Cry of Sorrow by Holly Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

heaviness, a gloom hung over it. Never, she knew, would the city shine again until her brother came back in triumph to claim his own.
    Nervously, she touched the leather strip around her neck from which her brother’s ring hung, hidden beneath her plain, linen smock. She had taken the ring (she would not say
stolen)
from her brother’s hand as he had slept a deep, unnatural sleep—the result of the valerian-laced wine she had given him.
    She was dressed plainly, like a servant girl, for that was the part she needed to play. Her kirtle was of dull brown, and she had wrapped her telltale red-gold hair with a plain linen band. She felt awkward in these clothes and hoped that the woman back at the camp from whom she had taken them (she would not say
stolen)
had not been too attached to them.
    They would not follow her, she knew, for she had chosen her time wisely. With the prospect of a band of wyrce-jaga to kill, Owein would not have split his warriors to send some after her. And she had been careful, as she had moved through the forest, knowing the places where the Dewin and Bards were set.
    It was so strange to be here on the road in the full light of day. The faces of the people around her were pinched with hunger. Even those who looked better-fed showed another kind of want, as though remembering the days when King Urien and Queen Ellirri held the city and the land was fair.
    What she saw as she continued through the gate and up the road toward the marketplace nearly made her weep with rage. In that moment, if she had seen Morcant, she would certainly have killed him and never mind what would have happened to her after. For Nemed Draenenwen, the grove of hawthorn trees, the sacred grove where she and her family and the people of Rheged had celebrated the festivals, the grove where the white petals had shone in spring and the red berries had dripped like fire in autumn, was no more.
    Every last tree had been cut down. And in its place a temple now stood, consecrated to Lytir, the god of the Coranians. They had built it on this sacred ground, and it was a wonder to her that the Great Mother had not vomited up the temple, spewing it into the air, to be laced with fire, and blown away as ashes in the wind.
    One day, she told herself fiercely, her blue eyes sharp and cold, one day the temple would be destroyed. And the grove replanted, and hawthorn would again flower in the city of Llwynarth.
    But today was not the day. So she blinked back her tears of helpless fury and continued on to the marketplace. Compared to days gone by, the market was quiet. Of food there was little, for it was early spring and the harvest last autumn—and the autumn before that—had been poor and meager. But there were other wares there, and she made her way straight to the nearest weaver’s booth.
    “Fine cloth, my girl, for your mistress?” the proprietor said in a tone that was meant to be cheerful but was forced and tight. “I have cloth made in Tegeingl itself, from Gwynedd. The finest cloth in all of Kymru.”
    “They still weave in Tegeingl, do they?” she asked absently, her mind still on the destruction of the grove. “I suppose they must keep themselves busy while they wait.”
    The proprietor paled a little at her words. Then he spoke so softly that only she could hear. “Be careful, girl. We all wait, but we none of us speak of it.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. What a fool she had been already, and she had just arrived. How little skill she had for intrigue. Too much time in the forest, she thought wildly, among those where she did not have to watch her words.
    “Don’t be sorry lass. Be careful.” He then raised his voice in a normal tone. “You seek fine cloth for your mistress, do you?”
    “For my master,” she said. “He wants something in silver, perhaps. Or sea green.” These were the colors of the Dewin, and she needed a reason to see Bledri.
    “Something for your mistress would be better,” the man