As the day wore on she felt a tension growing in her gut. There was something she must do.
Evnis must surely know Pendathran had escaped by now. He would scour the tunnels searching for him, but he would not risk baying hounds during the day — Pendathran was clearly a closely guarded secret, one that King Owain knew nothing about, and Evnis was not fool enough to draw attention with a full hunt in broad daylight. He would not risk his hounds beyond the tunnels until nightfall, surely. That meant Cywen had some time to do what was necessary. She steeled herself, then set about the task.
The sun was sinking towards the ocean when she left her home, her bag slung over her back. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that someone would be shadowing her, and made her way to the stables.
Once there she slipped inside an empty stall. Quickly, she tied her hair back tight to her head, stuffed straw inside her tunic until it was near bursting, then drew a cloak from her bag, pulling the hood up. She emptied the contents of her bag into a saddlebag. Finally she shouldered a saddle and tack as well as the saddlebag. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the stables and walked purposefully across the yard. She noticed Conall leaning beside a water barrel, eyes fixed on the stable door. She smiled as she walked away from him into the streets of the fortress.
As soon as she was out of sight she dumped the saddle and tack, heading with speed towards her quarry: Evnis’ tower. She paused, stepped into deep shadows caused by the sinking sun, then made her way furtively along Evnis’ wall. When she judged she was in the right place she stopped, testing the mortar between the wall’s stones with a finger. It was soft and crumbling, succumbing to years of salt in the air. She looked about once more, the street empty, silent, then drew two of her knives, stabbed them into gaps in the stone and began hauling herself up the wall. Dath had taught her how to do this — if he couldn’t climb a wall, then it couldn’t be climbed, though she’d never tell him that.
When she reached the top she wriggled forwards, hooked one arm over the wall, and smiled grimly to herself. A low-roofed building stretched before her. Evnis’ kennels. She unslung her saddlebag, undoing the buckle with her teeth and spare hand.
A hound walked out of the kennel, tall and scar-eared. It stretched and sniffed, its head snapping round, catching her scent. Then it saw her and let out a great, baying howl. Other dogs flowed from the kennel, began barking and jumping at the wall. Panicking now, she emptied the contents of the saddlebag, lumps of meat showering the area. The dogs immediately began to wolf them down, snapping and snarling at one another.
A voice called out; a blond-haired figure appeared — Rafe.
Cywen ducked from view, half slid, half fell from the wall, then sprinted into the shadows. She wiped tears from her eyes. Evnis’ hounds would not be hunting Pendathran tonight.
Cywen led the stallion through the tree-lined path into the Rowan Field. She had tried not to bring him, had used every excuse besides actually making him lame, but Drust had stepped in, examined Shield himself and declared him fit for use. He had looked at Cywen suspiciously, so she had ceased any more protests, knowing that Drust could stop her working in the stables if he wished.
He was waiting for her, in the Field. He strode over, smiling at Shield.
‘He’s a fine animal,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Shield. He ran a hand down a foreleg, lifted it to examine the hoof. ‘See, I told you, girl, there’s nothing wrong with him.’
‘I was mistaken,’ Cywen muttered, handing him the reins.
‘That you were,’ Drust said, swinging into the saddle. ‘Best not get too attached to this one,’ he said, pulling Shield in a tight circle, ‘he’s a warhorse, if ever I saw one. Was made for battle.’ He kicked his heels and Shield leaped away with a spray of turf.
Cywen watched as Drust urged Shield into a gallop, charging at the straw targets at the far end of the Field. With a battle-cry he left his spear quivering in one of them.
She skirted the edge of the Field, making for the outer wall that ringed the whole fortress. It was early but the sun was already hot, spring sliding steadily into summer. As she passed the weapons court she caught a glimpse of Rafe sparring. He was fighting an older, heavier man and seemed to be holding his own. Even as she watched, he swung a hard blow that whistled through his opponent’s defence, cracking him on the shoulder.
She felt a pang of guilt at seeing Rafe, her thoughts turning instantly to the hounds that she had poisoned. Most had died, only a couple surviving, though they were still weak and emaciated two ten-nights later. Cywen was surprised any had lived — she had mixed a concoction that her da used to give his whelping bitches, both as a painkiller and a sedative, though she had made it ten times as potent as her da had.
Rafe was walking towards her from the weapons court. He had a slight limp, a reminder of the wound her brother had given him on the night Dun Carreg had fallen.
‘No girls on the Field,’ Rafe said to her as he drew near.
She ignored him and strode on, passing a huge pen on her path to the wall. A horrible smell came from it — rotting flesh and something worse. It was where Nathair kept his pet draig. Wide stone steps were hewn into the wall, made for giant strides. She looked back into the draig’s pen as she climbed higher, caught a glimpse of it spilling from the burrow it had dug in the ground. She was sweating when she reached the top of the wall; the breeze up here was fresh and welcome. She leaned on the battlements and looked out beyond the fortress. It felt as if she could see the whole world. To the west the sea was a bright shimmering blanket in the summer sun, the sky and horizon so clear she could almost see the coast of Cambren, a smudge at the edge of her vision. She turned west and south, the river Tarin a bright line twisting through the landscape, through the dark of Baglun Forest. I hope Pendathran still lives, she thought.
King Brenin’s old battlechief had stayed just one night in Dath’s abandoned cottage; Cywen had brought him food and water the night she had poisoned the hounds. He had stayed there the next day, sleeping, then set out the following night. Cywen had told him all that she knew, of Queen Rhin’s invasion of Narvon, the imminent battle looming between her and Owain. Of how rumour said that a resistance against Owain was growing in Ardan, based around the swamps and marshes in the west. That had been enough for Pendathran — he hadn’t told her where he was going, but the look in his eyes had been enough.
‘Come with me,’ he had said. ‘There’s nothing for you here now.’
She had been tempted, but something held her back. Dun Carreg was her home. Buddai would be able to come with her, but not Shield. Who would look after him? I could steal Shield, take him with me. But she’d be followed. She was already being watched by Conall. If her kin were hiding in the west she could end up leading Evnis straight to them. No. Not yet. Best let Pendathran find safety, and maybe I’ll follow.
‘If you see my mam and brother, tell them. .’ she had said, then fell silent. She did not know what to tell them. That she missed them, that she wanted them to come back, what?
‘I will, lass,’ Pendathran had said, cupping her hand in his. ‘And I will not forget what you have done for me.’
Then he had left, slipping into the night. As far as she knew, Evnis had not mounted any large search for him. How could he, under Owain’s nose? He must be raging. She smiled at that thought.
Something caught her eye, a movement to the west, out on the sea. As she watched, it became clearer. Ships, lots of them, sleek and black-sailed, like the one already anchored in the bay. Closer and closer they came, horn blasts rising along the walls of Dun Carreg as they were spotted. Cywen counted ten, twenty ships, more — all sailing into the bay. Banners snapped from the mast of the first ship — a white eagle on a black field. Nathair’s fleet had come.