The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (12 page)

The sorceress acknowledged Rhys with a slight nod and then turned to Thorne. “You wear the ring of the Brotherhood. What is your name, mage hunter?”

“Dismount, sorceress.” Thorne ignored her question. It was an obvious distraction. She was too calm, and her escort had yet to show themselves. “Where are your men?”

“Close enough.” Cerrigwen slid from the back of the mare with easy grace and stepped forward as if to submit. Thorne quickly pocketed the septacle and pulled the mage tether from his belt to bind her hands. No matter how compliant she appeared, he knew better than to leave her any advantage she could exploit.

In the few instants it took Thorne to close the dozen paces between him and the sorceress, fate turned against them all. The moment the first horse soldier broke through the tree line and entered his visual periphery, Thorne’s subconscious imprinted two instinctive conclusions on his stream of thought: the soldier would immediately interpret Thorne’s approach as a deadly threat to his mistress and act without questioning, and then Thorne would be forced to kill him.

The dread that had settled upon him the day before descended into soul sickness as his training took over. Before the tip of his sword cleared the scabbard, Thorne already knew how the last moments of this soldier’s life would unfold. The horse would charge full on and break slightly left so that the rider could engage from his strong side, leaving him open to Thorne’s left-handed strike.

His timing was so practiced and the movements so fluid that not even Rhys, who was remarkably quick to understand what was happening, could intervene in time to prevent the inevitable. But Rhys tried anyway, adding another stone to the sack of regrets Thorne carried.

Just as the horse banked, the soldier raised his sword, giving Thorne aim at the underarm seam where the chain mail shirtfront was connected to the sleeve, and the protection was weakest. As he threw into the upthrust, Thorne called to mind a prayer for forgiveness, but the one that actually left his lips was a plea for deliverance.

Salvation—of a sort—came in a flurry of fur and teeth. For all his arrogant reckoning, Thorne had failed to take Maelgwn into account. The warghound, sensing the threat to his master, did exactly as his nature would call him to do. Maelgwn sprang from the shadows in a single swift and sure bound and tore the soldier from his saddle before Thorne’s sword could reach its mark.

“Leave him, Maelgwn!” Thorne dropped his sword and fell to his knees beside the wounded man. Maelgwn backed away, teeth bared and hackles raised in protest. Rhys edged around the warghound and knelt to help, easing the soldier’s head into the crook of one bent knee.

“The other one,” Thorne demanded as he tried to assess the damage. “Where is he?”

The wounded man’s color was poor, but his breathing was good. Maelgwn had snatched him from the horse by his shoulder, gnashing through chain mail and leather and shirt cloth and flesh. The skin and sinew were torn from the clavicle, and the blood gushed. But at least Maelgwn had not ripped out the man’s throat.

“He won’t be far.” Rhys tore cloth from his undershirt to use as a compress. “Cerrigwen, where is Finn?”

“A furlong behind, maybe less.” Cerrigwen hovered closer but stopped short of imposing. “Let me see to him.”

“She is a gifted healer,” Rhys offered. He masked his
concern
better than most men would manage under similar circumstances, but he was worried. “And Pedr means something to her.”

Pedr
. It always made things worse to know their names. Now this soldier was also a son, a husband, a father, a brother, a friend. The last thing Thorne wanted was an undeserved death on his conscience.

“Do what you can for him, sorceress.” Thorne heard the muffled thunder of hooves drawing nearer. He snatched up his sword as he rose and stepped back to make room, edging slightly to his right to keep the tree line behind her in his line of view. “But know I am watching.”

With her hands still bound, Cerrigwen knelt beside the wounded man and placed her right palm over his heart and her left on his brow. She muttered an incantation in the old tongue. It had been so long since Thorne had heard the language of the Ancients that he could recall only a handful of her words, just enough to recognize a sleeping spell. He was surprised that her healing magic worked so well through the binding power of the mage tether. As impressed as was, he was reminded to be wary. Cerrigwen was powerful.

Pedr’s eyes closed, and his body ceased its violent trembling. Cerrigwen next removed a drawstring pouch from her belt, a healer’s bag, and handed it to Rhys to hold for her. She then pulled a dagger from its sheathing somewhere beneath her cloak and cut away as much of the clothing the armored mesh would allow.

Thorne resolved to remember she was armed, and then looked for Maelgwn. The warghound had disappeared, either into the woods or the netherworld, but he was no longer a threat. Thorne was relieved and turned to face the second horse soldier as he barreled into the clearing.

“What’s happened?” the second soldier shouted. He leapt from his mount, quickly taking account of the situation and coming up nearly as bewildered as he was horrified. “Rhys?”

This second soldier was older than Thorne by at least a dozen years and closely resembled the wounded one.
Father and son
. Thorne’s remorse turned to self-loathing. How had he made such a foolish mistake? How could he have allowed this to go so
terribly
awry?

“Keep your wits, Finn MacDonagh. Your boy is alive,”
Cerrigwen
answered before Thorne could swallow his sorrow and speak. She selected two glass vials from the bag as Rhys held it open. One held a clear liquid; the other, a yellowish powder. “Pedr intervened to protect me, but things were not as they appeared. He had no way to know I was under no threat. The mage hunter was only defending himself.”

“Mage hunter?” Finn turned his furious and stunned glare on Thorne. “This is your doing?”

“His hound, saving his master as any dog would,” Cerrigwen said. She unstopped the vial and drizzled the liquid over Pedr’s wound. “Moonwort oil will stave off an infection from the beast’s drool and ease the pain some. I can make a paste from the turmeric to slow the bleeding, but I need fresh water and clean cloth to dress this wound.”

Thorne took on the tasks to cure his feelings of helplessness and guilt. He had a new linen undershirt in his saddle sack, and good water could be got from a spring a few yards behind the old cottage. By the time he returned to the clearing with the supplies, the others had moved Pedr inside.

Rhys met Thorne at the door. “Cerrigwen says she’ll have him strong enough to travel by morning. She’s asked to be returned to the Stewardry, in shackles if you insist, but she says she will come willingly.”

“From what you know of her, would you take this as a sincere show of contrition?” Thorne wasn’t convinced, but neither did he feel particularly suspicious. “It could just as easily be a ruse of some kind.”

“I wondered that as well.” Rhys shrugged. “But I figure her reasons don’t much matter, so long as she and that amulet are brought back to the Fane.”

Thorne nodded his agreement. “I am sorry about your friend.”

“We’re all alive, and Cerrigwen’s been found.” Rhys smiled in such a way that Thorne felt understood and forgiven. “It could have gone worse.”

That thought brought Thorne an unexpected bit of comfort. It was a simple but profound truth that reminded him to be mindful of even the smallest of blessings. Rhys was right—it could have gone worse, far worse. But instead, the renegade sorceress had been brought to heel, and Thorne had been spared the gruesome task of taking yet another life. The elders at Castell Banraven would claim that these were signs that the Ancients were once again listening to the pleas of their believers and that they still visited their grace upon the world of man. Thorne would not go so far as to say he had actually felt the hands of the Gods intervening, but he had gotten what he asked for.

E
LEVEN

T
he sentry rapped twice on Alwen’s chamber door to signal his arrival, and Hywel was obliged to wait for permission to enter. Since the attack of the Cythraul, he could hardly piss without one of the Cad Nawdd soldiers watching over his shoulder. And now it seemed Madoc’s successor intended to remind him yet again who was keeper of this castle.

The seeress Glain, a wistful beauty with full lips and shining ginger-brown hair, opened the door and ushered him into the suite. Hywel found the girl interesting. He valued her magical talents, but she was also pleasing on other accounts. She had noble features, a proud nose and aristocratic brow, and intelligent eyes that shifted from one shade of gray to another, depending upon the intensity of her mood. Glain averted her gaze to avoid his, but he smiled at her anyway. Although she presented herself as docile and dutiful, he knew there was fire in her soul.

What he hadn’t been able to determine to his full satisfaction was her station. The governance of the Stewardry was as complex as that of any monarchy or religion, but the distinctions between the leadership and the membership were less strictly drawn and apparently adaptable to circumstances and familiarity. Glain answered to Alwen where before she had answered to Madoc, but the relationship between the two was not the same.

Glain set two silver cups on the hearth to warm and then made a discreet exit, leaving Hywel to await Alwen’s audience.

There was no one in this world unto whom he would willingly submit himself, but he had always understood that his
destiny
was tied to the Stewardry. With Madoc gone and its leadership in question, it was only prudent to cultivate alliances with whoever held the power or might one day come into it.

Waiting, however, was intolerable to Hywel, unless there was a strategic advantage to be gained or it was passed in some
purposeful
way. Elsewise, it was a waste of valuable time. W
hile he pa
ced the receptory to keep from losing his patience, he
examined
the room.

Alwen’s receptory was, as far as Hywel could discern, still Madoc’s. Her presence had not supplanted his, which surprised him. In fact, Hywel could find nothing in the appointments that appeared to belong to Alwen except for the implements on the
ritual
altar against the wall behind the throne—a small,
hammered
silver plate and bowl, a handworked silver chalice, a long-bladed dagger with an exquisitely carved bone handle, three beeswax candles, and an assortment of jars and vials filled with oils and herbs. Hywel particularly admired the wooded
landscape
and the celestial imagery in the tapestry hanging on the wall above the altar.

Hywel decided to wait near the hearth in the adjacent alcove, tempted to help himself to the brew Alwen habitually kept
heating
in the coals. It was a sweeter drink than he usually liked, but the recipe had a unique spice to it that had a calming effect. It was so appealing that he had wondered once if the brew were a magical potion that Alwen used as a method of control.

She entered from the bedchamber, dressed in a simple gown made from exotic cloth. This was appropriately regal attire, but not the formal dress of the Sovereign. He had been prepared for the robe. Perhaps this was not the official audience he had
presumed
.

She joined him at the hearth and gestured toward the divan facing the fire and two upholstered chairs positioned on either side. She seated herself in the chair facing him. “Sit, so we may speak plainly.”

Hywel obliged, taking the other armchair and eyeing the pot in the coals. “Shall I pour?”

“If you please.” Alwen watched him closely, ever assessing him. “Then we’ll get straight to the matters at hand.”

Hywel filled the silver cups and handed one to her before folding his tall frame into his seat. “I was surprised to receive your summons. The hour is very late for an audience.”

Alwen smiled. She knew full well it wasn’t the hour that annoyed him. “Like you, I favor discretion in my dealings. I find the later the hour, the more assured I am of true privacy. I trust I have not intruded on anything more important than your rest.”

Hywel’s smile was sly, almost lecherous. “Nothing that can’t wait until my return.”

“Good.”

Hywel imagined her squelching her scorn, wondering whether she was more offended by his philandering or the willing women of her Order who obliged him.

She sipped at her cup, pacing the conversation. “The captain of my guard has advised me that you have requested workers be assigned to clear the catacombs. You are aware that it is by my direct command that those tunnels remain undisturbed?”

“I was granted free access to those tunnels by Madoc himself.” Hywel drank deep from his cup before continuing. “I have relied on the labyrinth for years. The obstruction inconveniences me.”

“Fane Gramarye is always open to you, but those catacombs were blocked when Madoc met his end. They are known to our enemy,
” Alwen argued. “Clearing them makes us
vulnerable
to ingress.”

Hywel shrugged. “Then guard the junction where the maze breaches the understructure of the Fane, if it concerns you so much. I doubt our enemies know as much about those passages as you fear. There are many routes, stretching for leagues in every direction. To my knowledge, none but my men and I have traveled them in decades, if not generations.”

“I see.” Alwen could not hide her surprise. She had not known the extent to which the labyrinth reached. “Then you know the tunnels well.”

“Every twist and turn. They are an advantage that I am unwilling to abandon. With all due respect, Sovereign,” Hywel set his cup on the floor in front of him and folded his hands as he leaned forward to make his point. “Do not expect me to respond politely should you decide to rescind any favor Madoc has granted me.”

“You speak of Madoc in such familiar terms,” Alwen said. “You and he were very close?”

“Close enough that I am as wounded by his loss as I am my own father’s.” Hywel’s brow furrowed reflexively and he wished for more of Alwen’s strange brew. It pained him more than he expected to speak of either man. “Madoc is missed.”

“Yes, he is.” Finally Alwen sipped from her own cup. “It would seem we share his loss. We have something in common, Hywel, something other than your destiny.”

“Perhaps we do.” Hywel reached for the ale pot and poured more into his cup. “And perhaps we might yet forge a true alliance. But I do not know you, Alwen of Pwll.”

“Is this why you flatter my second?” Alwen smiled, but the smile was arrogant. “To learn from her what you think I might withhold?”

Hywel recognized the territorial tone in her comment. He also understood now why she had summoned him. Alwen understood the value of alliances. “She is useful to me.”

“Because she was close to Madoc,” Alwen challenged, “or because she is close to me?”

“Both.” Hywel could be diplomatic when it was prudent, but Alwen was drawing boundaries and close to daring him to cross them. “But more so because of her dreams and the keen way she interprets the foresight.”

“I see.” Alwen clenched her fingers more tightly around the cup in her hands.

“The girl has a remarkable talent,” Hywel continued, aware that his comments had evoked a twinge of envy. “She will be an asset to me when I am high king of all Cymru.”

“You claim the throne to a kingdom that does not yet exist,” said Alwen, “a throne that can never exist without my help. I stand in Madoc’s stead today, but when his heir is found, it is I who will lead the Circle of Sages. It is the power of the Guardians of the Realms that will protect you.”

“I know the prophecy.” Hywel was careful to keep his tone level, controlled. “Perhaps even better than you. It is my sacrifice, my leadership that guides it to being.”

“And my hand that stays its course,” Alwen bristled, and the thunderstone flooring beneath them trembled. “Do not challenge me, Hywel. Sorcery can either bring your greatness to light or eclipse it altogether.”

A steely smile ever so slightly widened Hywel’s lips. She had reached the limits of his tolerance. “And so might sorcery be eclipsed, Sovereign, by my hand. This is the world of man. Were it not, your prophecy would not call forth a mortal king. Nor would you be hiding here.”

“Come now, Hywel.” Alwen’s lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. “Enough parry and chase. I do hope we will not need to battle wits at every turn. We need each other to survive.”

“Agreed.” Hywel had grown weary of her attempts to cow him. “But it was you who called this fight, Sovereign. I may not be mageborn, but I have felt you skirting the edges of my mind since the moment I entered this room.”

Her eyes widened slightly. She had not expected this.

“Oh, yes.” Hywel could not help but gloat. “I know of your power. You could easily pluck any thought from my head at whim, and yet you goad me. What exactly do you hope I will reveal? Some uncontrollable deviance or sinister motive?”

Alwen maintained her impenetrable calm. “How and what a person chooses to share—or hide—reveals things about their nature that are far more useful to me than what they readily admit.”

“Then I shall be direct.” Hywel leveled a pointed gaze at her. “Madoc disclosed only what he believed I needed to know, when he believed I needed to know it. This I accepted, because I knew and trusted him. Never once did he misguide me or fail me when I was in need of his aid. You I neither know nor trust. Perhaps you and I will eventually come to better terms, but for now I extend you very little credit. I will value your wisdom as it proves its worth, from one minute to the next.”

“A prudent practice, and one that I am also inclined to follow, given the luxury of time.” Alwen regarded him carefully, considering her response. “But time is a luxury we do not have. I suggest we each make a leap of faith.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already?” Hywel piercing stare grew even sharper. “I remain in your audience by choice, Sovereign. If time is turning against us, if Machreth’s power grows as he seduces my allies, what is gained by waiting?”

“Perhaps nothing,” Alwen said, “perhaps everything. But none of the greatness you desire will come to you unless the fates unfold as the prophecy foretells. Until the last two Guardians of the Realms return, your destiny is at risk. For now, you must fight to hold your ground, and we must fight to hold ours.”

“Then support me in my campaigns,” he insisted. “With your sorcery alone I can bring the rogue lords to heel and crush
Clydog’s
threat. Then none will dare lay their loyalty at Machreth’s feet, and your rule will be secured as well as mine. When the rest of your sorceresses return, I will acknowledge the Council and pay the debt I owe to the prophecy.”

“How like Machreth you sound,” she accused. “The prophecy is not an entitlement that can be bartered or bought, not even with the wealth of reason and good intentions you possess. It is a divine decree that must be obeyed. I am bound to the rites as set forth by the Ancients on the day they foresaw and decreed your rise.”

An impasse had been reached, but Hywel was not ready to acknowledge it. He would not leave without securing some kind of victory. His pride would allow no less. “Then, in the meantime, allow me to reopen the labyrinth. Rotate my men into your ranks if you cannot spare enough of your own soldiers to guard the tunnels against ingress.”

“Agreed.” Alwen accepted the compromise more readily than he had expected. “Provided your men will also work to excavate the cavern that holds Madoc’s remains.”

“Of course.” Hywel felt more placated than satisfied, but that was enough.

“I require one more thing, however.” Alwen rose and crossed the room to the altar on the wall behind her throne.

Hywel followed, wary but curious. With a snap of her fingers the candles on the altar alighted. From its rest on an embroidered silk cloth beside the silver bowl, Alwen retrieved the long-bladed knife and turned to Hywel.

“There shall be a vow between us, Hywel, sworn here and now.”

“A blood oath?” Hywel was surprised. “To what end?”

“If we are to succeed, I must have your trust, and you must have mine.”

Alwen pulled back the right sleeve of her robe, exposing the hand that had been blackened in her battle with Machreth and Madoc’s signet ring. With the tip of the blade, she slit a small vein at the base of her wrist and allowed the blood to dribble into the chalice. When enough had pooled in the bottom of the vessel, she stopped the bleed with a puff of her breath. The incision vanished.

“A blood oath is ever binding. No pledge is more sacred.” She turned to face Hywel and offered him the knife. “Are you willing?”

Hywel was moved by her gesture and stepped forward to take the blade. He slashed through the thin flesh on the underside of his forearm, cutting a lengthwise gash that was deep enough for the blood to course freely, but carefully placed to avoid tendon and artery. There was no vow worth risking full use of his sword hand. Hywel held his arm over the chalice and waited for enough of his life force to join with hers, before pulling back.

“Here.” Alwen held out her hand. “Let me.”

Hywel offered his arm for her healing. To his amazement, a gentle exhale across the bloody gape instantly sealed the gash. He swiped the residual mess on his trouser leg and watched as Alwen lifted t
he chalice
with both hands and swirled the contents to mix their separate lettings together into a single elixir. Then she raised the vessel
skyward
to invite the Ancients to bear witness and proclaimed the oath.

“On the blood of our now inseparable essence, we pledge to one another our unrenounceable loyalty, unrelenting faith, and unquestioning devotion. Ever shall we be joined by this oath and bound to its demands so long as we each shall serve the prophecy to which we owe our lives or until death shall release us from
this deb
t.”