by Holly Taylor
“My son,” Dinaswyn said, as she glided across the golden floor to stand before Aergol. “You have all mocked the Mother, since the Coranians came, and you began to teach the religion of Lytir, the Coranian god. It is too late, I think, for her forgiveness.”
“It is too late, Mam, for her to forgive me. But it is not too late for the others. What we have done will be on my head. And I alone will pay for that. The Mother will accept my life as the sacrifice, and my daughter, Sinend, will be the Archdruid of Kymru. She is blameless of what we have done, and Modron will forgive the Druids, when I am dead.”
“Da,” Sinend whispered as she let go of her brother’s hands and came to stand before her father. “Da, you will give your life? You will kill yourself?”
“That is for the High King to do. In the name of justice, Arthur ap Uthyr, I call for the death of one of the traitors to Kymru. Draw your sword, High King, and kill me for what I have done. And may the Mother accept my sacrifice and cleanse the Druids of their darkness and shame.”
Arthur rose from his throne, Caladfwlch in the scabbard by his side. As the people before the throne parted to let him through, he drew the sword with a hiss of metal. The eagle’s eyes on the hilt gleamed as Arthur came to stand before Aergol.
“Take my life, High King,” Aergol said, his head held high, his dark eyes gleaming. “Send me to the Mother for her to punish. The rest are innocent, for they followed me. And I followed Cathbad, for he had taught me that he was right to join with the enemy. I believed it was right for the Druids to be the only power of the gods in the land of Kymru, just as we had been in Lyonesse. I believed the Mother would reward us if we made it so. But I was wrong.”
Arthur held Caladfwlch steady in his hand. But he did not move to strike.
“Behold,” Aergol called, his voice suddenly huge in the still hall, “behold my daughter, Sinend ur Aergol var Eurgain! For she is the true Archdruid of Kymru. And those Druids who long to be free again will answer to her as their true leader, after I am dead.”
“No,” Arthur said calmly.
Aergol, his eyes wide with shock, gasped, “No? I tell you, Sinend is blameless! She has never had a part in—”
“I know it,” Arthur said, cutting Aergol off. “And Cathbad is not the true Archdruid of Kymru, and has not been since he first betrayed the Mother. Hear me, Aergol. You may not step back from your responsibilities now. For neither is Sinend the true Archdruid of Kymru. You are.”
“I cannot be,” Aergol gasped. “It is too late for me. The Mother—”
“Will take you in her own time,” Arthur interrupted briskly. “Until then I have need of you. You will lead your Druids to take back this land. And rest assured, Aergol ap Custennin var Dinaswyn, we will see to it that Cathbad dies for his mockery of the tarw-casglaid and the Mother. I will not kill you. You will live until the Mother calls you home.”
“I tell you, she has called me. I will go to her, and offer myself up to spare the others. She has called me.”
“Then she will have to wait,” Arthur said crisply. “You have offered yourself to my service, and I call on you now to keep that promise.”
“High King, I—”
“There are Smiths of Kymru who suffer on the island of Caer Siddi. And they have need of you and yours, Aergol ap Custennin.”
“You will trust me?” Aergol said his eyes wide and incredulous.
“I will, Archdruid. I will. For now.”
Chapter
* * *
Two
Kymru Helygen Mis, 500
Haford Bryn, Kingdom of Prydyn
King Rhoram shivered briefly atop the icy hill amd drew back his bow. His arrow flew through the chilly air, speeding over the snow-covered ground, and came to rest in the exact center of the knothole in the trunk of the distant, gnarled oak tree.
“Ha!” he crowed to the captain of his war band. “And you said I was too old.”
“You are,” Achren said coolly, and then she let her arrow fly. It sped through the wan afternoon sunlight and, with a loud crack, split Rhoram’s arrow in two.
But Rhoram, undismayed, pulled his last arrow from the quiver on his back. “My dearest Achren,” he said as he fit the arrow to the bow, “would you care to make a wager?”
Achren grinned, her dark eyes challenging. “And what might you have to give me that I could not take for myself, King of Prydyn?”
Rhoram grinned back. “Me,” he replied, as in one swift movement he drew his bow and let the arrow go. And, of course, just as he had planned it, the arrow embedded itself within her arrow.
For a moment Achren was silent, and Rhoram had enough time to wonder just how badly he miscalculated.
“Fool,” she said lightly, as she swung her quiver to her shoulder. “The King of Prydyn does not offer himself to women. Women offer themselves to the King of Prydyn.”
“But if I waited for you to offer yourself, I’d die of old age,” he said with a smile. But he meant it.
“So you would, my King.”
“Achren—”
“Choose your words carefully, Rhoram ap Rhydderch,” she said, fingering the dagger that hung on the belt at her slim waist.
“Achren,” he said, “you are the only woman I know who would threaten a man who declares undying devotion to you.”
“Don’t be a fool, Rhoram. I know a passing fancy when I see one. One day you will thank me for paying no attention to you.” She turned away and he reached out and caught her arm. But he let her go almost immediately, as he felt her tense.
“Without a doubt, Achren ur Canhustyr, you are the most exasperating woman I have ever met. You think a stone is where my heart should be. And you are wrong.”
“I am not wrong,” she said, her dark eyes flashing.
“You are,” he replied, his voice steady and quiet, the truth of his heart in his blue eyes.
For a long time she was silent, gazing up at him, taking his measure. At last she said, “When once again you reign in Arberth over all of Prydyn, when once again fortune favors you so that you may have the choosing of any woman of Kymru, offer again, if you still wish it.”
“And then?” he asked, his blue eyes alight.
“And then,” she replied crisply, “we shall see.” She turned away, wrapping her fur cloak closer to her. Her dark hair, braided closely to her skull as always, shone briefly beneath the pale sun.
“You can be sure I will ask again,” he muttered to himself as she left him there. How long had it been, now, since he knew he loved Achren? Not long. Only in the past few months had he come to understand that. Yet it seemed to him now that he had loved her, without knowing it, for many years. That had always been his problem—that he did not know his own heart. But he was older now, perhaps a little wiser, and he knew that he loved the captain of his war band. And that he always would.
Perhaps the worst part of knowing that he loved Achren was the fact that she would never believe it. And who would? After all, for so many years now his heart had remained untouched, inviolate, since he had made that terrible mistake and let Rhiannon go, only to find that the woman he had left her for was not worth a moment’s thought. Since that time he had never again given his heart. He had dallied with women to their mutual enjoyment, and then gently let them go. He had not thought he would ever love again. But he did.
Rhoram sighed. Well, she couldn’t hold out against him forever. Or could she? He had never known a woman as stubborn as Achren, and that was saying something.
“Da!”
He turned from his blank contemplation of the distant oak tree and waved to his son as Geriant came running up to him through the snow. The sunlight caught in Geriant’s golden hair and his blue eyes were shining as he halted in front of his father.
“Da, there has been a message from the High King.”
“Ah. And what, besides burning Havgan’s ships, does he wish from us now?”
“He says we are to meet him on the south shore of Camain in
three and a half weeks.”
“Who is to meet him?”
“You, Achren, and twenty warriors.”
“And what is it he would have us do?”
“He would not say. He would only say to be on time.”
“Then be there we will. Are you ready, then, to do the High King’s bidding?”
Rhoram had expected Geriant’s eager assent, but the enthusiasm on his son’s face faded and his expression became still. “Geriant?” Rhoram asked in concern. “What’s the matter?”
“Da, I—I had the Bard ask the High King when Enid will be rescued.”
“Ah,” Rhoram said gently. “And what did he say?”
“He said that her freedom was in the hands of her brother.”
“Hm,” Rhoram said in a neutral tone. He hardly knew what to say. A year ago Geriant had been hand-fast to Enid, Princess of Rheged, and they would have been married by now, if Enid had not had other plans. For that poor, foolish girl had left her brother Owein’s camp in the dead of the night and journeyed to Llwynarth, there to beg Bledri the Dewin to give up his traitorous ways. Enid had actually loved Bledri, and been convinced that he had loved her. But Bledri had given her over to King Morcant, the pretender to the throne of Rheged. And Morcant had married Enid, giving himself a better claim to his throne, and brutalizing Enid in the process, if the stories were true. And Rhoram had no reason to disbelieve them. Morcant had always been a pig.
And here, almost a year later, poor Geriant still loved Enid, and thought of nothing but rescuing her, killing Morcant, and making Enid his wife.
“He said that the release of Queen Enid would be the task of her brother,” Geriant went on. “And her rescue would be soon and I told him I wanted to be a part of that. And he said I must speak to Owein.”
“Of course.”
“And he said that he didn’t need me to go with you. He said that, if Owein agrees, and if you agree, I could join Owein in Coed Coch and help them to get her back.”
“Geriant,” Rhoram began gently. But he barely knew how to go on.
“No, Da,” Geriant said firmly. “You don’t have to tell me what I already know. When we get Enid back, she will not be the same girl she was before she left. But it doesn’t matter. I love her. And I always will. I know she doesn’t love me. But I want to take her away from Morcant for her sake. Not for mine. And then I will return here. Alone.”
Yes, Geriant was like his mother, Christina of Ederynion. Direct, forthright, knowing what was in their heart, knowing the truth from the beginning.
“We must speak to Owein, then, and get his permission for you to join them. For you have mine.”
“Thank you, Da,” Geriant said with a grin. “I did that already.”
Rhoram raised his brows. “You were so sure then that I would allow you to go?”
Geriant smiled. “I was so sure.”
“You know me too well. And what did Owein say?”
“He said it would be at Bedwen Mis. And to come to Coed Coch at any time in the next month. And that my sister would be glad to see me.”
“I’m sure she would,” Rhoram said, smiling. How relieved and grateful he had been when Sanon came to him at Cadair Idris as he and the other rulers prepared to return to their camps, after witnessing Arthur pass the Tynged Mawr and become High King. Sanon had said that she would not be returning to Haford Bryn with Rhoram, but going to Coed Coch, with Owein. And the joy on her fresh face had been just as much as the joy in Rhoram’s heart, that his daughter had found love and peace at last.
“Then you must not go with us,” Rhoram said firmly, “but rather go to Coed Coch and help Owein to bring his sister out of her prison. Not forgetting the truth of what you have said. She will be changed.”
“That does not matter. Because I have not. And never will.”
Coed Coch, Kingdom of Rheged
OWEIN WAITED FOR Esyllt to break contact with the Bard at Haford Bryn. When she had done so, she looked up at him with her deep blue eyes.
“He is coming?” Owein asked.
“He is,” Esyllt replied, absently stirring the slumbering campfire in front of Owein’s tent.
“I must tell Sanon,” Owein said and turned to go.
“Owein, I beg a favor of you,” Esyllt said quietly.
Owein turned back to her. Snow lightly dusted the thick branches of the trees overhead, but very little sifted onto the forest floor. The trees of Coed Coch were too thick for that. But the ground was cold and wet and the dead leaves were soggy beneath his feet.
Owein wore brown leather tunic and trousers, lined with wool and, even walking just a few feet, seemed to instinctively blend in with the trunks of the dark trees. The lines of heartache and pain that had once been carved into the stone-like countenance of his young face were smoothed away, though his blue eyes held a sadness still, the remembrance of his mother and father and brother. That sadness would always be there, but now there was joy, too, since Sanon of Prydyn had come with him to Coed Coch to share his exile and his heart.
“A boon, Esyllt?” he prompted. “And what do you wish?” He stopped himself from asking what she could possibly want now, for Esyllt wanted many things, most of which he had no power to give her. But it was in her nature to demand, as beautiful women sometimes will. And he was used to it. For he understood, as many did not, that Esyllt ur Maelwys, wife to March y Meirchion and lover to Trystan ap Naf, Owein’s captain, was merely afraid, and it was her nature to seek out any who would promise, or seem to promise, to care for her.
“Trystan is in Ystrad Marchell, leading the Cerddorian in burning Havgan’s ships, as the High King has ordered.”
“Yes,” Owein agreed, knowing full well where this was leading.
“I beg you to order him back to Coed Coch.”
“I need him where he is, Esyllt. You know that.”
“Owein—”
“No.” He was silent as Esyllt slowly turned away. “Esyllt,” he said softly as she turned from him. “Your husband, he is almost well.”
“Yes,” Esyllt said dully, not bothering to turn around. “He is almost well.”
“Go to him, then. For he loves you.”
“As Trystan does not.”
“That I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Cannot,” Owein said firmly. As she slowly walked away, he couldn’t help but notice that Esyllt had not asked if she could go to Ystrad Marchell to be with Trystan. Esyllt had never been brave. But she was his Bard, and had been his father’s Bard. And he was sorry that he could not help her.
He walked away from the clearing with its ring of tents, so well made that they were warm and snug, even at this time of year. He needed to tell Sanon the news. He smiled to himself, because he would have gone to find Sanon now, in any case, news or no news. For she was his heart’s delight, the only delight he had ever really known, and he always longed to be with her, though that never prevented him from doing his duty, for that was not his way.
He knew where she would be. She would be with Teleri, his lieutenant, practicing her work with sword and dagger. Sanon was already an accomplished bow-woman, but she had, as she explained to Owein, never given her attention to the art of swordplay. Before the enemy came, her time had usually been given to the making of tapestries, to weaving, to embroidery, because that was what she liked. She could have trained for combat, had she wished, but she had never wished it. And after the enemy came, she had done nothing, she told Owein, for the last two years. She had been consumed with sorrow for the death of her intended, Owein’s elder brother, Elphin. She had taken no interest in life, had, she said, wandered the caves of Ogaf Greu like a pale ghost.
But now, she had gone on to explain to him that first night together, her dark eyes honest and truthful, her golden hair spilling over his bare chest, she wished to learn to fight. Because she was Queen of Rheged now and she wanted to fight with him, shoulder to shoulder, to drive the enemy away from their land.
And he had said, bitterly, that Morcant was the King of Rheged, and that his sister, Enid, was the queen. And Sanon had sat up so quickly she had startled him, and glared down at him as he lay within the blankets, and her dark eyes had flashed.
“You are King. And I am your queen. And, soon, Morcant will be dead by your hand and your sister will be returned to you.”
And he had not argued with her, but had pulled her down on top of him, and kissed her anger and his bitterness away.
“Like this, my Queen,” he heard Teleri say. And he heard the whoosh of a knife blade flung through the cold air, and the solid thunk as it embedded itself in the trunk of a tree. He crept up to the clearing where his wife and his lieutenant stood.
Sanon wore brown riding leathers and a wide, red belt around her slender waist. Her calf-length brown boots clung to her shapely legs. She shook back her golden hair from her face, narrowed her dark eyes, and threw her dagger in an underhanded cast. The blade whipped through the clearing, burying itself in the tree trunk.
“Good,” Teleri said as she walked over to the tree and pulled both daggers out of the wood. “That’s what you want to do to get them in the belly. Now, the overhand throw is good for getting them in the back.” Teleri’s petite form was always at odds with the relish in her voice when she spoke of the best ways to kill. Her gray-green eyes were alight as she began to instruct Sanon on how best to throw the knife to kill as efficiently as possible. Sanon’s dark eyes were grave as she listened.
“And then we can move on to slitting the throat. Remember, always do that from behind them. If you are in front, you will take a blood bath, and that can be tiresome.”
“And messy,” Owein added, as he slipped into the clearing.
Sanon’s dark eyes held laughter as she turned to him. “Watch,” she told Owein. And she cocked back her arm and cast the dagger across the clearing. With a solid smack it embedded itself in a trunk.
