The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (31 page)

“You have failed yourself, Emrys, and thereby us all, though we are still waiting to know how and why. Say what you have come to say, Emrys, so that we can be done here,” Alwen said.

And so it was that Emrys gave a sordid account of his fall from grace and how he had come to be Verica’s consort. To
everyone
else it was clear how easily he’d been duped, but Emrys told a tale of true love for which he had sacrificed everything, including his honor. He had denied the signs of artifice and never allowed
himself
to question her. But on the night he’d sent his men to search the grounds, Verica had come to him, offering the scroll in return for his help. She had said that she’d turned Ynyr’s spell against him so that she might claim his victories as her own when Machreth returned one day to establish the new order; and that now she wanted his help to put Euday out of her way as well. It was then that Emrys had realized what she was and how low he had fallen. In a fit of rage and self-loathing, he had killed Verica and stuffed her body beneath the floorboards in the abandoned dormitory in order to hide his own treason. Trusting that Euday would be discovered, Emrys had left him where Verica had
abandoned
him bound and blindfolded in the orchard. Finally, he had delivered the scroll to Glain’s room as an act of atonement, but it had not delivered him from his guilt.

When Emrys had finished, none among them seemed to know how to respond. Finn was stiff with fury, and Aslak looked sickened. Nerys was so staid that her feelings were a mystery, and Glain simply felt sad.

“Well?” Alwen looked to Glain. “Shall I answer, or shall you?”

“It is your forgiveness he came for,” Glain decided. “Perhaps this should be your last act as Sovereign.”

“Very well.” Alwen retook her seat on the throne and looked long and hard on Emrys. It was a pitiful sight, this once honorable man reduced to a sniveling wretch.

“Finn,” she said at last. “I shall leave his final fate to you and Aslak. Military justice has jurisdiction in this case, but whatever else you may decide, he cannot remain here. Glain need not suffer yet another traitor in her temple.”

She turned then to Emrys, who had been forced to his feet by Aslak’s less than kind hand on the neck of his tunic. “For my part, Emrys, I give you forgiveness, just as I would any poor fool who lost his way and tried to find the way back—but it is Madoc you have truly betrayed, and there can be no forgiveness for that.”

Emrys seemed comforted. The confession had given him the peace he was seeking, but Glain was not so sure she was glad for him. Her own spite reminded her that she had much yet to learn about grace in leadership. Alwen was far kinder than she would have been.

“Now,” Alwen said with finality, pulling once again to her feet and turning to Glain. “This is your throne at last.”

T
HIRTY

G
lain found Bledig no less intimidating now than before he’d left to retrieve the last sorceress. There was a brusque warmth to the big, swarthy barbarian, but his gruff sense of humor often caught her off guard. In this way, Bledig reminded her of Rhys. Father and son also looked very much alike: the same dark hair and twinkling green eyes, which caused her to miss Rhys all the more. But Bledig had never seemed to take to her, and Glain could never quite tell what he was thinking. His
devotion
to Alwen, however, was unmistakable.

By the time Bledig and the others had arrived that
morning
, Alwen had become so weakened, she could barely stand. The blight on her hand had spread the length of her arm and was edging toward her heart. Ffion, as capable as she was, and even with the moss agate talisman she had accepted in honor of her mother, did not have any healing magic that seemed to do any good.
Bledig
had been at her side now for hours.

“I have asked Finn and Odwain to oversee the last of the
excavation
,” Glain explained. “They are doing what they can to make it safe for us to reach the well. Nerys is preparing Ffion and Raven for the rite. It’s nearly moonrise, but we will be ready.”

Alwen was pleased, but she also seemed sad. “And tomorrow you will be on your own.”

Glain had decided not to think about tomorrow, but she gave Alwen what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hywel would leave now, if he could. Some of his Gwynedd kinsmen are threatening another uprising. The king of Seisyllwg has been gone too long from his court, he says. The sooner he is seen at Dinefwyr with his brother and his Stewards the better.”

Hywel’s day is dawning, Alwen said, taking a careful tone. “You should know that Machreth has eluded us yet again, though he is no longer an immediate threat. Rhys intends to take residence with the mage hunters at Castell Banraven, but I think this does not surprise you.”

“No,” Glain admitted. It saddened her, but it did not
surprise h
er.

Alwen offered her a sympathetic nod. “You have a new ally in Drydwen, the prioress of a temple called Elder Keep. I suggest you make plans to visit her very soon.”

“What is Elder Keep?” This was not the question Glain most wanted to ask, but it was the most appropriate at the moment.

“As I said, make plans to visit the prioress. She will tell you what you need to know.” Alwen was tiring too quickly. “I have left you my instructions and notes, along with Madoc’s writings, on his desk.”

Glain noticed the worry etched into Bledig’s brow. “Enough talk for now,” she said. “Let me pour you some aleberry.”

He followed her to the hearth. “She may not be strong enough to survive the rite.”

Glain shared his concern, but she also knew what was at stake. “The prophecy cannot come to pass until she joins the Circle of Sages and leads them to Dinefwyr. The fates turn on this moment, Bledig. It is a risk Alwen is willing to take.”

“What if I am not?” Bledig muttered. “I could put an end to this now.”

“But you won’t,” Glain said gently. Her heart hurt for him. Bledig had already sacrificed his daughter to the prophecy, and now the fates might well take Alwen from him. “And neither will I. We will trust her to know what she is doing, just as we always have.”

Bledig clearly resented this truth, but he did not deny it. “Then there is nothing left to be done but wait.”

Glain gave Alwen the cup and began aimlessly pacing the Sovereign’s chambers. These were her rooms now, though the idea was as strange and awkward to her as the indigo velvet robe with the gold brocade that she was wearing. At least it did not itch.

Soon Aslak and Finn arrived with Goram and Odwain, ready to help Bledig escort the sorceresses to the hidden cavern in the labyrinth beneath the Fane. Pedr had charge of the castle defenses while the ritual was being performed, a decision Glain had come to quite easily. Her circle of trust had dwindled to only a few, but she had begun to build again on the strength and character of this one man.

Nerys was waiting with Raven and Ffion in the hall. Hywel and his lieutenants led the way, with Glain close behind. Out of respect and care for Alwen, the procession was slow and cautious. Even for the hardiest among them, the narrow tunnel was still difficult to walk. The labyrinth had been rendered largely impassable except for the single passageway Hywel had ordered his men to clear.

The cavern that contained the Well of Tears was almost too cold to withstand. Tallow-oil lamps had been staked at even intervals around the cistern, tingeing the frosty white cave an eerie, fluttery yellow. Misty vapor hung in the air above the rocky dirt floor, and the walls were coated with thick layers
of ice
. The well waters were still a black crystal solid, as frozen and unyielding as the day Madoc had been trapped within their depths.

Robed in the indigo velvet mantle in which she had first arrived at the Fane, Alwen made a brave attempt to carry herself with ease and dignity, but the effort was difficult, and it showed. The first time she stumbled on the uneven cavern floor, Glain was sure Bledig was going to leap to the Sovereign’s aid, but he managed to stop himself short. Glain admired his restraint and shared in his agony. Though they would both respect her need to appear commanding, the struggle was painful to watch.

The second stumble brought Alwen to her knees. Bledig came forward and offered her his arm. The gesture was both noble and
loving
, and it brought tears to Glain’s eyes. Alwen allowed him to help her to her feet and escort her as far as the well. Once they reached the edge of the pool, Alwen seemed to find new strength. She stood tall on her own, and Bledig stepped back into the
shadows
.

Alwen searched the marble sill surrounding the well and then knelt. She gestured to the others. “Look for the symbol that represents your realm, and take your place.”

As they moved to obey, she nodded with satisfaction. “This is just as it should be, just as my vision revealed to me.” She waited until each of the others had claimed a position in the circle and then removed the lapis amulet from around her neck and placed it upon the altar symbol carved in the marble before her. Alwen nodded to Ffion, Nerys, and Raven, indicating that they should do the same.

One by one the keys to the realms were laid upon their
corresponding
inscription—the moonstone and the stars, the bloodstone and the flame, the moss agate and the tree, the lapis and the rippling waves. Instantly, the jewel at the center of each pendant began to glimmer with an inner light that
radiated
a soft,
warm glo
w. Each pendant emitted its own brilliant, col
orful blaze. It w
as mesmerizing.

With her arms raised wide toward the sky, Alwen called upon the Ancients, invoking their power and their presence. The
cavern
floor shuddered.

“Where one arc ends another begins,” she pronounced. “Let this circle be forever forged.”

The glow from each jewel swelled, surging stronger and brighter, until the colors converged in a blinding flash of white. And just as quickly as it had begun, the joining ritual was complete. But there was more magic to be done.

Alwen looked to Glain and beckoned her closer. Glain stood beside Alwen and watched as she drew a bone-handled dagger from the velvet pouch at her waist. Alwen drew the blade across the palm of each hand in a single, sure swipe and waited for the blood to run. Alwen then placed her hands, palms down, upon the glossy black crust that capped the Well of Tears.

Madoc
. Glain heard the beckoning whisper in her mind.

Again the chamber floor trembled. Glain watched, transfixed, as the solid surface of the well wavered. Madoc’s visage appeared beside Alwen’s reflection, and Glain gasped aloud. The vision held for a moment and then faded.

The earth beneath them pitched and rolled, and a thick, snowy mist formed above the tarn. Frigid air turned humid, and with a hiss the frozen crust dissolved. The waters turned a limpid, fluid blue. And then they began to roil.

Glain’s heart stopped and her breath stalled in her throat. Something seemed to float to the top and settle just below the surface. Alwen reached into the well with both hands, and when she withdrew them, she was holding the staff that had been lost with Madoc when the well had swallowed him.

“Your hand,” Glain whispered, noticing the lightening skin on the fingers of Alwen’s afflicted hand.

“Yes,” Alwen said. “I can feel the darkness leaving me.”

Then Alwen stood and handed over Madoc’s staff. Next, she removed his signet ring and held it out to Glain. “These belong to you.”

Glain was elated and grief-stricken all at once. Her legs went numb, and every inch of her erupted with gooseflesh. As she took the staff and ring into her hands, Glain finally felt that Madoc was gone. The difference between knowing it and feeling it was immeasurably vast, like a chasm separating the place you need to be from the place you are. Though there was no comfort in the feeling, there was resolution. She was Sovereign now.

Alwen reached for her amulet. “Nerys, Ffion, and Raven—once you reclaim the pendant before you and place it back around your neck, it become yours to honor, to protect, and to wield. The amulets are separate, but they are also one. You will come to understand this, but so long as the circle remains unbroken, the amulets bind us together. Never, ever let it leave your person.”

Alwen rehung her pendant, waited while the other
sorceresses follo
wed her lead, and then reached for Glain’s h
and. “No
w for you, dear child. You must drink the waters.”

Still clutching the staff, Glain knelt beside Alwen. Panic crept up from within. “What will happen when I do?”

“I felt nothing at all,” Alwen said. “But whatever blessing I might have received was tarnished when the well was fouled. I have no idea what will happen to you.”

Glain had been sure before, but now she was uncertain. The waters had the power to change her in ways she had only imagined. The dream-speak—the language of the subconscious through which the generations of Sovereigns before her would bestow their wisdom—was an awesome and terrifying privilege.

“Madoc would say this is a test of faith,” Alwen said. “Faith in what is for you to decide.”

Glain set the staff aside. This had been her dilemma all along. In what did she believe? The more she had tried to answer this question for herself, the more confused she had become.

Perhaps the trouble lay in the attempt to define her faith, as if it were a finite thing. Perhaps faith was not a fixed point on a moral compass or a precise measurement on a scale of intent. Perhaps it was an eye toward what could be as much as what was. In this moment, all she really needed was the courage to take a risk on the unknown.

Glain cupped her hands together, gathered well water into the bowl of her palms, and brought the ice-cold liquid to her lips. She sipped at it cautiously, not knowing what to expect. The water tasted of nothing. The water tasted of everything. All at once she decided that this test, if it were a test, was to find her faith in
herself
. With a whispered prayer for grace and luck, Glain
swallowed
the rest in a single, daring gulp.

“
You are stronger than you know.”

Glain awoke uncertain. The room was dark and quiet except for the warm glow and soft crackle of alder wood burning in the hearth. She was alone on the divan in her own rooms. But she was sure she had heard a voice.

She spied Alwen’s aleberry pot, resting in the coals. Alwen had left it behind as a remembrance and given her the recipe along with a gift of parting wisdom. Glain smiled as she recalled
Alwen’s
“wisdom”: one draught, medicinal; two draughts,
sedative
; and three, a very bad idea.

The quiet reminded her how empty the Fane was now. Hywel had taken with him Alwen and the Circle of Sages, and with them had gone Bledig and Finn and Goram. Bledig would not be parted from Alwen. And though Glain had officially
disbanded
the Crwn Cawr Protectorate, in recognition of a duty fulfilled, Finn and Goram had insisted on continuing to serve the
Guardians of th
e Realms.

Though their numbers had dwindled further, the Fane was still a functioning refuge. Glain intended to continue the traditions of the Stewardry as long as there were still Stewards in residence. Machreth had been right about one thing—their way of life was dying.

In the meantime, Aslak had happily retaken command of the Cad Nawdd militia, pledged Glain his support, and made Pedr and Odwain his first officers. Pedr was glad to be able to stay as long as he liked in one place, and Odwain would never leave the Fane for long, not as long as he could still find some essence of Eirlys in the faerie meadow.

But whose voice had awakened her? Glain poured herself a cupful of aleberry and returned to the divan to contemplate the fire. She remembered a dream, a familiar dream. A regal stag, preening atop a hill, master of all he surveyed. This time the vision had ended where it had begun. Glain took this as a sign that Hywel’s course was well set, at least for now. The whispering voice, however, had not been a part of her dream.