannon said coldly. “Kymru is not without an Ardewin. You cannot take us, Havgan. Go back to your Empire.”

“Do you remember what you wrote of me once, Gwydion? The song you wrote for my triumph as the tournament? I re- member very well.

“From poet’s breast These words took wing Which all the rest Must learn to sing.”

“I remember,” Gwydion said tonelessly.

“You will sing my tune,” Havgan promised. “All of Kymru will do my bidding. I rule here now.”

“You do not. Kymru slips through your
fi
ngers even as you