Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (41 page)

Connor tightened his cloak to shield himself from the icy wind. He glanced up at the sky, cursing the gray clouds. Exhausted and starving, he could not remember how many days he had been riding. The cold wind from the north started to blow as soon as he left Helygen and had not eased since.

The wind carried something with it, something ominous that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He attempted to chide the fear to the back of his mind. There was no sign of danger. He should feel perfectly safe. For leagues around him, the rolling grass of the plains stood empty, not one sign of a raider or even another traveler. Yet, his intuition continued to gnaw at him, and he could not manage to push the feelings away from his mind.

For the first time, he felt as though he was finally well on his adventure. He thought back to all the times as a child he pretended he was on a magnificent quest like his father. Now that he had a quest of his own, he was not certain he liked it as much as he thought he would. Were the circumstances different, he may have been able to enjoy it. His cure lie within the forest to the north, so close he could almost taste the elation of his circumstance.

He wished he could be as brave as his father, who once told him that bravery was not the lack of fear, but the ability to rise up against odds which garnered fear in the very depths of one’s being. Connor took comfort in the words, but wondered if he would be able to do the same. He allowed himself to admit to the twinge of fright he harbored in the back of his mind should Rhiannon not hold his redemption. Death did not scare him as much as the matter in which he might die. The unknown terrified him far more. What pain awaited him?

Crisp frost covered the ground. Incased in a white crust of ice, the grasses of the plains rustled and cracked in the wind, breaking through the silence which surrounded him. He knew neither thieves nor the small folk of old who roamed the land unseen, and should not worry. The cold was where true terror lay. The cold would creep up on him, should he linger too long. In the silence of the plains, it would take hold of him, sinking deep into his core until he no longer had the strength to ward it off. It would be all too simple to lie down and fall asleep. He would be unable to keep his eyes open because of the ice running through his veins. Everything would fade, and he would be stolen away to death. He had heard it was a peaceful death, but a death nonetheless.

“Yes, would that not be pleasant,” he spoke aloud to Víðófnir to keep his mind off the freezing wind. “No sooner would I reach the forest than I would drop dead from the cold.”

Víðófnir whinnied in agreement.

“You are lucky to have a thick coat to protect you from this weather. Were it not for you, I would have frozen long before now. You are far warmer than any horse.” Connor patted his side. “Víðófnir, look!”

Connor pulled on the reins when he saw them far in the distance. He sat motionless, and he did not dare breathe.

Dire wolves.

A large pack marched westward across the plain. They were creatures of old, like Víðófnir. Far larger than an ordinary wolf, they were a mass of sleek, dark fur and vicious teeth. They could easily tear a grown man in two with one snap of their fierce jaws. Never before had Connor seen a dire wolf, let alone a pack so great. There were at least four dozen, if not more, of the beasts. Concerned by their proximity, Connor wondered if Víðófnir could outrun a pack so massive.

“They are coming straight toward us.” Connor heard the fear in his voice before he felt it. “Are they not?”

Víðófnir snorted.

Connor rode off to the east, evading the gaze of the scouts in front of the pack. He found a safe vantage point and paused to look back.

“They are leaving this world.”

He felt an awful twinge in his chest as he realized he had no way of knowing the dire wolves were leaving this land. Another vision gifted to him from Ceridwen? He watched the wolves travel west, toward the Far Reaches, before he felt safe enough to continue across the plains.

As he peered out from beneath the heavy hood of his cloak, he could almost distinguish the trees at the edge of the forest. Far ahead of him on the horizon, the forest still retained a green shade, despite the gray tone of the frost on the trees. That minute amount of green held his only salvation. In truth, exhaustion had made him doubt he was even traveling in the right direction before he saw that verdant line across the plains.

“We will be there soon, my friend,” Connor said as he tugged on the reins with a ginger hand. Víðófnir’s pace hastened.

He still could not remember how many days he had been traveling. The days and nights all blended together. He had intended to travel without stopping for rest, but he was quickly tired from a combination of his injury and the weather which both worked against him. He knew it had to have been at least a week’s worth of riding across the plains, however. An embarrassing length of time, which he would lie about when asked by Gawain. He would tell him his travel had been quite smooth and it had taken only three days.

Lulled by the smoothness of Víðófnir’s stride, Connor’s mind again wandered. He remembered his last pleasant day spent in Cærwyn. The sound of children playing outside the castle walls, careless to the world around them. How he longed to be one of them. Even dressed in rags and smelling of poverty, those derelicts had something he lacked: freedom. He felt the cold iron bars of the cage that was his fate as they tightened around him. Were he one of the vagabonds who roamed the castle town, he would never have met the arrow’s sting.

“But then I would not be myself.” Connor heard the words spring from his mouth with an air of sage wisdom he did not realize he bridled.

He struggled to think of what his life would be were he not affected by the arrow’s poison. His life until this point had been thoroughly, and painfully, uneventful. He always wanted his own adventure, but perhaps he should have been more specific with his wish. This was hardly the adventure he had planned.

The wind subsided as he reached the perimeter of the forest. He stared up with wide-eyed awe. The gargantuan trees crowned with silver needles stood watch at the edge of their brethren for centuries. These trees were a far cry from the willow groves of Helygen or the sparse forests in Cærwyn. The Hwerydh was as old as Dweömer itself. Here, massive trunks crowded closely together as their branches stretched skyward and wove a dense canopy that scattered the light across the forest floor with their leaves. This place was primal, untouched by the corrupt hands of the Humes. It smelled of rich, moist soil from whose fertility sprang mighty oaks, evergreens and other sacred trees of old. Contemplative silence dwelled within this forest, a silence broken only by the whispering voices of the trees and the nameless little folk who scurried about, unseen.

Víðófnir’s cloven hoof touched the moss-covered ground and sank slightly in the moist loam beneath the frost. Tales spoke of the hypnotic aromas within the Hwerydh, of how they coaxed travelers into madness with the intoxicating fragrances of lilac and violet.

Connor drank in the perfect balance of aromas like the sweet taste of spiced mead, warmed by a winter fire’s cauldron. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if the stories were true, if he would wander into madness to be lost in the Hwerydh forever. He took a deep breath and looked down at Víðófnir, the gossamer strands of his mane fluttering in the breeze.

Although he had no idea which way he should travel, Connor felt himself guided by an unseen hand. Far from alarming, it felt as though he was being cradled safely in the arms of the Hwerydh herself and gently carried deeper into the forest toward Arlais.

Time slipped away as he drifted through the forest. Soon the trees parted, and the hills of the Brynlands came into view.

“That is not possible.” Connor glanced back at the edge of the forest. “The Brynlands are over fifty leagues from the southern edge of the forest. Even had we entered at the shortest distance, it should be a two-day journey to reach the other side. We could not have passed Arlais, could we?”

As he looked out over the Brynlands, Connor saw a thick plume of black smoke rising into the sky against the backdrop of virgin white clouds.

“Annwyd’s Vega Outpost.” The greasy smoke on the wind stung his nose and eyes. “We must not stay here. Arlais cannot be far.”

As he spoke, something else caught his eye. A small band of travelers from the west approached on foot. Humes and Meïnir comprised the whole of the group.

“Good travelers,” he called out in his most pleasant tone. “Tell me, do you seek the sacred grove known as Arlais?”

Upon hearing his voice, a man at the front of the party held up his hand to the others, and they halted their pace.

“I mean you no harm,” Connor explained as he slowly approached, glad he had packed away the short sword from Gawain.

“Aye!” One of the Meïnir men, presumably the leader of their small group, spoke. “You ride one of the creatures of old. You are no ordinary Hume. What business do you have here?”

“I am but a humble follower of the Old Ways from the south. I wish to attend the Ddirym Festival in order to take my vows in Arlais.”

“One so young?” A Meïnir woman smiled at him. “It does my heart well to see that the Old Ways are still alive among the young of this land.”

“Tell me, do you also travel to Arlais for the festival?”

“We do. We come from the village of Llaenydre in the western enclave between the Brynlands and the river.”

“Then I am not too late.” Connor felt the fine mist of sweat on his brow and the back of his neck as the icy air kissed his skin.

“You are not. The festival takes place on the morrow.”

“Pray, I might accompany your party? I have never traveled to Arlais before, and I seem to have lost my way.”

The leader glanced back at the others for a moment before answering. “This forest has magicks of its own. If you do not know the way to the sacred grove, you may never reach it. You are welcome to join us.”

“I thank you, kind sir.”

“Come, Arlais is not far. Stay close.”

Connor rode next to them, making sure not to lose his way once more. He relished his luck in finding the party. If what the leader said was true, he could have wandered within Hwerydh for days and never have come across Arlais.

Before long, he could see other groups, some large and some small, as they filtered into the forest. He had never felt so at home than among all of these people with the common goal of attending one of the largest festivals of the year. Garlands of woven herbs and flowers hung from the trees with white linen ribbons signaling their entry into the Arlaïn grounds.

The trees once again parted. In the clearing, a makeshift tent village. Pots joyfully bubbled over with delicious stews and soups over crackling fires, ready to satiate the cold bellies of the festival attendees. The delectable smell of fowl and mutton roasting on several spits joined the spices of the soups. Children scurried around. A mischievous boy stole a baked sweet pasty. Both girls and boys joined in the game of shinty. When Connor was a lad, it was not considered a game for girls in neither Helygen nor Cærwyn.

He soon separated from his traveling party when they went off to greet friends and relatives from other villages. He sighed, feeling at peace to finally be in Arlaïn company. He dismounted Víðófnir and took his reins in hand. In order to avoid the crowd, he walked around the perimeter of the camp to the other side.

The path too was lined with garlands and ribbon. People shuffled past him in both directions, all busy with preparations for the following day. He paused when he recognized Ceridwen. She was gently directing people to and fro, keeping a close eye on the goings-on of the festival. He had not seen her in so long; he could hardly believe he was again in her presence.

She turned and met his gaze. A smile slowly spread across her face. “My dear boy,” she said, embracing him. “I hoped you would arrive today.”

“I almost did not. I got lost on my way through the forest.”

“You are here now.” She stepped back, holding his shoulders. “That is all that matters.”

“That it is.”

“Come.” Ceridwen took his hand. “I shall introduce you to Arlais. I have already received permission from the Lady Rhiannon to allow you to stay in the house of the proselytes.”

“I do wish to take vows.”

“I expected as much.”

“The festival is where I may declare my intentions, is it not?”

“I see you remember your tutelage. Even now, they build the bonfires atop the Brynmor. The Ddirym Festival is one of the few times outsiders may approach the Lady Rhiannon for favors or to declare their intentions to take vows.”

“I shall ask her if she can heal me as well.”

Ceridwen stopped. Her expression changed, and she looked off into the distance. “No, Connor, you must not do that.”

“But I have come all this way.”

“You must wait until after the festival. The Lady Rhiannon has many things on her mind as of late. She remains secluded inside the stone walls of her garden.”

Connor felt his rage boil to the surface. “Why have you given me the gift of sight if you did not intend for me to seek out the Lady Rhiannon?”