The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (23 page)

Rhys gave a sober nod. “I think so.”

“Be certain,” Thorne warned. “You may not be sworn to the Ruagaire, but we will hold you accountable as if you were.”

“I understand.”

Though Thorne believed him sincere and committed, he wondered if Rhys had a firm sense of the singularity of the moment. Were the circumstances any less desperate, were they not already in pursuit of a common quarry, and were his mother not
Sovereign
of the Stewardry, this conversation would never have taken place.

“Alright then,” said Thorne. He looked to Eckhardt and then Gavin. Neither man objected, but neither did they offer encouragement. “Has Alwen told you anything of a sacred well hidden beneath Fane Gramarye?”

“Madoc is entombed in the Well of Tears,” Rhys confirmed. “My mother almost drowned in it.”

Gavin was concerned. “How far has word of the well spread?”

“Not beyond my mother’s small circle of trust,” Rhys said. “But obviously, it is known to the three of you.”

“It is our duty to know,” Thorne explained. “In the beginning, the Stewardry was comprised of five orders, and each of those orders had a Sovereign, like Madoc. As the end of their reign drew near, each Sovereign would make a final
pilgrimage
to the well at Fane Gramarye to shed the wisdom they had
collected
into the waters so that it was preserved. And then they would journey to their final resting place, to the tomb at Elder Keep.”

Rhys was astonished. “A wizards’ crypt?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Thorne explained. “While the Well of Tears is a bastion of knowledge, Elder Keep is a bastion of souls. Within its walls is the portal through which a mage’s essence returns to the beyond.”

“A thin place,” Rhys realized.

“The
thinnest
place,” Thorne corrected. “Nowhere else are this world and the next so close.”

“So what have the Ruagaire to do with Elder Keep?” Rhys was nothing if not focused on the point.

To Thorne’s surprise, Gavin interjected. “The
Brotherhood
first existed to protect the balance of power between the five orders and enforce the rules of governance set forth by the Sovereign’s council that oversaw the collective. We were once a peacekeeping force thousands strong. Eventually the sects were destroyed or withdrew, until all that remained of the Stewardry were Fane Gramarye and Elder Keep.”

“The Fane survived by virtue of the veil, which to this day remains an effective concealment. And of course, its unrivaled military,” Thorne added. “The original Cad Nawdd was formed by members of the Ruagaire, you know.”

“The Fane also survived by virtue of a pact,” said Eckhardt, “as did Elder Keep. Both exist today because the Ruagaire long ago pledged to keep safe the secrets it was created to protect, and to do so at all costs.”

Thorne was unwilling to deny the uglier truths. “Not that the Ruagaire Brotherhood hasn’t known its dark days. Survival has required sacrifices, and not all of them were noble. Like the Stewardry, our numbers have dwindled to nearly nothing, and our purpose has been altered by time, but we are more than our reputation implies. We are not just a band of mercenary mage hunters.”

Rhys took it all in as though it were as easily digested as quail eggs and warm milk. Either he knew more than he admitted, or he was accustomed to hearing unbelievable stories. “So what do we do now?”

“We continue to Banraven and stop Machreth there, if we can,” Thorne said.

“It won’t be easy travel,” Eckhardt warned. “Machreth’s demon soldiers search the woods for you every day, Thorne. I’m surprised you haven’t encountered them yet.”

“The Hellion,” Rhys said, his tone edged with bitterness. “It was them that Machreth unleashed on the Fane. It takes three men to bring one of them down, but it can be done.”

Thorne was more convinced than ever that his admiration for Rhys was well placed. His experience would be helpful. “I wasn’t sure what I was working so carefully to avoid,” he said, “but I have sensed something unusual skulking about.”

“Never after dark,” Gavin observed. “It’s strange, but we’ve never seen them in the forest after sundown. We have been skirting their patrols for the last two days and traveling at night.”

“Have you encountered the Cythraul?” Thorne was hoping to confirm his bearings. “We have been following the scent toward Banraven.”

“No,” said Eckhardt, “but we came from Elder Keep.”

“Does Drydwen know?” Thorne had been trying to avoid speaking of her.

“It was she who sent us to find you,” Eckhardt said. The careful tone and half-hidden empathy in his eyes only made Thorne feel worse. “Algernon has been sending word from Banraven to us through a new boy he’s taken to tutoring, and then we take the news back to Elder Keep. That’s how we learned what had happened to you.”

Thorne shook his head in bemused exasperation. “Another of Algernon’s woodland waifs.”

“He calls this one Gelf,” Gavin said. “He’s a clever lad, and reliable. Or at least he was. We haven’t seen him in nearly a week.”

“Who is Drydwen?” Rhys asked.

Gavin answered so that Thorne wouldn’t have to. “Drydwen is the prioress at Elder Keep.”

Thorne stood abruptly. His mood was turning surly, and he was tired of the talk. “We’ll sleep in turns,” he said, “just to be safe. Two to rest and two on the guard, in two-hour stretches until dawn. Eckhardt and I will stand the first watch.”

T
WENTY-
T
WO

B
y the time they had finished in the orchard and returned to the Fane, the night was edging toward dawn. The great room was empty, and the castle was quiet. There were guards posted in the vestibule and in the halls, giving Glain all the more reason to worry about what had come of Alwen’s
interrogations
.

She dismissed the remaining men of the escort Emrys had assigned and stood staring at the main staircase. At the moment it seemed an insurmountable obstacle. She hadn’t the heart or the strength to climb it.

“She’ll be waiting for us,” Nerys reminded. “The sooner we tell her, the better it will be for us all.”

Glain wanted to believe that was true. “I wonder what she did with Euday.”

“I would kill him,” Nerys said too easily. “But Alwen will let him live. Come on.”

Nerys started up the stairs and Glain followed, dragging one foot after the other. She had never known such exhaustion, not even in the long, morbid days of funeral pyres and nursing the wounded after the Hellion had been defeated. But then Alwen had been stronger, and Glain had still had hope. Then she had still had Rhys and Ynyr and faith in her own judgment.

When they passed the second-floor landing, Glain realized that she needed to take the lead, to protect Alwen’s secret. She forced herself to pick up her pace and passed Nerys on the stairs. A soldier was stationed outside the Sovereign’s chambers.

Glain grew concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“The Sovereign left orders that she not be disturbed except by you,” he said. “I believe she is resting.”

“Wait here a moment,” Glain said to Nerys.

She rapped twice and then let herself in, closing the door behind her. Alwen was sitting in an overstuffed armchair adjacent to the hearth, staring absently into the flames. Glain approached carefully, not wanting to startle her out of her meditation.

“Sovereign?”

Alwen looked up with woeful eyes and an expression of grim resolve. She was too pale, as though her life were draining from her. “What else did you find?”

“Verica is still missing.” Glain was reluctant to say more. She didn’t want any of it to be true, and Alwen looked so frail. “Nerys is waiting in the hallway. Shall I bring her in or send her back to her room?”

“We can hardly punish Nerys for poor judgment, now can we,” Alwen snapped. “Not when we are so egregiously guilty of it ourselves.”

The words stung, but no more than she deserved. “The veil is repaired.”

“Well, that is something at least,” Alwen said. The anger faded quickly, as though she were too weak to hold onto it. “And for what it is worth, you were not wrong about Ariane. She is insipid and deluded by visions of her own greatness, but not treasonous. Euday, however, is a bitter disappointment.”

It did not escape Glain’s attention that Alwen had avoided mentioning Ynyr, for which she was profoundly grateful. Then she noticed that Alwen was clenching and unclenching her blighted fingers. “Are you in pain, Sovereign?”

“What?” Alwen looked at Glain as if she hadn’t understood what she’d said, and then glanced at her fingers. “It’s nothing. I am fine.”

Glain was not convinced, but it was clearly not a good time to argue.

“Go,” Alwen waved at her. “Bring Nerys. There is nothing left to hide, not any longer. And then pour the aleberry. I’m sure we are all in need of it.”

Glain retrieved a tentative and almost intimidated Nerys and then poured a healthy dose of the mulled ale for each of them. It took Alwen’s insistence to coax Nerys to sit on the divan and take a cup. Glain chose the soothing warmth of the hearthstone, partly for the comfort of it and partly for the vantage point. She was concerned for Alwen.

The Sovereign listened intently while they recounted the events of the evening, nodding now and then in acknowledgment, but otherwise impassive. If Glain had held any hope that speaking about the events in the woods would ease her agony, there was none left by the time they had finished. Said aloud it all seemed even more devastating.

“It is likely Verica fled the compound through the breach in the veil after Ynyr was killed,” Alwen said. “Aside from Euday, no one else was complicit in her wickedness, at least as far as my interrogations have revealed. To be sure, I attempted a spirit-
faring
and consulted the scrying stone, to no avail.”

Nerys was brave enough to ask. “What have you done with him?”

Alwen let out a bitter, scoffing huff. “Sent him to rot in the dungeons, though I admit even that is better than he deserves.”

“What did he tell you?” Glain wondered.

“No more than he told you,” said Alwen. “Though I searched his mind to be sure we had the truth, as he knows it. My probing yielded only his terror and his motivations, which were of no interest to me.”

Glain was mildly encouraged. “At least we now know who our enemies are.”

“So we do,” Alwen agreed. “Nerys, dear child, I believe it is time we are done with secrets, once and for all.”

Glain was struck through with guilty panic. Just what secrets did Alwen mean to reveal? The Sovereign stood with considerable effort and walked to the altar table in the receptory. She returned with the black velvet bag that held the bloodstone amulet and held it out to Nerys.

When Nerys hesitated, Alwen placed the bundle in her lap. “This belongs to you now.”

“I don’t understand,” said Glain, thinking as she spoke that there were far too many things she did not fully grasp.

Alwen returned to the overstuffed armchair. “Among the many intriguing bits of information I learned while studying Madoc’s papers was the link between the Guardians of the Realms and their lineage. Those of us originally named to the Stewards’ Council are each a descendant of one of the founding bloodlines. I am a daughter of the House of Eniad. Cerrigwen is of the Uir legacy, Branwen of Caelestis, and Tanwen a daughter of
Morthwyl
.”

Glain was even more confused. “How does this concern Nerys?”

“Though we have the amulet, Bledig is returning without Tanwen, and time is running out on us. Barring some other sign of her or her escort, I am afraid I must entertain the possibility that Tanwen is lost to us,” Alwen said gravely. “And just as I intend to do my best to encourage Ffion to become her mother’s replacement, I intend to name a new representative for Tanwen. As Nerys is the last of the Morthwyl line, the privilege falls to her.”

Glain could not stop staring at Nerys. “What are you saying?”

“Nerys is Tanwen’s sister,” Alwen said, “by the same mother, which entitles Nerys to claim the same legacy. The only
person
who can succeed a Guardian of the Realms is her child. As
Tanwen
inherited her right through her mother, so does Nerys.”

Glain was not sure how to receive this knowledge or respond to it in an appropriate way. It was good news for the Stewardry, fo
r th
e prophecy, but Glain wondered if it was good news for Nerys. The fair-skinned Nerys had gone unnaturally pale, and though this was apparently not the first time she had heard this information, she was clearly not anywhere near comfortable with it.

Alwen addressed Nerys. “The amulet is safest around your neck. You can protect it far better than I until Tanwen returns or you take her place.”

Glain was tempted to ask aloud why Nerys had Alwen’s trust. She presumed that Nerys had submitted to Alwen’s psychic probing during the investigation surrounding the discovery of the scroll, but Glain was unwilling to leave anything to presumption, not anymore. Still, the only person she knew for certain was still deserving of her faith was Alwen. “If you trust her, Sovereign, so shall I.”

Alwen seemed to understand Glain’s inference. “If there was ever deceit in her thoughts or her intentions, I could not find it. And I did try.”

Glain was satisfied. Alwen’s ability to know another person’s heart and mind was the only reliable test of truth left to them now. And Nerys was the only ally left—aside from Ariane, but that thought gave Glain a headache.

Though she was reluctant to bring it up, Glain knew there was no avoiding the last remaining task Alwen had entrusted to her. “If Nerys is willing,” she said, “I would welcome her help in the search for Madoc’s testament.”

“A fine idea.” Alwen’s expression brightened as she looked to Nerys.

Nerys smiled, though she never actually accepted or refused the invitation. Glain decided to take her lack of objection as
agreement
. Perhaps the only person in the Fane more betrayed than she was Nerys, and Glain was not about to press her for
loyalty
that had not yet been earned.

“Before I send you both out so that I can rest,” Alwen
continued
, “I have more news. Some good, some less so. First the good.”

She sipped from her cup. “Hywel’s men have cleared the
rubble
from the labyrinth as far as the opening to the cavern. I am hopeful they will be able to open the cavern itself within a few days, and we will be ready when the others return.”

Glain glanced at Nerys. “Does she know of the Well of Tears?”

“She does now,” Alwen smiled. “There are a great many things she will need to learn in very short order, and I will rely on
your h
elp.

“However,” she said, sipping again at the aleberry, “I’m afraid I am not so sure of Emrys, not anymore. I sensed something disturbing when I entered his thoughts, though just what it was I could not decide. I have asked Finn to keep a close watch on him, and I suggest both of you deal with him cautiously. If you are uncertain about any man of the Cad Nawdd, take your concerns to Finn, or Pedr when he is able.”

Glain did not think she could stand to hear another disheartening word. Her eyes ached to close and her dress was still damp. “Sovereign, I believe we could all use some rest.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Alwen said, obviously far from her best as well. “But let’s none of us rest too long—evil doubles its efforts while we sleep.”

Eldrith was a coward. In fact, he had come to the realization nearly too late that his cowardice exceeded his arrogance, which he expected would surprise no one but him. Yes, Eldrith was a coward, and a loathsome one at that. If he weren’t, he would have done something,
anything
, to save Martin Trevanion from his horrible fate and warned Thorne Edwall away from Banraven rather than invite him into the demon’s lair. If he weren’t a coward, Eldrith would have slit his own throat when the page had awakened him earlier with word that the dark mage wished to interrogate him next. Instead, he had dressed and sat at his desk, watching the sunrise while sipping at the insidious tea he had brewed from
water
hemlock leaves and sweetened with heather honey. This death would be slower, and more painful, but it was a civilized end that required much less of him.

His rectory was a fitting last refuge. Eldrith could die here, happily outfitted in the regalia of his office and surrounded by the extravagances to which he had entitled himself during his tenure. For all he knew, he might well be the last master of this Order. A legacy for which the noblest moment would most likely be the last, or so he now hoped. The best Eldrith could ask was to be remembered for his final sacrifice, not his final failing.

The tea was surprisingly mellow, though he had begun to wonder if he had made it too weak. The cup was more than half empty, and he noticed only a mild tingling in his toes. This was troubling. Too weak and he would linger overlong; too strong and the effects, though quick, would be excruciating.

No
, Eldrith thought,
I measured the poison generously
. Likely it was his leisurely sipping that was prolonging the end. He gulped half the remaining contents of his cup and settled himself as comfortably as he could in his chair.

He loved this chair and all that it represented. To his own mind, he had been a fair and well-intentioned leader. Even his most foolhardy decision had been motivated by virtue, though it had been guided by arrogance, as Algernon had rightly called out to him.

The tingle in his feet had spread to his lower legs, rendering them useless. He swallowed the last of the tea while he still could and relaxed against the chair back. Soon the paralysis would spread up his body and seize his breathing, then his heart. Eldrith feared the violent convulsions that would overcome him in the final throes of death, imagining his last moments in pain.
Pray they are brief
, he thought, suddenly aware that while he could not move a single muscle below his waist, he could feel every nerve spasm like fire.

Footsteps echoed in the hall outside the door—too soon. Eldrith panicked. Just a little more time for the hemlock to take him so that Machreth could not tear the secrets from him he knew he was too weak to keep. He could feel the crippling heat creep higher, past his groin, to his gut.

The door flung open and Machreth strode over the threshold. Had Eldrith not been so keenly acquainted with the cold-blooded evil that resided beneath those tawny good looks, he might have mistaken Machreth for a nobleman of warmth and benevolence. He’d outfitted himself well in fine leathers and linen tunics confiscated from belongings left behind by members of the Brotherhood, and he kept himself impeccably groomed. The dark mage was tall and lithe and carried himself with the same arrogant charm that overlords possessed, the kind of charismatic confidence that drew support whether it was deserved or not. But his eyes inspired fear, if one dared to look directly into them.