The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (5 page)

Pedr let the conversation lag, which suited Finn fine enough. More talk would only make matters worse. Finn preferred to pass the time in quiet observation of their circumstances. It was in dark times like these that a man most needed to concentrate on the world in which he walked.

Cerrigwen was his single focus, from the moment she rose until she finally fell into fitful dreams each night. It was his sworn duty as a member of the Crwn Cawr Protectorate. And after twenty odd years in her constant company, he could not help but be concerned. Finn knew better than any person alive how strong she was and all that she had endured in order to receive the glory that was her birthright. Somehow it had all gone terribly wrong, and he blamed himself. He had not noticed her slipping, though he realized now that there must have been some sign, a moment when her soul had splintered.

Truth be told, she
was
mad. There was no doubting it. He had seen it in her eyes when he had found her working the mysterious dark ritual outside the temple walls. He knew her power and respected it. But what if she never returned to take her place in the Circle of Sages? The prophecy depended upon the joined power of the Guardians of the Realms. Even worse, he now realized, what if she did return? Cerrigwen frightened him now more than ever.

“You should have killed her when you had the chance,”
Pedr m
uttered.

“Hold your tongue.” Finn’s bristle was for duty’s sake alone. His gut agreed with Pedr, but he’d made his choice. “She is still Guardian of the Realms, Pedr, no matter what she’s done. Before all else, we are men of the Crwn Cawr. The blood oath binds us.”

“Then let’s hope she leads us to better shelter.” Pedr tugged at the cowl of his tunic as if he hoped there was some stretch left in it. “If we’d known what to expect, we could have come on the road better prepared. A hooded cloak might have helped.”

“Aye.” The list of Finn’s regrets grew longer each day. They’d slipped out of the Fane still dressed in battle gear and carrying only the piddling provisions Cerrigwen had brought.

“Always take time by the forelock, Finn MacDonagh.” Suddenly, Cerrigwen whirled around and swooped toward her mare. In a blink, she was astride and turned toward the rough path they had made on their ingress. “Will you never learn?”

He never had understood that adage, but he knew she meant for him to follow. The narrow trail forced the horses to travel single file, putting Finn and Pedr in a poor position to intercede should they encounter a threat. The best Finn could do was stay close. All the while, he watched the gait of her mare and listened for the whisper of his woodsman’s instinct.

After plodding for hours on a nor’easterly vector, Finn noticed a point ahead where the trees were thinner. A furlong farther, the stands were sparse enough that he could make out the changing landscape and, finally, the position of the sun through the clouds. Midday, and at last they had reached the edge of the forest.

Beyond the trees they found easier terrain for the horses—the pebbled dales and rolling, grass- and snow-covered foothills of the Cambrian Mountains. Less than a league after they entered the lowlands, they intersected a proper road. A vaguely familiar road, in fact, and Finn was not at all surprised when
Cerrigwen
led them northwest along one of the narrow vales that cut between the hillocks. Before long he found himself anticipating what lay on the other side of the next rise, and suddenly he knew exactly where they were.

“Cwm Brith,” Finn spat.

“What?”

Finn ignored Pedr, intent on what was ahead. Sure enough the hillocks gave way to the bowl-shaped expanse that formed the valley head, where the road reached its end. Less than half a league ahead they would reach the gates of a secluded and well-fortified keep.

“Curse that woman, and curse my soul to the darkest depths of Balor’s realm,” Finn muttered. “I’d hoped to never see this place again.”

F
OUR

“H
is Eminence will see you.” Elder Algernon waved the
smoldering
rush stalk in the direction of the inner
courtyard
, indicating the rectory on the other side with dripping wax and spitting embers, and then proceeded to lead the way at a
maddeningly
deliberate pace.

“I have come on a matter of some urgency,” Thorne said. It required fair effort to restrain his pace enough to keep from trampling the frail, elderly man—and a good deal more to find the patience to be polite. “I remember the way.”

“You’ve been too long in the wilds again, Brother Edwall.” Algernon paused, obliging Thorne to do the same. “You forget your manners.”

Thorne gritted his teeth, offered a bow of respect, and then followed Algernon plod for plod across the stone pavers that floored the central round of the keep. Courtesy was a small price, given how rarely he returned to Castell Banraven to pay tribute. “Thank you, Elder, for granting me entry at such a
late hou
r.”

“Is it late?” Algernon gave a chortle that was more a
short-wi
nded cough than a laugh. “I hadn’t noticed. The
business
of the Ruagaire is almost always conducted in th
e de
ad of night.”

One side of the double entry to the rectory stood open, and Algernon waved him in before shuffling away. Thorne quelled a sudden flare of warning and announced himself as he entered the antechamber. “Your Eminence.”

Master Eldrith nodded to him from behind his desk. “Close the door.”

Thorne obliged and then returned to the customary position of address at the center of the room. “I have unexpected news.”

“I assume it must be grave, given how rarely you trouble yourself to return.” Master Eldrith’s stern gaze had a sobering effect. “How many weeks’ service do you owe, Brother Edwall?”

Thorne struggled with humility. “A matter of months now, I believe. I’m afraid I have lost count.”

“Hmm.” Eldrith folded his hands and rested them on the desktop. “We shall discuss your tithe later. What is your news?”

Thorne had not realized how tightly he had been clenching his gloves in his right fist, and tucked them into his scabbard belt in an effort to relax. These visits were always uncomfortable—this one more than most. Master Eldrith was not a particularly warm man, but tonight he seemed unusually aloof.

“An emissary from the Stewardry has approached me with an unusual request, but perhaps even more unusual than the request are the circumstances that prompted it.”

Now Thorne realized he had taken to fidgeting with his ring, twisting the signet back and forth on the forefinger of his right hand. “More troubling even than
that
is the fact that I did not already know.

“Master Eldrith,” Thorne queried pointedly, watching his superior’s face for signs of surprise, “are you aware of recent events at Fane Gramarye?”

Eldrith’s expression was essentially unchanged. “Go on.”

Thorne had a vague sensation of foreboding. “Madoc is dead. Machreth has turned rogue and taken the guardian Cerrigwen with him. I have been engaged for the hunt.”

Eldrith released a heavy sigh and glanced down at his hands before returning a now saddened gaze to Thorne. “Have you anything else to report?”

“No.” Thorne was suspicious, though he wasn’t sure why. “The last information I heard came to me by way of Trevanion, months ago. I would guess he reported to you as well.”

Eldrith nodded. “Tell me, have you had any word from the Brothers Steptoe?”

“I have not.” Thorne had the distinct impression of doom gathering like storm clouds in the near sky. Eckhardt and Ga
vin Steptoe wer
e among the few men he counted as blood ki
n, thou
gh they were his brethren only by way of the
Ruagaire
oath. “Not since the cold weather settled in, but I imagine they would winter at Elder Keep unless you have ordered them
elsewhere
.”

“Elder Trevanion is dead.”

“What?” Thorne’s entire inner being ignited from the shock. He had been Martin Trevanion’s last apprentice and his closest confidant for many years. Suddenly, the lack of communication made sense. But Eldrith’s vague and cryptic questioning did not. “How? When?”

“Some weeks ago, I’m afraid. I am truly sorry, Thorne. I wish it were not so.” Eldrith appeared genuinely mournful, but he did not disclose the details of Trevanion’s death. “I wish many things were not so.”

“Master Eldrith,” Thorne began to question further, trying to wrest understanding from what he realized was an intentionally evasive conversation. He then noticed that Eldrith’s eyes were focused somewhere beyond him. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Forgive me, Thorne.” Master Eldrith rose to a stand, his hushed voice far more pained than his expression. “There are powers at work here that are no longer in my control.”

As Eldrith spoke, Thorne’s instincts were already goading him. The need to escape was unmistakable. Thorne sidled back two steps and positioned himself perpendicular to the master’s desk, his back to the exterior wall and his fingers coiled around the hilt of his sword. He heard the echo of footsteps crossing the cobbled courtyard. Thorne calculated four men or more, still half a minute away, maybe a few seconds less.

On his right, Thorne heard the metal tongue of a latch clasp slide back, and a hidden door behind the banner on the wall swung in. Elder Algernon beckoned from the threshold. “This way, Edwall. Quickly, now.”

Thorne glanced at Eldrith as he started for the door, gauging whether or not his superior intended to hinder or help. Not that it mattered—Thorne had already assessed the odds of success and had made his choice. He would leave or die trying.

Eldrith stood at his desk, for all appearances impassive—even removed. Thorne suppressed a flare of anger. Such emotions were no aid under threat. It was harder, however, to ignore the betrayal—it tempted him to stay and fight if he must, if only to find out what had gone wrong. Fortunately, he was trained to respond to his reflexes, and Algernon was providing a way out.

“We will distract them as long as we can,” the Elder
whispered
as Thorne passed, offering his sputtering rush dip for light. “Take the tunnel, and avoid the gaolers.”

Thorne accepted the advice and the light with a nod of thanks, as he broke into a dead run down the stairwell a
few fee
t beyond the rectory. If there were gaolers, there were
prisoners
. As far as he knew, the hold had not been in use for years. There was no time now to wonder further about
Algernon’s
cryptic
remark, though Thorne understood the message. He also
understood
that somehow he now had more enemies than friends in Banraven.

The short passage at the base of the keep ran in a straight line directly to the dungeon, with but one slightly curving turn. Once past the curve, anyone traveling the passage would be visible to the sentry standing watch at the hold, and likely to some of the occupants of the pens. At the end of the tunnel was an exit used to put prisoners to work in the fields. Thorne stopped just short of the turn. He knew another way out.

Angry voices echoed from above, with the strike of boot heels on stone steps soon following. With only a minute or two to spare, he waved the rush dip over the right-hand wall of the passage until he found the hatch to the wastewater sluice. It took a good tug to wrench open the metal cover, but good fortune was with him—at least this far; the hinge was well-oiled and moved silently. Thorne tossed the burning rush stalk into the culvert, to douse the light and free his hands.

Gripping the top of the hatch for leverage, he swung his legs through the opening and perched on the narrow shelf just above the drop, so he could pull the hatch shut behind him. The effort unbalanced him, sending him plummeting down the narrow chute in a feet-first gut slide. Less controlled and less prepared than he had intended, but at least the hatch had closed.

The culvert was set at a straight, steep incline that ran a good forty feet before letting out in the cesspool. Thorne
wondered
briefly which was more nauseating—the stench rising from the rancid pool as he barreled toward it, or the thought of landing in the wastewater itself. The landing was worse by far.

He was out of the cistern nearly as quickly as he had entered it. From the pool edge he only had to kick the cantilevered vent out of its housing to get free of the keep. Then it was a short scramble down the steeply pitched earthen mound that formed the defensive foundation of the castle, and a short wade across a ditch that once had passed for a moat.

It wouldn’t be long before his pursuers discovered his route, but by that time he would be nearly a league ahead of them. He’d left his horse tethered in a small copse of ash trees a dozen yards from the moat. Fresh clothing was still some miles off. However, far more discomfiting than the fetid, wet cloak and shit-soaked leather leggings, was the fiery tingle he’d felt at the nape of his neck, just before he’d slid down the shaft.

Glain positioned the hornbeam wand-rough she had brought from her room in the center of the spell room floor. Any rigid thing of similar size and weight would do—a rush stalk or even a candle. But Glain believed that something of meaning and value to her, something inherently magical like the length of consecrated wood she had chosen to become her next wand, would bring her luck. She had been trying all morning with a raven’s quill with no result.

The finding was a complex invocation. The act of envisioning an object and calling it forth seemed simple enough on the face of it, but to coax the thing to reveal itself actually required remarkable control and concentration. The wand-rough was merely a conduit, a medium of sorts that connected her to the object of her desire. It would respond by pointing out the object—a bit like a divination stick or a south-pointing needle.

Handling it lightly, Glain held forth her wand and called to mind an image of parchment rolls fixed with the wax impression of Madoc’s signet—a bearded wizard encircled with a wreath of laurel leaves. This had long been the sigil of the Stewardry. Once she had the vision of the scrolls firmly fixed, Glain then imagined them in as much detail as she could summon from memory—the faint mottled texture of the fine vellum that Madoc favored, the scent of tallow and pipe smoke, and his sprawling letters penned in the signature
blue-bl
ack ink. For years she had prepared the unique mixture for him—from albumen, soot, and honey—and just a drop of indigo dye.

Anguish unsteadied her, like a chill rippling along her spine. T
he memor
ies were reawakening her sorrow and making it hard to think. Madoc’s loss was still fresh. The chaos of the last weeks had prevented a proper mourning, and any plans for a public tribute had been put off for a better time. A practical decision under the
circumstances
, but there were days when Glain resented being forced to hold onto her suffering. The strain would weaken her if she let it.

Two deep, slow breaths helped to quiet the pain. She wanted to find those blasted scrolls, more now than ever, if only to bring some small part of this nightmare to an end. Again she focused her mind on the scrolls. If she tried very hard, perhaps she might even envision the words on the pages.

“Think on the vellum,” Glain murmured to herself. “Think hard on the seal and the script.”

“Alwen had you teach me the finding spell in this very room.”

“Good Gods, Ariane!” Glain had been working with her back to the door and was caught unaware. Ariane had startled her silly, completely fracturing her concentration.

“Do you remember?” Ariane continued, oblivious to the
disruption
she had caused. “The magic went wild.”

Ariane’s oblivious rambling annoyed Glain nearly as much as the reminder. “Yes, I remember, and no, it did not go wild.”

Ariane laughed. “What would you call it, then?”

Glain bristled at her friend’s insensitivity. Had Ariane forgotten that it was in her defense that Glain had overreacted in the first place? Besides, Glain had not actually lost control of that spell; it had been accidentally fueled by her anger. Perhaps her pride as well—but Glain was wiser now. She turned her back on Ariane and tried to pick up where she had left off. “Hush now, or leave me in peace so I can work.”

“Cupboard doors banged and books went flying across the room,” Ariane continued, as if she were regaling an audience with a dramatic reading. “If I recall, even the floor stones shifted.”

“There are half a dozen spell rooms on this floor,” Glain said through clenched teeth. “There must be at least one left for you to search.”

“Perhaps I should stay”—Ariane continued to poke at her—“in case you need my help.”