Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “And that’s you.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I can’t do anything,” Arthur said sadly.

  “Oh, maybe you will, one day.”

  They settled down by the fire to eat and Gwydion absently scratched at his beard.

  “Why do you do that?”

  Gwydion stopped, and looked over at Arthur. “Because it itches,” he said flatly.

  “Oh,” the boy said, understanding that further comments would be unwelcome.

  After they finished their meal Gwydion rolled out a blanket for Arthur to sleep in. Arthur bundled himself up, and laid on the ground, watching the fire.

  “Uncle Gwydion?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Where are we going?”

  It was the first time that the boy had asked. “We’re going to a little village called Dinas Emrys. The road we’re on, Sarn Gwyddelin runs right through it. It’s in the great mountain range of Eryi. We’ll be there by tomorrow.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Well, it’s very small. Mostly the people who live there raise sheep.”

  “What will I do there?”

  “You and your great-uncle Myrrdin will raise sheep, like everyone else. Now go to sleep, it’s late.”

  “Uncle Gwydion?” Arthur asked, after a brief silence.

  Gwydion began to look on Arthur’s previous silence with nostalgia. “Yes?”

  “When will I see Da again?”

  Gwydion turned from the fire to look down at the small boy. Arthur’s eyes were wide in an effort to keep the tears from falling. Gwydion reached over and picked Arthur up, settling him into his lap. “Your Da will come to see you as soon as I think it’s safe, Arthur. It may be a while. But I will bring him. You remember that where you are is to be a secret, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Da told me. He said that I was a very important and special boy. He said I was so special that they had to send me to a place that would be very, very safe. He said Great-uncle Myrrdin would take good care of me. He said that he and Mam would miss me very much but that the most important thing in the world was that I be safe.”

  That was the longest speech Gwydion had ever heard Arthur make. The child was obviously too wound up to sleep. “Would you like to hear a story?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “About Idris, the first High King of Kymru.”

  Arthur considered the question. “All right.”

  “Thank you,” Gwydion said dryly. “The story begins four hundred years ago, when Lyonesse sank into the sea.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s another story for another time. May I go on?”

  “Yes,” Arthur said graciously.

  “I appreciate that. As I was saying, Lyonesse sank into the sea. But some people escaped. About one thousand folk, all told, survived and landed on the shores of Kymru.”

  The moon was full, bathing the tiny clearing in a silvery glow. Far off, a wolf howled. Elise shifted restlessly, then was still. The fire popped and crackled as Gwydion resumed reciting in a soft, singsong voice. “And these are the names of our greatest ancestors who survived the destruction. Llyr the Great, the first Dreamer. Penduran, the first Ardewin, the daughter of the Lady Don. Math, the brother of Don, the first Master Bard. Govannon the Smith, the son of Math, the first Archdruid. Elen of the Roads, the first High Queen. And, finally, Idris, the first High King.

  “The people who survived the destruction banded together and began to build their lives again and survived that first, terrible winter. But their tiny settlement was attacked and destroyed in the spring. For the Coranians had come from across the sea and they wanted Kymru for their own. The Coranians plundered and burned and killed. And the survivors cried out for someone to lead them and save them from their enemies.”

  Gwydion glanced down at Arthur, but the boy was still wide awake. So he continued. “I have told you that one of the people who survived was a young man named Idris. Idris was a descendant of Amergin, the last High King of Lyonesse. One hundred years before Lyonesse sank, Amergin had been killed, and the Druid theocracy had ruled in his place. But Amergin’s wife had escaped to the Danans with her infant son. The Danans were the magic people who lived high in the mountains. For five generations the Danans kept the descendants of Amergin in secrecy. And Idris was the last of that line.

  “Now, the Four Treasures of the Lady Don—the Cauldron, the Sword, the Spear, and the Stone—were saved from the destruction of Lyonesse, although the Lady Don herself was killed. Llyr, the first Dreamer, gathered these Treasures and brought them to Idris. And Idris was tested. The Sword turned, the Cauldron spun, the Spear glowed, and the Stone cried out that Idris was High King.

  “Then Idris, Llyr, Penduran, Math, and Govannon took counsel together, and they decided that they would fight the Coranians and push them from our land. And so began many years of struggle.

  “Llyr made the testing devices, and they began to seek out others that had special gifts. Penduran taught and trained people with clairvoyance. Math did the same for the telepaths, and Govannon trained the psychokinetics. The clairvoyants were called Dewin, and they became our physicians. The telepaths were called Bards, and became our poets and our lawgivers. The psychokinetics were named Druids, and they became our scientists and philosophers. But Llyr was the only Dreamer, the Walker-between-the-Worlds, and one who could walk through the walls of time.

  “Our ancestors built Caer Dathyl, an impregnable fortress in the mountains of Eryi. And Idris led his warriors in battle after battle against the hated Coranians and each time the Kymri won. For Idris was the High King and this meant he could gather the power of those with the gifts. He gathered the power of the Dewin and scouted out the enemy’s movements from many leagues away. He gathered the power of the Bards, and used it to speak with wolves and eagles that attacked the enemy at his order. He gathered the power of the Druids and raised fog and wind and rain to confound the enemy.

  “And finally, after twenty years of constant battle, we had won. The land was ours. So our ancestors gathered in Gwytheryn, the land in the middle of Kymru. They built Cadair Idris, the Hall of the High King. They built Caer Duir for the Druids, Neuadd Gorsedd for the Bards, and Y Ty Dewin for the Dewin.

  “By this time Idris, who had married Elen of the Roads, was the father of four children. So he divided Kymru into four parts. To Pryderi, his eldest son, he gave the land of Prydyn to rule. To Rhys, his second son, he gave Rheged. Ederynion went to his youngest son, Edern. And Gwynedd was given to Gwynledyr, his daughter. And Idris set Gwytheryn aside for himself and his wife, and for the Druids, Bards, and Dewin. And he gave Caer Dathyl to Llyr to be the home of the Dreamers. And that is the story of how Kymru came to be our land.”

  He glanced down again; hoping to see that Arthur was at last asleep. But the boy was as wide-awake as ever.

  “Tell me about Lyonesse, Uncle Gwydion,” Arthur begged.

  “That story is far too long. You should be asleep.”

  “But I’m not sleepy.”

  “Hmm. Well, I won’t tell you about Lyonesse. Not tonight. But I’ll sing you a song about it. Listen, and I will sing what Math, the first Master Bard, wrote in mourning for his lost land.

  There are three springs

  Under the mountain of gifts.

  Farewell to Slievegallion, to Aileach

  And to Bri-heith, home of the lost Danans.

  Your laughter is stilled; your joy is gone.

  There is a citadel

  Under the wave of the ocean.

  Farewell to beautiful Temair,

  White city of High Kings,

  You are broken, crushed beneath the waves.

  There are four fountains

  In the land of roses.

  Falias and Murius, Gorias and Finias

  I remember your proud Lords and Ladies,

  And hear the echoes of your dying song.

  There is a place of defense

  Under the oceans
wave.

  My heart calls for Lyonesse,

  But I hear no answer.

  I weep forever for what is no more.

  The night was still when Gwydion finished singing. As the last words died away he glanced down at his nephew. Arthur had fallen asleep at last, listening to the tune of ancient sorrow.

  Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon

  THEY RODE INTO Dinas Emrys late in the afternoon. The small village clung tenaciously to the side of the mountain, like a man desperately clinging to life. Twelve primitive but snug thatched huts were perched on both sides of the road. Each hut had a small garden plot and a byre for sheep. A few cows, a small flock of hens, a well, and a very tiny grove of alder trees completed the settlement.

  The mountains surrounded the village, not so much protecting it as ignoring it. The mountains in the distance rose blue and majestic purple in the waning light of the late afternoon sun. The closer mountains showed bare, dark rock, sporadically patched with carpets of green clover and overlaid with silver-blue ribbons of sparking streams.

  Gwydion stopped the horse at the last tiny hut at the north end of the village. The rickety wood door opened, and Myrrdin stood in the doorway, waiting to welcome them.

  Unbidden, Gwydion saw in his mind a picture of Myrrdin as he had last seen him in his quarters at Y Ty Dewin. He remembered the books, the tapestries and carpets, the beautiful tables of shining oak, the white, stone walls bathed in the light of a cheerful fire. Myrrdin didn’t belong in a place like Dinas Emrys. And, of course, neither did Arthur, the heir of Idris, the future High King of Kymru.

  But Myrrdin was smiling as Gwydion handed Arthur down into the former Ardewin’s still strong arms. “Hello, Arthur. Do you remember me?”

  Arthur nodded. “Great-uncle Myrrdin, the Ardewin.”

  “Just Uncle Myrrdin, now. You are a clever child.” Myrrdin put Arthur down and turned to Gwydion. “Get down off that horse and come see our new house!”

  “New?” Gwydion snorted. “This house was old before even you were born.”

  “Thanks for reminding me how long ago that was. And I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Arthur and I have a fine house and a very fine flock of sheep.” Myrrdin looked down at Arthur. “Perhaps you would care to see the sheep later?” Arthur nodded, his eyes shining shyly at Myrrdin.

  “Now,” Myrrdin said, taking Arthur’s hand, “let me show you the place. You’ll like it. And we certainly don’t care what Gwydion thinks, do we? We can very well do without his opinion.” Arthur giggled as they went inside.

  The floor was of smooth wood, and the walls showed fresh plaster. A large fireplace occupied the far wall, and the stone hearth sported a few iron pots and pans and a small iron pot bubbled on a spit over the cheerfully cracking fire. A split oak table and bench occupied another wall. Two narrow mattresses stuffed with goose feathers were laid against the next wall, covered with colorful woolen blankets. Herbs were strung across the low ceiling to dry.

  Incongruously, a large oak chest stood next to the door. It was carved with details of exotic flowers, trees, and animals. Gwydion recognized it from Myrrdin’s chambers at Y Ty Dewin. Myrrdin saw Gwydion looking at the chest and smiled. “My father made it for me, many, many years ago. He was the Archdruid, Arthur, so he was very busy, but he loved to work with wood whenever he got the chance. I found that I simply couldn’t bear to part with it.”

  Myrrdin went to the chest and opened the heavy lid. One whole side was crammed with books. There was a space for Myrrdin’s clothes, as well as some clothes for Arthur that Gwydion had purchased and sent on ahead. There were two cups made of silver and inlaid with pearls. There was a basic torque of silver, one pearl dangling from it. It was the kind of torque that every Dewin wore, for Myrrdin had left the elaborate Ardewin’s Torque behind at Y Ty Dewin for Cynan to wear. But even wearing this simpler torque would be denied him here. He must be just an old shepherd living with his grand nephew. Of course, eventually the people of Dinas Emrys would piece together that Myrrdin was much more than that—if they hadn’t already. But that was to be expected in a small village. The people of Dinas Emrys held aloof from strangers. They would discuss Myrrdin, but only among themselves. After a time, when they had accepted him, they wouldn’t even do that much.

  Gwydion didn’t bother to tell Myrrdin that he should not put either his torque or the rich cups in such an easily accessible place, because Myrrdin already knew that full well. Gwydion knew that soon, when Myrrdin had been able to come to better terms with this new life, his uncle would hide away these items in a safer place.

  The fire crackled cheerfully, keeping the hut warm as dusk descended over the mountains. After Gwydion had stabled Elise they settled down at the table. A small cupboard yielded ale for Gwydion and Myrrdin and fresh ewes’ milk for Arthur. Myrrdin occasionally stirred the boiling pot of soup over the fire. The smell was delicious.

  “We’ll eat soon, Arthur,” Myrrdin smiled. “I’ll bet that while you were on the road with your Uncle Gwydion you didn’t get a hot meal.”

  Arthur gave a small, hesitant smile. “Uncle Gwydion doesn’t like to cook,” he volunteered.

  “So he says, Arthur, so he says. But the truth is that he doesn’t know how!”

  Gwydion replied in mock indignation, “I do so!”

  “Ha!” At this Myrrdin ladled the soup out into small hollowed-out loaves of bread. All three of them fell to the delicious dinner with a will. After they had sipped the last drop, they ate the bread and Myrrdin set out a wheel of rich cheese.

  Arthur’s eyelids began to droop and he gave a jaw-splitting yawn. “Time for bed, boyo,” Myrrdin said gently, and scooped the boy up, laying him gently down on one of the feather mattresses. Myrrdin drew the woolen blanket up to under Arthur’s chin, and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night.”

  “Uncle Myrrdin?” Arthur said, his words slurred with sleep.

  “Yes?”

  “When will my Da come?”

  “I’m not sure, Arthur. As soon as it is safe.”

  Arthur considered this information. “He won’t forget me, will he?”

  “Never,” Myrrdin said firmly. “Not even for a moment.” With that reassurance, Arthur fell fast asleep.

  Myrrdin rose from the floor by Arthur’s side and made his way slowly back to the table. He picked up his mug of ale and took several swallows. “Was it bad?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Gwydion relied quietly as he stared into the crackling fire. “I promised Uthyr I would bring him here, one day. And I will. But not for many years, I think. Most people will believe that Arthur died, of course. But there will be some that won’t. And those are the ones who will be watching Uthyr’s and my movements very carefully for some time to come. It will be long and long before either of us come to Dinas Emrys.”

  The two men fell silent for a time. Finally, Gwydion spoke again, “What about you? How did you leave things at Y Ty Dewin?”

  “As well as could possibly be expected. Cynan was quite reluctant to take my place. He felt that he wasn’t the right man for the job. And, of course, he’s right. But I can trust Elstar to keep Cynan from total disaster.”

  “Cynan’s not stupid.”

  “No. But he’s shy and easily intimidated. Fortunately, Elstar’s not.” Myrrdin shook his head. “Of course, she’s the one who really made it tricky for me to leave. She wanted to examine me, to determine the nature of my incurable illness. Of course I dosed myself secretly with a few very nasty concoctions so that I would seem to be suitably ill.” Myrrdin shuddered. “I’m glad that part is over. And when she was firmly convinced that I was ill, she was equally firmly convinced that going off alone to die was the wrong thing to do. In the end I simply slipped out at night, when I was sure everyone was asleep. I knew better than to fog the vision of the Dewin when they looked for me the next day, so I settled for the one where we gently encourage people not to look too closely, that there is nothing there to be inter
ested in.”

  Gwydion nodded. He had often used those masking techniques for his own movements. It did not do to use them too much, as they were very draining. But they came in handy sometimes.

  “You are certain, then, Uncle, that you were not followed?”

  “Positive. No one has any idea where I have gone. And, by the way, that’s a very sorry flock of sheep I found waiting for me here. Where on Earth did you buy them? It will take me years to make them profitable.”

  Gwydion smiled. “Consider it a challenge.”

  Myrrdin snorted. “A challenge, he says. How long will you stay?”

  “I’ll be leaving for Caer Dathyl tomorrow morning.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “My plans are to stay put at Caer Dathyl and raise Cariadas until she is tested and goes away to school. I’m going to see to it that she has a happy childhood, with a father who’s always there.”

  “You’d better get some sleep, then, if you’re leaving in the morning. Sorry I don’t have a bed to offer, but, as you see, we are not equipped for visitors.”

  “Just a blanket in front of the fire is fine for me. I’d never ask you to give up your featherbed,” Gwydion said grinning.

  “Old bones, Gwydion. I have old, tired bones.”

  “Only when it suits you, Uncle. I’ll bet if that sweet Neuad were here you’d feel just a bit younger.”

  Myrrdin scowled and threw a blanket at Gwydion. “Go to sleep,” he growled as he blew out the candles and crawled into bed.

  Gwydion wrapped the blanket around him and settled down on the floor before the hearth.

  Gwydion watched the firelight dart and flicker among the shadows. He felt odd and disjointed, the way he always felt when he knew that an important dream was waiting for him. Idly he wondered what the dream would be as his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. As he fell the Otherworld reached out for him, wrapped him in firelight, cloaked him in shadow, and took him away to hear the echoes of time within time, to walk through the walls between the worlds.

  HE WAS A black raven with blood-red eyes. He surveyed the smoking battlefield below him. Bodies littered the landscape and he fluttered down to rest in the branches of a weeping willow tree, drawn here by the smell of death.