Dragon's Dream

by Mary Gillgannon

  Seeing that the fire was burning low, Rhiannon reached out and added more wood from the pile. Guilt nagged at her when she thought about how much Arianhrodd and Ceinwen had done for her. She dreaded being a burden to these kind people, and she was determined to somehow repay them for what they had done. To do that, she would have to be well and strong.

  The bleak, mournful sound of the wind came from outside the hut, evoking a sense of sorrow Rhiannon could not quite shake off. From childhood on, she had grown expert at shutting away unpleasant memories, but this time she could not seem to banish the pain. There was a knot inside her. A tight heaviness gathered in her chest. All it needed was a slight reminder and the turmoil inside her threatened to explode.

  At least the fight against it kept her alive and gave her the will to go on living. She knew now that she did not want to die. She was not ready; there was something else she must do, some purpose intended for her life. She must find what it was, why her spirit had been returned to the world of the living.

  "Rhiannon, you are up." Arianhrodd's face split wide with a smile as she entered the hut. She carried a basket filled with cleaned fish. She took it over to the fire and set it down. "I'm pleased you feel strong enough to rise by yourself."

  Rhiannon shook her head. "I'm still wretchedly weak; my legs are next to useless."

  "This is a beginning though. In a few days you will be able to walk outside. Then we must find something to serve as clothes for you. It would be unseemly to have you walking on the beach wrapped in a blanket."

  Rhiannon looked down at the coarse cloth. "If I had needle and thread, I could stitch it into a garment. It would give you one less blanket, but I would replace it as soon as I could." She sighed. "If only I had a loom and some wool, I would gladly weave and sew all the blankets and clothes you could ever wish for."

  "You have those skills?" Arianhrodd asked as she bent down and put the fish in a pot of water and set it on the fire.

  "Aye. I am slow at spinning, but much better at weaving and sewing."

  "Then I will see to it that you have what you need."

  "That is very generous, but you must know I can't repay you. I have no coin, no jewels, no possessions at all."

  Arianhrodd gave her a long, searching look, and for a moment Rhiannon worried that she meant to bring up the subject of Rhiannon's identity. Anyone could guess from her pale, unweathered skin and uncallused hands that Rhiannon was neither a slave nor peasant. Arianhrodd must surely wonder who she was and who had wounded her. Still, the fisherwoman had not asked any questions. She must be waiting for Rhiannon to heal before broaching the subject.

  Arianhrodd gestured to her own shabby garment. "We have furs and skins in plenty, but cloth comes dear. Your sewing skills are very welcome."

  Rhiannon nodded, feeling pleased. Here, at last, was a way she could repay her rescuers. But there was another worry. Weaving and sewing took time, and the longer she stayed with these people, the greater the chance that Maelgwn would find her. Once he did, what would he do? Did he still mean to kill her? Would he punish Arianhrodd and Ceinwen for taking her in?

  Shivering, Rhiannon wondered if she were endangering the lives of her rescuers by failing to reveal who she was. Yet, if she told them the truth, they might well return her to Maelgwn. Rhiannon sighed. She did not want to bring trouble to those who had helped her, but neither could she risk revealing her identity. She must believe that Maelgwn would not find her here. Perhaps he would not even attempt a search; perhaps he would be satisfied that she was gone from his life.

  She felt better for a moment, then she remembered the look on Maelgwn's face when he sent her away. Her husband hated her. Even now he might intend to make certain she no longer inhabited the same world as he.

  "You look pale, Rhiannon." Arianhrodd's soft voice roused Rhiannon from her frightening thoughts. "I think you should lie down again. Come, I'll help you."

  Wearily, Rhiannon allowed Arianhrodd to support her arm and guide her to the bed-place. She sank back and closed her eyes. Her grief over her shattered life was great, but not so great that she wished to die. She would do what she must to survive, and the gods forgive her if she entangled these innocent fisherfolk in the web of misery and hatred that connected her and Maelgwn.

  Rhiannon slept awhile. When she awoke, Arianhrodd was still there. Arianhrodd brought Rhiannon some broth and helped her sit up so she could drink it, then the fisherwoman left for a few minutes. When she returned, she carried two large pots of water slung on a stick over her shoulders. She put them to heat on the fire and came back to the bed-place.

  "I think it is time we bathed you, little one." Leaning over the bed-place, she smoothed a tangled strand of hair away from Rhiannon's face. "We must also comb your hair. Such a fine color," she commented. "I suspect you must have a trace of Irish blood; they are known for their fiery tresses."

  Rhiannon watched the fisherwoman as she returned to the fire and added herbs to the pots of water. The sweet scents of rosemary and lavender filled the hut, and Rhiannon smiled faintly. Arianhrodd was very skilled with herbs and simples. From what Rhiannon could see, the fisherwoman had a large store of dried plants and roots in the baskets in the corner, and she obviously knew how to use them. But her talent for healing extended beyond a knowledge of plants and their uses. Rhiannon was sure that Arianhrodd possessed some sort of magic. A sense of contentment and warmth radiated from the fisherwoman, and Rhiannon could feel it mending her spirit even as Arianhrodd's skilled ministrations healed her wounded leg.

  Rhiannon's eyes followed Arianhrodd as she continued her tasks. Try as she might, she could not guess the fisherwoman's age. Despite the lines around her eyes and her weathered skin, Arianhrodd's hair was a dark rich brown, and her plump body and graceful movements displayed the strength and vitality of a young woman. Arianhrodd's face was pleasant, but without any pretense to beauty, and she had surprisingly good teeth. There was something ageless about her—as if she would never grow old.

  Next to Arianhrodd, the man Ceinwen seemed like a quiet, little shadow. He was lean and very dark, with a narrow face and fine features. In an odd, animal-like way, he appeared almost handsome. Ceinwen still had not spoken to Rhiannon, but came and went with the cautious silence of a wild creature that creeps to a man's dwelling for food and warmth, then returns to the woods. He brought home fish every day, and nearly every night— Rhiannon knew, because she dreaded the memories it brought her—the dark, silent man made love to Arianhrodd.

  When the water was ready, Arianhrodd carried one of the huge heavy pots over to the bed-place and pulled the covers aside. With gentle fingers, she bathed Rhiannon. When she was done, she gestured toward the fire. "You will have to dry in the air; I mean to wash the blanket, so you will be without a cover for a time."

  Rhiannon looked uneasily toward the door, and Arianhrodd shook her head. "Ceinwen will not return yet. There is nothing to fear."

  Rhiannon grimaced at her own foolishness. When Ceinwen found her, she had been utterly naked, and he had carried her to his boat that way. It was absurd to pretend modesty now. Still, she had always been like that, ever since Llewenon's attack. She was never easy with her own nakedness, especially when a man was near. Only with Maelgwn had she overcome her apprehension.

  Maelgwn—the unwanted memory sent a shaft of pain through her, so sharp her body jerked. Arianhrodd noticed. Her eyes sought Rhiannon's, and for a moment Rhiannon felt the other woman could read her thoughts as clearly as if she spoke of them at length. Then the connection was gone. Arianhrodd came to her and helped her over to the seating place by the fire. Sitting crosslegged on the dirt floor behind Rhiannon, Arianhrodd began to smooth the tangles from her hair with an ancient bone comb.

  Chapter 22

  Maelgwn dreamt he was sitting on a riverbank. Blinking, he watched the water foam, spilling white over the rocks. His senses were filled with the scent of the mountains— pine, rain, wind.

  A familiar voice called him, a
nd he turned. A girl was coming down the pathway toward him. Her dark hair hung down in two braids, and her eyes shone like the bluest of mountain skies. She carried a bundle in her arms. It was long and awkwardly shaped, and he noticed how tenderly her tanned fingers clutched it. He looked back at her face; she was smiling.

  "What is it, Esylt?"

  "I have something for you. I promised you long ago that I would bring it."

  Maelgwn felt his face form a scowl. The object in Esylt's arms resembled a sword. She had brought his father's sword to him after Cadwallon died. He could still remember it—or had it happened in another time, another life?

  "Look, Maelgwn..." Esylt's voice was warm and coaxing. "Come look. It is not what you think at all."

  He approached cautiously, unable to resist the seductive charm of his sister's voice. She had a low, throaty voice, very unlike a woman's.

  She pushed the bundle toward him. He could see the brown shimmer of her skin very clearly. Her hands were small and unscarred. He recalled holding her hands once, and how her skin had felt cool and smooth against his own.

  He glanced down at the thing she held, and his heart seemed to stop. It was a baby. He stared at it, at its bluish white skin and froth of red hair.

  "She is for you," Esylt whispered. Maelgwn heard the love and tenderness in her voice.

  "For me?" His voice was weak and high-pitched. A boy's voice.

  "Keep her safe for me."

  He nodded, overcome with longing and fear. He took the babe and pressed it to his chest. He looked again at Esylt. She was halfway up the path. She waved at him with a light, airy motion. His eyes locked a moment with hers, and then she was gone.

  He glanced down at the babe. It closed its little eyes tight and began to cry, a wild shriek of pain. The fear inside him grew, filling him to bursting. He started up the path, seeking help. A root caught his foot, and he stumbled and slid into the cold, foaming river. He went under and the current tore the baby from his arms; he flailed in the rapids, trying to recover the child. His fingers found nothing but sharp rocks and numbing cold. Then he was falling, down, down into nothingness...

  Maelgwn sat bolt upright on his bedroll. The muscles in his legs clenched in agony; his body swam with sweat. Staring into the darkness, he tried to focus his eyes. He slowly made out the shadowy form of the oak table he used for his council meetings. It was only a dream. He shivered convulsively, then threw off the fur throws that covered him and stood. The cool air chilled his bare skin. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm himself.

  A dream, only a dream. He had dreamed the dream before, but never had it ended so terribly. In past dreams, the thing Esylt handed him was his father's sword. As he took it, he knew his father was dead, that he would be king. This dream was a nightmare. He clenched his eyes shut, but the image refused to leave him. A tiny, innocent babe, and he had lost it, he had let it drown.

  He stumbled to the table and leaned on it heavily, feeling sick. Esylt still tormented him. She had sent the dream to weaken him, to poison him with guilt. And it was working, oh, how it was working!

  Maelgwn took a deep breath and groped blindly toward the door. He threw it open and inhaled the fresh air. It was raining, a blessed, cleansing rain. He stepped into the downpour, feeling the icy drops cool his fevered skin. Standing naked in the darkness, he let the rain soak his hair and every inch of his flesh. In the distance, the torch of the sentry on the watchtower glowed faintly. Maelgwn wondered for a moment what the man would think if he turned his gaze back to the fortress and saw his king standing unclothed and unmoving in the deluge.

  Gradually, the shivering that racked his body came from the cold and not the dream, and he went back into the council room. He dried himself on the furs from his bed, then went to light the brazier. His teeth were rattling in his head with cold by the time he got the flame burning steadily. He retrieved his clothes and dressed by the flickering firelight. The discomfort of his body had eased his panic; he no longer felt half-mad with anxiety. But the sense of guilt lingered. It was like a foul taste in his mouth, a dull throb of pain that vibrated through him like a harper's fingers strumming a tuneless song. He did not know how to banish it, but somehow he must.

  He pulled on his cloak and left the council room. Treading rapidly across the courtyard, he paused near his bedchamber. The serpent again uncoiled in his guts. There, in that place, he had threatened Rhiannon and stabbed her. The floor was still stained with her blood; no matter how much the servants scrubbed, he could see the mark of it on the paving stones. He hurried on, heading toward the gate.

  "Mabon, get down here."

  "What is it, Maelgwn?"

  "I'm going out. I need help with the gate."

  The sentry scrambled down, and the two of them pushed the gate open. As Maelgwn started down the trackway, Mabon called after him, "My lord, if anyone asks where you've gone, what should I tell them?"

  Maelgwn did not answer.

  His feet took him toward the place where the forest spilled down to meet the valley. It was still night. The world was made up of shadows; distinct shapes formed only as he grew very close to them. He was not afraid of wild animals or any of the other dangers which could beset a lone man outside the safety of the fortress. There was nothing in the darkness which terrified him as much as his own thoughts.

  He walked on blindly, trying to outpace the fear that followed him from Degannwy. The light of dawn edged the sky as he entered the forest. He could see the ghostly, silver branches of the birch and oak among the dark pines. The sight of the woods, even in their stark, barren winter state, eased his dread. Perhaps in this place he could leave the fearful nightmare behind.

  The sound of water was everywhere, alight, gay, bubbling voice rising above the wind. The rest of the forest was silent. Most of the birds had not returned yet, and the animals were still quiet beneath the spell of winter. But there was a sense of expectancy in the air. Mingled with the smell of damp earth was another scent, a faint breath of growing things, of plants stirring beneath the ground. Soon green would creep along the forest floor, banishing the dull grays and browns of winter. The first flowers would peek out—wood anemones, their deceptively delicate white flowers defying even the fiercest spring storms—and violets, hiding their rich purple beauty in small sheltered spots among the trees.

  A wave of longing swept through him. How he craved the arrival of spring, the freshness of the air, the stir of life, the first early blossoms. And Rhiannon—how like a woods flower she was, so shy and sweet.

  He paused, startled. What was he thinking of? Rhiannon was the poisoned spawn of Esylt. To remember her was to seek out suffering and disaster. He dared not forget that.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to recall the scene with Rhiannon and Gwenaseth in his bedchamber. He waited expectantly for the revulsion and disgust to overwhelm him. To his surprise, the sense of abhorrence failed to come. He looked around, wondering. Out here in the clean, rain-washed air, among the gleaming, moisture-laden trees, Esylt's taunting image seemed far away and blurred. Was it possible her power did not extend this far? Esylt was a creature of smoky fires, wine-heavy dreams, stifling, perfume-filled laughter. Perhaps she and her curse had no place in the pristine, quiet forest. Perhaps here he was free.

  He walked on, doubting his feelings. It did not seem possible that something that had agonized him not two days before could fail to move him now. Esylt and her curse had haunted him for so long, consuming his thoughts, sucking the very life from his body. Could she really mean to leave him alone?

  It began to rain again, and he shivered convulsively at the cold. No wonder Esylt had retreated from her cruel game. He was near-dead with fatigue and grief—perhaps he made poor sport, even for a ghost. He laughed grimly, then fell silent. He had never felt so weary.

  Deep within the forest, he stopped walking. Ahead of him stood the great oak. He stared at the huge tree, filled with foreboding. He had not meant to come here, but somehow
his feet led him to this place. A part of his mind sensed what was to come. There was a reason he had been brought here—something else in this tangle between him and Esylt. Something he had denied and buried fast beneath the anger and the pain. Now he would know it. His despair would be complete.

  He tensed as the image came to him. He saw Rhiannon beneath him, her pale and vivid beauty surrounded by golden oak leaves. He remembered their pleasure, the feeling of their flesh moving together.

  "Nay. It's not possible," he said aloud. "I could not have forgotten that." The memories flooded him, so poignant and intense they made him want to weep. No woman had ever made him feel what Rhiannon had. With her, he had known what it was to walk with the gods themselves, as if he transcended his own flesh and melded his spirit with hers.

  "Nay," he whispered. He clenched his eyes shut in agony, barely able to face his own thoughts. He still loved Rhiannon. Even the hate he felt for her mother could not destroy his feelings. Part of it was desire, the hunger of his body for her cool white skin and the small, perfect sweetness of her form. But he also felt another, deeper craving. Recalling the morning they watched the sunrise together, he knew he had never known such contentment with a woman, such peace.

  He reached out his hands, desperately, imploringly. "Rhiannon... I have lost you..." His voice choked; the pain throbbed through him. He relived the dream—of holding the babe, precious and fragile in his arms, then the despair as he dropped the child and saw it tumble into the water. It was a true dream. He had possessed Rhiannon for one brief span of time, and then, by his own hate and anger, he had lost her forever.

  The knot of pain inside him suddenly tore free, nearly suffocating him. He had been so blind. He had let his lust for vengeance, his terrible rage, destroy Rhiannon. He was alone now, alone as he had been after Aurora's death. Again he had failed to keep safe the woman he loved, and this time, his failure was even uglier. It had not been fate that stole his wife from him, but his own cruel temper. The despair of his thoughts struck him like a blow, and he sank to his knees before the great oak.