by Holly Taylor
“Arthur is waiting for you,” Cariadas said.
“I am surprised he has not come by to see me,” Gwydion replied.
“Oh, but he has,” Cariadas protested. “He was by your bedside every day until yesterday, when you regained consciousness.”
“Was he now?” Gwydion murmured thoughtfully.
To his surprise even descending five levels of stairs did not tire him. When they reached the bottom level Gwydion saw that the golden doors to Brenin Llys, the High King’s Hall, were flung open. A soft golden glow emanated through the archway, spilling warm light into the corridor.
He stood for a moment in the archway, Cariadas on one side and Rhiannon on the other. Light played across the glittering walls and pillars sheathed in gleaming gold. Jewels winked from the banners that hung within each of the eight shallow alcoves—azure sapphires and verdant emeralds, glowing pearls and fiery opals. Trees shimmered in each alcove—hawthorn and birch, hazel and rowan, ash and alder, oak and aspen.
In the center of the hall a golden fountain bubbled and laughed, spraying tiny droplets of clear water into the golden air. Next to the fountain the Four Treasures gleamed. At the far end of the hall eight steps led up to a raised dais. Each step was covered with jewels—the first step topaz and the next amethyst, followed by emerald, pearl, ruby, onyx, opal, and sapphire. The throne on the dais was shaped like an eagle, with outstretched wings forming the high back of the golden chair. A tree of yew and another of hazel stood behind the throne.
His first impression was that the hall was filled with people, and that they were all looking at him. For a moment he almost wanted to turn and run, for it seemed like a very long time since he had been around so many people. But a second glance told him that these were all people that he knew. More importantly, he was aware that he was happy to see them again, and—for the first time in his long tenure as Dreamer of Kymru—actually looking forward to greeting them.
He first passed Elidyr and Elstar, the Master Bard and the Ardewin with their two sons, Llywelyn and Cynfar. Elstar stepped forward and softly kissed his cheek, while Elidyr smiled as their two sons sketched a bow. Instead of merely inclining his head as he might have done in the past, Gwydion halted. He softly returned Elstar’s kiss, then grasped Elidyr’s hand. He briefly touched the shoulders of Llywelyn and Cynfar, these two who would one day be King Arthur’s Great Ones.
Next he greeted Aergol and the Druids that clustered around him—Yrth, Aldur, Madryn, and Menw, Aergol’s son. Gwydion, remembering something he had been told by Cariadas yesterday, halted for a moment and grasped Aergol’s shoulder. “I am so sorry, cousin, about Ceindrech.”
Aergol nodded his thanks and his dark eyes shimmered with the sheen of tears. “Thank you, cousin,” the Archdruid’s heir whispered. “I regret—I am afraid that she did not truly know how much I loved her.”
“She knew,” Rhiannon said quietly. “For she knew you well, I think.”
“I pray to Modron that it is so,” Aergol whispered.
Sinend, Aergol’s daughter and heir, stood to one side with Sabrina, King Owein of Rheged’s Druid. The two women smiled at him as he stopped and pressed a kiss on their hands, bowing low. Next to them the Master Smiths of Kymru and their families clustered together. He hugged Greid, the Master Smith of Gwynedd and an old, old friend. He greeted the other three smiths—Siwan of Prydyn, Llyenog of Rheged, and Efrei of Ederynion, and nodded pleasantly at their spouses and children.
As he neared the throne tears came to his eyes as he recognized Myrrdin standing at the bottom of the stairs. The old man stepped forward and sketched a bow. But Gwydion would have none of that. He grabbed Myrrdin, hugging him so tightly that his uncle protested.
“By the gods, boyo,” Myrrdin pretended to gasp. “You’ll break these old bones.”
“Not such old bones any more, I’ll wager,” Gwydion grinned as he nodded at Neaud, the beautiful, young Dewin who stood by Myrrdin’s side.
Myrrdin blushed but Neuad laughed. “Too, true, Dreamer,” Neuad said with a wicked smile.
“He appears to be getting younger by the moment,” Gwydion observed. “What an amazing thing.”
“Isn’t it?” Neuad asked archly.
Dudod, Rhiannon’s uncle, stepped forward. Dudod’s green eyes sparkled wickedly as he took in Gwydion’s appearance, seeming to find something there that amused him. His eyes flickered to Rhiannon’s face and back to Gwydion’s. “You’ve changed, Dreamer,” Dudod said with delight.
“I have. More than you know, perhaps.”
“Oh, probably not. But more than others know.”
Gwydion grinned and all those around him, except Dudod, blinked in surprise. “No doubt. And I thank you, Bard, for your warning to Rhiannon the night I was taken. If I had not been so pig-headed, you would surely have saved me.”
Dudod’s brow rose. “I thank you, Gwydion. I am sorry that I was not in time.”
“Not your fault, Dudod. Mine and mine alone.”
Next he saw Ellywen, King Rhoram’s former Druid. He had expected to see her, for Cariadas had told him of her capture and rescue. But for a moment he blinked in surprise, for she was not at all the same woman he thought he knew. Her rich, brown hair was worn loose around her shoulders, held back from her face by a band of emeralds. Her gray eyes—eyes which Gwydion had always likened to ice—were warm and smiling.
“Gwydion ap Awst,” Ellywen said, her voice low and vibrant. “How glad we are to see you freed and healed.”
“And to see you free and healed, also, Ellywen,” Gwydion said with astonishment.
“Yes, Dreamer, I have been healed of who and what I was. But I am not free. I owe too much for that. I owe amends that I fear I can never truly make. But from now on, I will try.”
“The gods forgive us what we are, Ellywen,” Gwydion said. “And so we can forgive each other.”
“And ourselves?” she asked.
“Ah, perhaps the hardest part of all.”
He saw another face he thought he would never see again and smiled. At his gesture Talorcan stepped forward. He gripped the arm of the man who had once been his blood brother. “Talorcan of Dere, I am gladder to see you than I can say.”
Talorcan’s smile was strained and taut. “I have done what I have done. May my God forgive me.”
“Your God created you and all that you are,” Gwydion said sincerely. “He did not mean for you to be half a man, but all of what you were made to be.”
Talorcan’s smile became less strained and more genuine. “Regan is teaching me how to Wind-Ride.”
“Dewin you are, Talorcan, and Dewin you shall always be. Your new home is with us and we welcome you.” Gwydion bowed low over Regan’s hand then smiled at them both. “I am sure Regan is taking very good care of you.”
“Oh, I am, Dreamer,” Regan said with a smile. “I am indeed.”
“Gwydion,” Gwen said softly as she came forward. The golden light of the hall shimmered in her golden hair. She smiled, but something was changed in her face. The infatuation he had seen there for so long was gone and he breathed a silent sigh of relief as he pressed a kiss on her hand.
“My mam has done well by you,” Gwen said. “You look very nearly recovered.”
“Your mam is the only reason I am alive at all,” Gwydion answered as he turned briefly to look down at Rhiannon. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, turning it over to press a kiss on her palm. Rhiannon’s eyes darkened to smoky green and the light that Gwydion saw there made his pulse race. For a moment he passionately wished that they were alone. But there would be time for that later. For now, there was still one more person for him to greet.
He turned to face the dais and the man who sat on the golden throne. Gwydion gently disentangled his arm from Rhiannon and ascended the eight steps, never taking his eyes off of Arthur. As he reached the top step Arthur stood. For a moment the two men faced each other, each searching the other’s countenance, not speaking. They never really
knew which one moved first, for at the same time they each flung their arms open wide and grasped each other, pounding each other on the back and laughing. When they at last pulled back, Gwydion saw tears on Arthur’s cheeks and felt his own flowing down his face.
“Uncle,” Arthur rasped. “Uncle.” The scar on Arthur’s face whitened, as it always did when he was moved. “Thank all the gods, you live.”
“Thank Rhiannon that I live,” Gwydion murmured. “Without her—”
“At least you have learned how to be grateful.”
“I have indeed, nephew,” Gwydion said quietly. “Grateful to each one of you here, grateful most of all to you and Rhiannon. For she saved my life. And you saved hers at the clearing. I will never forget what I owe to you both.”
“And I will never forget what I owe you,” Arthur said, indicating the golden hall with a sweep of his hand. “For it is only because of you that we are here in Cadair Idris, that I am High King of Kymru, that we have a chance to free our country. Come, uncle, sit here,” Arthur went on, gesturing at a chair that had been set to one side of the throne. “Rhiannon says we must be sure you rest for a few more days.”
“Thank you,” Gwydion said as he gratefully sank down on the seat.
“My friends,” Arthur called, turning to the people that filled the great hall. “Now is our time to welcome those that have recently come to Cadair Idris. I welcome the Master Smiths of Kymru and their families.” The folk in the hall applauded as the Smiths briefly bowed. “And glad I am that they are here, for on the fourth level, the level of Y Rhlfwyr, the Warrior Twins, is a forge the likes of which we have never seen. And it is here that the Smiths have labored since their release, forging weapons of war for the Kymri—weapons that will play their part in freeing us from the Coranians.
“And I am glad to welcome among us Talorcan of Dere. For he is Dewin, and we welcome another child of Nantsovelta.” The crowd cheered for Talorcan and the Coranian general was obviously both surprised and overwhelmed.
Talorcan stepped forward to face the throne at the top of the dais. “High King of Kymru, I pledge to you my sword and my heart. For you are surely a man to be trusted, unlike the man to whom I previously swore my pledge. And I say to you, in the words of the poem of Queen Hildelinda:
“The covenants of companionship
Shall never be broken.
Death cannot touch us,
I am yours forever.”
Arthur inclined his head, then drew his blade, Cadalfwlch. At his gesture Talorcan ascended the dais and knelt before him. Arthur lightly touched Talorcan’s left shoulder with the shining blade, saying, “In the name of Annywyn, Lord of Chaos.” He then touched Talorcan’s right shoulder saying, “and his mate, Aertan the Weaver of Fate.” He stepped back, resting the point of Cadalfwch on the golden floor, his hand wrapped around the eagle-hilt. “Rise, Talorcan of Kymru,” Arthur said. “For you are my man, now and forever.”
Talorcan rose and there were tears in his light green eyes. He bowed briefly, then descended from the dais. He took Regan’s hand and lightly kissed her brow, his back straight and proud.
“And we welcome among us Ellywen ur Saidi, the Druid to King Rhoram of Prydyn. Come, Ellywen,” Arthur said, as she hesitated.
Ellywen ascended the dais and knelt before Arthur. “High King,” she began, “for my crimes—”
“Your crimes are forgiven, Ellywen,” Arthur said softly.
“I—”
“Forgiven,” he repeated. Gently he touched the blade to her left shoulder, then to her right. “In the name of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and Aertan the Weaver, you are mine.”
Ellywen bowed her head. “Then use me, High King. Use me to take back our land. For this I give my life and more.”
“Done,” Arthur said, for he was too wise to argue with her. “My friends,” he called to those in the hall. “Tonight we shall feast with each other. We shall laugh and talk together. We shall sing songs and play games. Later Gwydion, Rhiannon, and the Druids will come together to talk about the next step in the game—for soon the Archdruid will feel the wrath of Modron the Mother and all the Druids of Kymru will again be one with the rest of the Y Dawnus. For Cathbad has dared to use the tarw-casglaid to falsely declare Havgan the High King of Kymru.”
An angry hiss from those gathered in the hall made him grin. “My sentiments exactly,” he said and they laughed. “Come, let us adjourn to the banquet hall.” He turned to Gwydion and held out his hand. “Come, uncle,” he said quietly. “Come and let us plan together.”
Gwydion rose, firmly gripping Arthur’s arm. “Your da would have been proud of you, Arthur,” he said past the tightness in his throat that was always there when he spoke of his dead half-brother. “How I wish that Uthyr were here to see you.”
“How I wish he was, also,” Arthur said quietly. “For his loss, and for the loss of those others that we loved, the Golden Man will pay. Be assured of that.”
“I am, Arthur. Believe me, I am.”
“YOU ARE CERTAIN?” Arthur asked Aergol intently, his dark eyes sharp.
“I am,” Aergol answered. “Havgan will journey to Caer Duir with only Sigerric to keep him company. In this he will respect our tradition of the tarw-casglaid. Cathbad will insist on following the forms—though certainly not the spirit.”
Gwydion listened intently to the conversation here in the garden room but left it to Arthur to lead the discussion, as was right and proper now that Arthur was a man.
“Then would this not be our best chance to win this war?” Gwen asked.
“How so?” Rhiannon questioned.
Gwydion noticed that the rest of the Druids gathered in the chamber—Aergol, Sinend, Menw, Yrth, Aldur, Madryn, Ellywen, and Sabrina—tensed, for they knew where Gwen was going with her suggestion, even if Rhiannon did not.
“Why, if Havgan is almost alone, we could kill him then and there,” Gwen pointed out.
Rhiannon turned to the Druids gathered there, a shadow of shame in her green eyes. “I apologize for my daughter,” she said quietly. “She knows no better.”
“What?” Gwen asked. “What do you mean I know no—”
“The fault is not hers,” Rhiannon went on, raising her voice over Gwen’s. “It is mine. If she had been trained properly she never would have said such a thing.”
Aergol glanced at Madryn, Gwen’s teacher, with a question in his dark eyes.
Madryn nodded in agreement. “We have not chanced to speak of the ceremony, Archdruid’s heir,” she said to Aergol’s unspoken question. “She does not know.”
Gwen flushed, for it was obvious to her that she had committed a dreadful mistake. “I apologize for my ignorance,” she said stiffly, rising from her place with a humble bow and dropping her eyes before Aergol’s stern gaze. “I ask for your guidance, that I may learn.”
Gwydion’s brows rose at that, for the Gwen he remembered from not so long ago would have argued, would have accused, would have done anything to put others in the wrong. But this Gwen acknowledged that she had made an error and asked to be put right—though she was not particularly gracious about it. Gwydion guessed that Madryn had learned how to handle her pupil very well.
Aergol held out his hand to Gwen and she crossed the room to kneel before him. “Daughter of Modron, the tarw-casglaid is a ceremony that is sacred to the Mother. The purpose of that ceremony is for the Archdruid to declare a High King. The Archdruid drinks mistletoe, lays on the bull skin, and dreams. The dreams that the Mother sends him are sacred, for she speaks to us all through those dreams.”
Gwen nodded solemnly to indicate that she knew this.
“This ceremony is one of the most important ones to the Druids. We revere Modron the Mother with all our hearts. That Cathbad thinks to profane this ceremony by using it to declare Havgan as the High King of Kymru is abhorrent to us.”
Again Gwen nodded, her blue eyes wide.
“But how much worse still it would be if we ourselves intended to al
so profane that ceremony by spilling the blood of our enemy.
For that would not Modron turn her face from us forever? For that would we not lose the gifts she has given us? For that would we not lose our souls, as Cathbad has lost his?”
Aergol gently laid one hand on Gwen’s head and stroked her bright hair. “Daughter of Modron, do you now understand how we cannot even think of such a thing? Do you understand how it is that Havgan must walk out of Caer Duir unharmed?”
Gwen nodded solemnly and bowed her head. She then rose and turned to face all the folk gathered there. She looked at each Druid—at Yrth and Aldur, at Madryn and Menw, at Ellywen and Sabrina and Sinend. She looked at Rhiannon and at Gwydion. Lastly she gazed at Arthur. “I humbly beg pardon of each person here. I did not understand, but now I do. I was blinded by my wish for vengeance, and forgot my allegiance to Modron. I ask for the forgiveness of each one of you.”
“You are forgiven, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon,” Arthur said formally. “Most heartily and readily.” As Gwen again took her seat Arthur turned to Gwydion. “Uncle, have you anything to add to our plan?”
“Only one thing,” Gwydion said. “I would not be so sure, Aergol, that the Mother requires your death in atonement.”
“What do you mean, Dreamer?” Aergol asked in feigned surprise.
But Gwydion was not fooled. He knew what Aergol was secretly planning. And Aergol knew that Gwydion knew. That Arthur was now aware of it was enough for now. “Just keep that thought in mind and do not be too surprised if things turn out differently than you think. For the Mother has a way of surprising us all.” Gwydion smiled. “She is, after all, a woman.”
At Arthur’s gesture of dismissal they all rose, making their way out of the garden room to their own chambers. Gwydion took Rhiannon’s arm and they made their way up the stairs. He did not speak, for he was uncertain how to begin. At last they reached the door of his chamber. Rhiannon released his arm and turned to go, but Gwydion put his hand out and stopped her.
“Would you—would you care for a cup of wine?” he asked.
Her brow rose in surprise, but she nodded. “But just for a few moments,” she said as she followed him into the chamber. “You should rest.”
