The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (17 page)

“Take care, young lady, when it comes to the men of Cadell’s house. They seduce with their sincerity, you see, not with flattery, which is what makes them so much more dangerous than they seem.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Glain bristled, taking the warning as an insult or an accusation of something sordid. Cerrigwen was obviously referring to Hywel, which made Glain feel as though her privacy had been invaded.

“If that is true, you are even more foolish than I thought.” Cerrigwen frowned at her and let go of her arm. “There are pretenders among your trusted, you do know
that
much, d
on’t you
?”

Glain nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. She
scoffed at
the very idea that she had been misguided in her
alliances
. Every one of them had earned her trust. And yet, she thought of Nerys, and the cloaked Stewards she’d seen
sneaking
out of the apple grove, and even Ariane. But why was she
entertaining
this conversation in the first place?

“Good.” Cerrigwen seemed relieved. “You may be foolish, but at least you’re not stupid.”

Glain took offense. “Take care how you address me,
Cerrigwen
.”

“Well,” Cerrigwen said, almost smiling, “at last a little spark, a little glimmer of spirit. I was beginning to worry you had no sense at all of who you are.”

Glain was now wary and a little irritated, but she had to ask. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

Cerrigwen’s expression sobered, and then turned quizzical, as though she were listening to voices in her head and trying to make sense of what she heard. This made Glain so nervous, she wished she had never said anything at all to Cerrigwen. Then the sorceress began wringing her hands. Her gaze dulled and her lips moved as though she were speaking, but there was no voice to her words.

“Stop this,” Glain demanded, a bit panicked. She couldn’t be sure whether Cerrigwen had slipped into some addled state or had entranced herself in a spell casting. Whichever it was, either Cerrigwen could not, or would not, cease.

Glain grabbed Cerrigwen by the shoulders and shook her, hard. “Stop!”

Cerrigwen’s gaze refocused on Glain. At first she appeared lost and uncertain, but she was no longer wringing her hands or talking to herself. Recognition registered in her eyes, and then profound sorrow. “It was never me who harmed her child. She knows that now.”

It was a random thing to say, but not meaningless. Glain did not know how to respond or if she even should. “Oh. I—I see.”

Then the moment of vulnerability passed, and Cerrigwen’s gaze hardened. She clasped her hands together again and turned toward the door to her room, waiting for Glain to open it.

“I have lent Alwen endurance, nothing more,” Cerrigwen said as she entered the chamber. “What afflicts her will worsen, but more slowly now. You should watch her carefully, but she will sleep well tonight.”

Glain whispered her gratitude to the Gods, for never had she been so relieved to leave anyone’s company. And blessing upon blessing, she turned toward the welcome sound of the new sentry reporting for his turn just as she pulled the door shut behind
Cerrigwen
.

The guardsman presented himself with a half-bow and took his position. It was only then, as the full length of the hallway came into view, that Glain saw Ariane standing near the door to her own chamber—between Glain and the stairs.

“Oh, great Gods,” Glain muttered to herself. “How long has she been there?”

“She was already standing in the hall when I passed.”

The unexpected reply startled her, but the information was helpful. “So you didn’t see her on the stairs?”

“No, there was no one else.”

“Thank you,” Glain said, absently, calculating the potential risk. Ariane had to already have been in her room when Glain escorted Cerrigwen back down the hall, else Glain would have seen her come up the staircase while she was waiting outside
Alwen’s
suite. This was disastrous. What explanation could she give without revealing what must remain hidden?

And then Glain realized that she need not give any explanation at all. She did not answer to Ariane on any matter, and so what if an acolyte was left wondering about things that were none of her affair? Glain squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and proceeded back toward Ariane with purpose and aplomb, as if there were nothing at all out of the ordinary.

She tipped her chin in greeting as she passed. “Good evening, Ariane.”

Ariane’s mouth opened as if to speak, but Glain never so much as slowed her pace enough to allow for a polite reply. There would be recriminations aplenty later on, if Ariane were able to find a way to speak to her alone. Glain resolved to make that as
difficult
as she could, which brought a sly smile to her lips.
How Ynyr would appreciate this development
, she thought, making note to mention her new attitude when next she saw him. She
wondered
briefly what Ynyr had discovered. It was hours since he’d gone to search the second-floor storeroom, and he’d promised to report. She considered seeking him out, but it was late, and she had yet to speak to Emrys.

S
IXTEEN

D
espite the anger that dug deeper into his gut every time he thought of Clydog’s revolt, Hywel was pleased. All of his senses came alive in the White Woods. The dark mystery of this forest intrigued him. Not that he was ignorant or careless of the danger—he had faced and defeated unthinkable horrors on his many travels through the enchanted woods. But that was exactly why he appreciated this place—its hidden dangers challenged him in unusual ways.

This was but the first of a three-day ride through the forest from Fane Gramarye to the old trade road where, according to Alwen’s information, they should intersect the caravan escorting Ffion and the sorceress called Branwen. So far the journey had been quiet. They had encountered nothing more than a few distant sightings of the gwyllgi—spectral hellhounds who preyed on lone travelers—but Hywel knew from experience to expect more from the White Woods.

Hywel always took point, partly because he believed a real leader led and partly because he couldn’t stand to follow, not ever. His captains had long ago given up arguing and dedicated their efforts to better watching his back. Twelve men from his personal guard accompanied him on this mission, each of them chosen for a particular expertise, all of them seasoned and loyal, and none of them strangers to this forest. Some had fought for his father and taught Hywel the ways of a true warrior. And some were comrades who had earned his trust in other ways.

Of the fifteen riders that made up the party, only one had not been Hywel’s choice. Though he liked the Cad Nawdd swordsman Alwen had assigned to watch over Cerrigwen, Odwain was a brooding sort, and Hywel thought him too serious for his own good.

Hywel pulled back on the reins until his mount fell in step alongside the soldier, who rode behind the sorceress. Thinking Odwain might make a better companion if he relaxed a bit, Hywel struck up a casual conversation. “When I was a boy, my father would take me deep into this forest and leave me to find my way back on my own.”

Odwain slipped an incredulous squint sideways, unwilling to take his gaze too long from the woman, or the road ahead of him. “To what end?”

“He meant for me to learn self-reliance—and fearlessness, I suppose. The first time I was lost a full night and day before he came looking for me.” Hywel grinned. “I was soaked in my own shit and too scared to sleep in the dark for weeks, but I had come face to face with the púca and lived to brag of it.”

Odwain tried hard not to appear amused. “My uncle used to tell stories about the shapeshifters, but I always took them for tall tales meant to keep children from wandering too far from home.”

“The púca are real enough,” Hywel said. “So are the fearsome creatures they fashion themselves into, though their true nature is not particularly threatening. They mean to intimidate more than anything else, but to a young lad alone in the woods they might as well have been wolves come to feed on me.”

“I’m sure you made your father proud.”

Hywel snorted at the thought. Cadell had been a hard man. “If he was, I never knew it. As I recall, he made me walk all the way back to Cwm Brith. Never said a word one way or the other, but he sent me back out there again a month later.”

“At least he didn’t call you out for shitting yourself.”

Hywel strangled a smile. “Few men have the stones to speak to me that way, MacDonagh.”

“I’ve a bad habit of speaking the truth as I think it,” Odwain replied, more by way of explanation than apology. “I meant you no insult, Brenin.”

“None was taken.” Hywel appreciated the use of his native Brython title. It was a show of respect that spoke well for this new conscript, but he had learned it was unwise to encourage
familiarity
too soon. “I don’t know you well enough yet to call you friend.”

“Nor I you,” Odwain said, as straight-faced and bold as before.

Hywel let the grin loose this time, but he also let the conversation come to a close. This plainspoken quality of Odwain’s was reassuring to a king who had more enemies than allies. Whatever it was that had so sobered such a young man had likely made him wise beyond his years as well. These were traits Hywel might value, if and when they proved out.

Besides, Hywel knew a thing about being made a man young. He wouldn’t tell this story today, but the third time Cadell had forced him to brave the forest alone, Hywel had startled an
eight-fo
ot-long, three-headed serpent feeding on a fallow deer. Though he’d been only twelve, he managed to hack off all three heads with his boot dagger, but not before the creature struck. The venom had left him delirious and near death for days. Hywel could not remember how he got out of the woods, but he still had the fang his father’s physician had dug out of his hip—and the scar.

A rustling sound caught his attention. Hywel stilled his thoughts, so he could listen harder. He had noticed it earlier, and it had seemed to be following them. Now he was sure it was dead ahead.

Odwain was quick to notice Hywel’s distraction. “What is it?”

“The forest is working its magic,” Cerrigwen said, pointing ahead. She had been quiet the entire journey until now.

“But is it working its magic for us, or against us. That is the question.” Hywel pulled rein on his mount and waited for Odwain to sidle up. He knew what was happening, but he had never gotten used to it. “Watch, up ahead. See there? The road was bearing northeast, now it turns northwest.”

“If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t believe my own eyes.” Odwain was incredulous. “What now?”

“The trick to travelling in these woods is to know your bearings and keep true to them no matter how your surroundings seem to change.” Hywel signaled to his regiment to follow and guided his horse off the cart path onto a narrower trail. “This way.”

He led the others northeast, through a thick stand of ash and birch trees. On the other side of the stand, they met the proper road again, headed in its original direction. Hywel wondered if he had wisely avoided a lure or had just been duped into a detour. All the same, he was still sure of his course, though he would mind the way with greater care until they were clear of the White Woods.

Thorne gave Rhys the lead for the first day, making no attempt to guide him, so as to get a full sense of the lad’s true talents. It had taken the young tracker only a few minutes to detect the now thin and stale scent of the Cythraul. By midday, Rhys had tracked the wraith trail as far as the narrow river that ran through the White Woods. There his senses had become confused by another scent that was stronger and fresher—and far more pleasant. So had Thorne’s senses responded, but he knew how to keep from losing his head.

“River fey,” Thorne explained. “There is a Naiad bevy near.”

Rhys struggled to concentrate. “The aroma is very strong.”

“Naiad magic has a feminine scent. It can be a bit, well, distracting.” Thorne decided not to say just how distracting. “The longer we stay, the worse it will be.”

“Can’t decide if I want to get closer or farther away,” Rhys complained, rubbing hard at the back of his neck.

Thorne turned his horse downriver. “That’s the point, I’m afraid. Come on. There’s a shallows a few yards from here. We’ll cross the river and see what we find on the other side.”

“You said before that you had already found the Cythraul trail,” Rhys reminded him. “Are we close?”

For a moment, Thorne dithered over whether to leave his young friend to fend for himself a while longer, and then he decided it was too much to expect. “No doubt it will be very faint after so long, but my guess is you’ll pick up the scent yourself once we’ve put enough distance between us and the river fey.”

“And if I don’t, I suppose you will just point us toward
Banraven
,” said Rhys. There was knowingness in his tone, but no accusation. “As I recall, you also said the trail led in that direction.”

“So you’ve just been humoring me all this time?” Thorne cocked an eyebrow and tried to look disapproving.

Rhys grinned. “I figured you needed me to prove something. I didn’t mind. I like a good challenge.”

“Took you long enough to call me on it.” Thorne was finding it harder and harder to conceal his favorable impression of this young man. He goaded his mount into motion and headed downstream. “Let’s get clear of this blasted fey magic and stop for the night.”

Sure enough, Rhys was quick to scent the Cythraul again, and on the same vector Thorne had tracked them—which did indeed lead toward Banraven. The wraiths would return to their master, and
he
was the real danger. If this renegade mage were powerful enough to conjure and control Cythraul from leagues away, no telling what else he could do.

They made another good mile’s travel before the afternoon began to fade. Fortunately they’d come upon a fairly protected spot to rest while there was still light enough to hunt, beneath a cluster of evergreen boughs thick enough to give at least a little shield should it rain. Thorne offered to build a fire and find water so that Rhys might try his luck with that sling of his. He was fond of rabbit stew, and Rhys had very good aim.

But Thorne was also wanting a bit of solitude. He sensed unrest in this part of the forest, and he needed quiet to get to the root of it. Once he had a good blaze stoked in the little pit he had dug, Thorne settled back on his heels and closed his eyes, so he could concentrate on the unseen things in his surroundings—the auras and spectral essences of the woods.

“What are you doing?” Rhys approached quietly, but not so quietly he hadn’t been heard.

Thorne held up a hand to stop the interruption, continuing to squat with his eyes closed, searching the in-between places for signs of whatever might be amiss. Suddenly, a thought came to him, and he quickly calculated the days since the last full moon.
Ah, so that’s it.

Thorne relaxed and looked up. “Have you brought supper?”

Rhys held up two fat red squirrels. “Best I could do.”

“Hand them over.” Thorne reached for the carcasses with one hand and pulled his boot knife. “I’ll do the skinning. You do the cooking.”

“What were you doing just now?” Rhys kicked at a pile of nearby mulch and fallen branches, looking for sticks thick enough to spit the squirrels in the fire.

“We’re passing very close to the next world,” Thorne explained, making quick work of the skinning and gutting. He was hungry. “The moon is full, and a full moon works a powerful enchantment over thin places.”

“Alright,” Rhys acknowledged. “But what were you
doing
?”

Thorne wasn’t entirely sure how to answer in a way anyone other than the brethren would understand. “Listening.”

Rhys scraped the bark off the two sticks he’d selected with his own boot knife and handed them to Thorne. “I’ve got salt in my sack, and some rosemary, I think.”

“That’s it?” Thorne was surprised. He skewered the squirrel carcasses and staked them in the dirt, waiting for Rhys to return with the seasonings. “You’ve no more curiosity than that?”

“It’s not so odd, you listening to the otherworld. My sister could speak to the faerie folk. She was different that way. She had our father’s fey blood.”

Using his boot toe, Rhys scraped away damp leaves and duff until he exposed a relatively dry patch and then sat cross-legged on the ground near the fire. “I know more than I care to about thin places and what the light of a full moon can do.”

Rhys rubbed salt and herbs on the meat and then anchored the spitted carcasses in the coals. His mood had sobered, giving the impression that the conversation had taken him somewhere he didn’t want to go. Thorne thought it best not to tread any closer to the heart of things just yet, but he was curious.

“Then I won’t need to warn you to be cautious. No telling what we might encounter. If we’re lucky, we might just have
Maelgwn
with us tonight. You should save the entrails for him.”

Thorne suddenly recalled an earlier annoyance. “That reminds me, Rhys, son of Bledig. When were you going to tell me you were also Rhys, son of Alwen?”

Rhys flashed a sheepish grin. “You heard that, did you?”

“Hmm,” Thorne said. “I thought we had an understanding about half-truths.”

“We do. That bit was a precaution, for my mother’s sake. I was going to tell you, but you asked before I got around to it.”

“There are four virtues of the Ruagaire Brotherhood,” Thorne said, deciding to venture down a slightly different path. “Veracity is the first and most sacred.”

“Virtues?” Rhys asked.

“Qualities of character,” said Thorne. “Before a man can be considered for induction to the Brotherhood, he must first have been observed conducting himself in accordance with certain merits—veracity, loyalty, righteousness, and forbearance.”

Rhys nodded in acknowledgment as he poked at the embers with a twig to keep the heat high and even. “And just who does this observing?”

“Each of us is charged with taking on an apprentice, but finding a suitable candidate is difficult,” Thorne said, measuring Rhys for signs of interest or awareness of Thorne’s intent. “It is an important decision, choosing someone to inherit his knowledge and his duties. It is also necessary to the survival of the Order, but very few men are born to the calling.”