The Ways of Winter

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Maëlys looked up at the sky and despaired of finishing another mile and more before darkness fell. She hadn’t expected the roads to be so deep in snow, dragging on her skirts and her cloak and making each step a misery.

She’d started south of Greenhollow at mid-morning. It was only five miles and she’d been sure she had plenty of time, but it was getting harder and harder to move her feet, and she was worried about being trapped on the road at nightfall with nowhere for shelter.

This is what comes of refusing to listen to Brittou, she thought, and waiting for the roads to clear. The farm manager for Iona’s stock-raising operation south of the village had been kind to her after her husband Luhedoc was given up for missing in that last sweep of lutins into Edgewood, and she was grateful. He’d recently proposed marriage, at this stage in their lives, but she couldn’t make him understand that she still felt bonded to her husband, even after eighteen years. Now that the holder of Edgewood had been unseated, she had to find out what had happened to him, to all the lutins who didn’t come back.

She could picture his crooked grin even now, the one he wore when a trick he’d set up succeeded. She wanted his biggest trick to have been survival, whatever was wrong with the place that had trapped him.

She heard a panting noise behind her and turned. Out of the mist, a great beast came lunging toward her through the snow. She lifted a foot to run, and then realized it was just a big hound, baying with delight that he’d found her and dancing around her in exuberance.

“Get back here,” George yelled at Hugo as the hound leapt from the wagon of lutins and dashed up the road into the gloom, but before he could reinforce it with a mental call, he felt what his hound had smelled, a presence up ahead. He pushed forward at a trot on Mosby, his big gray Percheron/Thoroughbred cross.

He’d expected someone on the road ahead from the footsteps crossing the bridge, but he was unprepared for a middle-aged lutine, wet and exhausted, pestered by a hound almost her own size. “Good boy, Hugo. Now leave her alone,” he said to his dog, who settled down with an air of pride in his find.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he said. “Headed to the manor house?”

She nodded wearily.

“You must have just beaten us to the bridge. Let me give you a ride on one of the wagons.”

With that, he reached down to her upraised hands and lifted her up, pack and all, to a seat sitting sideways behind him. She wasn’t big enough to reach around his waist, so he swept his left arm behind him awkwardly to hold her and turned his horse back through the rest of the horsemen to the first wagon. Coming alongside the stopped wagon of lutins, he carefully lowered her down again, not releasing his grip until he was sure she was standing firmly on the wagon bed.

“Thanks for holding onto my other dog,” he said to one of Rozenn’s party who had a firm grip on the smaller feist. Hugo,” he called, “Get over here.” He dismounted to lift the heavy hound into the wagon, brushing off as much of the snow on him as he could reach to spare the other passengers.

“I’m Gwyn’s huntsman, George Talbot Traherne,” he said to the rescued lutine, as he remounted.

“My name’s Maëlys. I’ve come from Iona and Brittou, seeking my husband in Edgewood.”

Rozenn put an arm around her and sat her down in the midst of the warm nest of blankets. “Many of us are looking for family, too,” she told her.

As he left to rejoin the head of the wagon train, he called down to her, “If you have any trouble finding housing when we get there, ask for me.” Behind him, the wagons started forward again.

A knock on his door warned Madog of the entry of a servant bearing mulled wine. The man bowed low, placed the tray on a sideboard, and left silently.

Madog took advantage of the interruption to lay his pen down and rise from the table, scattered with papers, that occupied the back half of his private study. Warming his hands with a cup of the wine, he walked over to the windows and looked to the east.

He never tired of this view. Naturally, nine hundred years ago, he had caused his court to be built defensively high, up the steep trail from the valley floor, right on the northern tip of the mountain keel that bisected the broad valley of the Horse River, the Dyffran Camarch. His special discovery later made this physical defense unnecessary, but he admired the prospect of the Blue Ridge to his east from this height so much that he determined to live with the inconvenience of bringing goods and people up the mountain to keep his court there. It represented his ambitions and reminded him, constantly, of Annwn, just over the deadly ridge he couldn’t cross directly.

After all, he was not the one discommoded by the location, not since his little find. He glanced at the corner of the room, where his way-adept senses easily detected the entrance of his small personal passage to the village at the bottom of the trail. That was a successful creation, he thought, not like some of the other earlier ones, while he was still learning what he could achieve.

Creiddylad would miss this snow, he thought. He was surprised at how she’d grown on him, now that they were forced together, her pride of birth humbled by the renunciation of her brothers Gwyn and Edern. When she finally saw his court for the first time and realized his strength, that he wasn’t just the obliging and cunning younger adviser she’d thought him, she was both grateful and gratified, inclined to meet him on equal standing, her age and birth against his new world power.

They restructured their alliance, sealed at last by consort status since they had lost the need to keep up pretensions. He’d have to be careful about that as always. He intended to raise no other way-adepts here, not even of his own blood. It was pesky the way that skill cropped up every now and then and had to be eliminated, even after all this time, but he prided himself on his thoroughness.

Creiddylad was no longer constrained by family squeamishness and was fully behind his plans to unseat her one-time brother Gwyn. Madog was glad, now, that he’d taken her with him after she’d backed him at the great hunt, even though that plan had failed.

Right now she was reveling in her new freedom. Though still under banishment by her grandfather Beli Mawr for her old role in creating the feud between Gwyn and her ex-husband Gwythyr ap Greidawl, she had perfected the art of traveling under a glamour and thought the risk of detection was low. Gwyn couldn’t touch her here and, if she was discreet, no one would notice her in Britain.

He frowned at that. His way to Britain, the one he’d found nine hundred years ago from the other end, was still a closely held secret. It wasn’t enough that he controlled its use through the way-tokens—he didn’t want its location, or even its existence, generally known. If Creiddylad’s glamour were detected, it would raise many questions about how she’d gotten there. She knew this, but he wasn’t confident it would make her more cautious. What will she do if she runs into some of her old friends? Will she try and spy on Gwythyr?

Well, he couldn’t do anything about her from here. He had his hands full with the new situation at Edgewood, working out what could be salvaged from the wreckage of his prior plan.

He took another sip of the heated wine, the spices tingling in his mouth.

Can my work go forward? Well, why not? Gwyn may know more about me now, I’ve lost that element of surprise, but what can he do about it? None of them can reach me. I control all the ways into the great valley of the river, and none of us can cross the ridge overland. With my barrier in place, they can’t even go around the long way.

The barrier I built at Edgewood for Creiddylad is still working, and the little beast grows stronger every day. It was stubborn this morning, but unable to resist his will. I wonder what else I can do with it? How big will it get?

What could stop me? That Rhodri there, Gwyn’s way-finder, he’s no threat, I think, and Gwyn had very limited powers with the ways himself.

The huntsman’s a puzzle. My spies insist he’s the one who shut down the Hidden Way after the great hunt, though they don’t talk much about it over there. It’s hard to believe, he’s just a human distantly descended from Gwyn. It was odd how Cernunnos rode him at the great hunt. That didn’t happen to the old huntsman Iolo. Maybe it only happens with human huntsmen, because they’re weaker than true fae.

There were very few humans in his domain, since none of his ways went to their world. The few he had were taken from Gwyn’s domain, for his research. He’d experimented with breeding here, and verified that the powers always declined with human blood in the mix, usually in the first generation. It satisfied him to have information he could count on, rather than just relying on the writings of scholars. Always better to know for sure, and the fields always needed more workers.

Still, the Hidden Way that he’d created so long ago was truly gone, and no other explanation seemed to be available.

I can’t destroy a way. Did the huntsman do that? Was it Cernunnos, riding him? Can I learn it from him or is he just some sort of freak?

It seemed to be common knowledge there that he sealed the way to Edgewood at the river meadow, the one I built for the ambush on Gwyn. It was a good idea, too, would have worked if the huntsman hadn’t disrupted it. No matter—I may have lost control from the Daear Llosg end at Greenway Court, but when this snow lets up, I’ll go back and close the other end, at least. It bothered him that it was still open, an untidy loose end from the older plan.

And either the huntsman or Rhodri destroyed the Court Way outside Edgewood’s manor. Lot of good that’ll do them. I just made a new one. That should keep them stirred up. He grinned. Still, we can’t have that going on.

The Trap Way should close the gate nicely, keep them all corralled up into a single pen at Edgewood. He’d refined the process since the capture of Rhys ab Edern and his consort Eiryth and their retainers twelve years ago. That had been riskier, he’d had to bring the little beast with him all the way to Britain, and it turned out he couldn’t control things well enough to keep his captives alive, though Gwythyr made no complaints.

This time, he’d try for Rhys’s son, the one he’d missed twelve years ago, and keep him alive, if he could. He’d launched the first step this morning, despite the beast’s odd resistance. Let’s see how they like that. Clean up a loose end and take a hostage to manipulate Gwyn. Scilti would no doubt appreciate someone new to play with.

No mistakes this time.

“I think there’ll be at least forty in this party that Thomas Kethin went to fetch,” Gwyn said to Ifor, as they stood outside the main stables at Greenway Court.

“Where will we put them all?” his steward asked. “The stables are mostly full up, and the barracks are getting crowded.”

“We’ll take the warehouses nearest the balineum and turn them into impromptu barracks. That way they can use the baths across the lane. Anyone who finds that beneath his dignity for a night or two can look for individual hospitality at dinner.”

“That would work, especially if we stand the wagons they’ll be bringing right next to the buildings, to minimize the work of loading or unloading.”

“Better leave them loaded if we can, and tie down covers over them in case of more snow,” Gwyn advised.

“Very well, my lord, so much for the people. But what about the horses?”

“The stables are large, if overfull. We’ll tie them in the aisles for now, it’ll have to do.”

A guard appeared on foot at the gate in the south curtain wall, breathing hard from a run up the cleared but uphill path. Ifor waved an arm to catch his attention and called him over.

“What news?” Ifor said.

“Thomas Kethin just rode ahead to meet us at the gate, sir.” The guard paused to take a breath. “He asked me to let you know that he and the huntsman are bringing in two groups at once, one from the Traveler’s Way and one from the inn. I’m to tell you that there are altogether thirty-four fae, thirty-two korrigans, and six lutins, with fourteen wagons, two of which belong to Huw Bongam, and he sent two drivers for them, too. Oh, and there are families and children included.”

Ifor did a quick estimate. “That’s got to be at least eighty or ninety horses, my lord. We’ll need all the stable hands out just to keep track of them for a day or two.”

Gwyn said, “Off you go, then. You organize the reception as they come in. Set someone to find Idris for me, and send me our people and the leaders of the travelers’ parties. We’ll set up food and drink in the great hall. And don’t forget those covers for the wagons.”

George stamped into the entry hall at the back of the manor through the double doors, shedding the snow from his boots. He found Rhian patting herself to make sure everything was in place. He assumed she’d just changed out of kennel clothes into something better suited to Gwyn’s foster-daughter.

She turned as the rear double-doors thumped open. “Cousin,” she said, “You’re not supposed to be here. Where’s Angharad?”

“Tell me about it,” he said, wryly. “Not easy to get a honeymoon going.”

“What’s this group like?”

“A mixed bag of all sorts. I’ll stick around to help with introductions.”

She flashed him a look of gratitude. At fourteen, she was young to stand there alone as hostess on her foster-father’s behalf and was glad of the support.

George took a moment to park his dogs in front of the fire in the hunting room that opened off the back entrance. They’d wait for him there, warm and out of the way.

The first travelers began to trickle in. Rhian took the lead in greeting them, and George ferried them to the comfort rooms on the side of the entry hall or to the great hall beyond, with its crackling fire and platters of food, depending on their most urgent needs. The three-story cavernous hall was relatively warm with its constant fire, the raised dais at the north end making it clear where the family took its meals.

When Huw Bongam’s two drivers came in, he pulled them aside.

“Do you want to try and return tonight, or wait for morning?”

One looked at the other. “If you can put us up, I think we’d rather do it in full daylight, huntsman.”

“You could get trapped here, if the snow returns,” he warned them, but they shrugged.

“Alright, then, but better collect Huw’s blankets now, before stopping for the day,” George said.

A pile of personal belongings had begun to accumulate in one corner of the great hall, whatever had been carried with them on horseback for those who rode.

The noise of more than sixty people relaxing and eating filled the lobby as well, conversations rising as everyone warmed up. The sound of children, even crying, was more welcome than silent, shivering faces, George thought.

He walked into the great hall with Huw’s drivers and raised a hand for attention. “If you borrowed some of the blankets from the inn, please return them to these men here. If you left them in the wagons, tell them so that they can fetch them in the morning.” Privately he said to the drivers, “If you come up short, let me know.”

“Group leaders, please come with me,” he continued, operating under Ifor’s instructions. “Rhian, you, too,” he said. He walked through the crowd and singled out Maëlys and Cydifor, traveling without leaders, and brought them along with him, ushering the whole group into Gwyn’s council room through the doorway on the other side of the raised dais.