Gambit of the Glass Crowns: The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy, #1

CHARACTERS IN THE STORY

† Denotes a character’s death occurred prior to the beginning of the book.

Inhabitants of Cærwyn and its Provinces

Connor – Heir apparent of Helygen and nephew to the high king.

†Duke Cadfael Helygen, father of Rhodri and Connor.

†Lady Seren, mother of Rhodri and Connor.

Duke Rhodri Helygen – Connor’s older brother. Heir presumptive to the throne of Cærwyn.

Lady Siana, his Meïnir wife.

Declan Morehl, steward of Helygen. Younger brother of Lady Seren.

High King Alric Gwalchgwyn II – High king, seated in Cærwyn, to whom Gweliwch and Helygen hold their fealty.

Gruffudd Barciau, Cærwynian ealdorman.

Gawain, native name: Dáire Máthramail – Half-breed son of the Duke of Gweliwch.

Duke Rodric Gweliwch, his Hume father.

Eithne, his Meïnir mother.

Lady Gwynedd, his stepmother.

  Drustan, Lady Gwynedd’s son, and heir to Gweliwch.

†Kedigor Gweliwch, first Duke of the province of Gweliwch and Gawain’s grandfather.

Ivor, Rodric’s second hand.

Sir Garth, one of the men at Gawain’s command.

Ioan, the youngest at Gawain’s command.

Reverent Father Andras – Religious leader of The One in dweomer , and abbot of Northfeld Abbey.

Elis, a life-long novice in Northfeld Abbey.

Inhabitants of Annwyd

Bronwen of Annwyd – Queen consort of Cærwyn.

King Braith Denorheim of Annwyd, her father.

†Lady Bronwen, her mother.

Owain, Bronwen’s tutor.

Mara – Bronwen’s Ordanian nursemaid and lady in waiting.

Madoc of Annwyd – Bronwen’s younger brother and Heir Apparent to the throne of Annwyd.

Tristram – Steward of Annwyd and Madoc’s trusted advisor.

Caden, Kendric Pahne’s lover.

Merideth, Kendric Pahne’s wife.

Ellen, Servant in Castle Rotham.

SENATE OF ANNWYD

House of the Serpent. Braith Denorheim.

House of the Boar. Culhwch Valifor.

House of the Tower. Grigor Boraste.

House of the Anvil. Einion Malik.

House of the Wheel. Vaughn Garanth.

House of the Scythe. Kendric Pahne.

Mihangel, head of Annwyd’s Senate.

Inhabitants of Arlais

Rhiannon – High Priestess of Arlais.

†Blodueyn, founder of Arlais, Rhiannon’s predecessor.

Cynan – Her bodyguard and servant.

Ceridwen – High-ranking priestess, Rhiannon’s attendant, and Connor and Rhodri’s nursemaid when they were children.

†Mari, Ceridwen’s mother.

Rhys, instructor of the proselytes.

Aife, the mistress of herbal teachings.

Maeve, keeper of the arcanum.

Cairbre – High Priest of Arlais and a Meïnir elder.

Llewelyn, instructor of the proselytes.

Sawyl – Young Hume boy who resides in Arlais.

Duamor of the Gabraëth Mountains

Heid Ivatholl – Daughter of the Duamor King, appointed steward.

King Gorbran Ivatholl of the Gabraëth Moutains, her father.

Frar Dareid Ginnar Horbori XXIV – Merchant and former noble.

†Frar Dareid Ginnar Horbori I – Duamor King during the Amaeth Age and Signatory of the Atgyweiriedig Dirio, Repaired Land, treaty with Rhiannon.

I

Connor trembled as he woke from a deep sleep. He remembered the sensation of falling, and a fierce pounding in his chest wracked through him. He kept his eyes shut, breathing in the comforting scent of burnt tallow that still hung in the air like a lullaby as his heart slowed. Sleep crept closer, only to be frightened away by the shouts of men in the courtyard. He rolled over from the window and burrowed beneath the pillows. But still, the clamor came.

A shrill scream cut through the air. And another.

He threw the blankets to the side and sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, seeing that it was not yet daybreak.

The screams grew louder. But these, he knew, were not the sounds of festivities.

He ran to the window; his fingers trembled as he pulled back the tapestry. When he looked down upon the courtyard, he collapsed against the sill.

A deluge of arrows rained upon the scattered crowd. Bodies lay in piles. Husbands protecting wives, mothers protecting children‌—‌all in vain. Noble blood caked in the dirt and stained the grass. People scrambled throughout the yard, but the assailants eluded their sight.

He tore himself away from the window. Not bothering to dress in anything more than his nightclothes, he dashed into the hall.

The terrified frenzy from outside echoed down the inner castle corridors. He ran by the bank of windows that faced the courtyard. The sound of biting steel clashed together and joined the chorus of screams. He skidded to a halt and braced himself as he looked out at the slaughter.

The archers moved quickly, but Connor caught a glimpse of the sigil they donned: the mark of the Féinmhuinín.

They planned this all along! he said through gritted teeth.

Some slithered across the tops of the wall and shot at will. Others descended onto the courtyard, dual blades in hand, and fell upon the guests.

Connor felt his stomach tighten as an attacker leapt onto a nobleman, skewering him through the abdomen with one blade and slicing through his neck with the other. Blood sprayed forth as the man collapsed in a bloody heap. Ealdorman Amaetha. Connor recognized the kind old man who frequented the castle.

A small group of men tried to raise the portcullis with brute strength alone. Two women ran across the courtyard in the group’s direction, followed by one of the insurgents.

Connor could not bear to watch, and turned away. But he heard the screaming gurgle as the first woman was run through. Her death cry filled his head, and he cried out, unable to contain his emotions.

He felt a hand on his arm, and his throat clenched shut. As he crashed to the floor, he tore at his assailant’s flesh with dull nails, attempting to wriggle away from the tight grip.

Connor! Connor, it is me!

Recognizing the voice, Connor stopped struggling. He squinted. In the dim light from the windows, he could barely make out the face. Gawain?

His new friend, who was visiting the castle for the first time, pointed up to the arrow protruding from the door. The arrow that would have struck Connor, had he remained where he was.

Gawain held out his hand and pulled Connor to his feet behind the safety of the stone wall.

What happened? Connor asked, his back against the wall.

Gawain shook his head. I only woke when I heard the commotion.

I need to find my uncle. He looked down the hall, both directions. And Rhodri.

I must reach my father.

He saw the worry on Gawain’s face. Go. Find your father. I will be all right.

Gawain stared at him for a moment. No. I will help you find your brother and the high king. It would not be proper for the son of Duke Gweliwch not to fight for his king’s protection.

The dormitories are this way, he said as he led Gawain down the hall toward the spiral stairs.

Wait. Gawain pulled at his shoulder, whispering. Listen.

Connor looked toward the stairs. He heard the slow creaking of the wooden door below.

Back! Gawain snagged Connor’s sleeve as the door exploded in a flurry of splinters. Their legs tangled, and they tumbled against the wall. Boots thundered up the stairs. Gawain pushed him back, drawing his sword. Run!

Connor spun on his heel. His fingers clawed at the wall. He dashed down the corridor toward his uncle’s quarters until he reached the top of the central staircase.

More rushing footsteps. More screaming.

Connor skidded to a halt. He staggered backward, side-stepped and clung to the wall until the noises died away. He needed something‌—‌anything!

Two guards lay dead on the stairs nearby. One still clutched his sword. Connor slid to his knees beside him. He quietly pried the sword from the armsman’s hand, but when he strained to lift it, the tip of the blade scraped against the stairs. The sound was anything but quiet.

Connor held his breath, his lungs burning.

A man wearing the white marks of the Féinmhuinín slid into view, leather boots scraping against the floorboards. His lips twisted into a gaping, yellow smile.

Connor’s heart throbbed in his ears.

The man drew a knife from his belt and lurched forward.

Connor lifted the sword into the air, but toppled to the side under its weight. When the man lunged, Connor brought down the sword, losing his grip when the riser smashed into the side of his attacker’s head. The man tumbled down the stairs. He twitched only once as blood poured from his scalp.

Connor’s stomach churned. He bent over and heaved, coughing up slurry, splashing it onto the stone floor. His abdomen still contracting, he looked to the bottom of the stairs to see his attacker crawling away.

As he straightened, he felt a sharp sting in his shoulder. He heard his name called out. Then, only darkness.

I I

Ceridwen ran toward Connor, tripping over her own feet. She skidded onto her hands, dazed. Palms burning, she clawed her way to him.

Connor! Can you hear me? She lifted his head onto her lap.

He was unconscious.

The arrow jutted out of his shoulder, buried almost to the fletching. Blood had already seeped through his linen night tunic.

She felt around under his back until she hit a small, sharp point. It had not gone completely through.

Goddess, help me.

She struggled to lift him. The strength in her arms waned, but she dragged him away from the staircase to the opposing wall. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she wrapped a trembling hand around the drenched feathers and snapped the shaft, throwing the fletching to the side.

I am sorry, little one. With all her strength she bore down on the arrow, pushing the remainder of the head through his shoulder.

Still unconscious, Connor let out a whimper.

Again, she felt beneath him. She pushed once more on the shaft until she could wrap her forefinger and thumb around the arrow’s spine. What was that? She jerked the remnants from Connor’s body, and stared slack-jawed. A sharp spike of ice shot through her core and she dropped the arrow to the floor.

A felltithe.

You will not die this day, she said, straining to pull him up.

Footsteps approached from behind, and her grip tightened until she heard Rhodri’s familiar voice.

Help me, she said. I cannot carry him.

He and his wife Siana bound up the stairs. With little effort, Rhodri hoisted his brother from the floor as a loud skirmish erupted below.

Duke Helygen! an armsman called from the base of the stairs. The assailants have retreated!

And my uncle?

The high king is safe!

Gods be praised.

* * *

Through fogged vision, Connor glanced across the room. For a moment, he thought he could hear the sound of his mother humming. There, seated in front of the fire, he saw her, a haloed silhouette of flowers woven into her hair. Immediately, the scent of lilacs filled his nostrils. He was sure he had died and joined his parents in the halls of his ancestors. He tried to call out to her, but his voice would not obey.

Try not to talk, she said.

Squinting to clear his view, he felt a sharp pain shoot from the corners of his eyes to his temples. The visage of his mother faded. He saw Ceridwen for the first time. Without warning, he found himself overtaken by memories of the first time he met her.

She had arrived at the castle weeks after Connor and his brother arrived, when the sting of their parents’ death was still fresh. She had been given the task of nursemaid at Uncle Alric’s behest.

This is Ceridwen, his uncle told him matter-of-factly.

Connor clung to his uncle’s robes, peeking out at the woman before them. Dressed in a simple green dress with a small leather satchel over her shoulder, she loomed over him.

Come now, Connor. Alric gently pushed him forward. Ceridwen is to be your new nursemaid.

She set her satchel onto the floor and knelt down to meet Connor at eye level. I have something for you. She held out her hand. Would you like to see?

Connor hesitated, but took her hand, surprised to find it so warm.

Just outside the castle gates, a group of attendants waited atop horses.

May I have him now, Rhys? Ceridwen let go of Connor’s hand and reached out toward one of the women riders. The woman pulled back her cloak and revealed a small creature on her lap.

I brought you a new friend. She cradled the creature in her arms before kneeling to Connor once more. His name is Víðófnir.

It would be some time before he realized how special the gift was.

Cer‌— A coughing fit interrupted him, and an excruciating pain sprung from his shoulder across his chest.

Ceridwen stared into the smoldering embers in the hearth. With trembling hands, she pounded a comfrey poultice in a mortar. Thunder crackled as she scraped it into a bowl. She accidentally dropped the poultice into her lap.

Damn these autumn storms! She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I am coming, Connor.

While he waited, he watched Siana dab a tincture, rosemary from the look of it, onto Rhodri’s arm.

His brother winced, waving her away. I wish you would stop prattling.

The cut is shallow, she said. If you would but still yourself, I would be finished. She proceeded to apply a salve, lavender, and comfrey rendered in lard, and wrapped a linen strip around his upper arm, securing it with a knot.

Rhodri stood and pulled his tunic back over his head, paying no attention to the rough wool catching on his hair as he stretched the opening over his head.

Ceridwen took out a ladle from the cauldron atop the embers. She poured some of the liquid into a copper cup and handed it to Rhodri.

Here, brother. Rhodri slipped his hand under Connor’s head and lifted it from the pillow. Drink. You will need it.

Connor cringed as he choked down the drink. He thought it would be a tea, but his tongue met with mead steeped with bitter herbs.

Ceridwen turned her attention to Siana. You remember your training, do you not?

Yes, my Lady.

You should avert your eyes, ladywife. It is no sight for a woman.

You forget, husband, I would have been trained as a healer had I not left Arlais before taking vows. I have no fear for the sight of wounds.

Rhodri pulled the skins back from Connor.

Any shame Connor felt at being seen naked was soon replaced with fear.

Ceridwen’s lip curled. He followed her gaze down to his chest. Dark purple striations spread outward from the festering gash on his shoulder.

Ceridwen swallowed, hard. Hold him.

With quivering hand, she drew a knife from the embers, its blade white hot. She walked to Connor’s bedside and pressed the searing blade into the gash as fast as she could manage.

An awful sound emerged from Connor’s lips. A sound which he had never uttered before. It was neither Hume nor beast.

Quickly now, Siana. Ceridwen pulled the knife away, stifling a cry.

Siana slathered a greasy concoction of herbs onto the wound. She then proceeded to tightly wrap his shoulder and chest in linen bandages with Rhodri’s aid.

Ceridwen threw the knife into a pail of water, where it crackled and hissed. She went to the window, heaved air into her nostrils, tears swelling. If he lives throughout the night‌—

She cut off her sentence, looking back at Connor. He knew she never would have said it had she known he could hear her. But before she could continue, Rhodri spoke up.

Ceridwen, the wound is surely not that vicious.

She motioned Rhodri over to her. Keeping her voice low, assuming Connor could not hear her, she explained. It was no mere arrow that pierced him, Rhodri. It was one of the felltithe…‌the cursed arrows of the Féinmhuinín.

My Lady?

I had my suspicions when I removed the arrow. It was not until I was able to look upon the wound that I knew for certain.

Rhodri punched the doorjamb, his knuckles cracking. So, it was all useless. He will die anyway.

It is not so simple. She kept her eyes off Rhodri and on the grounds below.

Connor saw her cringe. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. It was still night, but he had no way to be certain it was the same night as the attack.

The Féinmhuinín no longer have much power. What little they have left has been corrupted by their avarice. Thus came the development of these arrows. Ceridwen took a deep breath as she looked over to Connor. It is a unique poison which courses through his veins, manufactured by the Féinmhuinín to reclaim Dweömer by using the very Humes from which their hatred stems.

You speak in riddles. Rhodri’s jaw muscles tensed.

Slowly, he will feel the poison’s effects. Though, how long it will take, only the Goddess can know. And when the end comes, his body will become part of Dweömer.

What do you mean ‘become part of Dweömer’?

Ceridwen frowned. I do not know the specifics. It is an ancient curse with a specific purpose: to rid Dweömer of Humes. The only one I think I could ask on the matter would be Rhiannon.

The high priestess? Siana asked.

Ceridwen nodded.

Rhodri’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes watery. I do not understand how something can be so powerful. It is ludicrous.

Connor could not recall the last time he saw his brother display such emotion. It was unfitting someone in his station, to be certain. He would have found it comforting to know his brother cared so much if the realization of the seriousness which must be the cause for such emotion did not lurk to the forefront of his mind.

I have heard the cries of the forest spirits, screaming out as Humes trampled upon their home. There are powerful magicks at work in this world. Did you learn nothing in the years I was your nursemaid?

Would it not be best‌— Siana cleared her throat. Lady Ceridwen, would it not be more merciful to end his life now, while he slumbers?

Connor tried to cry out, but the spiced mead was having its intended effect. He felt himself slipping closer into sleep, and he did not retain the strength to object.

You cannot! Rhodri clenched his fists. You cannot kill‌—‌!

Be silent, Rhodri. Ceridwen called on her training and spoke with the authority of a priestess: simultaneously stern and compassionate. There will be no need for that, Siana.

Connor knew Ceridwen did not have the strength to carry out such a task. Even with the knowledge it would be an act of mercy.

Though she had not been his nursemaid in some time, instead taking the place of his tutor, he wanted nothing more than to be cradled in her arms like when he was a child. Even with the amount of pain burning in his chest, he would not mind.

Ceridwen glanced at Connor. We do not even know if the taint of the curse has touched him.

He may be all right? Rhodri asked.

She took a deep breath. We will not know for certain for several days‌—‌there are signs.

Connor could no longer discern their words. He felt himself falling from the room, and his pain dulled. Before he could struggle against it, he was fast asleep.

I I I

Connor stared down at the waves crashing against the rocks below the castle’s southern wall. The fog rolled forth across the craggy beach from the waters of the Fawrion Ocean, appearing black in the fading light.

Feeling a dull dryness in his throat, he coughed several times. Immediately, he regretted it when his chest burned. With the heel of his palm, he rubbed the pulsing pain just under his left shoulder. Through his tunic, he felt the dampness of his wound leaking through the linen bandages around his chest.

The rumbling sound of a horn drew his attention.

And so it begins, he said, letting out a deep, lingering sigh.

Turning from the waves, he looked toward the portcullis. Even from such distance, he could hear it creaking and groaning as it lurched upward.

I thought that was you, called Rhodri, walking toward him along the pathway. I saw you from the courtyard. What are you doing up here?

Connor kept his gaze on the portcullis. I wanted some time to think. Between you, Ceridwen, and Uncle Alric, I have not been able to escape outside in some time.

Well, you need to take it easy. You did almost die. Rhodri managed a smile as he slapped him on the shoulder.

As you all keep reminding me. Connor frowned, slapping his brother on the shoulder with far more strength than he knew he should.

Look. Rhodri motioned toward the portcullis. King Denorheim’s party has arrived for the clansmeet.

Bannermen carrying the lush amethyst flags of Annwyd’s royal house marched through the main gates into the torchlight courtyard below. Following the short procession of bannermen, fully armored armsmen escorted the central figure, King Braith Denorheim.

Beside the king, a young girl with flaxen hair rode on a silver mare. Her small frame and delicate features looked weighed down by the white linen dress she wore. The gold band upon her brow betrayed her status. She was Braith’s daughter, though Connor could not recall her name. She had never been to Cærwyn.

Are they the last to arrive?

Rhodri nodded. To keep up appearances. Despite only having to travel a short distance, he still arrived last.

Then the Duamor king arrived?

He sent his daughter in his stead.

Connor took a shallow breath, afraid of the pain in his chest. Do you think it was a mistake?

Sending his daughter? No, I hear she is a learned diplomat, though a bit rough.

Connor shook his head. Not that‌—‌the attack.

How would‌—

This is the first clansmeet in over ten years. Everyone knows about it, right?

Of course.

Then, why would they attack the castle when the only people to have arrived were Duke Gweliwch’s party and yours? Why not wait until the Arlaïns got here, or King Denorheim?

But to call the attack a mistake would be foolish. It was well thought out. To wage an assault so large would have to be planned for some time. The castle is almost impenetrable.

Connor shivered as he looked down.

You should go inside, said his brother. It is too cold out here for you.

It is not that.

What is it then?

The crowds. Connor pulled his cloak around himself as wind gusted from the cliffs below the castle. He gazed down at the ravelment already gathering in the courtyard. It is a strange sight.

Yes. Rhodri crossed his arms and rested his elbows on the stone. Even on the market days, Cærwyn never bustled with foreigners of this count.

You are a foreigner now too, you realize, Duke Helygen. Connor snickered and feigned a grandiose bow.

I wish you would not do that. Rhodri swatted him on the head.

Castle Cærwyn had been home to Connor for over ten years now, since the plague in his home province of Helygen claimed the lives of his parents, the duke and duchess. This left the title of Duke to his older brother, Rhodri, and Connor with the title of Duke Apparent. It was clear to him from an early age that, as the youngest, he would never have the political power of his brother. His father lamented the circumstances, having two sons to love, but there had never been a statute for two dukes to have leadership of a province.

Look. Connor nodded in the direction of the square. Uncle Alric has already left. Do you need to attend the clansmeet soon? It is sunset, after all.

Rhodri turned to the ebbing sun. Yes, I suppose I should.

Connor sighed, frowning at the door of the castle. I am a noble, why am I not to attend?

Do not worry yourself so, you would not enjoy it. It will be a long and tedious evening of politics.

I suppose.

Rhodri nudged Connor on the shoulder. We will have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves. You must tell me what has happened since we last saw one another.

Connor noted his brother’s proper bearing as he walked away as the golden thread of the ram sigil on his cloak caught the light from the braziers. He knew he could never be duke. Far too much responsibility.

Now in his fifteenth year, Connor hardly remembered his parents. He looked upon his uncle, the high king, as his father now, and he was as doted on as any royal son. High King Alric II of the house of Gwalchgwyn gave him lavish gifts. A stable full of stallions was his gift the year prior. This year, he had been given a full suit of armor and a sword fit for a king, or a rather wealthy ealdorman. Alric also had several of the rarer herbs from the north brought to the castle to form a garden at the foot of the eastern window of Connor’s quarters. The sweet scent of the herbs wafted in through the window in the summer’s breeze, and was what Connor remembered with such fondness from his first years at Castle Cærwyn.

But now such a close relationship caused Connor much pain. His uncle no longer retained the healthy vibrancy of the man he once knew. He grew far thinner, wizened from years upon the throne, and there seemed to be such a tremble in his voice. But only Connor had noticed. When confronted, his uncle simply smiled and assured Connor no malady ailed him. So Connor decided to discuss it no further, neither with him nor with others.

Chilled, he wrapped his thick cloak of Helygen wool tighter.

Below, waves crashed against the cliffs. Connor licked his lips. He had been staring out at the sea for so long, he failed to notice the salt spray had dried his mouth. He ran his finger over one of the parapet stones and lifted salt residue, rubbing it between his fingers. With a heavy sigh, he turned from the waves and