The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (26 page)

“They feed on my livestock as if it were grain,” the copper-headed youth muttered, staring out the tall windows in the dining hall at the hideous monsters and the disgusting beasts they rode. “I should advise you not to leave this lodge. They will devour you as soon as you set foot in the yard.”

Ffion wasn’t certain he wanted a response, not that he had seemed to notice her silence thus far. The man-child she had been brought before was tedious, and he liked the sound of his own voice. He frightened her—not because he himself was so
intimidating
, for he was not, but because of the dark forces he controlled. The creatures under his command had killed
wantonly
in order to get to her, and she had no doubt they would devour her just as he said.

He turned from the window to examine her again, as if he hadn’t already looked her over more than once the last
hour.
“I wonde
r. Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Ffion said plainly. She preferred to be direct, provided she could do so without revealing too much. “But I know where I am.”

“You do?” He was surprised, for a moment. “Ah, well, of course you do. You were born at Cwm Brith.”

Now Ffion was surprised. What did this person know of her birth? Perhaps she should know him, but she was sure that she did not. He was younger than she, by several years. Clearly he thought himself the master of this estate, which meant he must be kin to the man who owned it. He seemed to her merely a very brash boy with a great deal of power and very little experience, which was yet further reason to engage him cautiously.
Best to stay quiet
, she decided.

“You would know something of Cadell, then,” the man-child continued. “Perhaps you even remember him.”

Indeed she did know something of Cadell, enough to be wary wherever he was concerned. It was true that she had been born in his house and lived here with her mother for several years. She remembered the lord of Cwm Brith as a fearsome man, though he had been kind to her on the few occasions she had caught his attention. Anything else she knew came from her mother, which amounted to little more than vague warnings against ever crossing his path, and that he had fathered the king of the great prophecy. This redheaded lordling, however, could not be Hywel.

“He is dead now,” the man-child continued. “Did y
ou kno
w?”

“Who are you?” Ffion’s frustration erupted. She wriggled against the tie that bound her wrists again, only to regret it more than before. The leather bit even deeper into her skin. “Why have you brought me here?”

His mood was immediately altered by her outburst. The welcoming tone was now cold and harsh, and his expression no
longer
friendly. “Beware the mage tether. The more you struggle, the tighter it binds. And lest you have some other trick in mind, you should know it also prevents your magic from working.”

Ffion panicked, though she was careful not to let it show. He had already taken her wand, and if she could not use her hands, she had no hope of escape. And how could he know what s
he w
as?

“I am Clydog,” he said, “the youngest son of Cadell. My birthright has gone ignored far too long, first by my father and now by my brother. There are debts to settle, and you are here to ensure they are paid.”

“What sort of nonsense is this?” Ffion’s befuddlement must have shown, for she made no effort to conceal it. “What value could I possibly be to you or your brother?”

“You needn’t trouble yourself with such worries—not just yet.” Clydog merely smiled at her as though he thought her
aggravation
amusing. “Hywel will come, and when he does, you will understand.”

“It is my mother who will come, not Hywel,” Ffion said. “And when she does, you will wish you had never brought me here.”

Clydog blanched ever so slightly, and Ffion was sure she saw his confidence waver. He was quick to recover his airs, but she sensed she had struck a weak spot. He was all too aware of who and what her mother was.

“Perhaps you know something of Cerrigwen,” she said, mocking him with his own platitudes. “I assure you, however, that she is
not
dead.”

Again he smiled, as if she were ignorant of some larger scheme. “Perhaps not, but I think it unlikely she will be coming for you anytime soon.”

Lies, she knew. What he said made no sense. It was nothing but an attempt to unsettle her. Ffion reminded herself that silence was often wiser than words. It would gain her nothing to argue against him.

He frowned, as though he were gathering thoughts that were reluctant to come together. “But of course, you could not know of your mother’s treason. You’ve only just returned to these lands.”

Ffion realized he was taunting her, trying to weaken her by undermining the source of her strength. Her mother was no
traitor
.

“In fact,” he mused, sauntering closer to her. “I wonder if you have even heard of the insurrection at Fane Gramarye.”

More lies
, Ffion told herself, but she refused to show him any reaction. Let him guess what she did or did not know and what she did or did not believe. Let this boy play his silly games.

He shrugged as though he thought the matter
insignificant
and turned away from her, this time to stare at the fire in the huge stone hearth at the head of his hall. “It would interest you to know, I suppose, that your mother came here, hoping for my father’s protection. I offered her my hospitality, but she refused.”

Clydog turned to look at her again. “When last she was seen, several days ago now, it was at the end of a mage hunter’s leash. By now she is languishing in the dungeons at Fane Gramarye.”

Ffion was finding it harder and harder to keep still. She had endured all the slander and insult she could stand, but she knew fighting it would gain her nothing. No wonder to her that
Clydog’s
family had disowned or discounted him. He was a vile little brat full to the brim with a soppy mix of self-importance and
entitlement
. Still, she worried that even some small part of what he said could be true. No. Her mother would come.

Clydog waved to the soldier standing just outside the
dining ha
ll. “I think we’ve had enough chat for now. I am sorry to say Cwm Brith is no better equipped for a lady’s comforts tha
n it e
ver was, but your room is clean and private. This man will be
standing
outside your door, to see to your safety and y
our needs
.”

To keep her contained, more like, but Ffion gave a curt nod in a false-hearted show of courtesy and followed the soldier up the stairs to the living quarters. She was surprised how well she remembered the way. But then, Cwm Brith had been the first and only real home she had ever known.

T
WENTY-
F
IVE

T
hey had been standing at the edge of the forest for more than an hour, watching for movement. Thorne had been expecting to see the Hellion soldiers that Gavin and
Eckhardt
had described, coming or going from Banraven. So far, there had not been a single sign of them. No sign of anything else either, which worried him more with each passing moment.

“Banraven looks deserted,” Gavin said. “Could be the dark mage and his legion have moved on.”

“And left nothing alive,” Eckhardt added.

“Could be.” Thorne was not so sure. “Or could be a trap’s been laid in case any of us were to come looking.”

“But I’m not one of you,” Rhys said. “Someone has to go. Why not me?”

“Won’t Machreth know you?” Thorne asked. It was a good plan, at least in theory, but there were still risks. “It might be smarter to send Eckhardt or Gavin in your clothes. It’s the
Ruagaire
cloak and the ring that give us away.”

Rhys snorted and mounted his horse. “Is that what you think?”

Thorne looked askance at the brothers Steptoe. “Are we so obvious?”

“Yes,” Rhys said. “I’ll signal all’s-well from the gate, unless I am unable. In which case,” he grinned, “I will expect to be
rescued
.”

Thorne returned the grin, meaning to be encouraging, but he had concerns. “If you pass through without signaling, we’ll assume all is
not
well.”

Rhys tipped his chin in salute and rode off across the small field that separated the White Woods from the grounds of
Banraven
. By the time he had reached the bridge over the moat, Thorne was uneasy. He mounted, expecting Gavin and Eckhardt to follow.

“Better to prepare for the worst than to hope for the best,” he said, watching Rhys approach the gate.

“The gate is open,” Eckhardt said, swinging astride. “Is that Algernon, Thorne? Your eyes are better than mine.”

“It could be,” he guessed. The man greeting Rhys was the same size and stature as the elder and had the same shuffling step. “Even if it is, there’s no telling what’s going on inside.”

“At least there is someone still alive,” said Gavin.

Thorne was glad of that, but he would be gladder to see Rhys give the signal. “What is he doing?”

Rhys had dismounted and had begun to lead his horse through the gate. Thorne cursed aloud and yanked hard on the rein to pull his horse out of the furze hedge he was munching. Gavin and Eckhardt responded instinctively to Thorne’s movements, and just as all three men began their charge toward
Banraven
, Rhys turned to wave. Thorne cursed again and eased back on the reigns.

Gavin laughed. “Had you worried, did he?”

“Yes,” he muttered. There was no point in denying it. “That boy is too brash for his own good.”

“And you would know,” Gavin pointed out. “Two of a kind, you and him, and don’t pretend you don’t see it.”

“I see it,” Thorne muttered again. “That’s what worries me.”

“He was made for this life, Thorne,” Gavin said. “And don’t pretend you don’t see that either.”

Thorne reminded himself to offer gratitude for his friends. He felt it, always, but neglected to show it as he should. Martin’s death would haunt him all the more because he had not treated their last parting as though there would never be another one. A mistake he would not repeat.

Elder Algernon awaited them all in the courtyard. Two bedraggled boys took the horses to stable, and a third, carrying a bucket and ladle, stepped forward to offer the riders water.

Eckhardt grinned at the boy and took the ladle. “So you’ve survived after all.”

Thorne supposed this was Algernon’s messenger, the boy called Gelf. Eckhardt seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Clearly this Gelf had made a lasting impression on the hunter, and Thorne took note. Perhaps Eckhardt had found his own apprentice. At least Thorne hoped so; the survival of the Brotherhood weighed heavily on all three of them.

Rhys was circling the small ingress, as if to get his bearings.

“Banraven is a circular keep,” Thorne offered, thinking Rhys might not be familiar with the design. “Through that door is a corridor lined with living quarters and service rooms that goes all the way around, beginning and ending in the same place. There is an interior courtyard, a sort of garden, in the center of it all.

“Curious,” Rhys said. “Is it always so quiet?”

Thorne and the Brothers Steptoe turned to Algernon, who had yet to say anything. The old man was more haggard than Thorne had ever seen him. But there was no mage sign, and the keep did feel deserted.

“Is it safe to speak here, Algernon?” Thorne was weighing the wisdom of trusting anyone found in Banraven, even
Algernon
. “The last time I was here, you nearly led me to
my do
om.”

Algernon bristled. “It was me who got you out of trouble in the end.”

Thorne held his tongue, thinking instead that Algernon could have easily warned him away from the keep instead of inviting him in that night. One day he would have the whole story, but for now, he would wait.

“Where
is
Eldrith?” Gavin demanded, his distaste for the master unfiltered by his tone.

“I suppose I should show you the rectory,” Algernon said, pointing through the main entrance. He led the way across the foyer and through the central garden, to the doors on the far side of the circle nearest the rectory. He moved much more quickly than Thorne recalled from their last meeting.

Algernon stopped just outside the rectory and cleared his throat. “Eldrith is dead. You’ll find his body in there. Haven’t had the time or the inclination to clean up after him yet. Take a look so you can see for yourselves what that dark mage is capable of, and then you’d best be on your way. Eldrith didn’t have Trevanion’s strength, not that any of us thought he did, but what matters to you is that Machreth is already on his way to Elder Keep. Left just more than an hour ago with that bestiary he calls his personal retinue.”

Algernon stepped aside and scowled at them all. “Well, go on. Have your look.”

One by one, each of the Ruagaire took a turn at the door and offered a blessing for Eldrith’s soul. Rhys did not look, though Thorne knew the young man had seen Machreth’s handiwork before. It was unpleasant, Eldrith’s broken corpse, and Thorne could not begin to imagine what Martin must have suffered. Best that Rhys not look, especially not now. There were more pressing worries.

“What does Machreth want with Elder Keep?” Thorne turned back the way they’d come, eager to leave.

Algernon scampered to keep up with him. “It was difficult to hear everything through the false wall.”

“But you heard enough,” said Thorne. He’d almost forgotten how skilled Algernon was at eavesdropping, but this was the first he’d ever heard of a false wall in the rectory. He imagined Eldrith had never known.

“Well,” Algernon huffed, trying to catch his breath, “it seems he intends to make Elder Keep the seat of his enterprise and use its resources to bolster his strength. He made some lofty comment about ruling the world of men if he couldn’t rule the world of mages, or some such foolery.”

Thorne slowed his pace so as not to tax Algernon so much he couldn’t walk and talk. “Do you think he knows what Elder Keep hides?”

“I suspect that
he
suspects,” Algernon admitted, dragging his feet to a stop once they reached the outer courtyard. “No way to tell what all he knows, but Drydwen will need your help.”

“Algernon,” Thorne asked carefully, “where are the others?”

Algernon sighed. “Of the six elders who were alive when Machreth came here, there are three left, including myself. They are hiding in the sanctum—in prayer, they say. In fear, I say, but I intend to join them as soon as you leave. Aside from the three of us, there are a handful of servants still scrounging about. The three of you are all that remain of the hunters.”

Gavin made an unintelligible noise that Thorne took for a cross between anger and anguish. He felt the same. He also had qualms about the details, including how it was that some survived and some did not. Algernon had not told everything he knew, but for now Thorne was far more concerned about Drydwen.

Eckhardt and Rhys retrieved the horses while one of the stable boys threw open the gate. All four mounts had fresh provisions tied to their saddles, and Thorne threw Algernon a nod of thanks as he hauled himself up.

Gavin was already astride, thinking just what Thorne was thinking. “If he has only an hour or so lead, we can still get there ahead of him.”

“If we ride hard,” Thorne said, spurring his horse to a gallop before his backside had fully settled into the saddle.

They had made better time than Hywel had expected, even with the hour lost at the crossroads where they’d encountered the Cad Nawdd captain, Aslak, and Alwen’s barbarian mate, Bledig, who traveled with one of his tribesmen. Their travels had been
unsuccessful
; every inquiry in Ausoria had failed to turn up any sign of Tanwen, the guardian of the Physical Realm. She had
never
arrived in the small village that was to have been her
refuge
. The need to deliver this dire news, coupled with Thorvald’s death, had made Aslak anxious to be on his way, but Odwain had
insisted
that the Wolf King and his companion join the raiding party.

The request irked Hywel, at first. Had he not owed Odwain a debt of respect, he would have dismissed the request without half a thought. In the end he had agreed, in no small part due to Odwain’s accounts of Bledig’s daring exploits against the
Hellion
in the battle for the Fane. Alwen’s barbarian was sure to be an asset at Cwm Brith, and possibly another valuable ally in the
campaigns
ahead. To learn something of this renowned warrior on his own, Hywel invited Bledig to ride beside him for the rest of the day.

“By now Aslak will have caught up to Goram and his charge,” Hywel said, attempting to coax a conversation. Bledig was a
contemplative
sort, not unlike Odwain, though the Wolf King was decidedly less brooding. “I’m surprised you were not as eager to return to Fane Gramarye to deliver your news to Alwen personally.”

A sly smile tugged at the corners of Bledig’s mouth. “Oh, I’m more than eager, but Odwain seems to think I’ll be of use on this raid of yours, and I’d much rather go back with something to brag about.”

“I haven’t much stomach for failure either. It leaves a sour taste.” Hywel understood that Bledig counted his return without the sorceress as a defeat. “Your friend, is he as good a swordsman as you?”

“Domagoj?” Bledig grinned and glanced over his shoulder at his companion, who rode with Odwain, a few horse lengths behind them. “Some might say better, but not to my face.”

Some might have dismissed such talk as bluster, but Hywel interpreted it as candor. “He was with you, then, in the battle against the Hellion and their beasts?”

“Saved my life,” Bledig said. “More than once.”

Hywel was impressed, even a little relieved. “Then we are lucky to have you both with us.”

“It takes two men, at least, to bring one of the mounts down,” Bledig offered, as though he were testing Hywel’s knowledge and experience.

“The Hellion demons are easier to kill, big and slow as they are,” Hywel smiled, “though I admit it helps to have a sorceress on your side.”

Bledig laughed. “It always helps to have a sorceress on y
our s
ide.”

They passed the rest of the afternoon in comfortable silence, though Hywel grew more and more expectant the closer they came to Cwm Brith. They reached the small woods that abutted the estate long enough before dark for Hywel to send out a scout team to assess their approach and any unexpected resistance.

It seemed that the battle with the Cad Nawdd guard had cost the enemy just as much, as only a handful of Hellion soldiers and their evil beasts stood between them and the main house. With Bledig’s experience and Cerrigwen’s magic, they stood a fair chance. Hywel was feeling almost as much confidence as he did dread. It would still be an ugly battle.

Hywel watched as Cerrigwen walked toward him. It had taken her nearly an hour to approach him. He’d been told that she suffered from some sort of madness, which he expected would make her restless and unpredictable, but Hywel had noticed her hemming and hawing ever since they’d arrived in the small forest. He was wary, yet also curious, and determined to be kind. This sorceress had not only known his father, she had borne him a child.

“I have been watching you, Hywel,” Cerrigwen said. “Clydog will never be half the man you are.”

“You would know better than I,” Hywel admitted. Her comment felt like flattery, but it seemed sincere. “It is years since I’ve spent any time in his company.”

Cerrigwen drew close enough to speak privately. “Your father made him what he is.”

“My father made me what I am,” he countered, “but Clydog and I are nothing alike.”