by Holly Taylor
Cabal, the hound that had followed him back from Afalon, raised his head to look up at his master. Arthur laid his hand on the dog’s head. “They don’t need to,” he said.
OPPOSITE THE KYMRIC army the Coranian army massed, black Eiodel at their back. Sigerric and Penda stood at the forefront of the army, flanking Havgan, while Prince Aesc stood behind him.
Havgan was resplendent in red and gold. His golden cloak whipped about him in the wind, his bright hair streaming behind him. His amber eyes glowed as he took in the opposing army, a half smile on his handsome face.
Arianrod and Aelfwyn stood on the battlements of Eiodel. Arch-Byshop Eadwig stood with them while hundreds of preosts of Lytir filled the dark fortress. Havgan had recalled all of them from Y Ty Dewin for he had wanted all his people gathered to watch this battle. He had also recalled the remaining wyrce-jaga from Neuadd Gorsedd. They stood in a tight knot before the gates of Eiodel, their black robes contrasting with their pale faces. They knew that the Kymri had killed every wyrce-jaga in the four kingdoms, and they could expect no quarter.
Havgan knew, of course, that both the preosts and the wyrce-jaga would be shocked at what he meant to do today. But he cared nothing for that.
Behind Havgan twenty thousand Coranian warriors waited. Unlike the Kymri, they were not mounted. They wore metal byrnies that reached down to mid-thigh and carried shields and axes. Their faces were fierce and the light of battle was in their eyes.
“I can see Talorcan,” Sigerric said, squinting into the mass of Y Dawnus.
Havgan did not bother to look, for he had seen Talorcan the moment he had neared the Kymric army.
“He looks happy,” Penda said, envy in his voice.
“He looks free,” Sigerric replied.
“If either of you wish to join the Kymri, you are welcome to do it,” Havgan said serenely. For he had known these two men a long time. And he knew exactly what they would and would not do. Today they would fight with everything they had to ensure a Coranian victory. Tomorrow would be another matter.
His day had come. His whole life had been leading up to this moment. Everything that had ever happened to him, every move that he had ever made had brought him here, facing Arthur ap Uthyr, with Eiodel at his back and Cadair Idris before him.
Today was the day he would be made High King of Kymru. Today was the day that Drwys Idris would acknowledge him, and allow him to enter. For that was how it had been meant to be from the beginning. He knew that now.
He looked behind him, to the battlements of Eiodel. His eyes passed over his wife, Aelfwyn, and Eadwig, his Arch-Byshop, going directly to the love of his heart, Arianrod. Her tawny hair was muted in the fading light, but he knew that her amber eyes were bright, fixed on him. She raised her hand to him as a sudden gust of wind blew her gown tightly to her body, illuminating her pregnancy. She carried a son beneath her heart. His son. He would win the world for that child, and hand it to him.
Absently he fingered the prayer beads he held in his hand. In Corania they called it the kranzlein, the little wreath. The beads of white, red, and orange, of yellow, green, blue, and violet, flashed beneath his restless fingers. The kranzlein had been in his hands the night that his father had died. And the night the former Bana had been consumed by fire. The kranzlein had helped him to focus his prayers. He had always thought that it had been Lytir who had heard them and chosen to answer.
But now he knew better.
It was time. He could feel it singing in his bones. Now.
IT WAS TIME, Arthur thought. He could feel it singing in his blood. Now.
He turned to Rhiannon. “Call them,” he said quietly.
Rhiannon lifted her hands to the darkening sky. Her voice suddenly huge and powerful, she cried out. “Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, Protectors of Kymru, come to me! Hounds of Annwyn, come to me! Wild Hunt of Kymru, I call you in this the hour of our need!”
Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of horns. The sound echoed across the darkening sky. The horizon to the west glowed brighter and brighter as something approached. Then the Hunt burst into their sight, bringing a silvery light with them. The white Hounds of Annwyn with blood-red eyes bayed as they gamboled overhead, mingling with the mounted warriors of the Hunt.
Cerrunnos and Cerridwen, the Protectors of Kymri, led the Hunt. Cerrunnos rode a horse as white and shining as the moon, while Cerridwen rode a steed as dark as a night shadow. Cerrunnos’ owl eyes and antlered forehead gleamed and Cerridwen’s amythest eyes surveyed the battlefield below without pity.
Just behind them rode three figures that made the Kymric army gasp. Each figure wore a shadowy torque around his neck, a replica of the torque Arthur wore. They each carried a ghostly sword, exactly like the one Arthur held. And each one wore a flickering helmet of gold and silver, fashioned like that of an eagle, on his proud head. The Kymri below recognized these legendary figures as the former High Kings of Kymru—Idris, Macsen, and Lleu Silver-Hand.
The warriors of the host streamed out behind them, waiting silently, spread out across the darkening sky, their faces stern, their eyes bright and pitiless as diamonds, and mounted on horses of moonlight and midnight, of starlight and shadow. Silvery spears and shining swords were clasped in their hands as they confronted the Coranian army below.
The sight of the Wild Hunt heartened the Kymri. Today, against all odds, they would stand and face the enemy, and those that died that day would find a welcome from those above them.
The Hunt had come from Gwlad Yr Haf, to fight for Kymru.
THE CORANIANS CRIED out when the Wild Hunt filled the sky. The yellow-robed preosts began to chant prayers to Lytir. The black-robed wyrce-jaga joined in. Sigerric, Penda, and Aesc gripped their weapons tighter, all three of them emitting a ragged gasp of shock. But Havgan had not moved. For he had known of this, he had dreamt it, and he was not afraid.
He drew the kranzlein through his restless fingers, never taking his eyes off the eastern horizon. Once he would have prayed to Lytir when he held the beads, but now he knew better. He would not call on Lytir, the supposed One God. For that God was powerless. He would call on the one who had brought him here. The one who had guided his life from the beginning, just as the wyrd-galdra cards had told him years ago. He had not listened then. But things had changed. He was listening now.
He bowed his head, staring at the beads, saying the words in his mind.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
“Havgan,” Sigerric said, putting his hand on Havgan’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
But he did not answer. He stared down at the beads and he moved them from hand to hand, the beads now shimmering in the uncertain, dimming light.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
“Havgan,” Penda said desperately, “their Hunt is above us! The men are terrified.”
But Havgan did not answer.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
The beads began to glow brighter. To the east, a wan, golden light appeared on the horizon. From far, far away thunder sounded faintly. Sweat beaded Havgan’s brow. They had told him, once, that they would not come across the sea. But Havgan knew they would come to him.
I hung on the windy tree, hung for night full nine; With the spear I was wounded; On the tree whose roots no one can know.
The golden light grew, and thunder rumbled. Then lighting split the sky. And suddenly they were there.
Sigerric gasped. “Havgan, what have you done?”
“What I was born to do,” he said calmly.
Overhead the Coranian Wild Hunt massed in the sky above dark Eiodel. In the forefront of the Hunt Wuotan One-Eye sat on his horse. Lighting flashed as he lifted his spear. Next to him Holda, Lady of the Waters, raised
her tawny head. Her sea-green eyes glowed brightly and as she sounded her horn thunder cried out, shaking the ground. Behind them dead warriors sat their wraithlike horses, madness in their eyes and weapons in their ghostly hands. White dogs with ruby eyes capered and leapt, ready for battle. And here and there throughout the hunt fierce Valkyries raised their snow-pale heads, waiting for their chance to descend to the battlefield and begin the dreadful harvest of the souls that they craved.
Cariadas turned to Arthur, a hint of desperation in her silvery eyes, though she kept her voice steady. “Havgan has called his own Wild Hunt. Our Hunt will not tip the scales in our favor now. The boon you asked Aertan and Annwyn for is useless.”
Surprisingly, Arthur smiled. “But that was not what I asked for.”
Motioning for Gwydion and Rhiannon to follow him, he stepped out onto the battlefield, walking toward the Golden Man of Corania, going to meet his destiny.
“Oh, Havgan,” Sigerric murmured, “oh, my heart’s brother.”
“Oh, my one-time friend,” Penda breathed, “what have you done?”
Havgan turned to his two generals, his amber eyes serene.
“Did you not know? Did you not see? It was Wuotan all along. It was he that raised me from a mere fisherman’s son to be a part of the highest councils in the land. It was he that sent me to Kymru, to find the truth.”
Havgan stepped forward then to meet Arthur. He held his golden head high as Sigerric and Penda followed him. He did not appear to hear Sigerric’s next comment.
“Oh, Havgan,” Siggeric said sadly, “I think it was something else entirely that sent you here.”
THEY MET IN THE center of the battlefield. Unlit torches were set in the ground at regular intervals, ringing the perimeter. Arthur, dressed in silver and black and flanked by Gwydion and Rhiannon, faced Havgan, who glowed in red and gold, Sigerric and Penda beside him.
Gwydion clenched his fists as he stared at Havgan. Overhead the western sky darkened, illuminated only by the silvery light emanating from the Kymric Wild Hunt. The sun narrowed to a fiery crescent as the surrounding sky darkened to violet. To the east the sky was lighter, and the Coranian Wild Hunt glowed with a golden light.
And it was there, in the path of the moon’s shadow, that Gwydion began to understand what he knew he should have seen all along. He had caught glimpses of it before throughout the years, but he had not understood. He began to get the faintest glimmering of what had made him save Havgan’s life in Corania, of what had made him both love and hate his one time blood-brother, of what the battle in his heart had truly meant. For he saw at last, in the coming darkness, as the moon leached away Havgan’s red and gold, what had been hidden from his mind’s eye for so long.
“In Kymric, Havgan means ‘Summershine,'” Arthur said, unexpectedly.
“Son of Uthyr,” Havgan replied, “today you will die.”
“Son of—” Arthur stopped as though he had spoken too soon. “Tell me, what has made you run so long and hard from the truth? Why?”
“I run from the truth no longer. There is magic in me. There always was. And it was Wuotan One-Eye who put it there. He has brought me here, to rule you. Your Hunt is useless. And your army is outnumbered. Bow to me, and you will live.”
“The truth you think you know is false. Still you are running.”
“I see what there is to see.”
“No. If you have magic, where did it come from? If you were drawn here, why? Your answers to those questions are wrong.”
“They are not. The truth is here, in me. The truth is in the eyes of my beloved Arianrod. The truth is in my dreams. The truth is in Cadair Idris, which will be mine before the day is over. That is the truth.”
“You twist the truth. You always have. I would spare you, if I could.”
“I do not want or need your pity, son of Uthyr. You may keep it. Everything else, you will lose.” Havgan turned to Gwydion, his amber eyes gleaming in the violet light. “And you, false blood brother, I will kill you today.”
“Oh, Havgan,” Gwydion said, his throat tight with unshed tears, with unspeakable sorrow, “I beg you—”
“You beg me? You beg me for what? For your life? For the life of the boy beside you? For the life of the woman you love? Beg me, my traitorous blood brother. It will get you nothing, but it will please me.”
But Gwydion did not answer him. Instead he turned his gaze to Sigerric and Penda. “One-time brothers, you have followed Havgan against your hearts, against your wills, against your very souls. Follow him no longer. Be free.”
“Free?” Sigerric asked with a twisted smile. “I am what I am. That is all I will ever be.”
“And you, Penda?” Gwydion pressed. “Is it too late for you?”
Penda gazed not at Gwydion, but at Arthur. The High King’s dark eyes gleamed and his scar whitened briefly as Penda answered. “If I survive this battle I will return to my native Mierce, to my home in the shadow of Mount Badon. And never do battle again.”
Arthur smiled. “I do not think, Penda of Mierce, that will be your fate should you return home.”
“Perhaps not, High King.”
“Enough,” Havgan said quietly. “Arthur ap Uthyr, your business is with me.”
“So it is. ‘Shall this not be a fair day of freedom,’ Havgan?” Arthur asked, quoting from Anieron’s last song. “'Silence will be your portion, and you will taste death.’ You remember those words, don’t you?”
Havgan smiled. “Anieron died by my hand.”
“But was freed from you before he died. Enough, Havgan. Have done. It is time to face the truth.” Arthur turned to the sky, and raised his hand to the Kymric Hunt. Cerridwen and Cerrunnos nodded, and motioned for two figures to detach themselves and ride forward across the sky.
The first figure was a man, with eyes of glowing amber. The second was a woman, with tawny hair. They rode down together, their shadowy horses alighting beside Arthur as Gwydion and Rhiannon stepped back—the woman on Arthur’s right, the man on Arthur’s left.
“Havgan, this is the shade of Brychan ap Cynfan, brother to Gwydion’s father, Awst.”
The man’s handsome face was stern, but there was pity in his amber eyes as he stared at Havgan. Havgan stared back at the man, his expression carefully still, a spark of recognition, swiftly quenched, in his eyes.
“And this,” Arthur went on, gesturing to the woman, “is the ghost of Arianllyn ur Darun. She was sister to Indeg, Rhiannon’s mother.”
The woman’s tawny hair streamed out behind her in the breeze. Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed down at Havgan. Havgan gasped as the women’s hair was lifted by the wind, recognition no longer held at bay.
And now Gwydion fully understood what Arthur had seen in Gwlad Yr Haf. And he knew what Arthur had asked for. Pain stabbed his heart, an ache so fierce he could barely breathe. Rhiannon reached out and took his hand in hers, giving him the strength he needed, as she always had. Strength enough not to look away, as he longed to do, but to fully see what he must see.
Arthur went on, his voice implacable but his dark eyes lustrous with pity. “These two were the parents of Arianrod, your lover.”
As though against his will, Havgan turned briefly to gaze back at Arianrod. She had one hand to her mouth, her other hand on her belly. The woman lifted her hand to Arianrod, despair written on her beautiful features. The man covered his eyes and turned away from the sight of his pregnant daughter.
And as Havgan turned back around to face them, Gwydion saw that he understood, at last.
“When Arianrod was only a very little girl, our Dreamer, Dinaswyn, had a dream,” Arthur said quietly. “The dream told her that Brychan and Arianllyn were to go to Corania. And so they went, leaving their little daughter behind. They arrived in Athelin and stayed there for almost a year, as Dinaswyn had told them to do. Finally, they embarked on a ship to go home. But the ship was caught in a sudden storm. Brychan was drowned when the ship went down. But Arianllyn was not. She b
arely made it alive to shore. There she made her way to the hut of a fisherman. His name was Hengist. And there she gave birth to a son, named him, then died.”
Havgan went white to the lips. On the dark battlements Arianrod screamed in despair and dropped to her knees, sobbing in anguish and misery, in horror and shame.
Arthur waited a moment, his features struggling with something else. Gwydion saw that Arthur had another thing to say and he was afraid he knew exactly what it was.
“Havgan ap Brychan var Arianllyn,” Arthur said solemnly, “you were born to be the Dreamer of Kymru.”
Havgan swiftly raised his eyes to Gwydion. Golden-amber met silver-gray as the two men stared at each other.
“When the Shining Ones saw that you were to be raised in Corania they sent a new Dreamer to Kymru in your place. Gwydion ap Awst was born soon after you were.”
“This is what you learned in Gwlad Yr Haf?” Gwydion asked Arthur in a strangled voice.
“This is what I learned,” Arthur answered.
“Which is why you would tell us nothing when you came back.”
“Yes.”
“Your Shining Ones are cruel,” Sigerric said, white-faced.
“They do not arrange our fate,” Arthur said. “They merely strengthen us to meet it.”
Havgan turned away from Gwydion and looked again at the ghostly figures of his mother and father.
“My son, my son,” Arianllyn said with tears in her voice.
“What have you done?” Brychan asked, his amber eyes flashing.
“You left me!” Havgan cried out, rage and anguish in his cry. “You left me!”
“We sent for you,” Arianllyn said quietly.
“Time and again,” Brychan said.
“We sent you a dream, a dream of me, looking out to sea to the west,” Arianllyn went on. “So that you would know to go across the sea, to return to Kymru.”
“I sent you to the vallas, who told you that you had what the Coranians would call ‘magic’ inside you,” Brychan went on. “Who warned you against turning away from it.”
