Crimson Fire by Holly Taylor Page B

the Emperor still lives, the position can only
    be fi lled by a tournament.”
    “Again, I am fully aware of all this,” Havgan replied smoothly. “You can’t think to—”
    “To what?”
    “To harm Prince Athelric?”
    “Sigerric, even if I wanted to, how could I do this? He is guarded day and night. I would never be able to harm him.”
    “But you would, if you could.”
    Havgan halted his horse and turned to Sigerric. “Put your mind at ease, Sigerric, for surely you know that God himself is with me. Should something happen to Athelric, you could be sure that it was the will of Lytir.”
    Havgan turned away, leaving Sigerric unable to move from the sickening feeling in his stomach. It was not the fi rst time he
    wondered if Havgan had confused his own will with the will of God. And it would not be the last.

    W HEN H AVGAN RETURNED to his house, he was greeted with the news that he had a visitor. His steward informed him that he had put the man—a Master-wyrce-jaga, no less—to wait in Havgan’s private chambers and had seen to it that he was well fed.
    “His name?” Havgan asked as he dismounted his horse, giving no hint that the presence of a wyrce-jaga fi lled him with unnamable fear.
    “Sledda of Cantware. He says he is known to you—that he is the nephew of your former lord, Eorl Wiglaf.”
    “Ah,” Havgan said. “Yes, I know of him. Very well, take me to him.”
    Havgan’s three-storied house was richly appointed. The sloping timber roof glittered in the light of the torches that lined the central courtyard. Inside the house, the walls were white- washed and covered with fi ne tapestries. Costly rugs adorned the smooth, wood fl oors throughout. At last the steward stood before the door to Havgan’s chambers and opened it.
    Havgan’s room was large and airy. Huge windows set into the north wall looked out over the city that now glittered with fi relight and moonlight. A large four-poster bed was set against the west wall and was dressed with a fi ne wool spread. The highly polished fl oor was covered with soft rugs of dark blue. A large fi replace and hearth took up the east wall. Tapestries of battle scenes depicted in red and amber and fantastic forests of gold and green studded the walls except for the south wall, which was covered with a huge map of Kymru. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, with two golden goblets and a
    fl agon chased with rubies resting upon it.
    At Havgan’s entrance, Sledda rose from the table, setting down his goblet carefully. The wyrce-jaga looked much as Hav- gan had remembered him from years ago. His tonsured blond hair was, perhaps, a little scantier. His features were sharp, giv- ing him the look of a cunning weasel. His pale, gray eyes were heavily lidded, shutters over the windows of a soul most had no desire to explore further. He wore the customary black robe of the wyrce-jaga. He had a green tabard over the robe, pro- claiming him to be a Master-wyrce-jaga now. Havgan’s brow rose at that.
    Sledda, correctly interpreting Havgan’s expression, spoke. “I am the Master-wyrce-jaga of Ivelas.”
    “A very recent promotion, or I would have heard of it.” “Very recent, indeed. Just this afternoon, in fact.” “Which would explain your presence in Athelin.” “Not entirely.”
    Sledda looked at the steward who waited in the doorway for Havgan’s orders. Havgan dismissed the man, saying that he would call if anything were needed.
    “I saw you in the tournament today,” Sledda said, as he again sat down at the table. “You and your men fought well.”
    “My men always fi ght well.”
    “Indeed. You are to fi ght the Eorl’s champion tomorrow. I have little doubt that you will win.”
    “Because you are sure of my prowess?” Havgan asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
    “Because I am sure of our God,” Sledda answered. He gestured to the map of Kymru. “Because I know the task Lytir has given you. To complete that task, how could