The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (14 page)

“I have to hope you are right about Thorne,” Eldrith said. He had taken to wringing the stem of his cup. “If somehow we could get word to him, he would find a way to warn Drydwen. At least then the prioress could prepare a defense.”

Algernon showed a faint glimmer of interest. “If Eckhardt and Gavin Steptoe are still alive and Thorne can find them before the dark mage does, Drydwen might stand half a chance.”

Eldrith nodded, though he didn’t really believe there was even half a chance. Thorne was uncommonly skilled, but even with Eckhardt and Gavin to help him the odds were insurmountable. The best mage hunter who had ever lived had already fallen. But if the Ancients were still listening, perhaps Eldrith’s prayers would count for something. Drydwen was a powerful guardian, and the last three mage hunters of the Ruagaire Brotherhood were the strongest of their generation. With the blessing of the Ancients, anything was possible.

Failing that, however, Eldrith’s last recourse was the hemlock he’d saved for himself. All he would need was the courage to take his own life before the black mage decided he had no more use for him.

T
HIRTEEN

G
lain stood as regally as she could at Alwen’s right side. The Sovereign had taken her seat to await the presentation, and Glain was nervous. She was also exhausted and still concerned about the mysterious band of cloaked figures she had witnessed in the orchard that morning. Even worse, the black camlet robe itched, and she fought the urge to dig her nails into her arms. It did not suit her, the proctor’s mantle, no matter how hard she tried to make herself comfortable in it. There had been thankfully few occasions that had called for it, but this was a day of days. Cerrigwen had surrendered.

The hurried, late-day inquiry was closed to all but those Alwen herself had summoned. Ynyr and Ariane had been invited to hear the testimony, as had Hywel. The king and his two most trusted men had taken a distant position to Alwen’s left, against the wall that separated the receptory from the scriptorium. Glain presumed he meant to observe inconspicuously, but Hywel was the sort of man who drew attention whether he intended to or not. Ynyr and Ariane lingered just inside the main door, clearly as uncomfortable to be called to the proceedings as they were to be in each other’s company. Emrys and three lieutenants of the Cad Nawdd, including Odwain, who was the youngest of the
MacDonagh
clan, guarded the entrance.

Glain had never seen a mage hunter, but every Steward knew of the Ruagaire Brotherhood. Indeed, all the magical beings and plainfolk in the neighboring provinces both admired and feared them and their mysterious ways. The Ruagaire were a centuries-old sect of enforcers that had been commissioned by the first Sovereign’s council, in the long-ago days when there had been many guilds. Their order, though now little more than a band of magical bounty hunters, had once been given the sacred charge of upholding the laws and edicts set forth by the leadership council that governed the practices of all of the mageborn societies. But like the Stewards, they were a dying breed. An encounter with one of their kind was extraordinarily rare.

The hunter called Thorne Edwall led his party into the
Sovereign’s
receptory. He walked with an athletic grace that was uncharacteristic of a warrior, but he carried himself with the confidence of one. Everything about this man was dark and
intimidating
—his mood, his manner, and his dress. Even his hair and beard were black. All was dark but his eyes, which were the most luminescent blue Glain had ever seen.

Flanking Thorne was Rhys, which pleased Glain so much she had to remind herself not to let it show for fear of embarrassing them both. She had missed him more than she’d expected. Last came Finn MacDonagh, who escorted Cerrigwen as if he were a lord accompanying a noblewoman to a royal court. Except that Cerrigwen was bedraggled and covered in muck and blood, and her hands were bound. It was a somber sight to see a Steward shackled, even when it was deserved.

Thorne addressed a proper bow to Alwen. “Your wayward sorceress is returned to you, Sovereign. Not without incident, I’m afraid, but that was no fault of hers.”

Alwen nodded in somber acknowledgment. “You’ve earned your silver, then.”

“No,” Thorne said, more assertively than most would dare speak to Alwen. “Not yet. There is still the matter of the Cythraul and their master. I shall return to the hunt just as soon as you’ve finished with me here.”

“You are more than welcome to rest and reprovision yourself from our larder,” Alwen offered. “Whatever you may need is yours for the asking.”

“You are more than gracious, Sovereign, but the sooner I am on the trail the better, and I have everything I need.” Thorne paused. “I do have one request.”

“Yes?” Alwen was still listening to Thorne, but her gaze had travelled past him and was now trained intently on Cerrigwen.

“If you’ll allow it, I should like to keep your young soldier in my company for the remainder of this commission. He has proved himself a valuable partner.”

Alwen’s attention returned fully to Thorne, and her
expression
softened, almost enough to allow motherly pride to show through. “It is his choice to make, but I grant my leave if he decides to go with you. Aiding your efforts also serves our interests.”

She looked past Thorne, at Rhys. “Well?”

Glain’s breath caught in her throat. It hadn’t occurred to her that he could leave again so soon. She remained silent and stoic at her post, ignoring the crushing ache in her breast. It would be beyond improper to speak out, unless she was asked. And even if she were, Glain would never admit her objections. Her personal concerns had no place here.

Rhys answered without hesitation. “If you can make do without me, I would very much like to see this business through to the end.”

Glain’s hands clenched so hard the nails dug into her palms. He had yet to look at her, and she was forced to consider that he might be intentionally avoiding her eyes. If Rhys were struggling with the conflicting desires that were plaguing her, it did not show. If anything, he seemed eager to leave again. The realization gnawed at her heart.

“I can think of no better use of your talents,”—Alwen’s expression hardened again, and her tone turned cold—“considering only half the threat to the Stewardry has been found and contained. Finn MacDonagh,” she commanded. “Step forward, and account for yourself and your charge.”

Rhys and Thorne stepped aside to make room for Finn, who led Cerrigwen toward the small dais with an air of nobility that Glain could not help but admire. The Crwn Cawr were the most honorable of all the guardsmen ever to pledge their lives to the Stewardry, and oddly, Finn’s unwavering devotion to Cerrigwen inspired hope. However it was he had been carried astray, he had held to his pledge.

“I would not presume to speak for Cerrigwen even if I knew what to say,” Finn said, his voice soft and plain, but still dignified. “But I will account for myself and my son. Pedr and I have done as the blood oath demands. There is but one duty of the Crwn Cawr Protectorate: to do whatever must be done to keep the guardians safe, no matter what the cost.”

“That may be the literal word of the oath,” Alwen said. Her eyes widened with restrained although obvious anger. “But wouldn’t even the most blindly devoted member of the
Protectorate
recognize
the wrong path and at least question the wisdom in following it?”

Glain was surprised by Alwen’s disdain and irked by what she believed was an unfairly delivered reproach. Alwen had shown Nerys considerably more compassion for a far worse betrayal. Finn could not be faulted for following his orders.

If he was disturbed, Finn did not let it show. “Oh, I questioned plenty, Sovereign. But in the end I made my choice. I make no excuses for it—or apologies, for that matter.”

Alwen scowled as she regarded Finn, as if she were pondering the merit of his existence. He bore up well under her scrutiny, better than Glain thought she would do were she in his shoes. He never pulled his gaze, never lost his air of resolve. After a few moments, Alwen took in a deep breath and let it out in a huff.

“I’m told Pedr will recover,” she said. “And no doubt Odwain is glad to know that his elder brother and father are alive after all.”

Finn nodded, buying a moment to tamp the emotion that surfaced at her words. “As I am glad that he is well. My boy was at the heart of my worries all the while we were gone.”

“Odwain was wounded defending the Fane against Machreth’s beasts,” Alwen continued as though she had not heard him. Her voice held no warmth or concern for the humbled warrior. “He was fortunate to have survived. Madoc, however, was lost in the attack on the Stewardry, after you fled. As was Fergus.”

Finn had earned Alwen’s wrath, but it was a cruelty to deliver the news of his brother’s death to him this way. Glain glanced at the elder MacDonagh, trying not to stare directly at him for fear of adding to his discomfort. Poor Finn’s face took on the look of weathered stone, bleak and fissured with grief. His despair was palpable, though he stood silent and accepting in the face of Alwen’s judgment.

The sound of chain mail shifting called attention to Odwain, who had come dangerously close to breaking with the protocol of his post. Were it not for the stern look Emrys fixed upon him, Odwain might have made a foolish move. Worse, Rhys was so startled by his mother’s behavior that he stepped forward half a pace, as if he too were thinking to intervene. Glain hoped that Rhys would not risk it; her instincts hinted that to speak out on Finn’s behalf would only make matters worse.

“Enough.” Cerrigwen’s voice startled them all, even Alwen, who glared at her enemy with contempt. “If it is suffering you need, Alwen, carve your due from my heart and soul. Finn does not deserve this misery.”

“He abandoned his Sovereign, his family, and his way of life,” Alwen snapped.

“At my command,” Cerrigwen said flatly. “Which is exactly what the blood oath requires him to do. Had Finn defied me, he would have disgraced himself and the entire MacDonagh clan for generations to come. His devotion to me is no less than was
Fergus’s
to you. Only you know what unthinkable sacrifices his devotion cost him. Think on that before you judge Finn.”

Alwen’s struggle with Cerrigwen’s point caused ripples in the practiced serenity that she presented to the world. Unresolved grief and bitterness tightened her lips and creased her brow. Her eyes narrowed, but she did not lose hold on her temper.

“All right, then,” Alwen said. “Whatever blame there is shall be yours to bear. If you have anything to say for yourself, say it now.”

Cerrigwen stepped in front of Finn and lowered herself to her knees before Alwen. Even disheveled and disgraced, Cerrigwen still held herself with all the regality she had always
possessed
. She had abandoned her arrogance and her pride, but not her d
igni
ty.

At the same moment Glain noticed the amulet hanging at the base of Cerrigwen’s throat, so did Alwen. The bloodstone pendant glimmered as though it were warmed from within. Though she could not see it from where she stood, Glain knew the lapis amulet that Alwen wore would be responding in kind.

Alwen beckoned to Rhys. “Take the talisman from her.”

Rhys hesitated for a moment and then retrieved his riding gloves from his belt. He put them on before removing the necklace from Cerrigwen’s neck and carrying it to his mother. Alwen was unwilling to take it into her hands.

“Put it on the altar,” she instructed Rhys and then focused again on Cerrigwen. “Speak now or never.”

Cerrigwen met Alwen’s glare as her equal, though she did not protest her defeat. Her hands were still bound, and her eyes had the hollow look of a lost and haunted soul. A muddle of emotions shifted across her face, but fear was not among them.

“It was I who weakened the veil,” Cerrigwen said plainly. “I brought down the Fane’s defenses so that the Hellion legion could invade, and I conjured the wall of thorns.”

Alwen waited, perched on the edge of her seat as if she expected more. “Out with it now, Cerrigwen. Confess it all.”

“I will not confess a crime that is not mine, Alwen,” said
Cerrigwen
. “I cast the incantation that wrought the vines, but it was Machreth who turned the spell dark. I am guilty of betraying my oath to the guild and to Madoc, and of laying the Stewardry open to attack, but no matter how much you may wish to believe it, I did not curse your daughter.”

Alwen stiffened, but she did not speak. This was not what she expected to hear, but even Glain could feel the sincerity in
Cerrigwen’s
words. Despite their suspicions, there was no
denying
that in the hours after the poison had first taken root, Cerrigwen had made every effort to help.

Cerrigwen steadied herself, gathering the last few
remnants
of her poise. “Every choice I have made since I first felt the
quickening
in my womb has been for my child. I did not
understand
it then, but the day Ffion came into this world I was no longer fit to be called Guardian of the Realms. Nothing could ever come before her in my heart—not the Stewardry, not Madoc, not even the prophecy. For her I have harmed and been harmed. For her I have sacrificed my conscience and my destiny and broken every covenant I have ever made. For her, I have traded on the lives of those who trusted in me, and I would do it all again. But I would no more harm your child than I would my own.”

She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling, but it was clear she was dangerously close to unraveling. “This is my defense: that I am devoted to my daughter above all else. It has been my failing all along, though I worked hard to hide it. And so it is that I come before you as I am, for my daughter’s sake and none other.”

“Your daughter’s sake?” Alwen appeared unmoved, but her angry tone made a subtle shift toward sorrow. “How does your shame do anything but destroy her?”

Earnestness overtook Cerrigwen. “Ffion is innocent in all of this. There has never been an indignity I would not endure or any loyalty I would not betray for her best interest, but she knows nothing of my deceptions. I have hidden it all from her, even her father’s name. I’ve kept that secret since the day he cast us out, at first to save her from his blade and later, from his connivances. But Ffion is in danger still, even now that he is dead. I can no longer keep her safe.”

Cerrigwen appealed to Alwen as one mother to another, attempting to reveal something of her character beyond the self-furthering opportunist she had thus far shown herself to be. Glain could never absolve Cerrigwen for the loss and devastation her alliance with Machreth had wrought, but she might understand that something other than ambition could have driven Cerrigwen to treachery.

So could Alwen, a woman whose destiny had called upon her to sacrifice her own child. Glain could already see the weight of empathy straining Alwen’s rigid stance, and she began to worry that Cerrigwen might have discovered the one plea that the new Sovereign would hear.