May Earth Rise (21 page)

Neuad, her golden hair flowing over her shoulder, stepped forward and took Myrrdin’s face in her slender hands. “Kiss me, Myrrdin,” she demanded.

His breath caught in his throat. All thoughts of how this was foolish flew from his head as he breathed in the scent of her.

“Don’t argue with me, Myrrdin. And don’t make me beg,” she murmured. “For I am done waiting for you.”

And Myrrdin was done waiting, too. He bent his head and fastened his lips on hers. He drank in her sweetness, her beauty, her freshness, and her love. And when he at last lifted his head it was Neuad that was breathless.

“Oh, my,” Neuad breathed as she clung to him. “Oh, my, my,my.”

Myrrdin smiled down at her. “You told me to have done with waiting. And so I have.”

“You have indeed,” she said, her eyes bright.

Myrrdin lifted his face to the night sky and cast his thought south. Too far away for another mere Dewin to hear him, he knew that Arthur, he who had the strength of all the Dewin of Kymru, would be able to.

It is done, High King. Madoc is dead at the hand of his father. Princess Tangwen is safe and will go to your sister in Cemais.

And Arthur answered, clear and strong. Well done, my teacher. Return to Cadair Idris as soon as you can.

I bring with me another.
Myrrdin’s Mind-Voice was almost hesitant.

She is welcome.

You—you knew?

I knew she would not wait for you forever. Give my best to Neuad ur Hetwin, who has caught her quarry at last.

Arthur’s bright laughter echoed in Myrrdin’s head, mingling with the fading sound of hunting horns overhead in the jeweled night sky.

Sycharth, Kingdom of Ederynion &
Eiodel, Gwytheryn, Kymru
Bedwen Mis, 500

Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening

T
he thin crescent of the waxing moon wavered overhead, obscured by the twisted branches that laced Rhiannon’s view of the darkened sky as she made her way through the forest.

Somewhere deep in these woods just outside of Sycharth an owl hooted. Here and there she heard things scurrying in the thick underbrush, although she herself made very little sound as she homed in on the clearing where the man who held her heart waited.

She had seen him on the Wind-Ride, slumped next to a tiny campfire. She had not been able to see his face, for it was sunk on his breast as though far too heavy for him to hold up. But she had known that it was he. Would she not know him anywhere, at any time? Not by her eyes alone, or her Dewin-Sight, but by her spirit, by the leap in her heat she would know him—now and always.

As she swiftly made her way through the woods she thought on all that had happened in Kymru in just the last seven days. For events were moving quickly, now that Arthur had chosen to set them in motion.

Queen Elen of Ederynion had been rescued and, along with Regan, her Dewin, had been safely brought out of Dinmael. Elen and her brother, Prince Lludd, were together again and making the necessary preparations as directed by Arthur. Prince Rhiwallon of Rheged had also been a member of the party to rescue Elen, and he remained with them. Rhiannon guessed that the Prince had fallen victim to Elen’s unpredictable charm. General Talorcan had chosen to go with the fleeing queen, for love of Regan. And Rhiannon was glad, for she had known Talorcan since she had met him in Corania, and knew him for what he was. For he was what the Kymri called Dewin, what the Coranians called a witch, and his gifts would never have come to full fruition in Corania. Even now Regan and Talorcan were on their way to Cadair Idris, at Arthur’s orders.

In the ensuing melee the two Druids, Ceindrech and Iago, had died, perishing so that the others could escape. Aergol, Ceindrech’s lover, had been devastated at the news, as had the couple’s son, Menw.

In Prydyn, General Penda had secretly allowed Cadell, King Rhoram’s Dewin, to escape Arberth. When Penda discovered that Ellywen, King Rhoram’s Druid had been aiding the Cerddorian, he had her collared and sent to Afalon. But he had carefully ensured that only two guards would accompany her. Thus Rhoram and his captain, Achren, had easily rescued Ellywen soon after she had been escorted out of Arberth.

Penda was another man whom Rhiannon had met while in Corania, and she was glad to see evidence that Penda’s soul had not yet died under his bondage to the Golden Man. She knew that Penda would, perhaps, pay—and pay dearly—for his actions. Although on the surface nothing could be proven against Penda, Havgan would probably guess the truth.

In Rheged, poor Queen Enid had been rescued from her captivity by her brother, Owein, and her former betrothed, Prince Geriant of Prydyn. The party had escaped the city and made their way to Maenor Deilo, where they waited with the rest of Owein’s Cerddorian for Arthur’s next orders. In the process of freeing Elen, General Baldred had been killed by Queen Sanon. Rhiannon still marveled that Sanon had done such a thing, for the young girl she had known before the war would never have done so. And the young woman she had been after the war would not have done so either— for Sanon had been incapacitated by grief for her dead betrothed, and Rhiannon had not thought Sanon would ever recover.

But recover she had, and joined her life with Owein, the man who had loved her for so long.

It remained to be seen what would happen to Enid. For Owein’s sister had been through torture almost unimaginable at the hands of her husband, Morcant Whledig, the false King of Rheged. It was obvious to everyone that Prince Geriant still loved Enid, but it was anyone’s guess what there might be left of the girl he loved.

In Gwynedd, King Madoc was at last dead—at the hands of Rhodri, his own father. Princess Tangwen and Rhodri were even now joining Queen Morrigan in Cemais, accompanied by Bedwyr, Morrigan’s lieutenant. And, in a surprise move, Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, had refused to return to Cemais, insisting on accompanying Myrrdin to Cadair Idris. For Neuad, although half Myrrdin’s age, had been in love with the former Ardewin of Kymru for many years and had simply decided that she would no longer be ignored. Myrrdin had been shocked and upset at first, but was, apparently, quickly getting over the embarrassment he had always professed to feel at Neuad’s obvious feelings for him.

Soon, very soon, Rhiannon thought, as she neared the clearing she sought, Kymru would once again belong to the Kymri. The Y Dawnus held captive on Afalon would be freed. The Archdruid would be brought down and the Druids would again swear their allegiance to Kymru. Havgan would face Arthur in the final battle. And that was a battle Arthur would win, for Havgan would have only the Coranians he had here in Kymru to help him fight. For Arthur had ensured that no word of the need for reinforcements would be sent to Corania. The coasts of Kymru were watched, and all of Havgan’s ships were burned. Arthur would defeat Havgan’s Coranians and send any survivors packing.

Again, but from closer this time, an owl hooted in the dark wood. She saw the glow of a tiny campfire and, still moving silently, made her way toward it. From the fringes of the underbrush she surveyed the clearing.

Gwydion lay on the ground next to the fire, his face hidden as it rested on his outstretched arms. The fire cackled and sang, darting this way and that, illuminating him one moment and cloaking him in shadow the next. Gwydion’s dark cloak was torn and dirty. His tunic and trousers of black were dusty and stained with old blood.

With tears in her eyes, she entered the clearing and knelt by Gwydion’s prone body. She reached out and touched his shoulder, pulling him towards her. He muttered something, then laid still on the cold ground. She put her arms around him and settled his head in her lap, stroking his thick, dark hair. His upturned face, illuminated by the fire, was almost skeletal. Dark circles surrounded his closed, bruised eyelids. Shallow cuts and purple bruises covered his sweat-soaked face. Blisters and reddened, peeling skin surrounded his neck, showing where an enaid-dal had rested. His lips were cracked and blistered. He muttered again, and she cradled his head in her arms, stooping down to kiss his brow.

His eyes opened. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes seemed dark and full of shadows instead of the silvery gaze that she knew so well. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to focus on her face above him.

“Rhiannon,” he whispered. “Rhiannon.”

“Yes, Gwydion. Yes, I am here,” she said softly.

“No,” he rasped. “No. Run, Rhiannon. Run. It’s a trap.”

“Hush,” she murmured. “Hush.”

“No,” he sobbed. “Run. Oh, please, run.”

G
WYDION HAD BEEN
wondering in and out of his dreams for so long, he was no longer sure what was real and what was not. But when he saw Rhiannon’s face hovering above him he understood with horrifying clarity what was about to happen.

He had called her. He had not dreamed that, he now knew. In a drugged haze, in his weakness and confusion, he had Mind-Called to her, had begged her to come to him. Worse yet, he had begged her to come alone.

And she had. Oh, she had. He had thought that the worst had already happened to him. But when he knew that she would be captured, and thought of what they would do to her, he knew that the worst was yet to come.

She must go. She must. But he could not make her understand.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please run.”

“Hush,” she murmured again, stroking his dark, sweat soaked hair. “Hush.”

And then he saw it, though he was almost blinded by the bright light of the fire, by his sickness and grief, by his terror for her. He saw movement behind her, and knew that it was far, far too late.

“Run!” he tried to scream. But it came out only in a despairing whisper.

The sound of an axe rasping as it was drawn from its holder seemed very loud in the silent forest. At the sound Rhiannon half-turned to look behind her.

There stood a Coranian warrior, his axe in his hands. The warrior raised the weapon high in the air. In the moment before the axe began its descent, Gwydion tried to push Rhiannon out of the way. But he was too weak, and too slow. Inexplicably she did not move, waiting unflinching for the axe to strike. He did not understand why she simply sat there, looking up as her death suddenly began to speed toward her.

Her green eyes did not even blink as the sound of steel clashing on steel rang throughout the clearing, as the axe that had been coming for her life was deflected by another bright blade that seemed to appear from nowhere. Yet Rhiannon did not appear to be surprised at all.

The sword shimmered in the light of the fire as though made of fire itself. The hilt was an eagle with eyes of bloodstone and wings of onyx. Emerald, pearl, sapphire, and opal flashed and shone. The hand that gripped the hilt was sinewy and brown, with long, tapering fingers.

Gwydion knew that blade—Caladfwlch, Hard Gash, the sword of the High King. And he knew whose hand gripped that blade, and he sobbed in relief.

For Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine had come. High King Arthur was here and Rhiannon was saved.

Caladfwlch, which had stopped the Coranian warrior’s axe in midair, glittered as Arthur pushed the axe aside and sent the warrior staggering back. At that moment twenty Coranian warriors stepped out from the forest, their axes drawn. And Llwyd Cilcoed, the Dewin who had so enjoyed torturing Gwydion, stepped from the trees, his robe of silver and sea green shimmering, with a smile of anticipation on his face.

But before Gwydion even had time to fear for the lives of these two he loved best, Arthur and Rhiannon, the clearing suddenly seemed full of armed Kymric warriors.

He recognized Queen Elen of Ederynion and her brother, Prince Lludd. He saw Elen’s captain, Angharad, and Talhearn, her Bard. He recognized Emrys, Angharad’s lieutenant, and Alun Cilcoed, the Lord of Arystli, as well as Prince Rhiwallon of Rheged.

Arthur’s blade, indeed the blades of all the Kymri, flashed and sparked as they met the axes of the Coranian warriors. One warrior went down with Queen Elen’s sword in his guts. She smiled as she slowly pulled out the blade, then struck him a second time. In the firelight her white tunic glowed as though sheathed in precious pearls.

Prince Lludd cried out in triumph as another Coranian warrior went down beneath his blade. Angharad ducked beneath the vicious swing of an axe, then pulled her dagger from her boot. She half rose, sinking the dagger in the warrior’s gut, shearing through the protective byrnie.

Alun Cilcoed, a look of determination on his face, waded through the melee, making straight for his brother, Llwyd Cilcoed.

Talhearn, old as he was, actually sank his blade in the back of the neck of a warrior that had been menacing Emrys. Emrys grinned and briefly saluted the Bard as he whirled, sinking his sword in the spine of another warrior. Prince Rhiwallon was laying about him with his blade, bringing warrior after warrior down.

But nothing matched the deadly grace of Arthur and Caladfwlch as man and blade moved through the clearing, meting out justice to the enemies of Kymru. Warrior after warrior faced them and died, falling at Arthur’s feet, blood sinking into the waiting, cold earth.

At last the clearing fell silent. The Kymri—Arthur, Elen, Lludd, Angharad, Talhearn, Emrys, and Rhiwallon halted with their bloody blades in their hands. Alun and Llwyd Cilcoed were nowhere to be seen.

Rhiannon, who had drawn a dagger from her boot and guarded Gwydion as he lay too weak to move, crouched down beside him, helping him to sit up. With a tired sigh he allowed himself to lean on her and her arm tightened around his shoulders.

Two worn, dusty boots intruded on his line of sight as he hung his head, trying to focus. He raised his head carefully, looking up at Arthur, who was looking down at him. Arthur crouched down and laid his hand on Gwydion’s shoulder. He looked at Gwydion for what seemed like a long time in the shifting firelight. The old scar on Arthur’s lean face whitened and faded.

“Uncle,” Arthur said, his mouth twitching in what might have been a smile. “Glad I am to see you again.”

“Nephew,” Gwydion whispered. “I thought Rhiannon—”

“Had come alone,” Arthur finished. He shook his head. “We were behind her the entire time. We did not know if Llywd Cilcoed might be Wind-Riding, and would see us, so we had to remain separate from her and well hidden.”

“I called to her. I—I did not mean to do it. I told her to come alone.”

“But she did not,” Arthur said gently. “She told me all about it after you had Wind-Spoken to her. She knew it was a trap.”

“How?” Gwydion asked, turning his head to look at Rhiannon.

Her beautiful green eyes glistened and she smiled slightly. “I will tell you later, Gwydion. For now—”

“For now,” Alun Cilcoed said as he reentered the clearing with his brother in tow, “we have justice to satisfy.”

Llwyd Cilcoed’s robe was torn and dirty, mute evidence that his brother’s pursuit had been relentless. Propelled across the clearing by his brother, he was brought before Queen Elen. Alun flung Llywd at Elen’s feet then drew his dagger.

“My Queen,” Alun said formally. “I bring you my traitorous brother. I bring you your mother’s former lover, the man who ran away when she was threatened and so could offer her no comfort before she died. I bring you the man who killed a member of your Cerddorian in order to escape from Angharad’s watchful eye. I bring you the man who consorted with Arianrod to capture the Dreamer. I bring you the man who collared the Dreamer, who drugged him and beat him and forced him to play a part in attempting to capture Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. I bring you the man who thought to take them both to the Golden Man, to certain torture and death at his hands.”

Queen Elen, her auburn hair gleaming, her blue eyes cold, looked over at her brother. “Lludd, I understand you would not have Llwyd Cilcoed killed when he was first brought to you.”