The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (4 page)

“That there is no answer to this question is a worry that plagues us all day and night, Sovereign,” Ynyr agreed. “Save your interrogating every one of the sixty-odd Stewards who remain, we may never know.”

Glain was surprised by Ynyr’s not-so-subtle reference to
Alwen’s
power over the psyche, which he knew as well as anyone she would never employ in such a way.

He raised his hands in petition. “If any one of us here were called to account for the contents of our thoughts, how might we be judged? In the end, it is our actions that define our
loyalties
.”

Alwen nodded. “Every Steward here has sworn an oath to the Ancients and to the protection of the prophecy. Until I have
evidence
of wrongdoing, I take them all at their word. As Madoc would say, trust is the very essence of faith.”

“When Machreth attacked Madoc and the Fane, he attacked us all,” Verica offered, “including his collaborators.”

“Even so,” Glain said, urging caution, “we should assume there are some who would still join him if they could.”

Alwen sighed. “I’m afraid this is a risk with which we must live. Even if I were to offer his supporters amnesty and let them go, I doubt any of them would reveal themselves. Nor would they leave the safety of the Fane.” Alwen straightened in her chair as though to signal her authority and then stood. “We have more urgent concerns. Come.”

Glain and the others followed Alwen to the adjacent
chamber
—once Madoc’s personal scriptorium—to the massive hornbeam and hazelwood desk that now anchored its northeast corner. Alwen had ordered it moved out of the receptory in order to work in private.

“I have been studying the ancestry of the Stewardry.” Alwen settled herself in the seat behind the desk and gestured to the giant leather-bound tome that lay open before her. “This ledger is the official chronology of the founding bloodlines. Naturally, there are five separate delineations, each beginning with the Ancient of origin and continuing with the direct descendants of every
generation
that follows. The last permanent entries are the known births from each clan that mark the beginning of Madoc’s era, as recorded by his predecessor.”

Alwen reached for a small stack of parchment rolls and gathered them into her hands. “Each of
these
is a record of the current
generation
, the offspring of the last hundred or so years. Those among us who are descendants of the Ancients, like myself, are named here. Most of our membership, however, are wildlings and halflings. The founding bloodlines have grown so thin they are nearly extinct.”

“Wildlings?” Verica’s lack of training showed itself in the worst possible moments, but Glain had only herself to blame for that.

“Mages born at random to plain folk.” Ynyr tried to satisfy her with the shortest possible answer and minimize the embarrassment of her ignorance. “A halfling is bred when a mage mates with plain folk, but a wildling is a true mage that just naturally springs up. It happens from time to time.”

“Many people in these parts have sorcerer’s blood in their family lines and either do not know it or do not admit so.” Alwen was ever kind and always welcoming of an opportunity to teach. “Long ago, when the Stewardry was still known to the world, it was common for children who showed an inclination toward magic to be brought to us. But eventually, a mage birth became a dangerous thing, and to keep themselves from being found out, the families began to abandon the babes.”

“Or kill them,” Euday added.

“Yes, Euday, a sad truth,” Alwen acknowledged with obvious regret. “And the favored practice these days, I’m afraid. It used to be that Madoc would make regular travels outside the Fane in search of the wildlings and bring them back here. He called them his foundlings. But I understand it has been many years since any abandoned witches or wizard babes have been found.”

Alwen loosed a short sigh and redirected the discussion. “As for the scrolls, as you can see, I have only four.” She let the rolls drop, one by one, naming each as they fell upon the desktop. “Caelestis, Eniad, Uir, and Morthwyl. The fifth scroll, the continuation of the Primideach line, Madoc’s heritage, is missing. As is his last testament, which was left for me but never recovered after his death.”

Frustration sharpened the tone of her words. “This, of course, presents a dilemma on the issue of Madoc’s successor. I am his proxy, not his heir. My birthright is to lead the Circle of Sages. It was also Madoc’s express desire.”

Glain was riddled with prickles of guilt. She shared Alwen’s distress for all the same reasons, but she had one that was all her own. Long had she been Madoc’s confidante, but in the frenzied hours of his last days, Madoc had gone to great lengths to safeguard his legacy. He had handed her his absolute trust and in return demanded a vow of silence. This quickly became a difficult pledge to keep, and Glain had struggled with it every day since. Madoc was a masterful keeper of secrets, but she had never quite acquired the stomach
for it
. At the moment, Glain felt as though she had swallowed far too many—and the morning meal was curdling in her gullet.

Alwen leaned forward, elbows propped upon the open pages of the ancient book and hands clasped, contemplating them all again. “It has been suggested to me that Cerrigwen somehow found Madoc’s hiding place and stole away his testament when she escaped. I do not believe this to be the case. His testament remains in this castle, as does the record of his lineage. We must find them both.”

“Might they not just as easily have been destroyed as
concealed
?” Verica wondered.

Glain went cold all over. This was an impossible thought. What if the scrolls were never found? The knowledge they
contained
had such great value that Madoc had protected them like precious treasure. What was to be done if they were lost?

“I have considered this,” Alwen said. “But the information in those documents is too precious. The only person who might gain anything by destroying them is Machreth, but even he would be more likely to leverage the knowledge. I am also convinced that neither he nor Cerrigwen had access to these chambers. They couldn’t have taken the scrolls.”

Glain could not help but wonder if Madoc had somehow not foreseen the potential for theft or destruction of the scrolls by some other traitor. And then again, perhaps he had, and this was all a test of her faith in him. Madoc had held a hard line when it came to revelations. What knowing came to a Steward by way of visions and signs was meant to be used to guide others toward a wiser choice. But when a person would not be persuaded, the fates were meant to unfold of their own accord—no matter how tempting it might be to force a different outcome. Whether or not a supernatural power should intervene was for the Ancients to say, and this had been where Madoc and Machreth had become so fatally divided. Madoc believed guidance still came from the Ancients, through signs and visions, whereas Machreth believed they had long abandoned their followers to their own designs. Glain had always sided with Madoc’s beliefs and would never have questioned his wisdom when he was alive. But in this moment, she was discovering an understanding for the alternative view. It was misery.

“No,” Alwen proffered. “I believe the scrolls remain intact and within the Fane. Whoever has them effectively holds the
Stewardry
and the prophecy hostage. An intolerable situation. I have decided to charge Glain with retrieving them, and thereby the rest of you.”

It took all the strength Glain had to keep from sighing aloud with relief. Salvation had arrived. She could think of no
happier
task than to find the scrolls, which would put at least part of her conscience at rest. Still, carrying the authority of search and
seizure
was not altogether appealing. The role of the
inquisitor
was somber, even harsh. It was not a responsibility to accept lightly.

Alwen held up one of the parchments. “Both scrolls are likely to be similar to this in size. The vellum Madoc favored is quite distinctive, as is his handwriting. If the original seal is intact, you will recognize his signet. You shall investigate relentlessly and under the full authority of my name. Look everywhere,
question
everyone
, and let no one refuse you. Discretion is a waste of
valuable
time and serves no one’s interest save the person who took the scrolls in the first place.”

“Why
would
someone take them?” Euday voiced what they all wondered. “What reason could there possibly be to keep them from you?”

“I do not know, Euday, though I do have my suspicions.” Alwen pressed her lips together in a grim line, as though those suspicions were painful to entertain. “Whatever the reason, my first concern is the scrolls themselves. We will have our answers later.”

Alwen abruptly swept the scatter of scrolls aside and closed the huge book with a bang. “If there is nothing else?”

Glain gave her friends a dismissive glance and waited for them to leave. “Perhaps I should see to your comforts before I go.”

Alwen had already turned her attention back to the stacks of journals and parchments amassed on her desk. “Your time is best spent searching. If there is anything I need, I can see to it myself.”

Glain stalled, still struggling with her conscience, hoping to receive some sign to guide her. Over and over she heard the echo of Madoc’s words:
Let the fates unfold on their own
. Perhaps the assignment Alwen had given her was just that—the will of the Ancients at work through her. But what if she were wrong?

Before long, Alwen noticed the lingering and looked up. “Tell me what troubles you, child.”

The words wanted to come; they clambered over each other in her mind, clawing at her throat. Glain’s misery was threatening to exceed her ability to withstand it. Part of her was desperate to be relieved of the burden, and part of her considered that to tell what she knew might be the right thing. But something rooted within her far more deeply than her conscience made her hold her tongue.

Alwen waited, attentive but not prodding, offering Glain every opportunity to speak her mind. For a moment, Glain worried that Alwen might decide to look into her thoughts. Panic burbled in her chest, but still she said nothing.

“Well, then.” Alwen broke the gaze and reached for another of the books piled upon her desk. “When the time is right.”

Glain’s heart sank. Would the time ever be right? And how was she to know when it was? The uncertainty was awful enough, but the thought of failing Madoc in any way was worse. Her duties were at cross-paths and where one wanted her to go, the other could not follow. The conflict was soul rending.

She owed oaths to Madoc and to Alwen, and now, by default, to Hywel as well. It was all too possible that her loyalties might never be aligned toward the same end and that one day she might find herself forced to choose between them. But not today—today the best and safest solution was to choose not to choose.

T
HREE

T
horne Edwall pushed back the hood of his cloak, removed his gloves, and shook the rainwater from the leather as he surveyed the motley lot that one could expect to find in any alehouse just shy of the closing hour. A pair of well-dressed and well-soused traveling merchants; a handful of local
tradesman
pissing away their wages; two serving maids who were likely willing to warm any man’s bed for the right price; and at the bar, a young swordsman who knew how to carry himself. He was
making
conversation with Aldyn, the innkeeper.

Though he behaved as if he weren’t, Aldyn was aware of Thorne’s arrival. Thorne had come at the innkeeper’s request. It was a tidy arrangement, though not without risk to them both. Thorne made regular visits to the alehouse, and Aldyn passed on information. The collaboration had worked well over the years and Aldyn was one of the few men Thorne trusted. If Aldyn thought a meeting with the young swordsman would interest him, Thorne was willing to come.

He seated himself at the corner table nearest the door, his back to the wall, and waited. It wasn’t long before the two
merchants
noticed the raven signet ring on the forefinger of his right hand, though they were quick to pretend they hadn’t. Thorne found it perversely satisfying that his presence made others so uneasy.

He nodded to a serving girl offering him a cup, though he rarely took ale or wine. When he did, it was only to give the
illusion
of being at ease. A mage hunter never dulled his senses with spirits—sharp wits were often all that stood between him and his end. But Thorne was not on the hunt tonight, not as yet, and there was neither mage blood nor charmed thing in this place. If there were, the skin at the scruff of his neck would be tingling with the heat of a thousand pinpricks.

The girl returned with a platter, which Thorne accepted for two reasons—to make his presence less conspicuous and because he could not resist the savory smell of rosemary-encrusted mutton slow roasted in its own juices. He often spent weeks in the wilds, and a proper meal was a treat he never denied himself. By the time Thorne had picked the plate half clean and finished the ale, the merchants had gone, and the small group of locals had dwindled to two sorry souls who looked to be too drunk to leave on their own.

“Thorne Edwall?”

Thorne stopped chewing long enough to spare half a glance. “And who are you?”

“Aldyn sends his regards.” The swordsman started to take the seat across from Thorne and then decided to ask, “May I?”

Thorne tossed a terse nod in the direction of the chair. “You have until I finish my food to convince me that whatever job you’re offering is worth risking my life.”

“And then what?” The swordsman straddled the seat and leaned in, his arms folded on the tabletop.

Thorne cocked an eyebrow at the man’s bravado. “And then I leave. Whether I take your silver with me depends upon whether I like how you answer my questions.”

“Ask, then.”

“I believe I have already asked who you were.” Thorne directed his gaze across the table and waited to see how the brazen lad handled himself.

“A messenger, come on behalf of the Stewardry.” The
swordsman
leaned in farther still. “
Who
I am is not nearly as important as
why
I am here.”

“So Fane Gramarye still stands?” Thorne felt the other
eyebrow
arch in surprise. He’ d heard rumors, tales of the guild disbanded and the temple in ruins. “On whose authority do you speak?”

“The Sovereign herself.”

“
Her
self?” This was unexpected. Thorne wondered what had become of the old wizard—but not enough to chance revealing his own knowledge. Then he remembered his food and resumed gnawing on the meat. “Go on.”

“The Sovereign requires a seeker of particular skill and
discretion
. She asks for you by name and will accept no other.”

“How does she know me?”

“She has Madoc’s writings, access to his records. She is under the impression that mage hunters are useful for retrieving
magical
things and that you are the best.”

Thorne’s interest was roused. “What does she seek?”

The younger man frowned, drew a deep breath and then let it out slowly, as though what he were about to say was so dire the words themselves were dangerous. “There are Cythraul on the prowl.”

“Small work—nothing any mage hunter hasn’t managed a dozen times over.” Thorne grew wary. “Cythraul are easy prey.”

“Yes, well,” the man hedged, “there is more.”

“Ah.” Thorne was beginning to think he might have been wiser not to come. “So now we get to the heart of things.”

“The wraiths will return to the sorcerer who summoned them.” The younger man shifted in his chair. “That is your prey.”

Despite his skepticism, Thorne was curious. “Such a mage must be powerful, nearly invincible, or else you would not have come to me.”

“Yes.”

Thorne smiled in spite of himself. He found it difficult not to like this young man. There was something in his ways that Thorne admired, including the flagrant appeal to his vanity. “You have a suspect?”

“Yes,” he offered, a bit too tentatively. “There are two.”

“Two?”

“One or the other, most likely,” the swordsman explained. “Though it could be both. They are known collaborators.”

“Either your Sovereign has been misinformed, or accounts of my exploits have been stretched beyond exaggeration.” Thorne reassessed the younger man while he finished chewing a bit of bread. The reticence he sensed was beginning to irritate him, and Thorne leveled a scowl across the table. “Out with it all, or we are done here.”

His guest swallowed hard and then cleared the reluctance from his throat. “The first is a high sorcerer, some say the most masterful ever, and the heir to the Stewardry. Until Madoc renounced him.”

Thorne’s mouth went dry, and he seriously considered calling for more ale. “Machreth.”

The younger man looked surprised. “You know of him?”

“I am Ruagaire.” Thorne was a bit piqued by the lad’s ignorance. “Of course I know of him.”

The younger men bowed his head briefly in what Thorne
supposed
to be deference. “Then you know he is now marked a traitor and a murderer. It was at his hands that Madoc met his end.”

The food was turning to stone in his gullet, but he took another bite of the meat to keep his surprise from showing. Apparently the Brotherhood’s spies were not as well informed as they should have been. This was nearly as serious a concern as the information itself, but the lad was still speaking.

“Machreth now draws on the dark magics and seeks to destroy the Order,” he explained. “The second renegade was his consort and turned traitor as well, but for reasons of her own. She is a potent threat herself.”

Thorne was piecing together a bigger picture, and he did not like the looks of it. “By what name is she known?”

“Cerrigwen,” the younger man nearly whispered. “She abandoned the Stewardry in the midst of a siege as Machreth led his Hellion Army against the Cad Nawdd.”

Thorne’s jaw clenched involuntarily. These events were beyond dire, and signs of a rift that was far beyond his ability to rectify. How was it that this news had not reached him by way of the Brotherhood? It was troubling to think that he might be the first to hear of it. “Cerrigwen is a Guardian of the Realms.”

The swordsman paled. “How could you know that?”

“I am Ruagaire.” Thorne no longer tried to hide his irritation. Surely this messenger could not be as oblivious as he appeared. “Do you really not understand what that means?”

“Apparently not as well as I should.” The younger man shrugged, undaunted by Thorne’s exasperation. “But well enough to know you are not to be crossed.”

Thorne stared hard at his guest, masking his bemusement with intimidation. “The Brotherhood exists to protect the balance of power in the magical realms. It is our duty to know who and what might affect that balance.
How
we know is none of your business.”

The younger man nodded, apparently sobered by Thorne’s terse tone. Not sobered enough, in Thorne’s opinion. He wanted to be sure his point was made. “The Guardians of the Realms hold the power to unmake this world. They control the very elements through which it exists. I think you already know this, and if what you say is true, this is far more serious business than you would have me believe.”

Thorne felt the younger man studying him, likely wondering just who and what else Thorne knew. The lad’s questions would go unanswered if he were brash enough to ask, for his own good. Thorne had silenced men for less.

“You have brought me a fool’s errand.” Thorne narrowed his eyes at the younger man, intending that his displeasure should show. “And I am not a fool. No mage hunter has ever faced a guardian before, nor challenged a sorcerer of Machreth’s ilk and survived. What you ask is impossible.”

The messenger pulled a leather coin sack from his vest. He placed it on the table and slid it forward. “Not for you.”

Thorne folded his arms across his chest and sagged against the chair back, not in resistance so much as contemplation. The young swordsman was wrong. It was impossible, even for him, but he had no choice. He had to try.

“Not here.” Thorne indicated the coin with a jut of his chin. “There is a ramshackle old hut, or rather the remains of one, not far from the small gate on the northeast wall of the Fane. Do you know it?”

The other man’s brow arched slightly, but his reply was even. “The shack or the gate?”

“I wager you know them both.” Thorne nearly smiled. It was just the sort of quip he might have offered up himself. But when he saw the probing question forming on the other man’s lips, Thorne cut him off. “Deliver your silver to the ruins at first light on the third day after tomorrow. Bring a talisman as well, from each of your fugitives. A lock of hair will do or a piece of clothing—something with a scent.”

The younger man nodded despite his obvious confusion, but Thorne was done with his meal. He pushed away from the table and stood. “When I see you next, messenger boy, by what name shall I greet you?”

The younger man rose to meet Thorne eye to eye. “I am Rhys, son of Bledig.”

“Come well armed and ready for the hunt, Rhys, son of
Bledig
,” Thorne spoke over his shoulder as he took his leave of the alehouse. “Or do not bother to come at all.”

Finn MacDonagh was weary from the unending dread. It had wormed its spiny tail into his gut as soon as he’d followed
Cerrigwen
out of Fane Gramarye and had been settled there ever since. But follow her he had, even as she’d led them in circles for nearly three days after they left the Fane, along deer trails and faerie tracks. They’d mucked through the dense stands of alder, oak, and rowan that made up the White Woods until finally she’d brought them here, to bide her time.

The old crone’s cottage had been Cerrigwen’s first home, one of several such places Madoc had fostered his foundlings and the mageborn babes until they were old enough to be brought into the Stewardry. It was long abandoned when Cerrigwen, Finn, and Pedr had arrived, but the roof was whole, and with a little work it had become a tolerable refuge. Still, this time of year the fog never lifted, and it was nearly as cold and damp during daylight as it was at night. At least there was no rain today.

“Cerrigwen,” he barked at the back of her head as she stood at the edge of the clearing, staring into the eerie depths of the White Woods. “Won’t you at least give me some idea where we are headed?”

“You don’t really expect an answer,” Pedr said, leading their mounts and Cerrigwen’s silver mare from the
woodshed
they had fashioned into a makeshift stable.

“No,” Finn confessed, taking a moment to assess his son’s
raggedy
looks. Pedr’s blue eyes had sunk into the hollows on either side of his nose. Several days’ worth of reddish-brown
stubble
bearded his cheeks and jaw and his roan-colored curls had grown long. It had been a hard twelve weeks in the wilds, and Pedr’s spine was bowed by the weight of his duty. He seemed far older than his twenty-seven years, and it troubled Finn that his eldest boy seemed so much worse for wear. “But it would be nice to know.”

“Unless she has decided to return to the Fane, I care not one whit where we go.” Pedr set to saddling the horses, making a less than half-hearted effort to hide his surly mood. “I lie awake at night, wondering what has become of the castle—and Odwain.”

Finn had suffered some long nights as well and worked hard at ignoring the niggling of his conscience. It only gained him heartache to dwell on thoughts of the Stewardry, of the men and the honor he had abandoned in the midst of a siege, including his brother and his youngest son. He could do nothing to right that wrong just yet, but he had to hope he would, one day.