by Holly Taylor
“It’s the only thing I have been asked to do in years,” she retorted.
“Then,” Myrrdin said, coming to a halt before a bend in the passageway, “you may begin.” He gestured elaborately, bowing, and stepped aside.
The dim light pooled at her feet and she looked up the slight incline. “This takes you to the center of Coed Llachar,” Myrrdin said. “From there I assume you will go north.”
“Yes,” she replied absently. “North for a few leagues to get far enough away from the patrols. Then east across Gwytheryn and make for Sycharth in Ederynion. And there purchase a horse to take me to Dinmael.”
“Have you a plan to rescue Elen?” Myrrdin inquired, almost, but not quite, idly.
“Do not fear for me, brother,” she said, her eyes drawn to the pale light. “I will not take foolish chances. And, though a Dreamer who no longer dreams, I still have the other talents of the Y Dawnus. These I will use as I see fit. Queen Elen will be freed.”
“Confidence, little sister, was never your problem.”
She smiled at him and lightly kissed his cheek. “Good-bye, brother,” she said and turned away, striding up the passage, not even waiting for his reply. And not turning back for one last look.
But Myrrdin would have said nothing in any case, even if she had spoken to him one last time, for he had caught a glimpse of her eyes before she had turned way. And he saw that she knew the truth—that they would not see each other again on this earth. That their next meeting would be in Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, where the dead go to await rebirth and their next turn on the Wheel. Just which one of them would make their way to the Summer Land first, he was not sure. But that his instinct, and hers, was right, he knew without a doubt. They both did.
DINASWYN EMERGED INTO the forest of Coed Llachar. The morning was cold, and her doe skin boots crunched on the snow-covered ground. Bare branches laced overhead and she moved through the forest with care. Her trousers and tunic of white and her white cloak blended with the snow as she silently made her way north.
Overhead a few ravens cawed, fluttering from branch to branch. Two more birds, three more, five more, joined them. Soon an entire flock roosted in the trees, fluttering from branch to branch.
Follow me not, little brothers and sisters, she said in Mind-Speech sternly to the flock. I am on the High King’s business.
The birds cocked their heads to one side knowingly, and continued to follow. Dinaswyn said nothing, for perhaps they were right. Their fluttering made sufficient noise to distract any of Havgan’s patrols from Dinaswyn’s slight movements. She Wind-Rode, briefly sending out her awareness, searching for safe passage through the forest. But she encountered no sign of any patrols, neither in the forest nor to the northeast beyond it. Later she would realize what that meant. But now she was only grateful. And she did not send the flock away, for to do so would cause more commotion than she wanted. So she allowed them to follow her, even to the edge of the forest.
Again she Wind-Rode, searching the seemingly empty land before her. But there was nothing to alarm her. Nonetheless, she stepped from the forest cautiously and began to make her way northeast across the plain of Gwytheryn.
Cadair Idris rose majestically from the snow-covered plain. It was lightly dusted with snow, giving it the appearance of a glittering dagger, thrust from the bottom of the earth as a challenge to her enemies.
During the next few hours the ravens followed, leaving the forest, flying overhead as though to scout the way for her. Over and over they wheeled through the sky, circling back, settling on and around the occasional lone tree. They were strangely black against the glittering white snow, as though night had taken shape to roam the earth and sky in the light of day.
After a time she ignored them, becoming used to their fluttering, their cawing, and their restlessness. The sun was directly overhead as she halted near a copse of bare trees. Her raven escort settled in the branches, calling out to one another. She shifted the pack from her back and took out a flask of water, drinking deeply. She rummaged in the pack and came up with a hunk of bread. There was cheese and meat but she would save them for later. For now she merely gnawed at the bread, and let her eyes scan the snow-covered plain. A dark blot to the southeast caught her eye. That could be Caer Duir, the home of the Druids, the traitors.
Yet they were not all traitors, were they? Had not her own son, Aergol, come to Arthur with his allies, pleading (or, rather, demanding—after all, he was her son) that Arthur allow them this chance to redeem themselves? Never had she been prouder of her son than at that moment when he offered his life to Arthur in expiation of what the Druids had done. But Arthur had not taken Aergol’s life. And though that was not something that surprised her in the least, she knew that Aergol and his Druids had been deeply shocked. But that was not Arthur’s way. And it had not been motivated so much by his mercy as by his sense of expediency. Arthur was not one to waste a good tool, apparently. And this Dinaswyn admired greatly, for compassion was weakness and had no place in this struggle. She understood that Arthur could not afford to be anything but cold and hard. For this is what she was. And what she had taught her nephew, Gwydion, to be. It was the only way.
Yes, Myrrdin had certainly tried to teach the boy different, but, in the end, the child had learned the right lesson. That to succeed, to win, you had to be firm, be unmoved by the desires or suffering or needs of others.
It occurred to her, briefly, that perhaps Arthur had indeed acted out of compassion by choosing her to lead the rescue of Elen. That, perhaps, she had misjudged him. That he had given in to her obvious need to be of service again. But, no, that could not be. He had chosen her for this task because she was the best person for the job. No longer young, but strong in the arts of the Y Dawnus, clever and experienced, whatever she did would neither be foolish nor impulsive.
Indeed, she had never been foolish or impulsive. Perhaps if she had, all those years ago, the man she loved would have turned to her. But she had let him turn to another, never telling him the truth of her heart. Awst had not known when he wed her sister that Dinaswyn was in love with him. She used to think that Awst had never known, had never found out, had gone to his grave in ignorance. But, sometimes, when she looked back at her life, she would not be so sure. Hadn’t there been something in his eyes, a few times before the end? She winced away from that thought, hardly able to bear, even after all this time, her memories of his murder at the hands of her sister. Even now she could clearly see the surprise on his dead face as he lay in the pool of bloody water.
She and Gwydion had found him, and had found Gwydion’s mother, too, dead by her own hand in that bloody bath. And Dinas-wyn’s heart had broken then, not only for herself and her loss, but for Gwydion’s loss, too. For she had loved—did love—her nephew, pretending in her heart that he was her son—hers and Awst’s.
Suddenly the ravens took wing overhead, cawing, complaining. Startled, she looked up, squinting against the glare. To her mind came an image, ill-defined but urgent, an image of two people nearby. But who would be here? She Wind-Rode, finding them easily less than a league away—a man and a woman, each sitting a horse, cantering towards her. The hood of the woman’s amber cloak was up, covering her features. The man with her wore a cloak of blood red and his hood, too, was up, obscuring his face.
Hastily she thrust the flask and bread back into her pack and slung it over her shoulders, covering it with her white cloak. She dropped to the ground behind a straggling tree and waited for the man and woman to ride by. By their direction she guessed them to be on their way to Eiodel, Havgan’s dark fortress.
The ravens wheeled across the clear, cold sky, flying this way and that, calling and crying.
So intent was she on the two figures that the third one was able to get far too close before she knew of his presence. Sensing something out of kilter, she twisted around at the last moment, foiling his grip on her. She wrenched herself free of his hands and leapt to her feet, pulling h
er dagger from her belt. The man, whose brown cloak shadowed his identity, did not pull his dagger, contenting himself with spreading his arms and circling around her, preventing her escape.
The two people on horses were getting closer and she knew she had little time left. She threw her dagger in an underhand cast.
The dagger should have gone straight into his belly. Indeed it did, but merely bounced off his body with a clang. The man threw back his hood, his face solemn and intent. The sun flashed off his silvery chain mail. And although she had never met him she knew him from her Wind-Rides. It was Sigerric, Havgan’s general. And where Sigerric was, Havgan would not be far behind.
And then she knew who the figure in the red cloak was, who was now cresting the slight rise before her. She whirled, for she knew that capture by this enemy was far worse than anything she could imagine. But Sigerric was upon her before she could even begin to run. He caught her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. He whipped out his dagger and held it to her neck.
The flock of ravens plummeted from the sky and, for a moment, she thought they would attack. But they did not. They settled thickly on the bare branches of the scrawny trees. Dinaswyn sent a thought to them in Mind-Speech, calling for their aid. But they did not move. Still as shadowy statues, they clustered within the trees, their clever eyes alight.
“Do not struggle, Dinaswyn ur Morvryn,” Siggeric said softly, “or you will die.”
“I will die in any case, Sigerric of Apuldre,” she panted. “Better it should be now than on the island of Afalon with the rest of the Y Dawnus you have managed to capture.”
“I do not think that is what Havgan has in mind for you,” Sigerric murmured, nodding at the blood-red figure who had now dismounted from his horse and was crunching through the snow to stand before them. “And if I kill you now you will miss the chance to talk with your beloved niece.”
“Arianrod,” Dinaswyn said bitterly as the figure in the amber cloak dismounted from her horse and came to stand before her. “How very unpleasant to see you again.”
“Aunt,” Arianrod said neutrally as she pushed the hood back from her face. Her amber eyes gazed at Dinaswyn with no hint of glee, but no hint of sorrow, either.
“It is grateful I am that your mother and father are dead and cannot see that you carry the son of the enemy of Kymru in your belly,” Dinaswyn said. “The horror they would feel at what you have done would indeed kill them.”
“If you hadn’t already done so,” Arianrod said bitterly.
“Their blood is not on my hands,” Dinaswyn said firmly, just as she had for so many years.
“You sent them to Corania,” Arianrod spat. “You dreamed and they went. And they never came back.”
“Yes, I dreamed. I do not send the dreams. The gods do. You must take up your grievance with them.”
“As you always told me. So I did,” Arianrod sneered. “And they care not. So I have found my own way.” She gestured towards Havgan, who stood silently, the hood still over his face.
“Dinaswyn ur Morvryn,” he said softly. “The Kymri are burning my ships.”
“Of course they are, Havgan of Corania,” she said. “The High King has told them to. And he told you he would. No one leaves the island. No one comes to it. This is between him and you, now.”
“So it is,” Havgan agreed, his hood still shadowing his face.
Arianrod stirred restlessly. “Aunt Dinaswyn,” she began, “we wish to know …”
“Hush, child,” Dinaswyn said absently, her eyes trying to pierce the shadow the hood cast over Havgan’s features. Something about the tilt of his head, about the way he stood there, something she had never realized those other times when she came across him as she Wind-Rode, distracted her. Something. Something familiar.
Sensing her interest but clearly not understanding why, Havgan at last pulled the hood away from his face. His triumphant grin at capturing his prey should have stung her. Would, perhaps, have frightened her, if she had not at that moment realized the truth of what he was. She gasped, shocked. So that was why, all those years ago, she had dreamed of sending Arianrod’s parents across the sea. That was why. For this.
She knew, now, how these three had known she would be here. Havgan had dreamt it. He should have been Dreamer, would have been, had his parents not died in Corania, leaving him stranded there.
And as she realized this truth her eyes widened as she realized just what the child Arianrod carried must be.
Oh, gods, she thought, her mind in chaos. Oh, the Shining Ones could be so cruel. Her eyes fastened on Havgan’s amber hawk eyes, and she saw in them an inkling of the truth. He did not know it all, but he guessed some of it. He guessed the truth of where his home really was, but he so obviously did not know that his mistress was his sister. And that the son she carried—
She opened her mouth to speak to the shadow of truth she saw in Havgan’s eyes. He must know. He must. It could change everything.
But she was not able to speak, for the burning sensation she suddenly felt in her chest was agony. She looked down, shocked. Havgan’s jeweled dagger, rubies clustered at its hilt, protruded from her heart.
He had seen. He had seen she had a truth to tell and he had chosen to kill her for it. Now, at the edge of death, she understood that this was the choice he had made all along. That this is what he always chose to keep the truth at bay.
Blood gushed from her mouth as she sagged forward, falling from Sigerric’s hold. Havgan caught her as she threw herself against him. Slowly he let her sink to the snowy ground. The three of them stood over her as she lay on her back in the snow, her blood staining the white crust, seeping through to mingle with the brown earth beneath.
With the last of her strength she reached out an arm to touch Havgan’s leg, her eyes fastened on Arianrod. For Arianrod must be told. She must understand what she had done. “Arianllyn,” Dinaswyn croaked, her eyes never leaving Arianrod’s. “Brychan,” she said, her arm reaching toward Havgan.
But she did not see any understanding in Arianrod’s eyes. As the darkness began to close in on her she heard Sigerric ask, “Those names. Who are they?”
“My parents,” Arianrod said, clearly puzzled. “I don’t know—”
“She was reaching out to you, Havgan,” Sigerric said softly. “Reaching out to you when she said it. Ah, Havgan, I do not even need to ask why you killed her, do I? You saw she knew something. Just as you saw it in the face of the Ardewin you killed when you first came here. Saw it, I think, in the Master Bard’s eyes before you had him murdered. You are always seeing something but you always turn away.”
“Enough, Sigerric,” Havgan said quietly, looking down at Dinaswyn. “You presume too much.”
Sigerric laughed, the sound harsh and bitter, for there was no joy in it. “I presume?”
Dinaswyn whispered one last thing, determined to get them to understand. “Kill,” she whispered. “Baby.”
But they couldn’t hear her. It was too late.
Havgan knelt beside her in the snow. “I will have your body returned to Cadair Idris,” he said pleasantly. “And the sorrow it will cause Gwydion ap Awst will be worth all the effort.”
She wanted to answer him. She was desperate to tell him the truth. But she could not. The last thing she saw before she died was a bright light coming towards her. And Awst was in the light. And he was smiling, his arms outstretched, happy to see her.
The horns of the Wild Hunt echoed through the clear, cold air as her spirit sprang free from her body. And the ravens took wing, crying in triumph as Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, the Protectors of Kymru, came to take her home.
Calan Morynion—night
RHIANNON STOOD QUIETLY as Elstar stretched her hands over the great, golden bowl of clear, cool water set on the lip of the fountain in the center of Brenin Llys.
Delicate snowdrops, the first, tiny flowers of spring glittered in her dark hair, and in the hair of the other women in the circle who waited for Elstar t
o begin the celebration of Calan Morynion, the festival dedicated to Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters, Queen of the Moon.
All the women were dressed in white. Cariadas and Sinend, heirs of the Dreamer and the Archdruid, stood close to each other, fast friends as they had been for many years. Gwen stood between Sinend and Sabrina. The other Druids, Ceindrech and Madryn, those two women who had come in with Aergol, stood calmly, ready to offer the goddess her due. Elstar Ardewin stood between Madryn and Rhiannon. The wives, mothers, and daughters of the family of the Stewards also joined in the celebration. As always they stood quietly, their calm faces giving nothing away.
Elstar’s hands hovered above the bowl with its eight white candles floating in the water around a center grouping of three more white candles.
“This is the Wheel of the Year before us,” she began. “One candle for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.” As she pointed to each candle Sabrina’s finely honed Fire-Weaving lit each one. “Alban Awyr,” Elstar said smoothly, as the candle was lit by Sabrina’s psychokinetic ability, “Calan Llacher, Alban Haf, Calan Olau, Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, and Calan Morynion, which we celebrate tonight.”
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.”
