The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (27 page)

Cerrigwen cast a doubting look at him. “You are more alike than you think, but not in the ways by which a man is measured. You are bold, resourceful, and wise because your father ensured that you would be. Cadell doted on you. Clydog is desperate, uncertain, and reckless because Cadell ignored him. Remember that.”

Hywel knew there was truth to what she said. Cadell had been a harsh man, and Hywel couldn’t help but wonder how his father had made Cerrigwen who she was. “Why do you tell me this?”

“Great men become great in moments of unconquerable crisis, in the face of impossible decisions,” she explained. “It is their actions in these moments that determine how they will be remembered.”

Hywel was reminded of Glain and her dreams. She had offered him similar counsel. “I will do what must be done.”

“I trust that you will,” Cerrigwen said plainly. “All that
matters
to me is my daughter. There is nothing I will not do to save her.”

Hywel respected her honesty, and he understood the
warning
in it. He was also starting to wonder which of them Clydog should fear most—Hywel or Cerrigwen.

Glain sat bolt upright, confused and shaking. It took several seconds to realize she had awakened in the scriptorium. The dream was still vivid, invasive, making it difficult to focus on her surroundings. And the horrible, heart-rending sadness was worse than before. Sleep had brought her no relief, none at all.

The dream had changed, but not how she had hoped it would. In the new vision, the first stag arose enraged and bested the second, overpowering his brother buck and crushing him beneath his fierce, thrashing hooves. Glain took this to mean that when faced with a final choice, Hywel would make the most ruthless one. Not that he would be wrong to do so, but she feared he still did not fully understand the consequences, or the lost opportunity.

Tears of hopelessness filled her eyes, but Glain forced them back. She noticed the air was warm around her, but her bones were still cold. The fire was fresh. And there was honey cake and tea, long gone cold. An attendant had been in the room while she slept—however long that had been.

Glain ate the cake and sipped the cold tea, knowing it had been hours, if not days, since she’d last eaten. If she had any memory of her last meal, she was unable to recall it. Alwen had cautioned against wasting time, and here she was still in a damp, dirty dress she’d been wearing for the past two days.

Glain dragged herself to her feet and forced them to carry her onward, dreading the inevitable encounters in the hallways and on the stairs. If only she had gone back to her room earlier. At first glance from the doorway, it seemed she had been granted a little luck.

There was but a single soul standing in the second-floor hallway. The wounded soldier, Pedr, appeared to be testing his strength. His back was turned to her. If she were quick, she could cross the hall to the stairs before he noticed. The last thing Glain wanted was to be forced into polite conversation.

And then it occurred to her that although polite conversation was not appealing to her, it might well benefit Pedr. She was the Proctor of the Stewardry, the mistress of the house. It was her duty to see to his comforts, even if doing so undermined hers.

“Well met, Pedr,” she called out. “It is good to see you up and about.”

He turned and walked toward her, more steady on his feet than most men would have been in a similar state. His arm was supported by a sling, to keep it immobilized so there would be no pulling on the half-healed injury to his shoulder, but Pedr was obviously much improved. He seemed taller and broader than when she’d last seen him. This time his color was healthy, but his expression was still grim. He did, however, seem pleased to s
ee her
.

“Did you find the tea and cakes?” Pedr asked.

“Yes,” she said, surprised and a little embarrassed. “Tha
nk you.
”

“The attendant did the work,” he deferred. “I merely made a suggestion.”

Glain suddenly felt unbearably self-conscious. “I was just on my way to change my dress.”

Pedr brushed aside her concern about her appearance. “I don’t see how you could have got half the sleep you need, especially in that chair, but some is better than none. You must remember to keep up your strength.”

Glain could only nod in response, for fear her voice would fail and embarrass her all the more. Twice now this man she barely knew had offered her the most unexpected and perfectly timed kindness. She couldn’t begin to think how she deserved such gestures, but she was grateful.

The slightest smile lifted Pedr’s lips as he turned to leave. “I’ll leave you to your business then. Ilan has made me promise to walk the length of this hall at least a dozen times, and I’m only halfway through.”

She waited for him to be on his way before making a quick escape up the stairs. If she had been in her right mind, Glain might have been flattered. As it was, she was all the more confused and uncertain. She would feel clear-headed and purposeful with a fresh dress and her familiar white robe.

By the time she reached her room, Glain was desperate to feel clean. The sensation of a million spy-eyed spiders still lingered on her skin. She tore off her clothes and looked for water to wash on the dressing table under the window. The pitcher was full and the water cold, but that didn’t matter. She sluiced it over herself and began washing. And then she saw it.

Every inch of her froze. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of parchment resting on the ritual altar against the wall to her right. Glain was afraid to look, but she already knew what it was.

Naked and still dripping with wash water, Glain turned to face the altar, disbelieving her own eyes. Carefully placed between a candlestick and the silver bowl she used for divining was the missing scroll. Madoc’s wax signet was unmistakable. The seal was still attached, though the parchment had obviously been opened.

Glain felt both elation and angst, which caused a sickening lurch deep in her stomach. How had the scroll come to be here, and when? She tried to remember the last time she had been in this chamber. On the day Ynyr had been found dead, that morning she had slept on her bed. But was that yesterday or the day before? She no longer knew.

A shiver forced her to cover herself, but she dared not take her eyes from the parchment as she dressed. Even as she outfitted herself with her wand sheath and the acolyte’s white robe, she stared at it, debating whether she could stand to touch it.

Glain was not happy to have discovered the scroll. She had been honest with herself that very morning when she had hoped it would never be found. She had renounced all that it represented. But how could she deny it now, with the dreaded thing sitting within her reach?

She could destroy it. No one would ever know. The person who had left it for her would never speak up for fear of being found out. Even if someone were to accuse her, all she need do was deny it. Glain would be believed.

With a snap of her fingers and a whisper, the candlestick on her altar was lit. After a sputter of spark and old wax, the flame grew strong and steady. Glain picked up the scroll at one end and held the other end over the flame.

The smell of singeing velum tickled her nostrils, and the
smoldering
ink dust stung her eyes. When the roll end finally caught fire, she sobbed aloud with relief. It was so simple. The only proof of her secret would be ash in a matter of moments.

With no living relations to attest to the fact, no one ever need know of Madoc’s grandniece. The truth of her birth would stay safely hidden, and Glain would never be expected to accept rule of the Stewardry. The Primideach dynasty would end with Madoc’s legacy unless she came forward to assert her claim on his throne. This, Glain had promised herself, she would never, ever do.

But she would. How could she not? Glain snatched back the scroll and smothered the burning edge with her sleeve. There was no escaping who she was and what she was born to become, no more than Alwen could make herself into something she was never meant to be.

T
WENTY-
S
IX

E
very time he rode toward Elder Keep, Thorne experienced an emotional assault. Anticipation lifted his spirits and strangled them at the same time, suspending him in a state of bliss and misery. In this way, coming here was far worse than leaving, because as soon as he arrived, he was forced to begin counting the hours until he would have to go.

This time Thorne also felt fear for Drydwen’s safety, which was a new torment. He always worried, but not so much that he was tempted to abandon his duties. He would, for her. But there was little in this world that could threaten the prioress and
survive
her retribution, especially with the power of the temple surrounding her. She had never needed his protection, not really, and even now Thorne was not entirely sure there was anything he could do. But at least he would be there, and by all odds, well ahead of Machreth.

Eldrith had known only the one documented route to Elder Keep. Thorne and the Brothers Steptoe had discovered many others in their years patrolling the White Woods, some of them shorter and quicker. No one knew these woods better.

Thorne felt Eckhardt studying him with concern, which annoyed him almost as much as it honored him. He wanted to pretend he was unaffected by his fears, but that was a lie Eckhardt would never believe. “Stop worrying, Brother.”

Eckhardt snorted, as if to say Thorne’s comment was useless, and then tossed his chin in Gavin’s direction. The other Steptoe had finally taken to Rhys and was giving him something akin to a
history
lesson as they approached. There was little known of the origins of the crypt, and what was known was as much lore as it was fact.

Elder Keep was believed to be the oldest structure in the enchanted forest. Carefully orchestrated deceits had helped it survive the Romans and the fall of the old ways. Time had eventually erased its existence from the memories of those who would destroy or pervert it.

The Ruagaire believed the sanctuary had been built by the Ancients themselves, who had entered the world of men through the portal concealed within it. Elder Keep was the first of the sacred sites and the origin of the five bloodlines that had founded mageborn societies. Thorne was a bit of a skeptic when it came to most of the legends he’d been taught during his training, but he believed everything he’d been told about Elder Keep. He had stood before the portal and felt the convergence of the realms. There was no more powerful place.

To the unknowing eye, the keep appeared to be little more than the ruins of a long abandoned manor house. The moss-
covered
stone ramparts were nearly indiscernible from the
natural
backdrop, which helped avoid accidental discovery and discourage the curious. But behind its walls was a small and
thriving
community of mageborn refugees subject to the prioress and dedicated to the preservation of an ancient shrine.

When they reached the tiny clearing at the face of the keep, it was near dusk. Rhys was concerned. “There is no light. Are you sure there’s anyone inside?”

“We’re in time,” Eckhardt said with a heavy sigh of relief. “No mage sign out here, not yet.”

Thorne smiled to himself. No mage sign that anyone else would sense. He could feel Drydwen long before he could see her. She was already waiting behind the doors at the top of the temple steps.

Eckhardt and Gavin reined up and indicated Rhys should do the same.

“Give him a minute,” Gavin said.

Thorne had already dismounted and was no longer listening to anything but his own needs. By the time his foot reached the first step, the doors were thrown open and she was there. The flame-haired goddess who haunted his dreams and the only woman he would ever love.

What Thorne felt was rarely aligned with how he behaved. His training compounded his nature, which enabled him to remain tightly controlled at all times. This was the most comfortable state of being for him, and the reason Thorne was so good at what he did. But Drydwen had the power to undo him with a smile.

Thorne stopped dead at the threshold of the steps, partly because his sense of propriety told him to and partly because he needed a moment to steady himself. He was always surprised at how much the sight of her affected him, how desperately he missed her.

“No harm has come to my house, Thorne. Not yet,”
Drydwen
said, bemusement softening her mouth. “You can breathe
easy no
w.”

There was no force in all the realms that could have kept him from her. Drydwen was in his arms before he even realized he was reaching for her. She overwhelmed him with her unique essence—the heather-honey scent and the wine-red hues of her hair and her lips, and the soft warmth of her skin. The aching was agony, but the joy was sweet. If a woman’s kiss could cure a man’s ills, hers was all the healing magic he would ever need.

“Thorne.” There was urgency in Gavin’s voice. “Your mutt
is her
e.”

Drydwen pulled away. “I’ll have your horses brought inside and see that the others are well hidden. I will wait for you in the crypt, Thorne. Find me there when you’re through.”

She managed to make him smile despite his doubts. Thorne looked for Maelgwn. The warghound’s hackles were high and his teeth were bared. He remembered the dark mage’s scent. Machreth was coming.

“Get the bags before they take the horses, and bring them up here,” Thorne called to Rhys.

Attendants appeared as if from nowhere and led the horses to a hidden entrance behind the structure. Drydwen was already gone to the crypt to protect the portal. She would allow no living soul to pass through it, in or out. And he would allow no one to get that far.

Gavin and Eckhardt retrieved the saddle sacks and joined Rhys at the top of the temple steps. The mage hunters armed themselves with sword and knife and septacle and mage tether, and then retreated behind the temple doors. The first room was a foyer, in ruins, and a crumbled back wall that revealed the old courtyard and shrine. This was a ruse to deter anyone from
noticing
the opening at the right side of the foyer. Through this doorway was a short, narrow corridor and stairs that led into the true temple and the crypt that housed the
portal
.

“What is your plan?” Rhys asked.

“We’ll make our stand here, out of sight,” Thorne explained. “Let Machreth think he was the first to arrive. With luck, he’ll leave his Hellion escort behind and investigate on his own. When he comes in here, for a moment or two he’ll wonder if he’s in the wrong place. At first glance all he will see is ruins, and he’ll think the place abandoned. That’s when we’ll strike.”

It was their only hope, really, to catch him off guard. If Machreth were to have even a moment to react, he could easily destroy them all. Mage hunters were resistant to the effects of magic, but not immune. And Machreth was the most powerful sorcerer Thorne had ever confronted.

Rhys was ready and willing. “Where do you want me?”

This stopped Thorne dead in his tracks. Rhys was in no way prepared for this. He would be less than useless on the first line of defense, and likely to give them all away. Thorne and the Brothers Steptoe were trained to deflect a mage’s keen senses. Rhys, talented though he might be, was not. Thorne’s faith in the boy was strong, but so was his need to protect him.

Thorne pointed to the corridor. “I need you to hold the ground between me and Drydwen. That leads to a stairwell. At the bottom you’ll see the double doors that open to the crypt. Take your position there. Drydwen will spend her last breath protecting the portal to the fifth realm. If Machreth passes the three of us, he must not get to her.”

Rhys accepted his orders and left to prepare his defense, and Thorne began planning contingencies in his head. He was not so arrogant as to think himself capable of controlling every outcome, but he was confident enough to know he was likely to get the best of most of them. It helped to consider every conceivable situation, which was how he prepared himself for battle.

Gavin and Eckhardt had secured themselves behind rubble on either side of the foyer that concealed them from view without obscuring their own line of sight. Thorne took cover behind the collapsed wall that revealed the courtyard.

Thorne looped the chain attached to his septacle around his right wrist and cradled it in his palm. The spell catcher was their only defensive weapon against a sorcerer like Machreth. It was also the only tool they had to diffuse the sorcerer’s power long enough to subdue him with mage tether. This could best be done by a combination of distraction, speed, and brute force. Like hobbling a wild boar, but far more dangerous.

At the right moment, Thorne would draw Machreth out. When magic was unleashed against him, he would manipulate the spell catcher and capture the energy in one of the seven chambers. The septacle worked like a shield, except that it absorbed the blow instead of deflecting it. When the opportunity presented, Gavin and Eckhardt would move in to overpower Machreth, and Thorne would bind him.

“I can feel them,” Gavin whispered.

Thorne gave a nod to signal he could as well. The mage sign was so strong that it was already uncomfortable. He concentrated on assessing what was approaching. Large mounts with riders, four or maybe five, and a normal-sized horse bearing one person. Machreth’s traveling party was small, but fierce. Now to wait and see whether Machreth would come in alone.

The riders gathered in front of the temple and then split up. At least four mounts headed off by pairs in different directions. Scouts. Thorne was not particularly concerned that they would find the other entrance to Elder Keep, though it was possible. For now, he needed to trust in his plan and his friends.

A single set of boot steps on the temple stairs—a good sign. Thorne glanced to his right, at Gavin, and to Eckhardt on his left. Both men were ready.

Machreth paused at the top of the stairs and then pushed the door inward, slowly. Thorne thought it interesting that the dark mage dressed all in black, like the Ruagaire who hunted him. He was cautious too, taking his time to assess the foyer before entering. Only then did Thorne consider that upon seeing the ruins, Machreth might not bother to enter at all.

He nearly panicked for nothing, as in his own good time Machreth did indeed come inside. Thorne assumed the sorcerer to be as well informed and intelligent as he was ambitious and powerful. Plan for the worst and then hope for the best, as Thorne always said. Machreth would anticipate ruses and camouflage.

Timing was everything. And once the fight began, it would be fast and furious and swift to whatever end the fates decided. Thorne tensed, preparing to draw Machreth’s attention.

Machreth noticed the opening to his right almost immediately and rather than moving into the room as Thorne had expected, he headed straight toward the passage. Eckhardt had already anticipated the changing strategy and stepped between Machreth and the stairwell, fully armed for engagement.

“Hah!” Machreth shouted as he stopped short, but not in surprise. “I wondered how long you would wait to reveal yourself.”

Thorne cursed himself under his breath. Whether the black mage had sensed them or had merely anticipated a defense of some kind, the brethren had overestimated the element of
surprise
.

“You’ve come far enough,” Eckhardt threatened. “Stay where you are.”

Machreth laughed. “Or what, mage hunter?
You
will st
op me
?”

Thorne tensed, but it was crucial that neither he nor Gavin react too soon. Only Eckhardt was exposed, and it was possible that Machreth did not know their full number or their
positions
. If they were to have any chance, they would need to wait for
Eckhardt
to engage the sorcerer, but he was vulnerable in the open on his own.

Machreth barely hesitated. The sorcerer drew his weapon with a sweeping motion that was as fluid and elegant as a fencer’s lunge. His assault was swift, sure-minded, and deadly. Eckhardt caught the first wand strike easily enough, capturing the burst of magic in his septacle. But the force of it staggered him, and he was unable to recover fast enough to block the second. Eckhardt’s natural immunity saved him from death, but the spell energy seared his side open like the slice of a hot blade.

Thorne and Gavin were already in motion before Eckhardt collapsed. Thorne reached the mage first and grabbed for his hands, hoping to break or snatch the wand before Machreth could use it against them. The other immediate danger was from a cursing gesture, which Thorne hoped to avoid by binding Machreth.

“Gavin!” Thorne had a good grip on Machreth’s right wrist, but the sorcerer still had control of the wand. Thorne could hear Machreth muttering something in the old language under his breath. “Mage tether, quickly.”

Gavin charged from the opposite side, knocking the
sorcerer
off balance, but not enough to give Thorne the leverage he needed. Machreth was quick, lithe, and unexpectedly strong. The three of them grappled furiously for several long minutes while Gavin tried to force the slip loop he’d tied in one end of the mage tether onto Machreth’s free wrist.

“I’ve almost got the bind on him!” Gavin cried. “Don’t let him loose now.”

Machreth howled and thrashed. Thorne threw his elbow into Machreth’s chin twice, and then once to his nose, but still could not yank the wand from his grip. Finally, Thorne managed to pry back two fingers, which weakened Machreth’s hold just enough for Thorne to knock the weapon loose.

The wand clattered against the broken stone floor. The distraction gave Gavin the opportunity he needed to force t
he tet
her over Machreth’s left hand and cinch it tight around the wrist. Thorne worked to pull Machreth’s right arm back so that Gavin could bind both hands behind him. But the
sorcerer
had a will of iron and strength to match; he would not be subdued.