Authors: Holly Taylor
“Didn’t what?”
“Forbid me to fight. He didn’t. I’m old enough.”
“Almost sixteen,” Susanna gravely agreed.
“I know what I’m doing. I know how to fight. And I know how to lead a battle. I will not stay behind!”
“No, you will not. He said nothing of that.”
“Susanna! How dare you frighten me!”
“He did give me a message for you.”
“He did? What did he say?”
“That he loves you.”
Morrigan bowed her head so Susanna would not see her tears. But Susanna knew.
“Yes,” the Bard said gently. “He loves you very much.”
“And that was all of the message?” Morrigan asked harshly. For her voice would shake if she did not.
“All that you need to know.”
“He knows about the spy in Tegeingl, then. The one you know about but have told no one. Until you told him.”
“He is the High King,” Susanna said simply.
“And I am your queen. Why, why won’t you tell me who it is? You won’t even tell the Master Bard.”
“Anieron knew. He bade me to tell no one but the High King, should he return to us. And hold that secret safe until it is time.”
“It is as dangerous as that?”
“It is as dangerous as that.”
“Well then,” Morrigan said firmly, but brightly, for there was no malice in her, “we must see to it that the time is soon. For I will take back what is mine before the spring is out.”
“So you will, my Queen. So you will.”
Eiodel, Gwytheryn
H
AVGAN SAT STRAIGHT
and unyielding in his golden chair in the Great Hall. He was dressed in gold and rubies and a circlet of gold held his honey-blond hair back from his grim face. His amber eyes glistened while Gram, the Bana’s sword, lay unsheathed across his knees. The bright blade etched with three boars’ heads glittered, as did the blood-red ruby on the black iron pommel.
His mistress stood to the left of the golden chair. Arianrod wore a kirtle of amber, which lay gently over her swollen belly. Topaz glittered at her ears and slender throat. Her honey-blond hair was held back from her face with a band of amber stones.
Aelfwyn sat on a chair to his right. His wife was dressed in cool white, and her long, blond hair was held back from her face with a band of diamonds. She shimmered in the darkened hall. Her emerald green eyes glittered coldly.
Sigerric stood stiffly to Aelfwyn’s right. He was dressed in black and emeralds, the black accentuating the pallor of his tight face. His dark eyes drank in the air of the hate-filled hall, and his thin hand clenched the dagger at his emerald-studded belt.
Havgan nodded to the men at the doors, and the wyrce-jaga was led in to them. The man was pitiful in his fear, his black robe making him seem even paler. His hands twisted around a small, silvery, bejeweled box.
“You were the wyrce-jaga at Maen in Prydyn, five months ago,” Havgan began.
“I was,” the man said stiffly.
“What is your name?” Aelfwyn interrupted.
“I am called Hild, Lady, son of Hildas, of Winburnan, in Ivelas.”
“Why do you ask his name?” Havgan demanded of Aelfwyn, his voice low. “It is nothing to me.”
“My father always asked the names of any who came before him. It is what a true ruler would do. You would not know that, of course.”
“Of course,” Havgan said smoothly. “Being only the son of a fisherman.”
“Just so,” Aelfwyn said coldly.
“My dearest wife,” he said with a smile, “it is unwise to be so very, very sure that I will not have you killed.”
“You can’t,” Aelfwyn said flatly. “Not yet. Not while my father lives. You are a fool to try to frighten me.”
He smiled again, a smile to say that she mustn’t be too sure. But she was right. And he knew it. And so did she. He turned back to the wyrce-jaga. “And we entrusted you with the testing tool. The one we captured from Cian, the Bard of Prydyn.”
The wyrce-jaga swallowed hard. “Yes, lord, you did.”
“And yet, since five months ago, this device has caught no witches.”
Havgan did not say what had prompted him to send the wyrce-jaga to Maen with their only testing device in the first place. He would never tell anyone that the prompting that there was something in Maen had come to him in a dream.
“Lord, I have done nothing to the testing device! I swear it. It is only that the witches are too clever, now, to be caught with it. It is only that. I did nothing to it!”
The poor man was getting excited. And Havgan did not want him to do that. Not yet. Not until he told everything. “Of course, wyrce-jaga. Of course that is so.”
Hild relaxed slightly. The fool.
“Tell us, then. When was the last witch you caught?”
“Five months ago,” Hild said promptly. “In Maen. A child. A little boy. I think his parents were shocked. I do not think they knew. We took the boy to Afalon, to join the other captured witches. And we killed the parents, for daring to breed a witch.” Out of the corner of his eye Havgan saw Arianrod’s fist clench. Her knuckles were white. One hand went to her belly. But Havgan could not comfort her now. He did not even want to think too much, now, of what his beloved was. And of what their son would be.
“And the day after that?”
“The day after?” Hild asked.
“Yes, the day after. Did anything unusual happen? Anything at all?”
“Nothing. Just the people going in and out of the city.”
“Did you not see a man with dark hair and gray eyes? And with him a woman with black hair and eyes of green?”
“That describes many of the Kymri. How could I possibly—” The wyrce-jaga fell silent.
“Ah,” Havgan said. “You have remembered something.”
“Just a merchant. And his family. The merchant was in a hurry. Insistent that he and his be tested so they could be on their way. Most Kymri, they hold back. They hate it. But he did not. He seemed to almost be—”
“Looking forward to it.”
Arianrod leaned forward. “Did the device leave your hand at any time? Did that merchant touch you at all?”
The wyrce-jaga’s face stiffened and he did not answer.
“Wyrce-jaga,” Havgan said gently, too gently, “answer the question.”
“I will answer no question put to me by a witch!” Hild cried.
“You will answer any question I wish, Hild,” Havgan purred. “You will tell me anything.”
Sigerric left the dais, drawing his dagger and came to stand behind Hild. “You will answer the question, wyrce-jaga,” Sigerric said softly. “Never mind who asks it.”
Hild broke into a cold sweat and stubbornly held his tongue. But as Sigerric laid the edge of the blade against the wyrce-jaga’s neck, he answered. “Yes! Yes! The merchant, he knocked the device out of my hand!”
“Ah,” Arianrod said softly. “And did he pick it up for you? Bring it back to you?”
“Yes,” Hild sobbed. “Yes, he did.”
“Bring it to me,” Arianrod commanded.
Sigerric took the device from the wyrce-jaga’s shaking hands and returned to the dais, handing it to Arianrod.
She held the box in her left hand, and inserted her right finger into the opening on its side. The amethyst and topaz in the center of the top of the box glowed. But the other stones—the emerald, the opal, the sapphire, and the pearl—did not.
“The pearl should be glowing to indicate that I am Dewin,” Arianrod said to Havgan. “It would, if this were real.”
“Gwydion,” Havgan breathed.
“Yes,” Arianrod agreed. “Many years ago he was there when Arthur, the Prince of Gwynedd, was tested. And the device showed that Arthur had no gifts. But Arthur was, as we know, destined to be High King. The box should have sung for him. But nothing happened.”
“Gwydion had a false box made.”
“Yes. To show the world that Arthur had no gifts. That Arthur could not be important.”
“And kept the device. And switched it, taking the one we had that was real.”
“Yes.”
“So, this fool lost the real device. He let it be taken from him. Right beneath his nose. The only testing device we had.”
“Lord,” Hild began as the tears started to stream down his white face. “Lord, the Dreamer is the cleverest witch of all. He has fooled us all for years and years. It is not my fault if—”
“Hild,” Havgan said gently as he stood up, Gram in his hands. The naked blade flashed as Havgan descended the dais and came to stand before the wyrce-jaga. “Hild, you are not wise to remind us of our failures.”
“Your pardon, Lord,” Hild sobbed. “I, I did not mean—”
“No, I’m sure you did not.”
“Lord, please—”
But the blade flashed through the air to bury itself in the wyrce-jaga’s heart. Gram slid into the man’s chest, effortlessly parting flesh. Hild’s eyes widened as he stiffened in agony. Havgan kicked Hild off the blade and the wyrce-jaga crumpled at his feet. Gram dripped blood and Havgan cleaned the blade with the wyrce-jaga’s robe and then returned to his chair, still holding the unsheathed sword.
Warriors began to carry away Hild’s bloody body, and some knelt down on the flagstones to clean up the blood. Just then a warrior, sweat-slicked and panting, sprinted into the hall and flung himself at Havgan’s feet.
“Lord,” the warrior gasped. “I bring messages.”
“Get this man some ale,” Aelfwyn snapped, and the ale was instantly brought. She knelt down beside the warrior and made him drink.
“Lord,” the warrior said again when he could speak. “I bring news.”
“Tell it then,” Havgan said quietly.
“Your ships. Your ships are burning. All over the coasts of Kymru they burn. The Cerddorian. They come in the night like the wind, bringing fire. You have not one ship on this island that is whole.”
“He told you,” Arianrod murmured to Havgan, her face white and set. “He told you he would do this.”
“Arthur,” Aelfwyn agreed. “That night he came here. He said that if you would not leave, then you must stay and fight. And you refused to leave. And now it is too late.”
Sigerric, his dark eyes burning in his thin face, said, “It is not just that he prevents you from leaving. Do you understand that?”
“I do,” Havgan said steadily.
“Yes, husband,” Aelfwyn said sweetly. “With your ships burned, you cannot send for more warriors from Corania. The High King will fight you. And fight you with the warriors you have to hand, for there will be no more.”
“Oh, but there will,” Havgan said calmly.
“Impossible,” Aelfwyn snapped.
“You are wrong, Aelfwyn,” Havgan said with a serene smile. “Again.”
Cadair Idris
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Helygen Mis & Onnen Mis, 500
Suldydd, Calan Morynion—early morning
D
inaswyn ur Morvryn, one-time Dreamer of Kymru, reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried down the third level corridor, her heart beating fast. For Arthur had sent for her and she desperately hoped that the summons she had waited for had come at last.
Mabon, King of the Sun, she prayed, whom I have served for so long, please. Please, let me this once receive what I ask for. Let me receive what Gwydion promised me so very long ago. It is all that I ask. All that is left to me.
She stood still for a moment outside the door of the garden room. Surreptitiously she wiped her clammy palms on her black dress. She touched her long, silvery hair, held back from her face by a band of fiery opals. Schooling herself to show nothing of her feelings, her gray eyes hardened and cooled. And then she was ready.
She stepped in the room, taking in her surroundings at a glance. The walls were bathed in gold and the circular room was brilliantly lit from the same unknown light source that lit all of Cadair Idris. Jewels winked from the fronts of the seven doors set at intervals around the chamber. Behind each door, she knew, was a small chamber dedicated to the various gods and goddesses of Kymru. Each door was carved with the symbol for that deity and outlined with the appropriate gems, and next to each door grew that tree associated with the god or goddess. The Stewards said that the golden light helped the trees to stay strong, even without sunlight.
The yew tree, for Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, and the hazel tree for his mate, Aertan, Weaver of Fate, stood beside the door decorated with onyx and bloodstone. The rubies for Y Rhyfelwr, the Warrior Twins, flashed between elder leaves, like blood-red berries. Silvery birch blended with sapphires for Taran of the Winds. The opals for Mabon of the Sun flashed fire between the branches of the rowan.
Ivy twined around the trunk of an alder tree, for Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood and Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Amethysts and topazes glittered between the leaves. Emerald flashed through the leaves of the oak tree for Modron, the Mother. And the delicate leaves of the ash tree shimmered through the soft glow of pearls for Nantsovelta of the Moon, Lady of the Waters.
A jeweled fountain bubbled and splashed as water streamed from it, skipping over stones to feed the roots of the trees. Scattered throughout the chamber were small tables containing musical instruments, games, even an ornate set of tarbell, the Kymric game of logic and skill. The tarbell set itself was the most elaborate Dinaswyn had ever seen. The playing board, with its interlocking squares of black and white, glowed. The carved figures glittered with jewels. The silver dragon, representing the Ardewin, glimmered with pearls. The brown bull of the Archdruid shimmered with emeralds. The black raven of the Dreamers spread its opal-studded wings, and the Master Bard’s nightingale glistened with sapphires. The wolf of Prydyn, the hawk of Gwynedd, the horse of Rheged, and the swan of Ederynion were all there. And Arderydd, the eagle of the Brenin flickered with emeralds, pearls, sapphires, and opals.
Arthur was seated at the table with the tarbell set, while Gwydion stood behind Arthur’s chair.
Slowly, she approached the High King. Gwydion’s gray eyes, so like her own, bore into her. But she only glanced at him. All her attention was focused on Arthur. And he was studying the tarbell board with a frown, and did not look up as she approached.
Her slender fingers reached out and picked up the figurine that glittered with onyx and opals. She gripped the carved raven tightly in her hand and waited.
After a moment, Arthur looked up. The scar on his face glittered palely. He studied her tense shoulders, her arrow-straight posture, her silvery hair and gray, cool eyes. Then he smiled, and held out his hand. She smiled back, slowly, and returned the figurine to him. He nodded for her to sit, and then began. “Gwydion tells me of a promise he made to you long ago.”
She nodded, her mouth dry.
“Do you remember it?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she answered her voice steady. “It was some years ago. He wanted me to carry a message to Uthyr, your father. It was a coded letter, telling Uthyr where to meet Gwydion for a journey.”
“And the secret journey my father was to take?”
“To see you. For the last time.”
“Yes. This is what I have seen,” Arthur replied.
“You have seen that?” Dinaswyn asked, startled.
“In the Time-Walk I took,” Arthur said smoothly. “The one you and Gwydion and Cariadas helped me to take. For that time I was the Walker-Between-the-Worlds of past and present. And I saw his promise to you.”
“We did not see what you saw,” Dinaswyn answered. “We only knew that you needed our power. That you needed the Time-Walk.”
“And so you gave me what I needed. Because?”
“Because you are the High King. And even the Dreamers bow to you and your need.”
“But this thing that I ask you now, this task, is not from my need. It is from yours. From the promise Gwydion made. The promise—”
“To use me,” Dinaswyn said fiercely, “that when the fires of testing were upon us, he would use me for a great task. He would help make my life mean something.”
“More than it already does?” Gwydion asked harshly, speaking for the first time.
“And what does it mean now?” Dinaswyn shot back, her voice hard and bitter. “What has it meant for so many years? What has it meant since the dreams passed on to you? Do you remember how many years that has been, Gwydion? If you do not, I can assure you, I do.”
She rose from her chair and came to stand before Gwydion. Her hands were twisted into the cloth of her skirt, gripping the material hard in her need to make him understand, he who had never understood.
“It was eighteen years ago, nephew. Eighteen years I have not dreamed. Eighteen years since the only thing I ever really had was taken from me. Can you understand what that means? Did you ever even try?”
“Dinaswyn—” Gwydion began.
“No,” she said harshly. “You never did. You set me aside and never gave me another thought, except to think that I was a meddlesome old woman. That’s all you have thought of me since I taught you all I could so long ago.”
“You are wrong.”
Arthur’s voice, so quiet and yet so powerful, stilled her. She turned away from Gwydion, her brows raised. “How would you—”
“I have seen,” Arthur said softly. “Gwydion loves you. More than you could ever know. More, I think, than you would even wish for. He has thought often of you. He knew from his dreams that defeat would come to us. And he sought to keep you apart from it. He sought to keep you safe.”
“By shunting me aside?” Dinaswyn asked incredulously.
“Even so,” Arthur said.
“For Mabon’s sake,” Gwydion began, his silvery eyes snapping in irritation, “do you think, nephew, you are qualified to tell anyone how I feel and what I think?”
“I have Walked-Between-the-Worlds, Gwydion ap Awst,” Arthur said with a twisted smile. “I am the High King. And I saw and understood much more than any other Walker would, because of what I am. And what I am, you helped make.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Gwydion muttered.
“Gwydion,” Dinaswyn said hesitantly. She had never been any good at this sort of thing. But she had to try.
“Aunt,” Gwydion said, taking her cool hands in his. “You need say nothing. There is nothing to say that either of us could deal with. We are too alike, you and I.”
Dinaswyn’s smiled was twisted. “So we are. I taught you far too much.”
“Only everything I needed to know,” he said gently.
For a moment she stood before him, wanting to speak of their misunderstandings, of the wasted years, of everything they had never spoken of. But Gwydion was right. There was nothing they could say to each other now. They were too alike. So she turned to Arthur, once more taking her seat.
“The task, High King. What is it? What would you have me do?”
“Your task, Dinaswyn ur Morvryn, is to journey to the country of Ederynion, to the city of Dinmael. There you are to establish contact with the Cerddorian that are secreted in that city, and bring Queen Elen and her Dewin, Regan ur Corfil, out of captivity.”
Dinaswyn’s face lit up. This was a formidable task indeed. For Queen Elen and her Dewin were closely guarded, and had been these past four years. This was the task she had waited for, and she was grateful.
“I will leave within the hour,” she said eagerly.
“Aunt,” Gwydion began reasonably, “the Calan Morynion celebration is later on tonight. Stay for that, and leave the next day.”
“No,” she said, decisively. “I have waited long enough.”
“Aunt—”
“No. High King, have I your leave to depart?”
“You do, Dinaswyn,” Arthur said steadily. “Go with the blessings of the Protectors, Cerrunnos and Cerridwen. May they guard you.”
“And may the Hunt come to take me, should my spirit be reft from my body,” Dinaswyn finished. Then she was gone.
Gwydion turned to Arthur, a frown on his face. But before he could speak, Arthur raised his hand, motioning for silence.
“No, Gwydion,” Arthur said calmly. “We will not go through this again. We have already argued enough.”
“You send her to her death,” Gwydion said harshly.
“As that is something neither one of us has seen in our dreams, I hardly see how you could be so sure.”
“All deaths are not seen in the dreams,” Gwydion shot back. “You know that.”
“So I do. Gwydion, Gwydion, there is nothing else for it, but this. A promise is a promise. And you know that to be true.”
“I do,” Gwydion growled. “And I know that this is one promise I never, ever, meant to keep.”
“Nonetheless—”
“Nonetheless, I do as all true Kymri do. I bow to my High King and his will.” Gwydion’s bow was curt and sharp, like a slap in the face. As Gwydion strode from the room Arthur’s scar reddened, then whitened. He picked up the figure of the raven, the symbol of the Dreamers, and turned it over and over, while the fiery opals glittered silently.
D
INASWYN FOLLOWED
M
YRRDIN
through the dark passageway.The flickering torches sent shadows scurrying across the rough walls. It seemed to her as though they had been traveling through the bowels of the earth forever, though she knew it was really only a quarter league or so. Impatiently she shrugged, adjusting the pack strapped on her back, eager to be in the sunlight and on her way.
“Patience, sister,” Myrrdin said calmly. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m not impatient,” she snapped. Knowing Myrrdin knew her well enough to know she was lying made her speak crossly.
Myrrdin chuckled softly. “Oh, no, of course you’re not. It’s only the most important thing you have been asked to do in years.”
“It’s the only thing I have been asked to do in years,” she retorted.
“Then,” Myrrdin said, coming to a halt before a bend in the passageway, “you may begin.” He gestured elaborately, bowing, and stepped aside.
The dim light pooled at her feet and she looked up the slight incline. “This takes you to the center of Coed Llachar,” Myrrdin said. “From there I assume you will go north.”
“Yes,” she replied absently. “North for a few leagues to get far enough away from the patrols. Then east across Gwytheryn and make for Sycharth in Ederynion. And there purchase a horse to take me to Dinmael.”
“Have you a plan to rescue Elen?” Myrrdin inquired, almost, but not quite, idly.
“Do not fear for me, brother,” she said, her eyes drawn to the pale light. “I will not take foolish chances. And, though a Dreamer who no longer dreams, I still have the other talents of the Y Dawnus. These I will use as I see fit. Queen Elen will be freed.”
“Confidence, little sister, was never your problem.”
She smiled at him and lightly kissed his cheek. “Good-bye, brother,” she said and turned away, striding up the passage, not even waiting for his reply. And not turning back for one last look.
But Myrrdin would have said nothing in any case, even if she had spoken to him one last time, for he had caught a glimpse of her eyes before she had turned way. And he saw that she knew the truth—that they would not see each other again on this earth. That their next meeting would be in Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, where the dead go to await rebirth and their next turn on the Wheel. Just which one of them would make their way to the Summer Land first, he was not sure. But that his instinct, and hers, was right, he knew without a doubt. They both did.
D
INASWYN EMERGED INTO
the forest of Coed Llachar. The morning was cold, and her doe skin boots crunched on the snow-covered ground. Bare branches laced overhead and she moved through the forest with care. Her trousers and tunic of white and her white cloak blended with the snow as she silently made her way north.
Overhead a few ravens cawed, fluttering from branch to branch. Two more birds, three more, five more, joined them. Soon an entire flock roosted in the trees, fluttering from branch to branch.
Follow me not, little brothers and sisters, she said in Mind-Speech sternly to the flock. I am on the High King’s business.
The birds cocked their heads to one side knowingly, and continued to follow. Dinaswyn said nothing, for perhaps they were right. Their fluttering made sufficient noise to distract any of Havgan’s patrols from Dinaswyn’s slight movements. She Wind-Rode, briefly sending out her awareness, searching for safe passage through the forest. But she encountered no sign of any patrols, neither in the forest nor to the northeast beyond it. Later she would realize what that meant. But now she was only grateful. And she did not send the flock away, for to do so would cause more commotion than she wanted. So she allowed them to follow her, even to the edge of the forest.
Again she Wind-Rode, searching the seemingly empty land before her. But there was nothing to alarm her. Nonetheless, she stepped from the forest cautiously and began to make her way northeast across the plain of Gwytheryn.