by Holly Taylor
Shall there not be a song of freedom?
He started, almost dropping his wine cup. Where had that thought come from? Of course, he had been thinking of the day he killed Anieron, and that phrase was from the song the old man had been singing. But it had not felt like a thought, had not felt even like a memory. For it had come to him as though sung by hundreds of men and women. And that was not possible.
The other wyrce-jaga, their attention caught by his sudden movement, paused in their meal to stare at him. Coolly he stared back, his thin face impassive. For he would not let them guess that something had gone wrong.
And nothing was wrong. Nothing. Surely what had gone through his mind was only a memory of that cursed song. It could not have been—
Silence will be your portion.
And you will taste death
Far from your native home.
The voices in his head were louder as the song rang through his mind. He did drop the cup this time and it fell to the stone floor and shattered. Blue shards of glass glimmered up at him, glittering slyly.
“"Master,""one of the wyrce-jaga said hesitantly, rising from his seat. “Are you well?”
“I—I am well. Nothing is wrong. Nothing,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Nothing.”
And then the song came and took him again, crashing through his mind again, almost making him cry out.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Sledda gasped, his hands clutching his head in agony.
“Master!” the wyrce-jaga cried. “What is it? What is wrong?” The other wyrce-jaga in the hall jumped to their feet, looking around wildly for the source of Sledda’s distress.
“Can you hear nothing?” Sledda managed to choke out. “Can’t you hear the song?”
“There is no song, Master,” the wyrce-jaga said, in a voice meant to be soothing. “There is no one here but us. No one singing.”
But there was. There was. The song in his head increased in volume. He thought that his head would split open with the force of it.
And I am manacled
In the earthen house,
An iron chain
Over my two legs;
Yet of magic and bravery,
And the Kymri,
I, Anieron, will sing.
Anieron’s song rushed through his head. Splitting, whirling, and crashing into him with such violence and pain that he could not bear it. He lurched to his feet, shaking off restraining hands.
“Anieron!” Sledda screamed. “You cannot do this! You are dead!”
But the song continued, slicing into him from all directions at once.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day? Shall this not be the fair day Of freedom?
“No!” Sledda howled, clutching his head. “No!” He ran from the hall, not knowing where he was going, only running to get away, get away, get away from this torment. He blundered down the length of the hall, through the doors and into the main hallway as the song rang in his head. And I am manacled In the earthen house, An iron chain Over my two legs; Yet of magic and bravery, And the Kymri I, Anieron, will sing.
Not even knowing where he was going, he raced up the stairs, panting and moaning, the song of the dead man ringing in his ears, driving him up and up and up in a doomed attempt to outrun this torture.
Shall there not be a song of freedom Before the dawn of the fair day? Shall this not be the fair day Of freedom?
He raced up the three flights of stairs to the watchtower at the very top of Neuadd Gorsedd and flung himself into the narrow tower room. His one eye desperately scanned the northwest horizon where Cadair Idris lay. He knew, even in his pain and madness, where the song emanated from. He knew. You of Corania After your joyful cry, Silence will be your portion. And you will taste death Far from your native home.
“Arthur!” he screamed up into the night sky. “I know it is you! Arthur ap Uthyr, release me! Release me, witch!”
But there was no release. The faint glow of the far-off mountain of Cadair Idris shimmered on the darkened plain and he screamed again.
“Stop!” he cried. “Stop! I will do anything you want! Just make it stop!”
But the song continued.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Shall this not be the fair day
Of freedom?
“Stop,” he sobbed again, his body straining towards distant Cadair Idris. “I beg you. Stop. I’m sorry. Sorry I killed the Master Bard. Please make it stop.”
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Shall this not be the fair day
Of freedom?
“Arthur!” he called out in anguish, reaching out over the low walls of the open tower to the distant glow on the horizon, his body arching toward Cadair Idris. “Mercy!”
It was then the stones on which he leaned gave a sudden, sickening lurch and he felt his body pitching forward out into the night sky.
“Arthur!” he wailed as he fell from the tower.
The song stopped.
And the last thing Sledda heard before his body hit the ground far below and shattered, was a single voice.
It is finished.
ARTHUR AP UTHYR released the Bards from his mind, one by one. As he let them go, he murmured words of thanks to each and every one of them. For he knew them all now. He knew the Bards of Gwynedd, from the mountains of Eyri to the plains of Llyn. He knew the Bards of Ederynion, from the depths of Coed Ddu to the sandy beaches of Cydewain. He knew the Bards of Rheged, from the deep forest of Coed Coch to the plains of Ystrad Marchell. He knew the Bards of Prydyn, from the cliffs of Arberth to the hills of Haford Bryn. They were his people now, the Bards of Kymru, and they would come to his call.
The last ones he released from his mind-hold were the ones physically here with him in Cadair Idris—Elidyr Master Bard, his son and heir, Cynfar, and Elidyr’s father, Dudod.
At last, Arthur opened his eyes. He rose from the golden, eagle-shaped throne. Brenin Llys, the hall of the High Kings, gleamed with a pure, golden light. The clear water in the fountain in the center of the chamber sang softly against the glowing stones that held it. The Four Treasures—the Stone, the Sword, the Cauldron, and the Spear—stood next to the fountain, glimmering steadily with an inner light.
Gwydion and Rhiannon stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the throne and waited for him to speak.
“We have done it,” he said.
“Anieron is avenged,” Rhiannon agreed.
“Yes. It is finished,” Arthur replied.
“No,” Gwydion said quietly. “It has just begun.”
Chapter
* * *
One
Cadair Idris & Eiodel
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Helygen Mis, 500
Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night
Arthur ap Uthyr, High King of Kymru, Penerydd of Gwytheryn, stood quietly in the center of the Taran’s chamber on the eighth level of Cadair Idris. He craned his neck to gaze up through the clear roof at the stars wheeling overhead. His eyes focused on the constellation of Eos, the nightingale. For the nightingale was the symbol for the Bards, and his revenge for the death of Anieron Master Bard, just two days ago, was still fresh in his mind.
The wyrce-jaga, Sledda, was dead at last, and Arthur had been the instrument of that death. Through him the power of all the Bards of Kymru had been focused and brought to bear on the man who killed Anieron. They had sung the Master Bard’s death song to his murderer, and justice had been served.
It was this, after all, this for which a High King was born. To bring justice, using the ability to focus the power of the Y Dawnus into a weapon to be used against the enemy. And this was a power he had come to accept. This was the reason for which he had been born.
He had once thought that he
would do anything—anything at all—to turn away from this destiny. He had once twisted and raged against the turning of the Wheel. But he would run no more. Because Kymru needed him, and that reason alone was, at last, enough.
With a steely hiss, he drew his sword, Caladfwlch, from the jeweled scabbard at his side. With both hands on the eagle-shaped hilt he rested the point of the huge sword on the stone floor. The eagle’s bloodstone eyes glittered in the starry light and its onyx studded wings shimmered coldly.
It was time now. Time for the next step in this deadly end game. Although he knew what the result of this night’s work would be, he was, nonetheless, compelled to try to turn the Warlord from the path Havgan had chosen. Something, he didn’t really know what, demanded it.
Still staring up at the stars, he calmly reached out and gathered to him the very essences of those that waited in the throne room, seven stories below him.
He took the Bards to him first—Elidyr Master Bard and Dudod, Elidyr’s father, as well as Cynfar, Elidyr’s son and heir. Sapphire blue shimmered before his eyes as he drew in their power, and he felt Taran’s Wind rush cleanly and sharply through his soul.
Then he reached for the Dewin—Rhiannon, Elstar the Ardewin, and Elstar’s son and heir, Llywelyn. They glowed softly like pearls, as Nantsovelta’s Water flowed through him, cool and clear.
He gathered the Druids—Gwenhwyfar’s raw, untrained talent, Sinend, heir to the Archdruid’s heir, and Sabrina of Rheged. He felt the roots of the fruitful earth claim him, twining through his body, lacing him in the emerald green glow of Modron the Mother.
Last, he gathered the Dreamers—Gwydion, whom he had once hated, Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer, and Cariadas, Gwydion’s daughter and heir. The heat of Mabon’s Fire burst deep within him, bathing him in an opal-like shimmer as the flames burst through him.
And then he was ready.
Wind-Ride, he called, to the Dewin in his mind. And then he was there, in Havgan’s fortress. In Eiodel.
HAVGAN SAT IN the Great Hall at Eiodel, his brooding black fortress just a league away from Cadair Idris—just a league away from the mountain that now glowed in the night, its golden light proclaiming that a High King had once again returned to its halls.
Havgan knew that light well. Every night in the past three months, he had gone out to the battlements and stared at that mountain that continued to defy him. He would focus his hate-filled amber eyes on the glowing doors that had refused to open to him for so very long, the same doors that had opened for Arthur ap Uthyr just three months ago.
Later, after the meal was over, he would again go to the heights of Eiodel and take in the sight of that glowing mountain. And his hatred for the Kymri would burn even brighter.
His warriors feasted and drank noisily, filling the hall with their coarse jests and loud boasts. The fire in the pit in the middle of the hall cackled and danced. The dark walls were stark, relieved only by the torches set in their brackets and by a few banners whose rich jewels glittered darkly. The banner of the Warleader of Corania, a golden boar on a field of blood red, shimmered in the light of the fire. The boar’s ruby eyes seemed to gleam maliciously in the uncertain light of the smoky hall.
He took a deep drink from the golden goblet in his hands. He had, of late, begun to drink heavily. Because things were slipping away from him, and he knew it.
His victory over the Kymri two and a half years ago was turning sour. The Dreamer, his false blood brother, had snatched the Treasures Havgan had sought. The mountain had not opened for him, in spite of all his efforts. He had captured hundreds of Dewin and Bards and imprisoned them on the island of Afalon, but the victory was hollow, for the leaders had escaped. He had captured one of the Kymri’s testing tools, that strange device which demonstrated who of the Kymri were Y Dawnus, the witches of this land—yet the device had not identified a witch in many months.
And Sledda, Havgan’s wyrce-jaga, had been killed just a few days ago. Sledda had thrown himself off the highest tower at Neuadd Gorsedd, seeking to escape something. Exactly what, he did not know. But that it was something sent by the witches, he had no doubt. That the witches had been led by Arthur ap Uthyr, the self-styled High King, he also knew.
For Arianrod, Havgan’s Kymric mistress, had explained to him the purpose of a High King in this land. And what a High King could do with the power of the Y Dawnus in his mind.
And worst of all, the thing hardest to bear, Gwydion ap Awst was still alive and free. And that angered most of all. For Gwydion’s death was Havgan’s dearest wish.
But the game was not over yet. One day, one day soon, he would have Gwydion’s life in his hands. And it would take Gwydion so very, very long to die.
A soft, light touch on his arm roused him from his reverie. “You are pensive, my Lord,” his mistress said.
He turned to her as she sat by his side. Her honey-blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, held back from her face by a band of topaz. Her amber eyes were soft and beautiful and her sultry mouth invited his kiss. Her gently rounded belly strained slightly against her shift of tawny silk. The child would be born near Calan Llachar, she had told him, one of the eight festivals of the Kymri, the time when they honored Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, the Protectors of Kymru. It would be a boy, she had said. For she was a Dewin and had a way of knowing these things.
His mistress was a Kymric witch. One of the Y Dawnus, one of those that he had come to Kymru to kill. And he loved her as he had never loved a woman before, as he had never loved anyone on this earth before. She was what he had been looking for all his life. She was the other part of him, just as the wyrd-galdra cards had foretold back in Corania. Just as Holda, the Goddess of the Waters, had said. No matter what she was, no matter what happened, no matter who stood in his way, he would never give her up. Never, witch or no.
He took her hand and kissed her palm and he felt her shiver with passion. He smiled at her, but did not answer.
His eyes cut to his wife, sitting on his other side. Aelfwyn had said no word to him this entire evening, a fact for which he was grateful. Exchanges with Aelfwyn wearied him. But it was through her, the daughter of the Emperor of Corania, that he had gained the power to subdue Kymru. He could, and did, ignore her and occasionally taunt her, but he could not send her back to Corania—not if he wished to keep the warriors of the Empire at his side. And so she stayed, though he did not fully understand why. That she had come to plot against him was obvious. But just exactly what her game was, was not. She intended to bring him down, he knew. But how was not clear. Perhaps she did not know herself, and stayed in Kymru knowing an opportunity would, sooner or later, present itself.
Since she had come to Kymru, some months ago, she had not even attempted to interfere with his plans. She stayed in Eiodel, riding out to Cadair Idris occasionally to gaze at the mountain. Sometimes she visited Neuadd Gorsedd, where the wyrce-jaga were lodged, and more often she went to Y Ty Dewin, where the preosts of Lytir had made their headquarters. Occasionally she would visit Caer Duir and talk with Cathbad and Aergol. She had briefly visited his generals in the four kingdoms, but not one of them had anything suspicious to report. She wrote no letters to Corania. He saw her only at the evening meal. She did not demand his company. She did not demand that he send Arianrod away. In fact, she did nothing. And it was that which made him most wary.
She sat now quietly, her green eyes cold in her flawless face. She wore a silken shift of white beneath a kirtle of the same color. Diamonds sparkled in her light blond hair. Steorra Heofen, they called her, Star of Heaven, and he had always agreed that was so. For she was as beautiful, as cold, as distant as the brightest star in the sky.
Sigerric sat on Aelfwyn’s right. Havgan and his Over-general rarely spoke of anything but the business of Kymru these days. Once, Sigerric had been his dearest friend. Through all of Havgan’s years of struggle to obtain the warleadership, Sigerric had been there, supporting him, helping him, loving him. But since they had come to Kymru
all that had changed. For Sigerric had no stomach for the killing of witches. And, too, Sigerric knew Havgan. Knew him very well, and approved of nothing Havgan had done in the past few years.
Once, Sigerric would have tried to turn Havgan from his course. Once, he would have urged Havgan to give up and go home. But Sigerric did not even try to do that anymore. His brown eyes had long ago lost their sparkle and luster. Even the hunger with which he always gazed at Aelfwyn seemed to be merely a ghost of the love Sigerric was once capable of.
Havgan lifted his goblet of gold and rubies, and raised it again to his lips to drink. These dark thoughts were no matter. For he would defeat the Kymri, one way or another. And his son would rule this land after him.
And it was then, just as he began to drink, that Arthur came.
ARTHUR’S IMAGE MATERIALIZED within the hall and the sight of him caused the warriors there to cry out. The men scrambled for their weapons and some leapt toward Arthur. But at Havgan’s stern gesture they halted their advance, their spears at the ready as they formed a half circle behind Arthur.
Arthur stood before the high table. His sword was pointed at the stone floor of the hall, and he rested his hands on the hilt. The golden eagle’s head flickered in the uncertain light of the fire. He wore a tunic and trousers of black, and around his neck was the High King’s torque—an opal, a sapphire, a pearl, and an emerald, clustered around a figure eight studded with shadowy onyx.
Havgan was dressed in gold and rubies and, unlike the people around him, he did not leap to his feet at Arthur’s appearance. Instead, he sat in his high-backed chair, his strong hand gripping his goblet so tightly that the gold began to bend slightly beneath the pressure. He stared at Arthur with his amber hawk’s gaze, but did not speak.
For a moment, just for a moment, Arthur felt something familiar about the Warleader of Corania. And for a moment, just for a moment, a similar, bewildered recognition flashed in Havgan’s eyes. And then the moment passed.
