by Holly Taylor
The others at the table were on their feet. Arianrod rose, gripping the edges of the table to steady herself. Her sensual mouth was widened in surprise and fear showed in her amber eyes as Arthur gravely returned her terrified gaze.
Sigerric had risen slowly at the sight of Arthur. He had drawn no weapon, unlike the other warriors. He merely stood, staring from Arthur to Havgan, then back again. His brown eyes glittered feverishly and the grooves at the sides of his mouth deepened.
Princess Aelfwyn had leapt to her feet, and her hands were clasped in front of her mouth to hold back the scream that hovered there. It was the first real emotion—besides hate—Havgan had ever seen from her.
Arthur waited, standing inviolate before Havgan, until the people in the hall quieted. Havgan slowly rose to his feet and faced Arthur. The flickering light of the torches played over the Warleader’s golden tunic, his honey-blond hair, his amber eyes.
Arthur drew the power of the Bards to him, and Wind-Spoke. “Havgan, son of Hengist,” he intoned solemnly, “I am Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, High King of Kymru, Penerydd of Gwytheryn, heir of Idris, heir of Macsen, heir of Lleu Silver-Hand. I call on you to leave this land.”
“Your land is mine, Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, heir of nothing,” Havgan replied harshly. “And always will be.”
“It has never been yours,” Arthur said, shaking his head. And he called to him the power of the Druids and the hall shook, spilling flagons of wine from the tables. The fire in the pit leapt up behind him and the flames licked hungrily at the ceiling. The torches flared. The boar banner shivered as a cold wind rippled through the hall.
Havgan’s warriors cried out in fear as the hall shook and wavered. But Havgan did not move. And he did not take his eyes from Arthur.
“Even your hall will do my bidding, because it rests on the earth of Kymru,” Arthur continued, as he allowed the hall to stop shaking and the fire to die down. Havgan’s banner gave one last shiver, then subsided. “Even Eiodel belongs to me.”
“Come and take it, then,” Havgan challenged. “Come and take it from me.”
“All in good time, Havgan,” Arthur replied. “For I have already taken your Master-wyrce-jaga, and will take you when I am ready. Sledda died by the power of the Bards of Kymru, in revenge for Anieron’s death. See, now, how it was. Watch the Time-Walk, and see his last moments.”
And with that, Arthur called the Dreamers to him. With the powers of the Walkers-Between-the-Worlds, the events leading up to Sledda’s death were superimposed on the now-roaring flames of the fire. Havgan’s warriors cried out as the flames grew and images formed in the dancing light: images of Sledda clutching his head, running to the uppermost tower of Neuadd Gorsedd, and falling to his death. Then the fire sank down again.
“This is how it was with him,” Arthur said quietly. “We sang the song of Anieron to him, and he died trying to escape from us. But death was the only escape for him. I offer you a better choice.”
“For Havgan there is no choice,” Sigerric said quietly, his eyes sad. “Did you not know that?”
Arthur turned to the general. “Every man has a choice.”
“And he made his, long ago,” Sigerric answered. “He will not turn back.”
“Nonetheless, I offer him a chance.”
“He has had many chances,” Sigerric said sadly. “And refused them all.”
“Havgan,” Arianrod said urgently to her lover, “listen to Arthur. Take whatever choice he offers you. Please! Listen to the High King.”
“I am the High King of Kymru!” Havgan shouted, grabbing Arianrod’s arms and yanking her to him. “I rule here!” he screamed inches away from her face. “I do!”
Arianrod, the tears streaming down her face, wrenched away from him, and placed her hand on her gently swollen belly. “Havgan,” she whispered. “Please. I could not bear it if you died. I could not.”
“See the faith your mistress has in you, my husband,” Aelfwyn said coldly. “But then, she is a Kymric witch, is she not? And knows, like no other here, what the Kymri can do to you.”
“You will close your mouth, Aelfwyn,” Havgan said in a voice more terrible because it was suddenly quiet. “If you do not, I will close it for you. Permanently.”
Aelfwyn did not reply, but the contempt with which she looked at her husband spoke volumes.
“You say this land belongs to you, but your Y Dawnus belong to me,” Havgan said as he turned again to Arthur. “Those Dewin and Bards taken when we raided the caves of Allt Llwyd live in misery and terror under my guards at Afalon. They wear the collars, the enaid-dals; they suffer terribly and they die. Have you forgotten them?”
“I have not forgotten them,” Arthur said quietly. “Yet, still, they do not belong to you. They are mine, and I will take them back when I am ready.”
“Brave words,” Havgan sneered. “But still they are captive.”
“A choice I offer you, Havgan, son of Hengist. Do you wish to hear it?”
“It will not matter,” Sigerric said dully. “He will not listen.”
“Yet offer it I will, nonetheless. Leave Kymru. Be on your way to the coast tomorrow morning. Call your warriors out of our land. Leave this island. And you will live.”
“I will not leave,” Havgan said between clenched teeth.
“If you will not leave, then you must stay and fight me. And if you do, you will die.”
“So be it, then,” Havgan said. “But I do not think it is I who will die.”
“You are wrong,” Arthur replied as he allowed himself to fade away from the hall at Eiodel. “You are wrong, Warleader. Again.”
HIS SPIRIT BACK in the highest chamber of Cadair Idris, Arthur released the Druids, the Dewin, and the Dreamers from the grip of his mind. But he retained the Bards, and with them flung his message to the dispossessed rulers of Kymru. He Mind-Spoke to King Rhoram in Prydyn and Prince Lludd in Ederynion, to Queen Morrigan in Gwynedd and King Owein in Rheged.
I charge you to send your warriors to watch the coasts. You will see to it that not one Coranian ship leaves this island. Havgan will send for no reinforcements. Burn every Coranian ship in our harbors.
Ensure they build no others. No word leaves Kymru. The final battle is near.
Gwydion stood wearily in the Dreamer’s Alcove in the High King’s hall. Soft light from some unknown source glowed, playing across the glittering walls of gold. The High King’s golden throne, shaped like an eagle with wings for armrests, shimmered in the golden light. A fountain played in the middle of the hall, bubbling and laughing as the light gleamed on the clear water.
Next to him, his daughter, Cariadas, took a deep breath and wiped a faint sheen of sweat from her brow. Her red-gold hair cascaded down her back in its usual tangles. Next to Cariadas sat Dinaswyn, Gwydion’s aunt. As always her face was cool and composed, and her frosty hair was pulled back from her thin face with a band of black silk. But Dinaswyn’s cool, gray eyes were weary from the efforts they had made for Arthur just a few moments ago.
In the Druid’s Alcove Gwenhwyfar sat down abruptly on the floor. Her golden hair was drenched with sweat and her hands shook. Sinend, heir to the Archdruid’s heir, leaned forward from where she sat on a bench and gently laid her hand on Gwenhwyfar’s shoulder. Gwen turned slightly and smiled wearily up at Sinend. Sinend’s pale face was composed but her gray eyes, so like her grandmother Dinaswyn’s, were shadowed and sunken in her pale face. Sabrina, King Owein’s Druid, shook her black hair back and her green eyes were dull with fatigue. Yet she smiled at Sinend and Gwen and nodded, to indicate that they had done well.
In the Bard’s Alcove, Elidyr Master Bard, his father, Dudod, and his son, Cynfar opened their eyes, at last released from Arthur’s grip. Cynfar sank to the floor while Elidyr gripped his son’s shoulders to steady him. Dudod’s fading brown hair seemed to have become a little grayer but his penetrating green eyes were clear. Dudod grinned at Gwydion and gave him a jaunty wave to indicate that Arthur’s messages
had been delivered.
Gwydion looked over to the Dewin’s Alcove. Elstar Ardewin had sunk down on a bench, her legs unable to hold her after the effort she had made. Her son, Llywelyn, after a glance across the hall to Cariadas to ensure himself that she was well, stood unsteadily by his mother, mopping his forehead with his sleeve.
At last he allowed his gaze to rest on Rhiannon as she stood next to Elstar. Rhiannon’s dark hair was held back from her face with a band of pearls. She wore a kirtle of black over a white shift. Her Dewin’s torque of pearl glowed around her slender neck. Her green eyes met Gwydion’s gray ones, and she smiled wearily. Her hands shook slightly as she absently fingered the folds of her dress.
More than almost anything in the world Gwydion wanted to go to her. He longed to give her his arm to lean on as she recovered from the drain on her strength. He longed to touch her beautiful face and tell her the truth—that he loved her. But he could not. He no longer really thought he could, in spite of how much he wished to.
And so it was her Uncle Dudod that went to her and gave her his arm to lean on. And Gwydion turned away, because he knew he should have been the one to do that.
Rhiannon smiled at Dudod then went to the Druid’s Alcove to kneel by Gwen as she sat wearily on the floor. Gwen allowed her mother to help her up, and even smiled her thanks.
For a moment Gwydion wished that Myrrdin were here. Myrddin, with his wise heart and piercing eyes would have made Gwydion do what he had so longed to do. But Myrrdin, along with Rhodri, the former King of Gwynedd, was in Rhiannon’s old cave in Coed Aderyn. It was their task to guide those Arthur called here through the maze of caves they had discovered that led straight to Coed Llachar, the forest next to Cadair Idris, and from there to an underground entrance that took them within the mountain itself.
The doors to the hall opened soundlessly and Arthur stood there. The weariness and trembling that the Druids, Dewin, Dreamers, and Bards experienced was not at all evident in the High King’s face, or his stride. Indeed, Arthur walked across the hall to his throne with a spring in his step, as though energized, not wearied, by tonight’s work. As he walked by the alcoves he stopped for a moment, thanking the men and women whose gifts had made possible what had been done that evening.
He lingered for a moment next to Gwen and his hand almost touched her golden hair, but he moved on before he had done so. He smiled at Rhiannon and kissed her palm. He gave Dudod a hearty slap on the back, then moved to the Dreamer’s Alcove. Cariadas rose to her feet and smiled at the High King.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” she grinned. “The Time-Walk.”
“It was very good,” Arthur grinned back. He turned to Gwydion. “Havgan did not heed me.”
“You didn’t think he would,” Gwydion pointed out. “And neither did I.”
“There is,” Arthur went on, after hesitating for a moment, “something about him. Something familiar.”
Gwydion’s silvery-gray eyes sharpened. “Ah, you felt it too?”
“Yes. Something. But I don’t know what. Not really.”
“Nor do I. I never have.”
“Perhaps we will before this is done.”
“Perhaps.”
Arthur turned then mounted the eight jewel-studded steps that led to the throne—topaz for Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt, and amethyst for Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood, the Protectors of Kymru; blood-red ruby for Camulos and Agrona, the Warrior Twins; emerald for Modron the Mother and pearl for Nantsovelta of the Waters; opal for Mabon of the Sun and sapphire for Taran, King of the Winds; and lastly onyx for Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.
“You have all done well, my friends,” Arthur began, as he seated himself on the golden throne. But he stopped as the doors to the hall opened once again.
“High King of Kymru,” a familiar voice said, “I bring guests to your hall.”
Arthur stood, trying to make out who had come, unannounced, into Cadair Idris.
Gwydion, recognizing Myrrdin’s voice, gestured for Arthur to stay where he was, and hurriedly made his way to stand before the doors. For Myrrdin was accompanied by six figures dressed in robes of brown, their hoods pulled low over their faces. Rhodri followed behind them, his hand hovering over his sword, his blue eyes watchful.
“Myrrdin,” Gwydion began, “who have you—”
But Myrrdin, his gray robe gleaming in the golden light, held up his hand for silence. His wise, dark eyes were calm and he was smiling slightly.
“High King of Kymru,” Myrrdin continued, “I bring you allies. I bring you friends.”
Within the Druid’s Alcove, Sinend stirred and tentatively took a few steps forward, her gray eyes wide as she took in the featureless visitors who wore the robes of Druids.
“Friends, Myrrdin?” Gwydion asked, gesturing to the six figures that stood quite still in the golden doorway. “Druids? And you led them here? Are you mad?”
“Certainly not,” Myrrdin said crisply. “Arthur, I beg to present to you—”
But Myrrdin did not finish the sentence. For Sinend flew from the alcove, skimming across the golden floor and flinging herself into the arms of one of the figures.
“Menw!” she cried, as she embraced a thin, slight figure. “Brother!”
The boy’s hood fell away from his face as he grinned and held his sister tightly. “Sinend,” he cried as he stroked her reddish-brown hair. There were tears in his dark eyes, but he smiled as he held her.
“Why are you here?” Sinend asked as she put her brother from her, holding his hands in her own and looking searchingly into his young face. “How did you ever get away from Da?”
“He didn’t,” one of the still figures said, pulling his hood back from his face.
“Da!” Sinend gasped, as she realized that Aergol, the Archdruid’s heir, one of the foremost traitors to Kymru, was here in the hall.
The others poured out of their alcoves, standing before the steps leading up to the throne, forming a human shield in front of Arthur. Elidyr Master Bard and Elstar Ardewin; their sons, Llywelyn and Cynfar; the Dreamers, Dinaswyn and Cariadas;
Dudod and Sabrina, with Gwen in the forefront, they stood fiercely, ready to do battle for their king.
But Rhiannon did not join them. Instead, she came to stand beside Gwydion as he stared at Myrrdin and Aergol.
“How could you do this, Myrrdin?” Gwydion asked, his voice harsh. “How could you bring the Archdruid’s traitorous heir before the High King?”
“Because this is where he wished to be taken,” Myrrdin said simply.
“You compelled Myrrdin to do this thing?” Gwydion snapped to Aergol. “You forced him to bring you here?”
“I did not force him,” Aergol said, as he stood unmoving by Myrrdin’s side. “I asked him.”
“Myrrdin, have you lost your wits?” Gwydion began, but he was cut off as Arthur’s voice rang through the hall.
“Aergol ap Custennin var Dinaswyn,” Arthur said solemnly, “you have come to see the High King and I am here. What is your business with me?”
Aergol bowed to Arthur, then gestured to his companions. “I bring with me some of the most powerful Druids in the land, our most honored teachers at Caer Duir. Ceindrech, our teacher of astronomy,” he gestured, and one of the Druids pushed back her hood. Her brown hair spilled down her back, and her dark eyes were proud. “Aldwr, our teacher of mathematics,” Aergol went on, as another Druid pushed back his hood. The man’s hair was gray, and his green eyes were keen in a sharp face. “Madryn, our teacher of religion,” Aergol said, as another Druid pushed back her hood. Her hair was blond with streaks of gray at the temples, and her brown eyes were sharp. “And Yrth, our teacher of the almanac,” he said, as the last Druid pulled back his hood. Yrth’s gray eyes were calm and patient in a weather-beaten face. “And, of course, my son, Menw ap Aergol var Cendrech,” he finished, gesturing at the boy. The six Druids bowed, then fixed Arthur with their eyes.
“These Druids, High King, have come to offer you their se
rvices,” Aergol went on. “They are yours to do with as you will.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Gwydion moved forward to stand directly in front of Aergol. “You must be very sure that Arthur will win, Aergol,” he said, his voice full of contempt, “for you to decide to throw in your lot with us.”
Aergol, his dark eyes never leaving Arthur’s face, smiled bitterly, “On the contrary, Dreamer, I believe that Arthur will lose. He cannot win with the might of the entire Coranian Empire ranged against him.”
“Then why have you come? For you must know that the might of six Druids will not be enough to kill Arthur. He will take the power you hurl against him and destroy you all.”
“We have not come to kill the High King,” Menw said, his young voice shocked. “We are Kymri!”
“A fine time to remember that!” Gwydion shot back.
Arthur did not speak, but merely held up his hand, and those in the hall again fell silent. “Tell me,” Arthur said quietly to Aergol.
Aergol took a deep breath. “High King, we can no longer go on as traitors to Kymru, or as traitors to Modron the Mother, our goddess. She cries out against us, and haunts us in our dreams for what we have done. And so we come to you.”
“Why now?” Rhiannon asked, her green eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“The Archdruid has done terrible things to Kymru. And we have helped him do that. But what he proposes now is too much for us to stand by and watch.”
“And what does Cathbad propose to do now?” Gwydion asked, his voice terrible. “What could be worse than what he has already done? What could be worse than to work with the enemy, to hunt your fellow countrymen, to revile and reject Modron, to give the secret of the enaid-dals to the Coranians? What could be worse than that?”
“He plans to use the tarw-casglaid, the bull-gathering, to proclaim Havgan true High King.”
Sinend gasped and her face turned white. “No! He would not risk the Mother’s anger so!”
“He will,” Aergol said softly. “He will do anything. He proposes a mock ceremony, a sham, where he will pretend to dream that it is Havgan whom the gods have chosen to rule our land. He plans to mock the Mother. It is too much. So we have come to you, Arthur ap Uthyr, the true High King of Kymru.”
