by Holly Taylor
“The wyrd-galdra told you what you were,” Arianllyn said. “But you would not listen.”
“He has never listened,” Sigerric whispered. “Never.”
“But he was told,” Brychan said, his voice implacable. “The day you came to Y Ty Dewin and saw Cynan Ardewin on the steps. He recognized you. You saw it in his eyes. So you killed him. But he whispered a word to you before he died, didn’t he? He said, ‘nephew.’ But because you did not want to hear, you did not hear. Because you did not want to know, you did not know.”
“Wasn’t that the real reason you broke Anieron Master Bard’s hands?” Arianllyn said, her voice soft but relentless. “You saw the truth in his eyes and had to ensure he could communicate to no one. And then there was the day you met Dinaswyn the Dreamer. She tried to tell you. But you killed her before she could speak. You would not hear, you would not listen.”
“I am not listening now!” Havgan cried. “You left me all alone! And now look what has been done! Do you know whose child your daughter carries? She carries the child of her brother! She carries my child! You let this happen! I will not listen to you, for you left me!”
“Then there is nothing more to say to you, Havgan ap Brychan var Arianllyn,” Brychan said, “except for this. We will continue to wait for you, as we have waited for so long. Know that if your soul is parted from your body this day, it will not go to Gwlad Yr Haf alone. We will stay, and wait for you, and never leave you alone again.”
“Never again,” Arianllyn said, tears in her voice. “And when the time comes to take your sister home, we will do it together. Neither of you will ever be alone again.”
Arianllyn turned to Eiodel and reached out a hand to Arianrod, in farewell. Brychan also raised his hand in salute to his daughter. Then he and Arianllyn turned to go, riding up back into the darkening, violet sky to rejoin the Hunt.
DARKNESS SPREAD IN the west, rising up above the horizon, showing a strange, yellow twilight beneath. High above, the moon continued to move before the sun, cutting off the sunlight, casting its shadow below. The crescent sun turned silvery white in surrender, as though trying to emulate the moon.
Gwydion, tears streaming down his drawn face, stepped forward. He lifted his hands and called out, his voice strong and sure. “Today Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, champion of Kymru, calls for single combat with Havgan ap Brychan var Arianllyn.”
Havgan’s amber eyes blazed at the name, but he did not challenge it. Nor did he turn to the battlements when Arianrod moaned in anguish. He did not take his amber gaze from Arthur, nor did Arthur take his gaze away from Havgan.
“Today,” Gwydion went on, “the High King of Kymru will do battle with the Golden Man. And from this battle the fate of Kymru will be decided. Step forward, then, champions, and do battle.”
Arthur stepped forward with Caladfwlch in his hand, while Gwydion and Rhiannon stepped back. Havgan, his sword, Grum, in his hand, stepped forward, as Sigerric and Penda retreated. Havgan’s golden sword with the ruby hilt glittered even as the sunlight died overhead. The torches sprang to life, lit by Druid’s Fire, to illuminate the battle between the two men. They would fight with their swords only, no shields or other weapons.
Arthur raised Caldafwlch and the bluish torchlight ran greedily over the silver blade. Havgan raised golden Grum. The two swords clashed, the sound ringing over the land and up into the dark sky. Sparks flashed as the blades met.
The last fight for Kymru had begun.
GWYDION FORCED HIMSELF to stand still as the two men fought. A wind rose, keening in his ears like a lost soul. His heart ached and his mind whirled with the news that Havgan was to have been the Dreamer. What would Gwydion himself have done if he had been left alone in a strange land? Would he have done better than his cousin? He suddenly pitied Havgan with all his heart. Who could blame the Golden Man for the things he had done?
“He would not listen, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said quietly.
She had known what he was thinking. She always did.
“But—”
“That was his choice. That was the choice he made from the beginning. That was the choice that brought him here.”
“I know,” Gwydion said sadly. “I know.”
Havgan swung his sword with all the rage he had in his heart. Each time he did Caladfwlch met and absorbed the blow. But that would not last, Havgan thought. Arthur was just a boy. Havgan was a man, and Arthur would tire long before Havgan did.
Even as Havgan concentrated on the battle his mind was in turmoil. He should have been the Dreamer. Because he had been deserted, left alone, stranded in a strange country, Gwydion had taken his place. Gwydion, his heart’s brother, was all that Havgan should have been. No wonder he had loved Gwydion. And no wonder the Dreamer’s betrayal had cut him to the heart.
Quickly he glanced over at Gwydion. And for the first time he saw what few others had seen—that he and Gwydion looked enough alike to be twins. He had never seen it—few had. What had blinded him? What had blinded them all?
He gritted his teeth and swung Grum again and again. The reflection of blue-tinged Druid’s Fire crawled greedily up the golden blade as he fought to keep Caladfwlch from coming too close, from drinking his blood.
As Arthur struck back again and again Havgan felt as though the boy was no longer holding a sword, but rather cruel fate itself fought against him. All his life fate had hammered at him, seeking to shape him, drive him, crush him. But he would not let it. He would make his own fate. He would fashion his own truth. He always had.
Overhead, the sun’s light was completely blotted out by the moon. The only light coming from the sky was from the two Hunts, silver and gold, as they waited silently for the outcome of the combat below. The moon’s shadow thickened; the torches around the perimeter of the battle flickered feebly against the darkness, whipped mercilessly by the moaning wind.
Yes, he had fashioned his own truth.
And it had been wrong.
The thought jarred him, but did not stop him from parrying Caldfwlch’s relentless blows. He remembered the wyrd-galdra reading he had had—the same reading three times those years ago in Corania when he was planning to invade Kymru. He remembered the card for Holda of the Waters, symbol of hidden influences. He remembered the Hanged Man, Wuotan, god of Magic and Wisdom. He remembered the card for Fal, god of Light, the guide. That card had always stood for what he was most afraid of. And then there had been the card for Narve, god of Death. And that had stood for what he most longed for. It hadn’t meant death, really. It had meant ultimate change, transformation, and renewal.
It had all been true. And that truth was what he had run from. Time and again.
Yes, he had run from the truth. He had run so long and so far it had brought him here, to the place that was his real home. But he had not come home the way he should have. He had come home with blood on his hands and rage in his heart. He had come to Kymru and found love—with his sister. What kind of child did she carry beneath her heart? What would come of a mating with a brother Dreamer and a sister Dewin?
He had brought death and tears to Kymru, to his home. He had killed Cynan, Anieron, and Dinaswyn because they had held the truth in their eyes. He had razed his home, striving for mastery over it rather than to live in it. So peace had been denied him.
They had sent messages to him from across the void that separated the living from the dead. They had tried to tell him, but he had not listened.
No, he had not listened. All his life he had refused to do so. And now his final choice was on him. He could continue not to listen, he could pretend not to know. Or he could change everything. It was late, indeed, to change.
But not too late—he was listening now. He had wanted to doubt Arthur’s word—that Brychan and Arianllyn were his parents. But he had known—oh, he had known—from the moment he saw them who they were.
When he had looked into his father’s keen, amber eyes he had known. When the wind had lifted his mother’s tawny hair,
he had known. He had known the full truth then from the singing in his blood, from the tingling in his bones, from the warmth in his lonely heart, that they had returned to him. At last.
The time for doubting his eyes, for turning away, was past.
He knew that it was time to pay the price for all the times he had not listened. And he was willing to pay it, if only it would grant him the peace that had always been denied him.
They said they would never leave him alone again. He wondered if they would keep their promise.
And knew it was time to find out.
Arthur raised Caldfwlch for another blow. The sword left a silvery afterimage as it raced through the darkened air, heading straight for Havgan’s heart. It was at that moment that Grum should have met Caldfwlch, halting the sword’s deadly path.
But Grum did not.
GWYDION SAW IT in Havgan’s eyes, saw the decision made, saw what would happen far, far too late to change it. He cried out, even as Havgan dropped Grum, even as he deliberately took Caladfwlch’s silvery blade into his heart.
Gwydion raced forward, catching Havgan, breaking his fall. He sat on the ground, cradling Havgan’s golden head on his lap. He took off Havgan’s helmet, flinging the golden boar’s head as far away as he could.
Havgan’s amber eyes looked up at Gwydion even as the Golden Man’s blood raced from his body, soaking into the earth of Kymru, joining at last the land he had longed for all his life.
“They said they would not leave me alone,” Havgan whispered. “Do you believe that? Do you believe they will come for me?”
“I do,” Gwydion said steadily.
“In spite of all that I have done?”
“In spite of all that you have done.”
A cry from the battlements sounded out over the dark plain as Arianrod threw her head back to the sky and screamed out her grief to the silent sky.
“Take care of her,” Havgan rasped.
“She will be free to go where she will,” Arthur promised as he knelt next to the dying man. “I swear it.”
Overhead the west brightened while the east darkened as the moon fled from the sun. Beads of light began to form, even as the golden light from the Coranian Hunt began to fade. Valkyries and skeletal warriors paled and faded. But Wuotan and Holda did not. The God of Magic and the Lady of the Waters rode forward toward the Kymric hunt, meeting Cerrunnos and Cerridwen halfway across the sky. The four figures blurred and merged, until only two figures—Cerrunnos and Cerridwen—were left.
“They were one,” Havgan gasped. “All the time.”
“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “It is all one. And always has been.”
Brychan and Arianllyn once again detached themselves from the Hunt, riding away to the western horizon. There they stopped, even as Havgan’s amber eyes widened, even as his breath ceased. Between them a third rider formed in a flash of gold and rubies. The third rider lifted his hand in farewell then turned to go. Then the three of them disappeared into the brightening west.
SIGERRIC RAISED THE battle horn to his lips even as Gwydion reached out and closed Havgan’s eyes.
Penda grasped Sigerric’s wrist. “What are you doing?” he cried.
“What I must do,” Sigerric replied, tears streaming down his drawn face.
“Why bother?” Penda asked. “For what earthly reason should we battle now? Our Hunt is gone. Havgan is dead. Our only real course is to leave Kymru. Why fight now?”
Even as Sigerric hesitated Prince Aesc reached over and grabbed the horn. “Because we are warriors,” Aesc growled. “That’s why.”
So Aesc sounded the horn.
And the last battle began.
Chapter
* * *
Twenty-three
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Gwernan Mis, 500
Calan Llachar—midmorning
Achren fought steadily, killing Coranian after Coranian. She was not absolutely certain how long they had been fighting—she knew that in the heat of battle it was difficult to judge these things. But she had a great deal of experience, and, from the position of the now-visible sun, she guessed it had been only an hour or so since the battle was joined. Though why it had begun, when Havgan had lost the fight with Arthur, she had no idea. Prince Aesc had sounded the horn, the Coranian army had moved forward, and the battle had been joined.
Even in the confused heat of the melee, she knew exactly where the others were. Rhoram, of course, was right next to her. Her job was to protect him, and she would do it even if it killed her, which it most likely would. As with the rest of his teulu, he fought on horseback. The Coranians, as they always did, fought on foot. The advantage to the Kymri of being horsed was a small one, but they needed all the advantage they could get, she thought grimly. For they were badly outnumbered. She thought it likely that they would all be killed this day, and was merely determined to ensure she fell when Rhoram did—no sooner and no later.
Cian rode just behind Rhoram, ready to relay Arthur’s telepathic orders. The once-captive Bard sat his horse calmly, as though he had been through far too much to let one battle frighten him. Achren supposed that this was true enough, for Cian had been through a great deal. He had been captured for the testing device he had carried, taken to Eiodel, and imprisoned with Anieron Master Bard. He had then been taken to Afalon and there he had endured day after day of torture. And though he had regained much of his strength his scanty hair was more gray than brown and his face was etched with lines of pain and endurance that no amount of ease could erase. But his green eyes were alert and alive.
“Arthur says we must ensure that not one single wyrce-jaga is left alive,” Cian shouted to Achren.
She nodded. She saw her lieutenant, Aiden, and his new bride, Lluched, battling side by side just a few feet away. Aidan was smiling fondly at Lluched, who had just speared a Coranian through the neck. Lluched, her eyes sparkling, was momentarily vulnerable as she tugged at the spear to loosen it from the soldier’s dying body. She nodded her thanks to Aidan as he deflected a blow until she could pull the spear free. Aidan snatched a kiss from her, then turned to sink his sword into another attacker.
“Aidan!” Achren called. “All wyrce-jaga must be killed. They are massed before the gates of Eiodel!”
Aidan nodded and motioned for Lluched and a group of warriors to follow him. Achren motioned a contingent of warriors behind her to fill in the line where Aidan had been.
Grimly, Achren fought on. She saw Geriant a few feet ahead of her battling like a madman. Princess Enid’s token, tied to his left arm, was no more than a bloodstained rag. Geriant killed the enemy with a single-minded determination that told Achren he was not really fighting Coranians as much as he was fighting his own private battle—or, rather, Enid’s battle.
Rhoram saw Geriant, too, and reined in his horse. He dropped back a little, then rode behind Achren and up to his son. He reached out and placed his hand on Geriant’s arm. Geriant whipped around with his sword, almost slicing off his father’s hand.
“Da!” he gasped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Sneak up on you?” Rhoram demanded. “Just how would I do that?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And when I tell you to ease down, you know what I mean.”
Geriant opened his mouth, but thought better of it.
“Wise, my son. Very wise.”
Rhoram would have lost his life at that moment if Achren hadn’t been at his back. The Coranian axe swung through the air with a vicious shriek, but was stopped just inches from Rhoram’s neck by Achren’s blade. The weapons rang out as they connected so hard the Coranian lost his balance and fell to one knee. Achren’s knife hissed through the air, burying itself in the man’s neck. He went down in a welter of blood. Achren leaned down as he fell, and pulled her knife from his neck.
“Get back to work!” she shouted at Rhoram. “You, too, Geriant. This is no time for idle talk.”
Before they could answe
r her, if they even intended to, she saw an axe fly through the air and bury itself in the chest of Cadell, Rhoram’s Dewin. The Dewin fell off his horse, astonishment written on his face. He raised a hand to Rhoram as he fell. But he was dead before he hit the ground.
While above them, the Wild Hunt hovered silently in the sky.
FEAR LODGED IN Cai’s throat, filling his mouth with a heavy, coppery taste. His heart beat so fiercely he thought it might fly out of his chest. Sweat beaded his brow and threatened to cloud his vision.
But his hand did not shake as he deflected blow after blow, as he shadowed Queen Morrigan, as he ensured that he kept the glint of Susanna’s red-gold hair in his sight.
He was charged with the safety of his queen and of his wife, and he would keep them alive. This time it would be different. This time those that he loved best would not be taken from him. It would not be—it could not be—as it had been in Tegeingl three years ago. It would not—it could not—happen again.
That was the fear that drove him even as he cursed himself and called himself a coward. Because though he was afraid for the lives of these two women, he was more afraid for himself. He was afraid that he would be required to bear the pain again, the kind of pain he experienced the day his first wife and his beloved son had been killed. He had seen it happen. And he had killed the Coranian soldier who had done it. But that had changed nothing. A few days later he had been forced to abandon his king, and Uthyr had died in a battle Cai had not been allowed to be in. Instead, he had still been forced to go on alone, to keep living, to fulfill his destiny as the captain of Gwynedd, to keep his promise to Uthyr.
His wife, his son, his ruler, these had been taken from him before. Had he known whom to beg, he would have begged that it not happen to him again.
For Susanna was now his wife. And her son, Gwyhar, who he had come to love, was also in this battle, fighting in the way of the Y Dawnus with Arthur. And his ruler was now Morrigan, by whose side he fought.
