Free The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) by Roberta Trahan

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 Cade ll’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 m e.”
    “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