Free Hounds of God by Judith Tarr Page B

act would make it real and
irrevocable. They were gone; they would never come back.
    No. He would find them. He must. Somehow. If there was a
God. If there was such a thing as hope.
    The chapel was dark and cold. Neither too dark nor too cold
for the Brother Alfred who had been, but he was dead. Rhiyana’s
Chancellor found the stone floor hard, the crucified Christ impassive.
    In shock, in the suddenness of Alun’s death, the
priest had stirred in his deep grave. He had spoken the words for the dead; he
had faced unflinching the terrible grief of the King. He was gone again, as he
must be.
    Alf sank back on his heels, eyes fixed on the crucifix but
focused within. Seeing Gwydion in the hall, Alun in his arms still, a blur of
people; voices raised in startlement, in confusion, in piercing lamentation.
The men from Rome, at a loss as were they all, although some rejoiced in
secret; the Cardinal excusing himself with graceful words, half-heard and
half-heeded—but his sorrow, even to the touch of power, was real. The
Archbishop of Caer Gwent with a following of loyal monks, weeping unashamedly,
begging and cajoling and finally commanding the King to give his son over for
tending. Prince Aidan as white and still and terrible as his brother, saying
with searing cruelty, “Hold him then. Hold him till he rots.” And
in every mind with power, the brutal vision, swelling and stench, flesh dropping
from bones, worms—
    Gwydion had surged forward, mad-enraged, poised to kill.
Gently Aidan eased the body from his brother’s arms and laid it in the
hands of the monks. Gwydion stood motionless, as if power and strength had
deserted him in that one wild rush. His eyes could not even follow the Brothers
as they bore their burden away. He was empty; broken.
    The Prince touched his shoulder. His own hand came up in
turn. It was uncanny, like a vision of mirrors. But one image, the one in
well-worn hunting garb, had let the tears come. The other would not.
    Still would not, as Alf would not sleep. The castle thrummed
with it, a tension that would not break, a grief beyond all bearing. Not for
friends or brother or Kin would Gwydion give way, not even for the Queen
herself.
    He had shut them all away. Maura tossed in Aidan’s bed
while the Prince and his Saracen strove between them to comfort her. She was
not cruel enough to resist, but there was no easing that suffering, even by the
magic of the Flame-bearer’s voice.
    Alf’s head drooped; he shivered. Half a day and half a
night of this had poisoned the whole castle. Worse yet, a storm had come up out
of the sea, fierce and bitter cold as the King’s own heart. The winds
wailed more heartrendingly than all the women in the city; the clouds were as
black as grief.
    Not a few folk suspected that the storm was the King’s
own, called up out of his madness. Was he not the greatest mage in the world?
    “It cannot go on.”
    Alf started at the sound of his own voice. His fists had
clenched on his thighs. He regarded them as if they belonged to a stranger. “It
has to stop,” he said to them.
    Granted; and everyone admitted it. But no one had been able
to do a thing about it.
    “Someone has to.”
    Aidan himself had tried and failed, and he could rule his
brother where even the Queen could not.
    Alf shook his head. His hair swung, heavy, half blinding
him. It needed cutting. Thea had meant to do it—before—
    His teeth set: He was as mad as the King, he knew it. But he
had learned a greater skill in concealing it.
    Maybe that was what Gwydion needed. A skill. A mask. Enough
to hold his kingdom together before it shattered.
    Alf was erect, walking. He let his feet lead him where they
would.
    Like the Chancellor, the King had his own tower, set close
to the prow of the castle. Light glimmered in its lofty windows, all but lost
in the murk of the storm.
    Alf climbed the long winding stair. It was black dark; he
walked by the shimmer of power about his feet. Solid though the stones