Authors: Holly Taylor
He bowed his head, staring at the beads, saying the words in his mind.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
“Havgan,” Sigerric said, putting his hand on Havgan’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
But he did not answer. He stared down at the beads and he moved them from hand to hand, the beads now shimmering in the uncertain, dimming light.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
“Havgan,” Penda said desperately, “their Hunt is above us! The men are terrified.”
But Havgan did not answer.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
The beads began to glow brighter. To the east, a wan, golden light appeared on the horizon. From far, far away thunder sounded faintly. Sweat beaded Havgan’s brow. They had told him, once, that they would not come across the sea. But Havgan knew they would come to him.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
The golden light grew, and thunder rumbled. Then lighting split the sky. And suddenly they were there.
Sigerric gasped. “Havgan, what have you done?”
“What I was born to do,” he said calmly.
Overhead the Coranian Wild Hunt massed in the sky above dark Eiodel. In the forefront of the Hunt Wuotan One-Eye sat on his horse. Lighting flashed as he lifted his spear. Next to him Holda, Lady of the Waters, raised her tawny head. Her sea-green eyes glowed brightly and as she sounded her horn thunder cried out, shaking the ground. Behind them dead warriors sat their wraithlike horses, madness in their eyes and weapons in their ghostly hands. White dogs with ruby eyes capered and leapt, ready for battle. And here and there throughout the hunt fierce Valkyries raised their snow-pale heads, waiting for their chance to descend to the battlefield and begin the dreadful harvest of the souls that they craved.
Cariadas turned to
Arthur, a hint of desperation in her silvery eyes, though she kept her voice steady. “Havgan has called his own Wild Hunt. Our Hunt will not tip the scales in our favor now. The boon you asked Aertan and Annwyn for is useless.”
Surprisingly, Arthur smiled. “But that was not what I asked for.”
Motioning for Gwydion and Rhiannon to follow him, he stepped out onto the battlefield, walking toward the Golden Man of Corania, going to meet his destiny.
“Oh, Havgan,” Sigerric
murmured, “oh, my heart’s brother.”
“Oh, my one-time friend,” Penda breathed, “what have you done?”
Havgan turned to his two generals, his amber eyes serene.
“Did you not know? Did you not see? It was Wuotan all along. It was he that raised me from a mere fisherman’s son to be a part of the highest councils in the land. It was he that sent me to Kymru, to find the truth.”
Havgan stepped forward then to meet Arthur. He held his golden head high as Sigerric and Penda followed him. He did not appear to hear Sigerric’s next comment.
“Oh, Havgan,” Siggeric said sadly, “I think it was something else entirely that sent you here.”
T
HEY MET IN THE
center of the battlefield. Unlit torches were set in the ground at regular intervals, ringing the perimeter. Arthur, dressed in silver and black and flanked by Gwydion and Rhiannon, faced Havgan, who glowed in red and gold, Sigerric and Penda beside him.
Gwydion clenched his fists as he stared at Havgan. Overhead the western sky darkened, illuminated only by the silvery light emanating from the Kymric Wild Hunt. The sun narrowed to a fiery crescent as the surrounding sky darkened to violet. To the east the sky was lighter, and the Coranian Wild Hunt glowed with a golden light.
And it was there, in the path of the moon’s shadow, that Gwydion began to understand what he knew he should have seen all along. He had caught glimpses of it before throughout the years, but he had not understood. He began to get the faintest glimmering of what had made him save Havgan’s life in Corania, of what had made him both love and hate his one time blood-brother, of what the battle in his heart had truly meant. For he saw at last, in the coming darkness, as the moon leached away Havgan’s red and gold, what had been hidden from his mind’s eye for so long.
“In Kymric, Havgan means ‘Summershine,'” Arthur said, unexpectedly.
“Son of Uthyr,” Havgan replied, “today you will die.”
“Son of—” Arthur stopped as though he had spoken too soon. “Tell me, what has made you run so long and hard from the truth? Why?”
“I run from the truth no longer. There is magic in me. There always was. And it was Wuotan One-Eye who put it there. He has brought me here, to rule you. Your Hunt is useless. And your army is outnumbered. Bow to me, and you will live.”
“The truth you think you know is false. Still you are running.”
“I see what there is to see.”
“No. If you have magic, where did it come from? If you were drawn here, why? Your answers to those questions are wrong.”
“They are not. The truth is here, in me. The truth is in the eyes of my beloved Arianrod. The truth is in my dreams. The truth is in Cadair Idris, which will be mine before the day is over. That is the truth.”
“You twist the truth. You always have. I would spare you, if I could.”
“I do not want or need your pity, son of Uthyr. You may keep it. Everything else, you will lose.” Havgan turned to Gwydion, his amber eyes gleaming in the violet light. “And you, false blood brother, I will kill you today.”
“Oh, Havgan,” Gwydion said, his throat tight with unshed tears, with unspeakable sorrow, “I beg you—”
“You beg me? You beg me for what? For your life? For the life of the boy beside you? For the life of the woman you love? Beg me, my traitorous blood brother. It will get you nothing, but it will please me.”
But Gwydion did not answer him. Instead he turned his gaze to Sigerric and Penda. “One-time brothers, you have followed Havgan against your hearts, against your wills, against your very souls. Follow him no longer. Be free.”
“Free?” Sigerric asked with a twisted smile. “I am what I am. That is all I will ever be.”
“And you, Penda?” Gwydion pressed. “Is it too late for you?”
Penda gazed not at Gwydion, but at Arthur. The High King’s dark eyes gleamed and his scar whitened briefly as Penda answered. “If I survive this battle I will return to my native Mierce, to my home in the shadow of Mount Badon. And never do battle again.”
Arthur smiled. “I do not think, Penda of Mierce, that will be your fate should you return home.”
“Perhaps not, High King.”
“Enough,” Havgan said quietly. “Arthur ap Uthyr, your business is with me.”
“So it is. ‘Shall this not be a fair day of freedom,’ Havgan?” Arthur asked, quoting from Anieron’s last song. “'Silence will be your portion, and you will taste death.’ You remember those words, don’t you?”
Havgan smiled. “Anieron died by my hand.”
“But was freed from you before he died. Enough, Havgan. Have done. It is time to face the truth.” Arthur turned to the sky, and raised his hand to the Kymric Hunt. Cerridwen and Cerrunnos nodded, and motioned for two figures to detach themselves and ride forward across the sky.
The first figure was a man, with eyes of glowing amber. The second was a woman, with tawny hair. They rode down together, their shadowy horses alighting beside Arthur as Gwydion and Rhiannon stepped back—the woman on Arthur’s right, the man on Arthur’s left.
“Havgan, this is the shade of Brychan ap Cynfan, brother to Gwydion’s father, Awst.”
The man’s handsome face was stern, but there was pity in his amber eyes as he stared at Havgan. Havgan stared back at the man, his expression carefully still, a spark of recognition, swiftly quenched, in his eyes.
“And this,” Arthur went on, gesturing to the woman, “is the ghost of Arianllyn ur Darun. She was sister to Indeg, Rhiannon’s mother.”
The woman’s tawny hair streamed out behind her in the breeze. Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed down at Havgan. Havgan gasped as the women’s hair was lifted by the wind, recognition no longer held at bay.
And now Gwydion fully understood what Arthur had seen in Gwlad Yr Haf. And he knew what Arthur had asked for. Pain stabbed his heart, an ache so fierce he could barely breathe. Rhiannon reached out and took his hand in hers, giving him the strength he needed, as she always had. Strength enough not to look away, as he longed to do, but to fully see what he must see.
Arthur went on, his voice implacable but his dark eyes lustrous with pity. “These two were the parents of Arianrod, your lover.”
As though against his will, Havgan turned briefly to gaze back at Arianrod. She had one hand to her mouth, her other hand on her belly. The woman lifted her hand to Arianrod, despair written on her beautiful features. The man covered his eyes and turned away from the sight of his pregnant daughter.
And as Havgan turned back around to face them, Gwydion saw that he understood, at last.
“When Arianrod was only a very little girl, our Dreamer, Dinaswyn, had a dream,” Arthur said quietly. “The dream told her that Brychan and Arianllyn were to go to Corania. And so they went, leaving their little daughter behind. They arrived in Athelin and stayed there for almost a year, as Dinaswyn had told them to do. Finally, they embarked on a ship to go home. But the ship was caught in a sudden storm. Brychan was drowned when the ship went down. But Arianllyn was not. She barely made it alive to shore. There she made her way to the hut of a fisherman. His name was Hengist. And there she gave birth to a son, named him, then died.”
Havgan went white to the lips. On the dark battlements Arianrod screamed in despair and dropped to her knees, sobbing in anguish and misery, in horror and shame.
Arthur waited a moment, his features struggling with something else. Gwydion saw that Arthur had another thing to say and he was afraid he knew exactly what it was.
“Havgan ap Brychan var Arianllyn,” Arthur said solemnly, “you were born to be the Dreamer of Kymru.”
Havgan swiftly raised his eyes to Gwydion. Golden-amber met silver-gray as the two men stared at each other.
“When the Shining Ones saw that you were to be raised in Corania they sent a new Dreamer to Kymru in your place. Gwydion ap Awst was born soon after you were.”
“This is what you learned in Gwlad Yr Haf?” Gwydion asked Arthur in a strangled voice.
“This is what I learned,” Arthur answered.
“Which is why you would tell us nothing when you came back.”
“Yes.”
“Your Shining Ones are cruel,” Sigerric said, white-faced.
“They do not arrange our fate,” Arthur said. “They merely strengthen us to meet it.”
Havgan turned away from Gwydion and looked again at the ghostly figures of his mother and father.
“My son, my son,” Arianllyn said with tears in her voice.
“What have you done?” Brychan asked, his amber eyes flashing.
“You left me!” Havgan cried out, rage and anguish in his cry. “You left me!”
“We sent for you,” Arianllyn said quietly.
“Time and again,” Brychan said.
“We sent you a dream, a dream of me, looking out to sea to the west,” Arianllyn went on. “So that you would know to go across the sea, to return to Kymru.”
“I sent you to the vallas, who told you that you had what the Coranians would call ‘magic’ inside you,” Brychan went on. “Who warned you against turning away from it.”
“The wyrd-galdra told you what you were,” Arianllyn said. “But you would not listen.”
“He has never listened,” Sigerric whispered. “Never.”
“But he was told,” Brychan said, his voice implacable. “The day you came to Y Ty Dewin and saw Cynan Ardewin on the steps. He recognized you. You saw it in his eyes. So you killed him. But he whispered a word to you before he died, didn’t he? He said, ‘nephew.’ But because you did not want to hear, you did not hear. Because you did not want to know, you did not know.”
“Wasn’t that the real reason you broke Anieron Master Bard’s hands?” Arianllyn said, her voice soft but relentless. “You saw the truth in his eyes and had to ensure he could communicate to no one. And then there was the day you met Dinaswyn the Dreamer. She tried to tell you. But you killed her before she could speak. You would not hear, you would not listen.”
“I am not listening now!” Havgan cried. “You left me all alone! And now look what has been done! Do you know whose child your daughter carries? She carries the child of her brother! She carries my child! You let this happen! I will not listen to you, for you left me!”
“Then there is nothing more to say to you, Havgan ap Brychan var Arianllyn,” Brychan said, “except for this. We will continue to wait for you, as we have waited for so long. Know that if your soul is parted from your body this day, it will not go to Gwlad Yr Haf alone. We will stay, and wait for you, and never leave you alone again.”
“Never again,” Arianllyn said, tears in her voice. “And when the time comes to take your sister home, we will do it together. Neither of you will ever be alone again.”
Arianllyn turned to Eiodel and reached out a hand to Arianrod, in farewell. Brychan also raised his hand in salute to his daughter. Then he and Arianllyn turned to go, riding up back into the darkening, violet sky to rejoin the Hunt.
D
ARKNESS SPREAD IN
the west, rising up above the horizon, showing a strange, yellow twilight beneath. High above, the moon continued to move before the sun, cutting off the sunlight, casting its shadow below. The crescent sun turned silvery white in surrender, as though trying to emulate the moon.
Gwydion, tears streaming down his drawn face, stepped forward. He lifted his hands and called out, his voice strong and sure. “Today Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, champion of Kymru, calls for single combat with Havgan ap Brychan var Arianllyn.”
Havgan’s amber eyes blazed at the name, but he did not challenge it. Nor did he turn to the battlements when Arianrod moaned in anguish. He did not take his amber gaze from Arthur, nor did Arthur take his gaze away from Havgan.