The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Page 8

  She was defensive, which only irked him more, and now he had the distinct impression that she was hiding a guilty secret. Rhys was not at all comfortable with the conversation, but he would not let it go. Hywel had power and wealth and the romantic appeal only a legendary warrior-savior-king could have. He was also the sort of man other men would follow to their deaths, and women would do anything to please.

  “Hywel has a…reputation.”

  “So what if he does?” She wriggled until he released her, and then stepped away to glare defiance at him. “Must I then be guilty by association, Rhys, or is it that you think me so naïve that I would not recognize his advances for what they were, if in fact there were any such advances, which there were not.” She crossed her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes at him. “Or maybe you are afraid I might encourage him.”

  Rhys withered a little, but only a little. She could claim insult all she wanted, but the pink stain on her cheeks gave her away. She was flattered by Hywel’s attention, maybe even welcoming of it. Rhys had no reason to think there was any more to it than that, but that was enough. He didn’t like it.

  “I only mean to point out that Hywel is more complicated than people tend to think. He holds his own interests first at heart.”

  “The same could be said of you. Or any other man I’ve ever met.” Glain smiled when her retort caused his eyes to snap wide and his jaw to drop. “And all things being equal, I fail to see why Hywel should be any less appealing for it.”

  She was toying with him, and Rhys deserved it, but he was still going to make the most of the opportunity to point out Hywel’s less attractive qualities.

  “He stalks the grounds like a caged beast barking orders at everyone, and then he helps himself to every comfort the Fane has to offer, if you take my meaning, and he is pigheaded. He will hear no counsel but his own. Poor Emrys is tasked beyond his limits.”

  “Hywel is restless,” Glain countered. “He worries his people will lose confidence with their king so long away from his court. He does have a home, you know. Perhaps he misses it.”

  “He has a wife as well, though that seems easy enough for him to forget. No, it’s the battlefield he misses,” Rhys argued. “His soldiers have begun to arrive, which only agitates him more. I doubt that his promise will hold him at the temple much longer, but my mother won’t hear a word against him.”

  “She sees him as he is, the best and the worst of him,” Glain assured him. “To serve the prophecy, we must also serve the man, Rhys. You must make your peace with him.”

  He squinted at her, as afraid to question her meaning as he was angered by the implications. “Have you?”

  “I think I shall devote myself to the effort in your absence,” she sassed. “Perhaps then I won’t notice it.”

  Rhys had taken all the banter he could stomach and reached round her waist with both hands. He pulled her hips to his and held Glain hard against his groin, making it impossible for her to ignore the bulge she had caused. The sighing gasp she let out was satisfying, at least for his ego, and when she tilted her head back, she was rose-lipped and flush-faced again. But this time because of him.

  “Oh, you’ll notice,” Rhys said. And then he kissed her long enough and deep enough to be sure she would.

  SEVEN

  The old cob and thatch dwelling was nearly indistinguishable from its surroundings. One had to look hard to see the shape of the structure beneath the wild growth that was slowly composting its remains. Only two of the four walls were still standing, more or less, joined at one corner and tilting at a precarious angle under the weight of age and disrepair. A pallet-sized patch of matted roofing sagged between two nearly collapsed framing poles, providing a flimsy barrier between Thorne Edwall and the wintry drizzle.

  After retrieving a change of clothing from the stores Aldyn the tavern keeper held for him, Thorne had spent the day before making sure he hadn’t been followed. He’d taken up position in this corner of the ruins a good two hours before sunrise—not for shelter, but for cover.

  From here he could watch the Sovereign’s messenger boy as he arrived—if he arrived—and see how he carried himself when he thought he was alone. This was a simple but telling test of veracity—the first of the four virtues of the Ruagaire Brotherhood.

  He had passed the first hour in silence and soggy darkness, crouched in a frosty, ankle-deep drift pile of dead leaves, twigs, and mud. His heavy leather boots, leggings and gloves, and the hooded cloak that was the signature uniform of the Ruagaire hunter were all made to stave off the cold. But the infernal sputtering mist was aggravating. Thorne resented the rain. It made it more difficult for him to maintain his patience. Forbearance was the fourth virtue, and the one that Thorne had struggled most to master.

  At the turn of the second hour, anticipation began to make him restless. To relieve the increasing urge to move, he slowly raised himself to a stand by gradually increasing tension in his haunch muscles. Done properly, the movement was so controlled that the motion barely unsettled the air around him. A stealthy effect that was yet a further challenge to the fourth virtue, but if Thorne’s hunch proved true, the wait would not last much longer.

  As a general rule, he was reluctant to hope, but it would be nice to be right about this. What had happened to him at Banraven was clear evidence that something sinister had taken root within the Brotherhood, and Thorne could not rest until he made sense of it. If the young swordsman bore up to Thorne’s assessment, he could be of use, and Thorne was considering an arrangement that would benefit them both.

  Not a quarter of an hour later, a soft and far-off rustle caught Thorne’s attention. Well-trained hearing detected both the distance and direction of the movement. His quick reckoning put the advance from the southwest, about at a furlong away and closing. Thorne was impressed. Rhys, son of Bledig, was early.

  From where he stood, Thorne had a fairly unobstructed view of the surrounds on the north, east, and west sides of the cottage, but no sightline at all on the south. He would not be able to see Rhys unless and until he rounded the structure. But what he could hear told him almost everything he needed to know.

  Drawing nearer at a wary pace was a single man, leading a shoed and fully dressed horse that was trained to travel as quietly as its rider. Thorne detected the slight scraping sound made by a leather sword scabbard rubbing against doeskin leggings that had been worn smooth by use. The man wore heavier-soled boots than Thorne’s—suited for the weather, but not for stealth. His approach slowed, and as he drew within ten yards of the cottage ruins, he hesitated—likely taking time to listen to his own senses and assess what risk he faced.

  Thorne was confident that this young man was smart and seasoned enough to be of more help than harm. So far, the lad had acted in accordance with good training, just as Thorne had expected. Next, the swordsman would decide he was alone and come forward to investigate the cottage and the surrounds.

  “Your horse and your dog are clever,” the swordsman called from where he stood. “Neither so much as twitched a tail, and I passed close enough that I could have reached out and scratched the mutt’s ears.”

  Thorne grinned to himself despite being caught unaware. “You were wise not to try. Maelgwn is half warg, half hellhound. He’d have taken off your hand.”

  Rhys stopped a few feet short of entering Thorne’s view. “Well then, I suppose I’ll just wait here for you to show yourself.”

  “I’m beginning to like you, Rhys, son of Bledig.” Thorne stepped out of the shadows and pushed back his hood to greet his guest. “I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

  Rhys offered a wary half-smile. “I’m hoping the same of you.”

  This sobered Thorne and reminded him of his duty. He circled Rhys and his horse, giving them both a critical review. The swordsman was adequately outfitted for the wilds in woolen and leather, and armed with a good skinning knife
and a boot dagger. He also carried a pair of finely crafted throwing blades on his belt. His horse was battle dressed but not overladen, and the saddle sacks were fat enough to be holding a properly measured store of provisions, but not overstuffed—a sign of experience.

  “Your Frisian is too big to be fast, but he is made for the cold and the long hunt. A good choice. But your boots, they give you away.”

  “I prefer these for riding.” Rhys tipped his head toward his saddle sacks. “If I’d meant to go unnoticed, I’d have worn the others.”

  “I see.” Thorne squelched another satisfied smile. “Did you bring what I asked for?”

  Rhys reached beneath his cloak and brought out a wad of green silk. “A handkerchief of Cerrigwen’s, one she was seen carrying. It has her scent, I’m certain of that.”

  “This will do.” Thorne took the silk because his glove afforded him a bit of shielding. He had felt the warning trill at the base of his neck the moment Rhys had brought the fabric out into the air. To touch it barehanded would have been very unpleasant. “What else?”

  “Hairs retrieved from Machreth’s grooming tools.” This time Rhys went to his saddle bags to retrieve a small roll of plain linen, knotted at both ends. “I couldn’t stand to have anything of his on my person.”

  Thorne looked sidelong at Rhys, curious. “But the handkerchief didn’t trouble you?”

  “No more than I’m used to. Magical things have always stirred my hackles. I even know a witch or a wizard on sight. But this”—he held out the second bundle—“makes the skin on the back of my neck burn.”

  Thorne had hoped for this. It was a telling trait that all of the Ruagaire shared, but it was too soon to be sure. Perhaps this young man had been born to the calling, and perhaps he was merely sensitive to mage sign. Either way, Rhys was a natural tracker. Thorne would have to add a tithe of gratitude for this good fortune the next time he gave thanks. His list of tithes was growing too long to remember. It had been too many months since he’d last knelt before an altar.

  “How will we track the Cythraul?” Rhys asked.

  “I’ve already found the trail. It leads south, to Castell Banraven.” Thorne dropped to one knee and let out a long, one-noted whistle. A half-minute later Maelgwn crept out of the woods with the stallion in tow. He let loose the reins and sauntered up to Thorne, who rewarded the warghound with a well-deserved scratch behind his ears. “Hand over that bundle with the hair.”

  Rhys did as he was asked and then retreated a few paces. “Now what?”

  “Now Maelgwn will tell us what he knows.” Thorne put the linen on the ground and pried it open a bit so that Maelgwn could nose at the small clump of black, coarse strands tied together at one end with a bit of string. Maelgwn took a sniff and then turned aside. “This bit doesn’t interest him. Let’s try the other.”

  Before Thorne had even opened his hand, Maelgwn voiced a deep-throated purring growl. When Thorne placed the cloth on the wet, leafy mulch in front of the dog, Maelgwn backed away and prowled in a circle, making short snarling yips.

  “The way he’s pacing about means he recognizes the scent. If we follow him, he’ll take us to where he first caught it.” Thorne stood and handed both the bundle of hair and the green silk back to Rhys. “As good a place to start as any.”

  Rhys stored both talismans in his saddle sacks and then turned to Thorne. “Shouldn’t we first follow the Cythraul trail?”

  Thorne swung himself astride his stallion. “My guess is one trail will lead to the other, eventually. Come on.”

  Thorne’s strange beast was fast. Maelgwn’s silver-black fur melded into the shadowy silhouette of the White Woods, masking his movements as he darted through the trees. Only the soft, fleeting rustle of his monstrous paws skimming the forest floor gave his presence away, but by the time the sound traveled, he was already long gone. Maelgwn gave no howl or bay to signal the hunt, and he never slowed or doubled back for his master. It was up to Thorne and Rhys to follow or be left behind.

  Maelgwn led them into the dark heart of the woods, through oak and alder stands so dense it felt as if the trees were closing in around them. Rhys had never liked this forest. Legend claimed the oak trees rearranged themselves, trapping unsuspecting travelers in an endless labyrinth from which they never emerged. And although Rhys hadn’t seen any moving trees for himself, he’d seen enough these last weeks to believe the White Woods were deadly to anyone who did not know his way around them.

  His instincts were afire with dread, and Rhys began to second-guess his decision. The Frisian stallion eased off in keeping with his rider’s hesitant thoughts, letting the distance grow between them and the hunt. Rhys had never been so deep in these woods and wondered how wise it was to go any deeper. Already he was uncertain of his bearings—and it was far too late to question whether Thorne knew his. Perhaps Rhys should turn back while he still could. He held the Frisian at a brisk but cautious gait, watching the lag stretch to precarious lengths.

  Blazes, he thought, cursing his qualms. What was he thinking? Rhys dug his heels in hard and spurred his mount on, determined to leave all his doubts in the duff. He was committed to the chase and whatever came after, even if it took him to his death.

  At the edge of what looked to be a small but intentional clearing, Maelgwn’s steady lope abruptly slowed. The horses pulled up without prompting, a sign to Rhys that the animals were working in consort. This was reassuring. His father had taught him the value of the bond between man and beast. The wolf, as the warg was also known, was the sigil of their tribe, and Rhys was naturally inclined toward kinship with Thorne’s strange beast.

  Thorne signaled caution and Rhys followed his lead, holding the Frisian at a safe distance while Maelgwn prowled along the tree line. Rhys marveled at the mysterious creature. Its features were wolf-like, as was its shape and stance, but the beast was far larger than any lupine Rhys had ever seen. And thus far, Maelgwn had shown a man-friendly nature, which was a decidedly canine behavior. Rhys admired its graceful stalk and obvious intelligence.

  Suddenly, the beast stopped. He circled once and sat facing the clearing. Then Maelgwn lifted his nose skyward and let out a long, haunting howl that sent a chill trilling along Rhys’s spine. And then the warghound disappeared.

  “That takes some getting used to.” Thorne urged his massive black stallion toward the clearing. “Let’s take a look around.”

  “What takes getting used to?” Rhys prodded his Frisian into motion, keeping pace with Thorne. “Where did he go?”

  “Maelgwn is as much a creature of the netherlands as he is a beast of this world. He comes and he goes.”

  “Then he is magical.” Rhys had thought as much, but he was still a bit stunned. “He is trained to your command?”

  Thorne laughed. “Some days I think it’s more that I am trained to his. I suppose you could say we have an understanding. Look.” He nodded toward the far side of the small clearing. “He’s found the witch’s lair.”

  “You mean that cottage?” Rhys wasn’t exactly sure what Thorne meant. “There’s no one here now.”

  Thorne twisted in his saddle to look quizzically at Rhys. “Is it your eyes that tell you that, or your instincts?”

  “Both.” He took a moment to sort through his senses. “Stale manure, three, maybe four days old, and the newest tracks are leading east, into the trees. Three horses, all mounted. They were here a good stay, or at least planned to be. The roof’s been patched recently, and there’s a fair-sized pile of freshly split logs.”

  “But the door is standing wide open.” Thorne pointed to the small stone chimney on the roof of the old house. “And that fire has been cold almost as long as the horse shit.”

  Rhys paused to examine another niggling tingle. “The magic lingers.”

  “Good.” Thorne grinned. “That’s the remnants of spellwork you’re feeling. Take a look inside
. See if they’ve really gone for good.”

  Rhys dismounted and peered through the doorway into the one-room dwelling. “There’s nothing here but a wooden cot and a table. No provisions, no bedding, no belongings of any kind.”

  “Three horses.” Thorne spoke as though the thought had just occurred. And then his expression soured. “Who is she travelling with?”

  Rhys hesitated, suddenly realizing he’d never mentioned the escort. “A Guardian of the Realms is always accompanied by at least one member of the Crwn Cawr Protectorate.”

  “I should have remembered that.” Thorne was obviously annoyed. “But you should have told me.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Rhys was concerned. He did not want to test the newly forged trust between them. “Finn MacDonagh and his son, Pedr.”

  “The damned blood oath.” Thorne blew a huff of frustration. “They will die defending her.”

  Rhys felt sick. He had not done as good a job assessing the risks and consequences as he’d thought. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

  Thorne shook his head at Rhys, as disappointed as he was distressed. “And I hope there isn’t anything else you’ve failed to mention.”

  A shard of white lightning fractured the clouded sky. No more than a breath later, thunder exploded, shaking the ground beneath them. Rhys was half afraid he’d evoked a dark omen with his overconfidence, and swore to himself he’d not make the same mistake twice.

  Thorne stared at him, hard, and Rhys held the gaze despite the urge to turn away. He intended that Thorne should see his regret, if not some better evidence of his merit. Words, at this moment, were meaningless.

  Again lightning cut across the heavens, and Thorne broke the stalemate with a blink and a duck of his head. “Rain,” he muttered.