Quickly, he reaches a decision. “Wait here. I’m going to get someone, possibly the only other person here who knows who you truly are.”
“Where am I going?” she answers wryly, “I can’t even stand long enough to get to the door.”
He makes his way through the back corridors to Gethin’s office. Poking his head in, he finds Gethin writing some letters.
“Come on, old man,” he says with a sigh, “that girl needs you. She’s at a loss for words, and I think you’re the only one here who speaks her language.”
“That,” Gethin agrees, “is most likely the case.” Ember returns to Emlyn’s room and knocks.
Gethin asks politely in Cymry if she is decent and they can enter, “Ydych chi wedi gwisgo? A gawn ni ddod i mewn i siarad a chi? (Are you dressed? May we come in to speak with you?)”
After a moment, she answers him back, “Ydy, mae popeth yn iawn. Dewch i mewn os gwelwch yn dda. (Yes, everything is fine. Please come in.)”
Continuing in Cymry, Gethin asks her, “Who were your parents?”
“Terwin ferch Melfyn ap Ardan and Nerys ferch Ifor ap Labraid,” Emlyn replies with a sniffle.
“That makes you Emlyn ferch Terwyn ap Melfyn, does it not? Where are your parents now, child? Surely, they are worried about you,” Gethin says.
“No,” Emlyn shakes her head, “They are not worried about anything.” “We should send word,” Gethin says.
“To whom will you send word? They are dead. All of them, even the family retainers. They raped my little brothers and sisters. Myfanwy had finally learned to say Emlyn. They skinned one of them. I think it was Gwern, but it was… hard to be certain. They nailed Briallen to the bed and took turns with her while the others played cards. When they got bored, they set the bed on fire. They broke little Lefi’s jaw to make it easier to… to…for them to...”
Words fail Emlyn, and she looks at Gethin helplessly for a moment. “My former comrades did this to my family on Rigan’s orders,” Emlyn seethes. Ember sees Gethin go pale and shoves a chair under his old friend, who sits down rather hard. Swallowing hard, Emlyn continues, “We pulled down what was left of the keep on top of all the bodies. It was all the four of us could manage for a burial.”
“Four,” Gethin interrupts her, “I thought that there were more of you.” Shaking her head,
“No, there were only six of us in the end. The rest were unwilling to attempt what Rigan’s edict required. Cian and Neit died trying to fulfill the terms of the edict Rigan issued, so I can’t hold it against them for not wanting to attempt it themselves.”
“Why, child,” Gethin asks, “didn’t you go to the town to get help with burying your family?”
“Because,” Emlyn shrugs, “Penfro was destroyed. Even the chickens and the goats were slaughtered. And it wasn’t just my home either. It was all of our homes, even Cian’s and Neit’s. Dian’s, Midir’s, and Gwladus’s were all the same. Nothing more than leveled and smoking ruins by the time we were able to reach them.”
“How did you get involved in all this?” Gethin asks.
“I was consecrated as a paladin of Rigan before he went mad. Once we realized he had gone mad, there were two groups of us. One group called themselves The Faithful. That group felt like Rigan was a god and was owed our obedience, even if that meant murdering innocents, because surely, as a god, Rigan knows better than a mere mortal.”
“And your group?” Gethin asks.
Grimacing, Emlyn continues, “Originally, they called us the Schismatics. We wanted to force a schism in the priesthood so that the priests would have to stop sending us to “cleanse” the magic users. They had us killing bards, Gethin. Bards… the keepers of the Great Awdls, the lore and law of our people. Once we found out what they’d had us doing, we wanted to force the priests to admit publicly that Rigan had gone mad and to try to fix his madness. We were so close to forcing them to do it when Rigan discovered our civil war. The arguing between The Faithful and Schismatics had devolved into armed conflict. We had been warring amongst ourselves, many died, and this displeased the Mad God greatly. After his ranting, some of us decided that we would do what was necessary to free ourselves from that lunatic of a deity. We followed his edict and removed ourselves from his service. That was when they started calling us Renunciates. The Faithful had meant it as an insult, but once Rigan’s madness became more obvious to everyone, it became a badge of honor for us.”
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Taking a deep breath, Emlyn continues, “The real crowning jewel in his madness was what he did next. He decided that he’d take revenge on our families for our refusal of his oh so kind offer to continue to commit murder in his name. Because we had repudiated him and freed ourselves from his service, whole towns were rendered down into nothing more than blood and ash. Not a single living thing to be found. He wrote his name in their blood, over and over, inside his temples. It’s still enough to make me a bit ill. All the heads piled up on his altars like some obscene offering…”
“That sounds...horrible,” Gethin tells her.
“But not the worst of it,” Emlyn says wanly, “If you have not been home in some time, I would suggest you visit quickly. Even the great cities are ghost towns. Gods above, Gethin! Rigan has killed our people. If I had to guess, in no more than two winters, there will be no more Cymry. We no longer have the numbers to hold our borders. Many of the ancient keeps are now nothing more than ruins. Our victory, such as it is, over Rigan is an empty one. That is the most bitter drink to swallow. All the suffering. All the sacrifice and for what… We still ultimately lose. My only consolation is that he will not be doing that to anyone else.”
“Penfro is gone?” Gethin gasps, “It was a trading hub. Big… Active… One of the largest in Cymry.”
“Almost as if it had never been there,” Emlyn confirms, “If you know where to look, you might find some of the stones. Cape Coch, Abertillery, Draethen, Tredegar, Arthog, Vanor, and dozens of others are just rubble now. Canaston, Penybont, Aberavon, and Ystern are all just faint echoes of themselves. The streets are empty and filled with rubbish.”
Gethin leans back in the chair, pale and shaken.
Still speaking in Cymry, Emlyn waves a hand at Ember, “He doesn’t believe me, but I swear to you that it’s true. Ask your Goddess.” “So, this is why she called you an orphan,” Gethin muses, “Now I begin to understand more of what she revealed to me.”
“There is one other thing… Cian and Neit died before completing the edict, but Dian, Midir, and Gwladus died godless. Do you… Do you think that Morrighu can take them? I would not have them wandering, if it can be helped,” Emlyn pleads, “And if you reach them, can you tell them that I succeeded? That it was not in vain.”
“Lovely girl,” Gethin sighs, “I will ask the Goddess to see what she can do for your… Ah, friends. I take it that these boys were part of the Ban Gwyr offer…”
“No,” Emlyn snorts, “Despite offering enough to dower both Arwydd and Myfanwy, I rejected that bunch of miscreants. The king was unhappy, as it would likely have launched an entirely new Great House for him to contend with. Those boys were always in trouble. I wanted no part of it.”
“But you were alone in the wilderness with your friends for so long,” Gethin probes.
“Now you sound like my father,” Emlyn grouses, “They were honorable with me, always. He complained bitterly the whole time.”
“Wait… How was he able to complain? I thought you said he was dead,” Gethin asks. “He is, but he’s lodged in one of my swords, wherever they have gotten to. My grandfather is in the other one. They advised me to take the Goddess’s offer. I’d very much like to have them back. I’ve been asking for them, but no one seems to know where they are or what might have happened to them. I think they’re afraid I will do myself some harm with them, but that’s all I have left of my family. Can’t I please have them back?”
“I will see what I can do to find them for you,” Gethin says slowly, “I had heard that some of the Houses learned to do this, but I thought it was some silly superstition.”
“Bring me my blades,” Emlyn says, “and I will show you the truth of it. You can speak to them yourself. Otherwise, when I am stronger, I will call them.”
“Now you’re just pulling an old man’s ear,” Gethin chuckles.
“No,” Emlyn says flatly, “I am not. Once I am strong enough to make the call, they will come. I would rather not see anyone get hurt. If I am here, they should be here too. I had them when the Goddess brought me here.”
“Then the healers likely have them,” Gethin says, “and I will ask them.” “I would like to take their counsel before I join this order of paladins. After Benger, I am not so sure that I want to be associated with them.”
Gethin looks at Ember, “What happened with Benger?”
Ember has the grace to palm his face, “He didn’t follow instructions, and he tried to assault her when the mage let them share a dream.”
“He tried,” Emlyn says, “to take liberties with my person. He’s fortunate I didn’t skewer him with his sword. If this is how they behave, I’m not so sure that I want to be part of this order. I want to consult with my father and my grandfather about it.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Ember says wryly, “he’s been atoning for that particular error for the past tenday. I’ll have you know that he came straight to my office to report his error and to express his incredible impression of you. He said that you bested him not once, but twice, both armed and unarmed. He also mentioned that your wardrobe choices contributed to his mistaken impression.”
“Wait,” Gethin jumps in, “Would this be the same wardrobe choice that had your teachers in a bit of a stir? The one that’s designed to flaunt your tattoo, I take it? The traditional harness?”
Emlyn gives him a slight, mischievous smile, “It did seem to get them to move through the material faster.”
Gethin chuckles, “By local standards, it’s highly inappropriate. No wonder Benger mistook you. Ember, you have your hands full with this one.”
Turning back to Emlyn, he asks, “How much of you is tattooed?”
“Up to my shoulders,” Emlyn shrugs, “If any of the princes had been given a say, it would have been higher, but the king refused to allow any of them to make an offer for me, even a land offer. It was very... disappointing for all of us.”
"Why was it disappointing for all of you?" Gethin asks.
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The End of the Cymry: Emlyn confirms that the Great Cities—Penfro, Tredegar, and dozens more—are nothing but rubble and ash. She estimates that within two winters, the Cymry people will be extinct.
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The "Renunciates": We learn that Emlyn and her friends weren't just rebels; they were "Renunciates" who repudiated the mad god Rigan after he ordered them to murder bards and innocents.
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Sword-Bound Spirits: Here’s a bit of dwarven-level craftiness—Emlyn’s father and grandfather aren't just gone; their spirits are "lodged" in her two swords. She’s been pestering the healers to give them back so she can take their counsel.
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The Pact of Four Houses: Before they died, Emlyn and her three friends (Midir, Gwladus, and Neit) made a pact to teach each other the secret combat tricks of their respective Great Houses. Emlyn is now the sole heir to the combined martial knowledge of four of the greatest Cymry lineages.
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Benger’s Blunder: A bit of levity in the gloom. The paladin Benger tried to "take liberties" during a shared dream and got bested twice by a wounded girl. Apparently, her traditional "harness" wardrobe was a bit too much for his human sensibilities
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One "Traditional Harness": (Purely for research purposes, I assure you).
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A Map of Ruined Cities: To mark the places where the "Mad God" wrote his name in blood.
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Two "Chatty" Swords: One for a grumpy father and one for a grandfather who won't stop giving advice.
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What do you think of the journey so far?