May Earth Rise (8 page)

The eight candles, now lit, floated serenely on the surface of the water. Elstar pointed to the three inner candles. “Great goddess of the Moon, Lady of Waters, we honor you.” At Elstar’s gesture, one of the three candles lit. “Nantsovelta of the Pearls, Lady of the Swans, we honor you.” The second candle burst into flame. “Silver Queen of the Night, the Bride of Day, we honor you,” she intoned, as the last candle flared up.

“Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather for the wedding of the Sun and the Moon.” As she called out the name of each god or goddess, the women laid a snowdrop on the surface of the water.

“Mabon, King of Fire, Bridegroom to the Moon. Taran, King of the Winds. Modron, Great Mother of All. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”

“We honor you,” the women said softly in unison.

“With water are we refreshed and cleansed,” Elstar went on. “With fire we are purified. Blessings on the marriage of Fire and Water.”

At this the eight women began to chant.

Each of the women reached into the water and picked up a lit candle. As they again sang, the door of the hall opened and the men came in, gathering around an unlit pile of ash wood. Arthur was in the forefront, with Gwydion on one side and Aergol on the other. Elidyr Master Bard and his sons Cynfar and Llywelyn were next. Then came Aergol’s colleagues, Aldwr and Yrth, as well as Aergol’s son, Menw. Myrrdin, Dudod, and Rhodri came in, followed by Rhufon, the Steward of Cadair Idris, and his family—sons, husbands, grandsons of the Cenedl of Caine.

The women joined the men around the wood. Elstar raised her hands. “Now let the Bridegroom, Mabon of the Fires, come to claim his Bride.” The women threw their candles into the wood. But before the candles could even begin to flare up, a fiery sun swooped from the ceiling and hovered briefly over the wood, then roared into flames.

“Thank you, Gwydion,” Rhiannon murmured calmly. “You really must get over this tendency to be shy about your Fire-Weaving.”

Gwydion grinned, a sight that seemed to shock Aergol (and a few others) to the core.

“By the gods,” Aergol murmured to Arthur, “he’s almost human.”

“Sometimes,” Arthur murmured back. “It can be a little disconcerting, can’t it?”

“Disconcerting? More like impossible.”

Arthur merely smiled and took the hands of Aergol and Gwydion at Elstar’s signal. The men circled around the crackling bonfire to the right, while the women in the inner circle danced to the left. At Elstar’s next signal the women turned around to face the men.

As luck, or something, would have it, Rhiannon turned to the man behind her, and it was Gwydion. He smiled at her, a sight that, even now, knowing all that she knew of him, still had the power to make her heart skip a beat. Sternly, she tried to repress that wayward feeling, but it was no use, and she knew it.

So she smiled back, knowing she was a fool and knowing she could not stop herself from being one. And as his hand reached out and touched hers she shivered. And she thought, for a moment, that he had shivered too, feeling, perhaps, some of what she was feeling. But no, that was impossible. For he did not, he could not, love her. Did not, could not, love any woman. And she knew it. She knew that no wishing on her part could ever change that, could ever change him. He was what he was. She struggled, again, as she often did, to accept that as truth and wish for nothing more.

His hand was warm, and his silvery eyes were alight with something she would have recognized in anyone else. And she could not look away.

“High King of Kymru,” a melodious female voice broke in. “High King Arthur, you are summoned.”

Rhiannon froze as Gwydion dropped her hand, searching for the source of that voice.

“Arthur,” Elstar called. “What is it?”

“High King Arthur, you are summoned,” Rhufon said.

“By the gods,” Gwydion murmured. “It is the Doors.”

Gwydion was right. The voice belonged to the spirit that was Drwys Idris, the Doors of Idris, the Guardian. The spirit of Bloudewedd, a princess of Prydyn and consort of the last High King, had been imprisoned in the Doors hundreds of years ago for her crimes. And she lingered still, serving the cause of the High King, waiting for her spirit to be set free.

“Bloudewedd,” Arthur called out. “Why do you summon me?”

“High King, there is a corpse at the Doors,” the disembodied voice answered. Though the voice was, as always, neutral, Rhiannon thought she caught a faint undercurrent of sadness.

“A corpse?” Arthur asked, not understanding immediately.

But Rhiannon knew. She knew instantly, and she picked up her skirts and ran for the door. Perhaps she could get there before the others. Perhaps she would have a few moments to compose the body before Gwydion, Aergol, and Myrrdin saw. Even as she thought this, even as she fled down the hall to the Doors, she knew it was a forlorn hope.

“Guardian,” she called out as she ran down the hall. “Is it safe to open? To bring the body inside?”

“It is safe, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” Bloudewedd answered calmly. “The living have gone.”

“You saw him bring her,” Rhiannon panted.

“I see all who come to the Doors.”

“Open, then,” Rhiannon commanded. “And let me bring her in.”

At the end of the hall a crack of darkness met her eyes as the doors opened slightly into the night. She slowed and stepped through the narrow opening.

Just as she thought, Dinaswyn lay mangled and bloody on the top step. Yet her face was calm, serene, more beautiful than Rhiannon had ever seen her. Havgan’s jeweled dagger blossomed from her breast, the blood-soaked rubies glittering darkly in the silvery light of the full moon. Carefully, Rhiannon dragged Dinaswyn’s body in through the Doors, and the Doors shut behind her.

Dinaswyn’s cloak was twisted beneath her body, and Rhiannon tugged at it, straightening it and covering the dead woman’s bloody wound. And that was as much as she had time to do before the rest of them were there. A sound from Gywdion’s throat might have been a strangled shout, might have been a sob. Myrrdin slowly knelt beside her, taking her hand, smoothing her silvery hair back from her serene face. Aergol knelt on her other side, his face white to the lips.

“Sister,” Myrrdin whispered. “And so you are at peace, at last. Wait for me in the Land of Summer, for I will surely be there soon.”

“Mam,” Aergol whispered brokenly. “Oh, Mam.”

Gwydion took Dinaswyn’s hand. “I would have spared you this. But you would not let me.” Tears spilled down his face and dropped on the smooth, dead hand of his aunt and teacher. “So much I would have done for you, but you would not let me.” Harsh sobs came from his throat, the sobs of a man who never cries, whose control was, at last, breaking.

Rhiannon knelt beside him and took him in her arms. For a wonder he did not pull away, but simply let her hold him as he wept. Knowing what he needed, knowing what they all needed, she began the Death Song of the Kymri.

A
S
D
INASWYN’S BODY
grew colder the song gained in strength, as the rest of them began to sing. The dead were never truly gone, the song reminded those that gathered there. They still lived, beyond the reach of grief and sorrow. Forever.

Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn,
Caer Siddi, Kingdom of Prydyn, &
Eiodel, Gwythern, Kymru
Onnen Mis, 500

Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

A
rthur stared down at the gaming pieces. The board of alternating dark and light squares glittered and the jeweled figures gleamed in the soft, golden light. Emeralds and sapphires, opals and pearls, rubies, garnets, and diamonds glimmered and winked, as though holding a secret.

As perhaps they do, Arthur thought. For the tarbell game had drawn him from the beginning, from the moment he came into this garden room on the third level of Cadair Idris. And still he did not know why.

His hand reached out to the board to pick up the piece that represented the High King. The human face, set on an eagle’s body, was stern and set. Around its neck was the High King’s torque, set with an emerald for Modron the Mother, a sapphire for Taran of the Winds, a pearl for Nantsovelta of the Waters, and an opal for Mabon of the Sun. He turned the piece over and over in his palm, as the eagles’ wings glittered.

The face of the carved figurine stared back at him. It was a face he recognized. He wondered if anyone else had noticed it.

“Just a game,” he whispered to himself. “Just a game.”

“More than that, High King.”

Arthur started, almost dropping the piece. But he recognized the voice and did not turn around. “You think that the tarbell game is more?” Arthur asked.

“That we are more,” Gwydion said quietly.

“Sometimes I don’t believe that.”

“Are you afraid, nephew?” Gwydion asked.

Arthur turned from the gaming board, his face set. “Yes. Aren’t you?”

Gwydion smiled wryly. “Always. But this move we make in the game now, it is the right one.”

“Yes,” Arthur nodded. “I believe that it is. The Master Smiths have been imprisoned too long.”

“And have made far too many collars for the enemy. And now, I must ask you once again—”

“Uncle, we have been through this.”

“Then humor me,” Gwydion said between gritted teeth. “Go through this with me again. Reconsider. Do not take Aergol and his Druids with us to Caer Siddi.”

“You are a fool, Dreamer,” Arthur said with a smile as he set the High King’s piece back on the board. “You know we can’t do this without them.”

“I don’t trust them. I don’t trust any Druid.”

“Which is why you are the Dreamer,” Arthur said crisply. “And why I am the High King.”

“Arthur, you are surely the most—”

“And you, Gwydion, are even worse. Why I ever—”

“Are you two children playing again?” Rhiannon asked from the doorway in acid tones.

“That game, my dear Rhiannon, is never over,” Arthur replied.

“Don’t I know it,” Rhiannon said dryly as she entered the room. She came to stand between the two men, and gazed down at the gaming board. Her slender hand reached out and gently lifted the opal-studded raven that represented the Dreamer. She set the piece down facing the High King’s eagle. “I believe you will find that, if they work together, they will win the game.”

When neither man replied, she continued. “We are all ready for the journey. Aergol and his remaining Druids wait by the underground tunnel with Sinend and Sabrina. Ceindrech is ready to go to Prince Lludd, and Yrth to King Owein. The last Druid,Madryn, has volunteered to stay here with Gwen, Dudod, Elstar, and Elidyr.”

“And has Gwen calmed down at all at being excluded from this expedition?” Arthur asked.

“Not noticeably, no,” Rhiannon replied. “Though she cannot quite hide her glee that she will at last begin her Druid’s training under Madryn’s guidance. After a fashion.”

“She should have begun that long before now,” Gwydion pointed out.

“Thank you, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said crisply. “As always you are so very quick to point out my little faults.”

“I’m not saying anything you don’t already know yourself—” Gwydion began.

“Then you are not saying anything that needs to be said,” Rhiannon shot back.

“Enough,” Arthur said, his tone brooking no argument. For a moment the three of them were silent, their eyes caught by the gaming board and the glittering pieces.

“Are Rhodri and Myrrdin ready to go?” Arthur asked after a moment.

“Packed and ready for their journey north.”

“Have they a plan?” Gwydion asked.

“Nothing they will speak of,” Rhiannon said. “All Rhodri will say is that it that it is a poor father who will not take the time to properly discipline his son.”

“Then Madoc had best take care up in Tegeingl,” Arthur said softly. “For when Rhodri says that, he has the coldest eyes of anyone I have ever seen.”

“And you sent Cadell to Arberth. Are you sure you know what you are doing there?” Gwydion asked.

Arthur smiled with a hint of bitterness. “As sure as I am of anything I do now.”

“It’s Ellywen I don’t trust,” Gwydion said quietly. “I wonder about the wisdom of Cadell going directly to her.”

“Since she saved Cadell and Aidan from the Coranians at Arberth she seems to have had a change of heart,” Arthur pointed out in a mild tone.

“Her change of heart began when she helped capture Cian,” Rhiannon put in. “And the night Anieron died. I, for one, believe in it.”

“Why am I not surprised you disagree with me?” Gwydion asked.

“Don’t start,” Arthur begged. “Change the subject. Please.”

“I understand you have allowed Geriant to go to Owein in Rheged to help rescue Enid,” Rhiannon said to Arthur. “Do you think that wise?”

Arthur shrugged. “He begged me to be a part of that rescue. So I gave him the permission he needed.”

“Geriant might expect too much from the lady,” Rhiannon warned.

“As near as I can tell, Geriant expects nothing at all.”

“So Rhoram agreed,” Rhiannon said.

“He did. You knew he would.”

“And our other captive,” Gwydion broke in, “will also soon be freed.”

Arthur nodded. “As well as sending Ceindrech, I have sent Prince Rhiwallon of Rheged up to Ederynion, to lend his aid to Elen’s brother. Prince Lludd, now that he has my permission, will not hesitate to rescue her. It has been very difficult to hold him back this long.”

“Only your authority could have done it,” Rhiannon said.

“And even that was almost not enough.”

“Have they moved their headquarters yet?” Rhiannon asked. “For the gods only know what Llwyd Cilcoed was up to when he ran.”

“The move to Ial is complete. If his plan was to capture the Cerddorian he has failed.”

“I do not think that was his plan,” Gwydion said softly.

“Nor do I,” Arthur replied, frowning down at the tarbell board.

“According to Elstar there has been no word of him at all since he escaped from Coed Ddu,” Gwydion said.

“True,” Arthur said heavily. “It is almost as though he has vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Or as though he had help waiting for him.”

“That remains to be seen,” Arthur said coolly, “but it would not surprise me.”

“Nor me,” Gwydion said shortly.

“Have you a plan for rescuing Elen?” Rhiannon asked Arthur.

“Lludd and I have talked through his Bard, Talhearn, and we have managed to come up with an idea or two. They need a Druid to help them, which is why I sent Ceindrech.”

“So the freeing of the captives begins,” Gwydion said.

“Yes. First, the Master Smiths in Caer Siddi. Next, Queen Elen in Ederynion and Queen Enid in Rheged. It begins.”

“And the Y Dawnus in Afalon?” Rhiannon asked. “They suffer under the enaid-dals, the soul-catching collars. They work under the lash of the Coranians and they die every day.”

“They are not forgotten,” Arthur said. “All captives will be free before Calan Llachar. Before this year is more than six months old, Kymru herself will be free from bondage.”

Arthur surveyed the gaming board, then turned to Rhiannon and Gwydion.

“It is time,” he said.

Meirigdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—afternoon

E
IGHTEEN DAYS LATER
Gwydion stood on the beach in the commote of Camain. Next to him Arthur sat his horse. Horse and man were so still, so silent, that they seemed to have been carved from stone. Rhiannon and Cariadas stood on the other side of Arthur, their hair, silky dark and red-gold, mingling and tangling in the wind. Llywelyn and Cynfar huddled against the stiff breeze on the other side of Gwydion. Behind them Sabrina, Aergol, Sinend, and Menw, along with the other Druid, Aldwr, stood quietly against the salty wind.

The freshening breeze off the ocean rushed to them, engulfed them, mingled with them, then withdrew, hurrying away on other, unknown errands. Seagulls cried out as though in mourning for something lost. The waves broke on the beach, reaching eagerly for the white sands, then retreated. The water sparkled and shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.

Arthur stirred at last and looked down at Gwydion. “They’re coming,” he said.

“Yes,” Gwydion replied in a clipped tone. “I can Wind-Ride, too.”

“Don’t be so sour, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said crisply.

The warriors crested the dunes. King Rhoram was dressed all in black. On his head was the golden helmet of Prydyn, fashioned like the head of a snarling wolf with emerald eyes. Beside him rode Achren, the captain of his teulu. She, too, was all in black. Her dark hair, braided tightly to her skull, shone with a blue light. The silvery hilts of daggers winked from the tops of her boots.

Twenty of Rhoram’s best warriors followed them. They wore tunics of dark green and trousers of black leather, and their hair was braided and bound for battle. They carried bows with quivers of arrows slung across their shoulders, as well as short spears. Their daggers were thrust into their belts.

“High King,” Rhoram said, leaping from his horse and bowing his head. Achren and her warriors also dismounted and bowed to Arthur. “You have called for us,” Rhoram continued, “and we have come.”

“Then you might try showing up when you are supposed to,” Gwydion said.

Rhiannon gave an exasperated sigh, but Rhoram sprang to his feet with a bright smile, his blue eyes alight. “Ah, Dreamer. How wonderful to see you!” Rhoram crossed to Gwydion and grasped his arm in a friendly fashion. It finally occurred to Gwydion that he genuinely amused the King of Prydyn. “But we poor warriors, unlike you Y Dawnus, must use more mundane methods to know when others arrive. We have been here since yesterday but we had to hide ourselves within the cliffs. When we saw you ride up, we began our descent. And so the wait.”

“And well worth the time,” Arthur said. “You are most welcome here.”

“Brenin of Kymru, Penerydd of Gwytheryn, we are yours to command.”

“Are the boats ready?”

“They are, High King, as are your warriors. Now, what is this thing you would have us do?”

“We sail to the island of Caer Siddi. And then we will release the Master Smiths of Kymru from their terrible bondage.”

“My heart had hoped that the time had come for that. At last, freedom comes to Kymru.”

“Yes,” Arthur said. “At last.”

G
RIED AP GORWYS,
Master Smith of Gwynedd, stared down at his hands in the fitful light of the guttering torches inside the rude hut. The light flickered over the scars earned in over forty years of practicing his craft. His hands had created oh so many things. He had forged swords and spears and arrow tips for King Uthyr’s warriors. He had fashioned necklaces and rings, and vessels of silver and gold for Queen Ygraine. Once he had even secretly made a copy of a testing device for Gwydion ap Awst. He had never told anyone that, not even his wife, dead now these five years. He had kept Gwydion’s secret as he had been asked to do. That much he had done for Kymru.

Again he stared at his hands. The guilt was so terrible, the shame so raw, that he thought he might die of it. For his hands had fashioned something else. They had made collars for the Y Dawnus. They had fashioned collar after collar, some so tiny he knew they were destined for the slender necks of children. And as he had made these collars he had wondered on whose neck they would be placed. Would this one be for Gwydion the Dreamer? Would this one be for Neuad the Dewin? Would his one be for the Master Bard? Sometimes he thought he might go mad thinking of it. And now—oh, now he wished he had gone mad. Then maybe he would no longer be aware of what he was doing.

He glanced up from his hands and saw that Siwan of Prydyn was staring over at him, as though she knew what he was thinking. And perhaps she did, for he had often seen torment in her eyes. Aware that someone else was staring at him he turned his head to see Llyenog of Rheged’s stern gaze. Across the silent hut Efrei of Ederynion raised his head, his dark eyes unyielding.

So the time had come, then. And he was not sorry that it had.

“We cannot do this any longer,” Gried said.

“No,” Siwan replied quietly. “We cannot.”

“Almost a year we have been doing what we know to be wrong,” Llyenog said.

“We have been waiting,” Efrei put in. “For rescue.”

“But it has not come,” Siwan said.

“It is not coming at all,” Greid whispered. “Not at all.”

“You know what they will do to us when we refuse,” Efrei said.

“Why, nothing,” Greid said bitterly. “Not to us.”

“But to our families,” Llyenog said, his eyes sweeping over the sleeping forms of his children and grandchildren.

Slowly Greid replied. “The Coranians cannot hurt them if they are already dead.”

There. At last it was said. And he had underestimated his fellow Master Smiths, for not one of them was shocked. Not one of them had even flinched.

“Rescue is not coming,” Greid said again. “We must rescue ourselves.”

“By dying,” Siwan whispered, her hand gently stroking the head of her sleeping husband.

“By dying,” Llyenog agreed, his hand hovering over the still form of his eldest son.

“By dying,” Efrei said, his dark gaze resting on the tiny shape of his youngest grandson.

“By dying,” Greid said thickly through his tear-filled throat as he picked up his sleeping granddaughter. The little girl’s golden hair gleamed in the dancing firelight.