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

  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.

  THREE

  Thorne 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.”

  “Herself?” 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.

  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 muttered.

  “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.