Night Birds' Reign(140)

At his regard Rhiannon’s green eyes sparkled and she smiled at him. But before she could answer Gwydion stepped between them, his silver eyes snapping with imperfectly repressed irritation. “This is Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, whom I believe you know by reputation. The others I am certain you already know.” In a milder tone he went on. “And we are grateful indeed for your help today. For I do not think that any of us would still be alive had you not come when you did.”

Cynedyr bowed, obviously awed by Gwydion. “I am grateful in my turn for the chance to be of service to the Dreamer of Kymru.”

“I would question, now, the prisoner your men hold.”

“Of course.” At Cynedyr’s gesture two of his men brought the prisoner before Gwydion. Cynedyr’s men held the man’s arms in an unmoving grip and forced the prisoner to kneel before the Dreamer.

“Who are you?” Gwydion asked, his silver eyes glittering.

“I will not tell you, Dreamer, so there is no use in asking,” the man said, his dark eyes hard and unyielding.

“What were your orders?”

“Ah, that I will tell you, for my master said I might. Our orders were to kill Trystan ap Naf as soon as he crossed into Rheged.”

“Why?” Trystan asked sharply.

“That I do not know. I know of you and personally bear you no ill will. I and my men did only what we must do.”

“Who is your master?” Gwydion asked.

“That is my business, not yours,” the man said proudly.

“You are wrong,” Gwydion said quietly, his tone deadly. “It is my business. And I will know that answer. Be assured of that.”

The man smiled and seemed to bite the inside of his lip. At that tiny movement Gwydion leapt forward, forcing the man’s mouth open. But he was too late, for the mint scent of pennyroyal wafted from between his lips.

“Rhiannon!” Gwydion snapped.

But Rhiannon was already running to her horse and rooting through her saddlebags. She ran back, a small vial in her hand.

“Tip his head back,” she ordered and she poured the contents of the vial down the man’s throat. Gwydion closed the man’s mouth, pinching his nostrils to make him swallow. After a moment, he did, and Gwydion released his hold. But the sickly smile on the prisoner’s face told them their efforts were in vain.

“Sage,” the man said softly, “was the right remedy. But there is not enough of it to counteract what I have taken. I am done for, as I mean to be.”

“But why?” Amatheon said, taking the dying man’s hands in his. “Why?”

The man’s face broke out in a sweat. He arched his back in agony as the first convulsion took him. “I owed a debt,” he gasped. “And did what I must do to repay it.”

“Owed a debt to whom?” Gwydion demanded.

“That I will not tell you, Dreamer,” he rasped. “That is for you to discover. If you can.” At that he cried out, straining against the hands that held him. He bit his lips so hard that they bled, and blood flowed down his chin. His dark eyes stared at the sky above and tears glittered on his lashes. “Forgive,” he whispered as the last convulsion took him. “Forgive.”

Then he was dead, his eyes opened but unseeing, his last breath leaving his body with a sigh.

“Who would do this to him?” Rhiannon asked, her voice shaky. “Who would have such power over him?”

“I do not know,” Gwydion said thoughtfully, speaking in a low voice so that the men of Cynedyr’s warband could not hear. “Whoever it was they knew that Trystan was the next one to walk the past. If he was killed, our quest would be over.”

“Who would know that?” Amatheon asked.

“Someone who was watching us,” Gwydion said.

“Someone who profits by the continued absence of a High King,” Rhiannon put in. “For without the sword a High King cannot come into his powers.”

“Who might that be?” Achren wondered. “Who would not wish a High King to return?”

“Someone with things to hide,” Gwydion said grimly. “Someone with plans that would benefit them, and not Kymru. Long ago the Protectors themselves came to me in a dream. And they warned me to be on watch for traitors among us. This is proof that they were right.”

Gwydion turned back to Cynedyr, who stood with his men, patiently waiting for the low-voiced conference to be over. “You must not think us churlish, Cynedyr,” Gwydion said politely. “We do not wish to offend.”

“You do not offend,” Cynedyr said swiftly. “The business of the Dreamer is not to be questioned.”

Gwydion smiled with satisfaction until he saw that Rhiannon was rolling her eyes.