The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Read online

  Ynyr knelt and felt around the edges of the slightly raised stone, and then pressed his palm against it. The brick depressed slightly, and when Ynyr removed his hand, it sprang back, extending an inch or so from the wall. Glain crowded closer as Ynyr gingerly pulled out the brick to reveal a hollow behind it.

  “There’s something inside.” Ynyr reached tentatively into the small opening, which was barely wide enough for his hand.

  “Be careful.” Anticipation drove her heart faster. “What is it?”

  “It’s not deep enough,” Ynyr said, meaning the hole could not hold a length of parchment. “But there is something here.”

  Ynyr slowly withdrew his hand, and in his careful grip was a black, velvety-looking bundle covered in dust and cobwebs. “It feels like a bag of rocks.”

  He held it out to Glain and waited for her to take it from him. Her curiosity quickly bested her disappointment, but Ynyr had discovered the treasure. “Go ahead, Ynyr. You open it.”

  “No,” Ynyr resisted. “This is your honor, Glain. You are Alwen’s proctor. Don’t be so quick to give up your privilege.”

  “Give it here then.” Glain winced a little, as the reproach was all too familiar. Rhys often chided her for the same fault. She was too slow in taking ownership of her new role, and she knew it.

  “Heavy,” she said as she brushed the pouch clean. “But not rocks exactly. I think this is a woman’s jewel pouch.”

  Ynyr followed her to a small desk and watched while she worked at the drawn and knotted silk cord. “It’s cinched tight. You might have to tear the pouch apart.”

  “I think I can get it.” Glain was excited to see what might be inside, but she didn’t want to destroy the bag. “The threads are rotted. They’ll give way.”

  It took a few strategic picks and pulls, but in a few quick moments the knot came apart as the individual threads of the braid gave way. Glain tugged the cord free of the cinch hem and set the bag on the desk. She spread the mouth of the bag as wide as it would open and laid the folds back.

  “Great Gods!” Ynyr stepped back half a pace in shock.

  Glain would have gasped, if her heart hadn’t already leapt to her throat. Before her, encased in glistening silver scrollwork and hung on a glistening silver chain, was the bloodstone amulet that was the key to the physical realm. Or at least she thought it was. It perfectly resembled the one Alwen wore, except that Alwen’s pendant was lapis.

  “This cannot be real.” Glain looked at Ynyr for reassurance. “It must be a forgery.”

  “It must be.” Ynyr did not sound wholly convinced, but he knew as well as she that the real bloodstone amulet had gone into hiding with the Guardians of the Realms twenty years before. “But Alwen will know.”

  “Yes.” Glain hurriedly gathered the amulet and chain in the velvet fabric, suddenly uncomfortable to have it in her possession, forgery or not. “Alwen will know.”

  FIVE

  “I know this house.” Pedr’s memories of his youth had rekindled. For a good while, in the early days of hiding, King Cadell’s stronghold had been their refuge.

  “Aye,” Finn muttered, eyeing Cerrigwen as she approached and hailed the watchmen tending the entry. “As well ye should. Stay close to her, and keep yer wits about. We’ll not be welcome here.”

  The gates of Cwm Brith were heavily guarded. Finn counted four dozen armed men in the yard and figured at least three dozen more might be in the outbuildings or elsewhere on the grounds. Enough sheep and cattle were penned nearby to feed a healthy army.

  To his surprise, the gates were opened to them, and Cerrigwen rode onto the grounds as though she were still favored royalty. Finn and Pedr were relegated to escort. Like it or not, the only thing in their control was how well they were prepared to respond to whatever they were about to face. While keeping a wary eye trained on their surroundings, Finn wondered if Pedr recalled their unceremonious booting out of these same gates all those years ago.

  The caretaker met them outside the manor house, and Cerrigwen had dismounted before Finn could bring his own horse to a full halt. She handed over her reins and smoothed her skirts, as though she were arriving for an audience. It struck him then that her arrival could be expected. The thought soured his stomach all the more. Perhaps Pedr had been right. Perhaps Finn should have ended her life weeks ago, when she had ordered them out of the Fane and he had first realized she had lost her mind.

  “Wait for me here.” Cerrigwen, crazed and bedraggled, looked up at him through amber-colored eyes that rested too deep in their sockets. Forest dew had pasted her honey-brown tresses flat round her face, which was too gaunt, and she looked aged by the newly grayed locks at her temples.

  “Oh, no.” Finn jumped from the saddle and waved at his son. “Pedr will mind our mounts and stand watch on our backsides from here. Ye’ll not be going in there alone.”

  She hesitated, as though she was prepared to protest, but it was fear he saw in her face. “Just tie your tongue, then, Finn MacDonagh. Bear witness, and take arms to hold our ground if you must, but don’t you dare speak on my account. Not one word.”

  “Cerrigwen,” Finn whispered, truly worried for her. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. Tears. Finn was flabbergasted. In the more than twenty years he had served her, he’d never once seen her weep. He honestly thought her incapable of it, not to mention bereft of the feelings that might cause a woman to cry. Could one go beyond madness?

  “Cadell’s already denied you once and banished you from his holdings,” Finn reminded her, making a genuine effort to be kind. “He also made it quite clear what he’d do if you ever dared make claim against him or so much as showed your face again in his presence. Those were no idle threats, Cerrigwen. Long ago as they might have been, he will not have changed his mind. You know this.”

  She swallowed her breath and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they were clear and fierce with intent. “I may have cursed what is left of my own life, but there is still a chance for Ffion.”

  Finn sorrowed for her. It was true—she had no honor left, no place else to go. Whatever betrayal she had committed against the Stewardry—and Finn did not dare imagine what that might have been—there could be no doubt she was an outcast, a fugitive. But it was not only madness that had driven Cerrigwen here. It was desperation and remorse. And—he could see it now for the first time—her love for her daughter.

  “Cerrigwen, I must ask you this, and you must answer me this one time.” Finn dreaded to ask, but if he were to follow her in and still hold on to his own honor, he had to know. “What vile curse did you unleash in that clearing the day we left the Fane?”

  “It was a dark spell, but not a curse.” She was humbled by failure. “I thought I could undo what I had done. But it was too late. The veil had already been breached.”

  “What are you saying?” Finn kept his voice calm, though calm was far from what he felt.

  “I weakened the veil so that Machreth’s forces could invade the Fane,” she confessed. “But it was all for nothing.”

  Finn watched her eyes while she spoke, the only sure way he knew to tell if there was truth in her words.

  “One betrayal begets another.” Cerrigwen gave a shaky sigh. “He has forsaken me anyway, despite all I did for him. I waited, and he never came for me.”

  “I see.” Finn felt pity for her. It made sense now, all those weeks hiding at the old crone’s cottage. Whatever she had done, it was not his place to judge her, nor was it for him to decide whether she might be worthy of forgiveness. But he was grateful for her account—and a little less hateful of her. Her explanation put him enough at ease to see his duty through without piling any more guilt on his shoulders.

  “So be it.” Finn straightened his mail and leather armor and adjusted his scabbard, knowing he was nowhere near prepared for what was
to come. “Whatever it is you’ve a mind to do, go on then. I’ll be there to see you survive it.”

  For a moment he thought she might actually smile. What a sight that would have been. Instead she returned to her more familiar airs—squared shoulders, chin held high, and the gait of a queen. Finn admired her courage. Whatever else she was, she was an unstoppable force.

  The residence was still as he remembered. Cadell had it built half as a fortress and half as a private retreat, a place where he might escape the demands of his rule and his wife. More hunting lodge than manor house, it was too small to be called a proper castell and too utilitarian to host a court. No, this place was a man’s solace. Most of the space on the ground level was given to the butchery and the kitchen. The only other room, aside from a good-sized vestibule, was the dining hall where they now waited, unattended.

  “Too quiet here,” Finn mumbled.

  “Cadell never did keep many servants,” Cerrigwen said.

  So that he mightn’t worry about wagging tongues, Finn thought. As he recalled, though, Cadell’s personal guard numbered a dozen at least, and there was the caretaker who’d met them in the yard. There was better than a full garrison manning the grounds, but there was nary a soul inside. Still, the well-nursed fire in the massive hearth at the far end of the room signed that someone was in residence here—as were the creaking floorboards overhead.

  A moment later the footfalls of several heavily booted men echoed in the stairwell. As five men came into view, Finn was surprised to see that Cadell was not among them. Cerrigwen was caught off guard and instantly offended. Her shoulders went rigid, and her jaw clenched hard. Finn wondered if she had noticed how much the copper-headed youth in the center of the group bore Cadell’s resemblance.

  “You’ve come seeking my father.” The youth stopped at the head of the long, narrow table that centered the room. “Cadell is dead. This is my hall now.”

  Finn was careful not to show any reaction, but this was startling news. Not so much that Cadell had died—given the never-ending border skirmishes between Cadell and his kin, it was not unthinkable that he might meet an untimely end—but what his death signified was momentous.

  Cadell’s son, Hywel, Hywel had begun his ascent to power, just as the prophecy had foretold. Very likely the new king of Seisyllwg had already begun to assert his dominion over the headmen of the smaller kingdoms, even campaigning against their challenges. And it seemed Hywel would now need to count his own brother among the contenders. He would be in sore need of the Stewards’ Council that had been pledged to his aid.

  “Hywel is firstborn, not Clydog,” Cerrigwen retorted. If the news of Cadell’s passing disturbed her, it didn’t show. “That you claim his hall only makes it yours as long as you can hold it. And I wager that won’t be long.”

  The youth bristled, puffing out his chest like a peafowl, but Cerrigwen paid no mind to his posturing. “How long since Cadell’s death?” she demanded. “What took him? Not your sword, that’s certain. You’re just a boy.”

  Finn remembered his promise and held his tongue, though he wished Cerrigwen would tread lightly. The youth—barely of age maybe, but a man nonetheless—was the son of a king. She’d be wise to show him a little respect.

  Clydog showed restraint, though not well. “Three weeks now, nearly four. I hear infection took root in a battle wound that should have cost him no more than a day’s bed rest. Whatever business you might have had with my father, you now have with me.”

  “My business will be settled with the son who has the authority to speak for your house. Would that be you, Clydog? Do you speak for Seisyllwg?”

  A flash of rage lit his glare, but Clydog was quick to quell the spark. He knew enough not to show her a weakness she could exploit. “I know who you are, Cerrigwen of Pwll. Have you come hoping my father might yet recognize your daughter, that he might bring you both under his protection again?”

  Finn noticed Cerrigwen tense again. She had not expected Cadell’s pup to confront her with her past, and Clydog had clearly been lying in wait for this moment. Finn’s hackles stirred as he caught the scent of threat.

  “Take care you hear the meaning of my words, Lady. Let there be no mistake.” Clydog exaggerated his point. “Cadell has no bastards.”

  Finn felt his gullet close in. Cadell had been careful to let none of his illegitimate heirs live—save Cerrigwen’s child. He had spared Ffion at birth, but only because he understood her worth should Hywel’s destiny be cut short. Through this daughter, Cadell then had a second tie to Madoc and the prophecy. All the same, no one had ever doubted how quickly and brutally his favor would have been rescinded had Cerrigwen ever given him reason, especially after the birth of another son. And so it was a queer surprise a few years later when Cadell had spared Ffion a second time. When Cerrigwen unwisely attempted to gain title and lands for her daughter, Cadell had declared them exiled, with the warning that death awaited them both should they ever return.

  “How would you know this?” Cerrigwen queried, more suspicious than shocked. “Cadell would never have told you, nor would Hywel, if he knew.”

  Finn’s gullet cinched tighter as the only other possibility came to mind. Machreth had a hand in this. His next thought was to affect a quick escape, but Cerrigwen had moved closer to Clydog—and further from the vestibule. What could Cerrigwen possibly hope to gain here now?

  Clydog continued as though he had not heard her question. “But if there were, somehow, a child whose lineage was tied to both the reign of Seisyllwg and the legacy of the Stewardry, I might be persuaded to acknowledge this sibling and offer my protection against any threat my brother might pose.”

  “No.” Had she been near enough, Cerrigwen might well have spat in his face. “You will not use my daughter to further your gains, Clydog, nor Machreth’s. I will not aid usurpers, not anymore.”

  Clydog smiled at her. “Upon further reflection, I’ve decided you will accept my hospitality and remain here until Machreth can join us. Then, together, we will claim your daughter and the prophecy, in my name.”

  Cerrigwen backed away as she realized the danger, and reached under her cloak to pull the little bone-handled dagger tucked into her belt at the small of her back. Finn readied himself to intercede and hoped Pedr was close and alert.

  “My men search for her as we speak, and when she is found, she will be brought here, to me. So you see, Cerrigwen, there is really but one choice to be made.” Clydog moved the four soldiers at his sides into motion with a tip of his head. “And I am prepared to help you make it if you fail to see the way on your own.”

  Before Finn could put himself between her and Clydog’s guards, Cerrigwen made her move. In a swift, fluid twist she had unsheathed the dagger and slashed open the half-healed gash across her left palm. The cut was deep. Clydog’s men froze in horror and fear as the sorceress held forth her hand and allowed the blood to pool in her cupped palm.

  “Behold my power, Clydog.” Cerrigwen swept her arm left to right, in as wide an arc as her reach would allow, blooding a thin trail across the stone floor between her and the guards. She stared piercingly at Clydog, muttering spellwork in an old tongue. “Dial ar sawl croesi fy rhybudd.”

  Though Finn did not understand the words she spoke, it was easy enough to recognize that they were a threat. The four soldiers stood their ground and drew arms, but remained well out of striking distance. Finn pulled his own blade and prepared to defend the line that Cerrigwen had drawn.

  “You will carry this blood curse the rest of your days, Clydog, son of Cadell.” Cerrigwen rubbed both palms together and held her reddened hands outstretched, confronting her enemy with her magic. The room fell into shadow, as if her words had conjured a sinister cloud above the lodge.

  “Take care you never cross my path again,” she commanded. “Neither you nor any man or beast or vile creature sent on your bidding—lest you
be visited with suffering so horrible, even death will bring you no relief.”

  The fire in the hearth behind Clydog sputtered and flashed, giving the young prince and his men a good start. Cerrigwen turned and brushed past Finn, eyes wide and wild. She had the look of the banshee again. Finn lagged long enough to stare down Clydog’s captain, hoping to make him think twice about following. With a little luck, by the time the guardsmen shook free of their daze and found a way around Cerrigwen’s hex, Finn would have her well away from here.

  “What happened?” Pedr waited astride, holding rein on the other horses.

  With a swift step and a spry leap, Cerrigwen was seated in her saddle before Finn had found his stirrup. She yanked the leathers from Pedr’s grip and spurred the silver mare toward the forest at a full gallop.

  “Gods’ piss and shit,” Finn cursed as he hauled himself up. “Get after her, Pedr. The sooner we’re in the trees, the better. But don’t you lose sight of her.”

  Pedr gave chase, and by the time Finn reached the edge of the thicket, he had lost sight of his son. He’d follow the hoof trail, but Finn knew Cerrigwen would head for the heart of this smaller copse before turning toward the vast expanse of the White Woods. Even she would not enter the enchanted forest alone.

  Finn came upon them where he expected, in a clearing that was really no more than a widening of the trail in a dense grove of bare-limbed alder and birch trees. Cerrigwen had dismounted and stood with her face turned toward the heavens and her arms stiff at her sides. He was beguiled for a moment by the sight of her in her indigo Steward’s cloak, a shock of color against the pale wintering landscape. And then he realized she was spell casting yet again.

  Pedr waited nearby with her mare in tow, eyes downcast to avoid bearing witness to whatever wickedness she might wreak. Finn cursed under his breath and edged his horse near enough to hear her mumblings. As he drew closer, he could see the tears as they dripped unhindered from beneath her lashes—her eyes were closed, her arms now reaching skyward, beseeching. It was not a spell she muttered; it was a prayer.