May Earth Rise

by Holly Taylor

  Arianrod’s honey-blond hair was wrapped loosely in a linen band. She wore a simple, shapeless shift of creamy linen and a cloak of rich brown, for it was late spring and the nights were still cool. She laid a hand on her swollen belly, and felt the child leap beneath her fingers. She pressed a little harder in an attempt to be closer to her unborn son. She had a longing to hold him, a need to hold on to what she loved.

  For everything, everything else was slipping away.

  After the first few messages had come she had begged Havgan to leave Kymru. She had promised to leave Kymru with him, if he wished. She had promised to stay behind, if that was what he wanted. She had even promised that he could take their son and turn his back on her. Anything—anything he wanted. If only he would save his own life and leave Kymru far behind.

  But he always refused. And she understood at last that no amount of pleading would change his mind. And she understood what he needed from her. He needed her to believe in him. He needed her to tell him that he would defeat his enemies. He needed her to look into his amber eyes, so like her own, and tell him that she would never turn her face from him.

  And so she had. For she would do anything for him. Anything at all.

  For the past week she had been Wind-Riding, scouring Kymru as far as she could to give him any information she could find. Her abilities would let her see only twenty leagues away. It should have enabled her to see up to thirty, but her pregnancy was affecting her range. Nonetheless, twenty had been enough, so far, to tell him what he needed to know.

  She had seen that the Kymri were staging on the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. Soon, she knew, they would begin to march toward Eiodel. When Arthur was ready. She was surprised he hadn’t struck before this. But she thought she knew what he was waiting for. For the festival of Calan Llachar was only two days away. And this year, as there had been on the day Arthur was born eighteen years ago, there would be a total eclipse of the sun.

  That would be the day Arthur would strike. That would be the day Havgan died.

  She closed her eyes as tears spilled from them, flowing down her pale, strained face. She was glad Havgan was not here to see that. He and the others were even now in the hall, sitting down to the evening meal. But she was not ready to join him. Not yet. Not while she was weeping.

  To distract herself she began to Wind-Ride. She would not go to the west to once again see the campfires of the Kymri. She had seen that enough over the last week.

  So she Rode to the east. She expected nothing, so she was even more stunned by what she saw.

  HAVGAN SAT AT the table on the dais of the hall, resplendent in a golden tunic and ruby-red cloak. The fire pit in the middle of the hall shimmered golden and red, the smoke rising to the high rafters. The ruby eyes of the boar on Havgan’s golden banner glittered in the shifting firelight.

  He sipped his wine sparingly from a golden goblet, all the while eyeing the warriors gathered for the evening meal. It was important now, as never before, that they see him here confident and strong. So he nodded gravely to his captains, and kept his countenance calm and impassive. He spoke to Sigerric and even to Penda in even, measured tones.

  As always, he ignored Aelfwyn.

  His wife’s green eyes sparkled maliciously as she surveyed her husband. She knew that his situation was desperate. She knew that he would never run from the coming battle. She knew—or hoped, at least—that he would die.

  But in that, as in all else, he was determined to disappoint her, for there was still time. Still time for Torgar to have delivered his message to Prince Aesc. Still time for Aesc to have brought his men to Kymru.

  He knew in his heart that this had indeed happened, even though he could tell no one. He had not even told Arianrod of his dreams for the last week. In those dreams a herd of boars touched the shores of Kymru, heading straight for Eiodel like a dark arrow. He knew that he should not be having these dreams. And so, as he had done his whole life, he turned away from the message that had been trying to reach him for so long. And he did not acknowledge the truth, truth that was as close to him as his shadow, as it had always been.

  He had no dreams, he insisted to himself. Only hopes.

  Suddenly he saw Arianrod hurrying toward him through the hall, her amber eyes alight, a smile on her beautiful face. She rushed through the crowd and leapt up the steps to the dais. Havgan rose as she neared him and she curtsied deeply.

  “My lord Havgan,” she said, in a clear, carrying tone, “I bring you great news.”

  “Rise, then, my heart, and say your news,” Havgan said, coming around the table and putting out his hands to help her to her feet.

  “Reinforcements,” she said crisply, “have arrived.”

  “What have you seen?” Sigerric asked, rising to his feet as the warriors in the hall fell silent to hear her reply.

  “Campfires, two days east of Eiodel. Over eight thousand Coranian warriors flying the banners of Prince Aesc. They come to aid you, my lord. To ensure your victory.”

  The tumult was incredible, as the warriors began to cheer. Havgan smiled, though he had known all along that this was true.

  “Havgan,” Sigerric said urgently, in a low tone. “If she saw them tonight you can be sure that Arthur saw them many days ago.”

  “No doubt,” Havgan replied.

  “Then why has he not changed his plans?” Penda asked. “For we know that he has only twelve thousand. With these reinforcements we are now twenty thousand. And still he thinks to pit his forces against ours? Why? What does he know that we do not?”

  But before Havgan could answer a heart-rending wail sounded out, echoing through the halls of Eiodel. Men paled at the sound and their hands went automatically to their weapons. Aelfwyn, perhaps not even realizing it, reached out and gripped Sigerric’s hand. The color drained completely out of Arianrod’s face and she clutched Havgan’s arm, her eyes wide with fear.

  “What is it?” he asked her, for he could tell from her face that she knew.

  “The Washer at the Ford,” she whispered.

  “What is this Washer at the Ford?” Sigerric asked.

  “She is death. War. Blood and sorrow,” Arianrod answered, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  “You have seen her before,” Havgan said.

  “Yes. Once, before you came, I stood with Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Dinaswyn and we watched her show us of the sorrow to come. She comes to you now, my love, to tell you of what will be.”

  “Then let us go to her,” Havgan said quietly. “Show us.”

  Havgan, Sigerric, Penda, and Aelwfyn followed Arianrod out of Eiodel and across the darkened plain. At Havgan’s command his warriors stayed where they were, for he did not think he wanted them to see this sight.

  They followed the sound toward Cadair Idris. Havgan and Arianrod were in the lead, and he slowed his steps to match hers, careful that she did not fall. Behind him Sigerric escorted Aelfwyn, who still had not let go of his hand. Penda brought up the rear.

  As they neared the mountain they saw a red glow began to take shape in the middle of the plain. The glowing ruby-colored light seemed to be shining out of the ground itself. At Aelfwyn’s gasp Havgan looked beyond the light and saw the Arthur himself, flanked by Gwydion and Rhiannon, who had emerged from Cadair Idris and were also making their way to the light. He noticed that Rhiannon walked slowly and carefully, and that Gwydion’s arm hovered near hers as though ready to catch her if she stumbled.

  The three came to stand on the fringes of the glow, while Havgan and his people stood on the opposite side. They eyed each other cautiously, but did not move.

  A darker red shimmer began to coalesce inside the glow. They could make out the figure of a woman with long, blood-spattered golden hair. A raven perched on her thin shoulder, its eyes glowing ruby red. She lifted her grief-stricken face to the sky and wailed. The sound cut through their hearts like a knife. A river of blood gathered at her feet and she plunged her hands into the scarlet liquid. She lifted her
cupped, blood-filled hands out of the river and to the sky, still crying out. Then she poured the blood over her head and let it flow down her face like tears.

  “She is called Gwrach Y Rhibyn,” Rhiannon said quietly.

  “She tells us that death is coming for you,” Gwydion said, his silver eyes glittering at Havgan.

  “She tells us that death is coming for both Coranian and Kymri alike,” Havgan replied. “And you know it, Dreamer.” He turned to Rhiannon. “You are injured, Dewin.”

  “I was,” Rhiannon admitted, “on Afalon.”

  “There were,” Gwydion said, “none left alive afterwards to tell you.” His keen, silvery eyes studied Havgan as he went on. “Talorcan helped us. Without him, we could not have done it.”

  Sigerric and Penda exchanged a glance. Although they did not speak it was clear in their faces that they were glad to hear news of their friend. But Havgan did not respond at all, merely looking over at Arthur, studying his enemy.

  “Havgan, son of Hengist,” Arthur said, “I have given you my message over and over. Why are you still here?”

  “I will never leave Kymru. It is you, son of Uthyr, who will die. Not I.”

  “In two days it will be Calan Llachar. That is the day of my birth, eighteen years ago,” Arthur said. “That is the day when we will battle for Kymru.”

  “Agreed,” Havgan said. “You know, of course, that my reinforcements have arrived.”

  “I do,” Arthur replied. “And it makes no difference.”

  “False bravado, Arthur ap Uthyr, will not save your life.”

  “Nor will turning away from the truth save yours,” Arthur said. “I challenge you to single combat to take place at dawn on Calan Llachar before our armies.”

  “Done,” Havgan replied.

  The Washer at the Ford gave a final scream and then began to fade away, the red light getting weaker, leaving a crimson afterimage in the mind’s eye. Arthur, Gwydion, and Rhiannon turned to go but Gwydion stopped and turned back to face Havgan.

  “Havgan,” Gwydion said, “don’t do this.”

  “There speaks my false brother,” Havgan said bitterly.

  “He won’t listen,” Sigerric said sadly.

  “I know,” Gwydion said quietly. “He never has.”

  GWYDION SAT ON a rug before the hearth as the golden fire crackled and danced. The firelight in the Dreamer’s chamber in Cadair Idris played off of the banner of a raven with opal eyes that hung on one of the walls. Gwydion sipped wine slowly from a golden goblet chased with opals as he thought about the events of the evening.

  They had been in the garden room when they had heard the cry of the Washer at the Ford. They had not expected it and had certainly not expected to see Havgan.

  And he had tried, once again, to get Havgan to leave, to find a way to spare the life of his deadly enemy. He honestly did not understand what continued to compel him to do that. But something did.

  He rolled the goblet gently between his hands, thinking. The Kymric forces from the four kingdoms had been gathering at Llyn Mwyngil for the last few weeks. Tomorrow they would march halfway to Eiodel in preparation for the final battle two days from now.

  And it would be final. If they lost the battle, Kymru was lost. There would be no second chance. When they had discovered over a week ago that Coranian reinforcements were on their way, his heart had contracted in fear. For though it was true that the Y Dawnus they had rescued from Avalon were doing well, and that most of them had fully recovered from their ordeal, the Kymri were still badly outnumbered.

  But he had not said anything to Arthur, had not urged the High King to wait for another time.

  For he knew as well as Arthur that Calan Llachar was the day. And there would be no turning back. That was the day when everything could be won—or lost. He did not know which it would be, for he had been given no dreams. The Shining Ones were conspicuously silent. Perhaps they, themselves, did not even know.

  A hand appeared on his shoulder and a sweet voice whispered in his ear. “Come to bed, cariad.”

  He reached up and took her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing her palm. He thought of how he had nearly lost her just a few short weeks ago. She was steadily recovering, recovering well enough to have some roaring arguments with him about her health. Tonight he would hold her in his arms and lay awake for as long as he could. He wanted to savor that. Because he did not know how much more time they would have. Eventually, he would fall asleep. It would not matter if he did, for he would not dream. The Shining Ones had no dreams to send.

  But in this, he was wrong.

  HE WAS A BLACK raven, with glittering, opal eyes. Cadair Idris stood to the north, its Doors glowing golden in the fading light as the moon slowly cast a shadow across the sun. To the south stood the dark fortress of Eiodel, gleaming like onyx in the uncertain light.

  Behind him ranged a band of wolves with emerald eyes, brown hawks with tailfeathers of sapphire blue, fierce white horses with golden manes, and pearl-white swans with glittering wings. Beside him ranged silver dragons, brown bulls, and blue nightingales.

  And before him was a massive eagle with a torque around its proud neck. The pearl, emerald, opal, sapphire, and onyx of the torque gleamed brightly beneath the darkening sky.

  Facing the eagle a huge, golden boar waited with eyes of ruby red. And behind the boar ranged a mass of boars, the herd fanning out across the plain.

  And the raven understood that there were too many, far too many boars. He understood that it was hopeless. And he wanted to turn away. But something made him look up. And what he saw hovering in the sky made him cry out.

  For to the north, over Cadair Idris the Wild Hunt massed. The white dogs of Annwyn barked and capered, anxious for the hunt. The warriors of the hunt sat their horses, rock steady in the dimming sky.

  The raven knew that if the Kymric hunt did not come to their aid then Kymru was lost. So he called out for the Hunt, but they did not move from their place in the sky. He called out again, pleading. But still they would not move.

  And he called out a third time in pain, in anguish, knowing that his land was lost.

  And so he awoke with his own despairing cries sounding in his ears.

  SHE POUNDED FRANTICALLY on the chamber door. Rhiannon opened the door so suddenly that she almost fell into the room. She was weeping and she moved into her father’s waiting arms blindly. He held her, saying nothing. She could tell that he knew. And she wondered if he had guessed that this would happen now.

  The room seemed to be filling rapidly. Raising her head from her da’s shoulder she saw Arthur, Gwen, Elstar, and Elidyr rush into the room. She saw Sinend, Aergol, Cynfar, and Dudod. She saw Myrrdin and Neuad. And then she saw the one she sought. Llywelyn’s gaze steadied her, and her tense shoulders relaxed a fraction.

  “Uncle?” Arthur asked.

  “Tonight I have had a dream,” Gwydion said, his tone carrying to all in the chamber.

  “Tell us,” Arthur urged.

  “That I cannot do,” Gwydion said. “For it is no longer my place.”

  Gwydion reached up and unclasped the torque of gold and opals from his neck. Solemnly he put it around Cariadas’ neck, and fastened the clasp. The torque was warm, resting easily, so naturally against her skin.

  Gwydion stepped back and bowed to her. The rest of those in the chamber did likewise. She looked up into her da’s silvery eyes and saw the love there, and the sorrow, too. Sorrow for what had come to her. Sorrow for the burden that was now hers to carry.

  “I had a dream,” Cariadas, the new Dreamer of Kymru, said.

  Chapter

  * * *

  Twenty-one

  Llyn Mwyngil & Cadair Idris,

  Gwytheryn

  Gwernan Mis, 500

  Meriwydd, Lleihau Wythnos—morning

  Owein woke with Sanon cradled in his arms. The walls of their tent rippled slightly as a light breeze rose from Afalon and shifted over the lake of Llyn Mwyngil onto the
shore where the Kymri camped.

  Today they would march along Sarn Ermyn across Gwytheryn to mass before Cadair Idris and Eiodel. Tomorrow they would fight. Tomorrow would be the last throw of the dice in the game of freedom. Tomorrow, some of those he loved would undoubtedly die. If the Shining Ones were kind, his wife would not be one of these. For if they took her, his heart would die as it had once before when his mother, his father, and his brother were killed. Sanon’s love had brought him back to life after that. If he lost her tomorrow he did not think anyone or anything would ever bring him back.

  Sanon stirred in his arms as if sensing his thoughts. Her dark eyes opened and she looked up at him. She smiled slowly and lifted her face for his kiss.

  He could have done more than kiss her—much more—if his brother had not chosen that very moment to want to speak to him.

  “Owein?” Rhiwallon inquired from just outside the tent. “Are you awake?”

  With a rueful look beneath the blanket he answered, “I certainly appear to be.”

  “I must speak with you.”

  Sanon laughed briefly as Owein’s sigh. “There will be time for that later, Owein,” she said.

  “Promise?”

  “Oh, my, yes.”

  He rose and dressed quickly in a tunic and trousers of red and white. He pulled on his boots and left the tent, securely closing the tent flap behind him.

  He greeted his younger brother then held out his hands to the campfire to warm them. The mornings were chilly here by the lake.

  His lieutenant, Teleri, and her new husband, Gwarae Golden-Hair, also stood next to the fire. Gwarae stood behind Teleri, his arms wrapped around her tiny waist, her head just resting on the curve of his shoulder.

  “Trystan?” Owein asked.

  “Seeing if Sabrina is awake,” Teleri said.

  “And, if not, seeing what he might be able to do to wake her,” Gwarae added, with a grin.