Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Behind them, to the east from where they had come, the long, now yellowing grasses of the plain were stirring beneath the hand of a chill wind. The sky overhead was a clear, crisp blue. It was so clear that Achren could still see the peak of Cadair Idris far to the northeast, and the topaz glow of Coed Llachar, the forest that abutted the deserted hall of the High Kings. The mountain had remained in sight as they had ridden across Gwytheryn over the past days, although it was many leagues away and they had not attempted to approach it. No one had even hinted that they wanted a closer look, for there was something about the cold, shuttered mountain that touched the heart, bringing a shroud of sorrow and loss to subdue the spirit. And that was something no one was eager to sample more closely without cause.

  Within just a few days, Achren knew, they would cross out of Gwytheryn and into Prydyn, reaching the fringes of Coed Aderyn where the battlefield of Galor Penduran lay. And there she would likely see things that she had no wish to see. For that battle was surely the most heartbreaking of all the Battles of Betrayal. She was not looking forward to doing what she must do. But she would do it, for she had never turned away from her sworn duty.

  And this was indeed a sworn duty, for her King had given his word that Achren would do whatever the Dreamer required of her. She had Rhoram’s honor to uphold—a cause dear to her.

  Life had been much better ever since the Dreamer had visited Arberth. It had been Gwydion’s presence, his questions about Rhiannon, which had forced Rhoram to confront the truth of what he had become. It was that which had given Achren the impetus to shake Rhoram from his grief, to mock him back into life. Since that moment the Rhoram she had known years ago had returned.

  He laughed again. He was enjoying life again with the old zeal—pursuing women, wine, and song without the underlying sadness he once had. And for that alone Achren was grateful to the Dreamer. For she had sorely missed the old Rhoram and was happy to have him back, once more interested in the world around him.

  She knew he would wish to hear of everything—every word, every gesture, every expression—that her companions gave on this journey and so she had stored it all to tell him. When she returned they would spend many evenings drinking fine wine in the Great Hall and talking about this journey and other things until dawn surprised them.

  At least, Achren thought, as she glanced ahead at her companions, the journey was now almost blessedly quiet, since Gwydion and Rhiannon were, once again, barely speaking to each other.

  The silence had the merit of making it easier to concentrate. And quiet was necessary, for the land dipped without warning in this part of Gwytheryn. Achren was keenly aware that such terrain made them highly susceptible to ambush. The long grasses could easily conceal any number of warriors, and it was difficult to see what was beyond the next rise. Since Duir Dan they had all ridden warily, their weapons close at hand, their eyes sharp, their bearing alert. They were a formidable group, for four of them were the finest warriors in all of Kymru. The remaining three were exceptional in another way, for they were all adept at Wind-Riding; they now scouted ahead and behind, able to send their awareness many leagues away to scour the countryside for signs of trouble.

  The sound of singing drifted toward them from somewhere up ahead. Gwydion called a halt, his hand lifted. “Amatheon?” he called.

  Amatheon, who had been responsible for scouting ahead to the west, blinked, pulling his awareness back from the Wind-Ride. “Yes?”

  “Who is that ahead? Why didn’t you warn us?” Gwydion asked sharply.

  “It’s just a farmer and his family,” Amatheon said with a careless shrug.

  “Doing what?”

  “Plowing.”

  The singing continued, a cheerful song, sung without instruments in a rich and powerful voice.

  “Is it a caller?” Cai asked.

  “Indeed,” Amatheon answered. “Singing the oxen along.”

  “I didn’t think anyone lived around here,” Angharad said.

  “Very few people do,” Gwydion said absently as he urged his horse forward to crest the rise ahead of them. “Most think the place haunted, since the death of Lleu so close by.”

  “And so it is,” Amatheon said with a shiver. “Can’t you feel it?”

  “What have we to fear from Lleu?” Trystan asked softly. “For does he not know our errand?”

  They crested the hill and saw a field stretched out before them. Half of the field was plowed, the newly turned earth glistening in dark russet furrows. Two huge oxen pulled a plow guided by a middle-aged man with dark hair. The plow’s leather harness was strapped around his strong shoulders and his step was light as he guided the blade of the plow into the earth.

  The caller, the man who sang ahead of the oxen, beckoning the animals forward, was an older man with long, silver hair. He had a smile in his voice as he sang in a rich, pure tone.

  Saplings of the green-topped birch,

  Which will draw me from the fetters

  Repeat not they secret to a youth.

  Saplings of the oak in the grove,

  Which will draw me from my chains,

  Repeat not thy secret to a maiden.

  Saplings of the leafy elm,

  Which will draw me from my prison,

  Repeat not thy secret to a babbler.

  The Wild Hunt with their horns are heard,

  Full of lightning is the air,

  Briefly it is said; true are the trees, false is man.

  “Bran’s song,” Gwydion murmured, his face suddenly pale.

  “It is a common song,” Rhiannon said sharply. “Many sing it.”

  A young boy came bounding across the field, a jug in his hand. He drew up next to the two men and they halted. The dark-haired man smiled and took the jug from the boy, ruffling the boy’s hair as he did so. He then handed the jug back to the boy who scurried over to the silver-haired man. The old man took the jug and drank. As he did so he clearly saw Achren and her companions at the crest of the rise. The man smiled as Gwydion rode forward down slight hill, coming to a halt at the edge of the field, the rest of them following.

  “You sing a song of Bran,” Gwydion said softly to the old man.

  “I do,” the silver-haired man said, his blue eyes alight with something Achren could not immediately name. His voice was rich and smooth with a hint of hidden power. “And you are well met, Dreamer.”

  “You know me,” said Gwydion flatly.

  “And all your companions,” the dark-haired man said. “Amatheon ap Awst and Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. The great captains of Kymru—Cai ap Cynyr and Angharad ur Ednyved; Trystan ap Naf and Achren ur Canhustyr. You are all well met indeed.”

  The silver-haired man smiled, even as Gwydion stiffened and Achren and the other captains laid their hands on their swords. “I am Rhufon ap Casnar,” he went on. “This is my son, Tybion, and my grandson Lucan.”

  Tybion inclined his head while Lucan bowed awkwardly, his sandy hair getting into his wide, bright, blue eyes.

  “And we have been expecting you, Dreamer,” Rhufon went on. “For we are of the Cenedl of Caine. The descendants of Illtydd, the last Steward of Cadair Idris.”

  “Illtydd was killed when Gorwys took Cadair Idris,” Gwydion said flatly.

  “But his son Samson was not,” Tybion replied, his eyes glittering blue as sapphire.

  “Bran himself gave us this land,” Rhufon said, gesturing to the field and several like it that stretched out from the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. “When he had overcome Gorwys and shut up the mountain, he took Samson here. Bran charged him with continuing in his sworn task, as the heir of the House of Caine, to serve the High Kings of Kymru. And Samson wept, for the High King was dead, and he could not serve as he was born to do. But Bran said that was not so. That even in the absence of a High King the Stewards of Cadair Idris could serve.

  “And we do. Every year we sow our crops. Every year we harvest them. Every year we grind wheat to flour. We cure pork and beef. We pluck apples an
d plums and other fruit. We brew ale and cider. And we take it all to Cadair Idris, against the day when the High King returns.”

  “When we bring the new food, we take away that which we have brought before,” Tybion said softly. “All is always ready there, for when the High King returns.”

  “And just how,” Gwydion said, astonishment written on his face, “do you enter the mountain? For no one can enter there, not unless the Doors open for them. Which they will not do without the Four Treasures.”

  “You are right,” Tybion said. “For the Doors do not open for us.”

  “Then how do you enter?” Gwydion pressed.

  “Ah,” Rhufon said, his eyes alight, “now that would be telling.”

  Gwydion stiffened. The morning itself seemed to fall silent as the Dreamer and the Steward confronted each other. The birds had ceased to sing and even the oxen were stilled, frozen into place. Gwydion’s silvery eyes bored into Rhufon’s sapphire ones. But after a moment Gwydion relaxed. Achren did not know what he had seen in Rhufon’s wise, azure eyes; but whatever it was, it was enough.

  “That would, indeed, be telling,” Gwydion said softly. “And that, for one of the House of Caine, would be a tragedy.”

  “The Stewards of Cadair Idris are loyal to the High Kings of Kymru,” Rhufon said quietly. “And to none other.”

  “So they are,” Gwydion replied the hint of a smile in his voice.

  “We know what you seek,” Tybion said.

  “Do you?” Gwydion said evenly.

  “When you find Caladfwlch,” Rhufon said, “you must bring it to us.”

  “Must I?”

  “We will see to it that it is placed where it belongs.”

  “And that is?”

  “In the golden fountain that lies in the center of Brenin Llys, the throne room in Cadair Idris. There it will stay, awaiting the touch of the High King,” Rhufon said serenely.

  “So it will,” Gwydion said. “It will indeed.”

  Addiendydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—noon

  THREE DAYS LATER they arrived at the battlefield of Galor Penduran. The confrontation had taken place on the fringes of Coed Aderyn, near the border of Gwytheryn and Prydyn. Coed Aderyn, Forest of the Birds, was aptly named, for birds speckled the trees, singing in their clear, sweet voices. Wrens and sparrows, thrushes and bluebirds sported through the flame-colored leaves, calling to each other.

  “They seem to be restless,” Trystan said, gesturing to the birds.

  “They are welcoming Rhiannon back,” Gwydion replied. “For Coed Aderyn was her home.”

  “Is my home,” Rhiannon said sharply.

  “Yes,” Gwydion said blandly. “Is your home.”

  Achren shook her head, for these two never missed an opportunity to needle each other and she was not in the mood to put up with it. Truth to tell, she was nervous and she didn’t like feeling that way, for she had little experience with such an emotion. “Not now, for the Shining Ones sake,” she snapped. She had expected them to take issue with her but they did not. Perhaps they clearly understood and therefore declined to argue.

  Trystan dismounted and went to her horse, offering his hand to help her dismount. Though she did not need the help she did not chose to disdain it, for it was kindly meant.

  She stood still for a moment and briefly closed her eyes, gathering her strength. Then she walked forward and stood at the foot of the barrow that rested at the edge of the forest. Tall grasses fringed the ring of dark stones. Tiny rose-purple flowers of fireweed grew erect through gaps in the stones, like drops of blood. A yew tree, the tree of mourning, was planted at the head of the grave. Its needles were scattered in layers across the rocks as though the tree itself had wept for many years.

  “So, this is Pryderi’s grave,” Achren said quietly.

  “You have never seen it?” Cai asked softly.

  Achren shook her head. “In Prydyn we do not speak often of Pryderi, our first King. His betrayal of the High King, his own father, is too shameful to be spoken of. We do not lightly invoke his memory.”

  “Yet Penduran herself, she who was most injured by Pryderi’s actions, forgave him,” Amatheon pointed out. “For it was she that insisted this barrow be raised. Pryderi was a traitor and the law said he must be left where he fell. But she said no.”

  “Penduran did indeed suffer greatly when Pryderi killed her husband,” Rhiannon agreed softly. “Many years after Llyr died she wrote:

  Tell me, men of learning, what is Longing made from?

  What cloth is put on it, that it does not wear out with use?

  Gold wears out, silver wears out, every garment wears out—

  Yet Longing does not wear out.

  Great Longing, cruel Longing is breaking my heart every day;

  When I sleep most sound at night Longing comes and wakes me.

  Longing, Longing, back, back! Do not weigh on me so heavily;

  Move over a little to the bedside and let me sleep a while.

  “She did love him so,” Amatheon agreed. “And missed him sorely.”

  “And he loved her,” Gwydion proffered softly. “For he was the Dreamer and he knew he would die at that battle, but did not tell her so.”

  “Do all Dreamer’s know the time of their death?” Angharad asked.

  “It is not given to all to see. Some do,” Gwydion replied.

  “Do you?” Rhiannon asked.

  “No,” Gwydion said. “At least, not yet. Were you hoping to hear differently?”

  “No,” Rhiannon said, flinching at the question. “I was not.”

  Obviously startled by her reaction, Gwydion began to step forward, perhaps to comfort her, perhaps to apologize. But whatever he had meant to do, he thought better of it, and subsided.

  As he often did, Amatheon stepped into the breach that Gwydion and Rhiannon’s enmity had created. “Llyr composed a poem about that, as I recall.”

  “I know that one,” Cai said unexpectedly. “He wrote:

  I’m helpless now,

  And if they call me home

  I cannot answer;

  For the black, cold, bare, dank earth

  Covers my face.

  “He left that at Caer Dathyl and she found it after she returned alone,” Cai went on. “She stayed in Caer Dathyl only long enough to bury him, I believe. She gave the governance of the Dewin over to her daughter, for she would be Ardewin no more.”

  “And then she went to Arberth, to rule for her grandson, Pwyll, Pryderi’s son, until he came of age,” Rhiannon submitted.

  “And then she returned to Caer Dathyl, and died there,” Amatheon finished. “Twenty eight years after Llyr’s death.” He put his arm around Angharad’s waist, holding her to his side as he gazed down at the barrow. “A long time indeed to live without your love.” Angharad smiled sadly and briefly laid her fiery head on Amatheon’s shoulder.

  “Tell us of the battle,” Trystan said to Gwydion.

  Gwydion, whose head had been bowed in thought since Rhiannon’s last comment, straightened up and began to speak. “At that time the Great Ones of High King Idris were these: Llyr the First Dreamer and his wife, Penduran, the First Ardewin; their son, Llywarch, the Second Master Bard; and Govannon, the First Archdruid. Govannon, who was a very clever geneticist, had determined what proper matings were necessary in order to produce the next generation of Rulers and Y Dawnus. Therefore Annon, the daughter of Llyr and Penduran, was sent to Arberth, to mate with King Pryderi. She did so and the couple produced a son, Pwyll. Annon left Arberth soon thereafter, returning to Caer Dathyl.

  “But Pryderi was enraged that she had gone from him. For he had fallen in love with her. He rode to Caer Dathyl and begged and pleaded with Annon to return to him. But she refused him, as kindly and gently as she could. But she would not be swayed, for her heart belonged to Trinio, the son of Math, and they were soon to be married. At Llyr’s insistence Pryderi finally left Caer Dathyl, but not before promising that he would get Annon back, one way or anot
her.

  “Pryderi went to his father, High King Idris, and poured out his heart. He begged his father to order Annon back to him, but Idris refused. Pryderi left Cadair Idris in a rage. His mother, High Queen Elen, journeyed to Arberth a few weeks later, hoping to help her son come to terms with what must be. But Pryderi was adamant. Annon would be returned to him or he would march on Caer Dathyl and take her by force. Sorrowfully, Elen returned to Cadair Idris, unable to sway her son from his destructive course.

  “Pryderi attempted to find support among his brothers and his sister, the other Rulers of Kymru. But they, too, refused to further his aims. Then Pryderi sent for his uncle, Connan, Idris’s younger brother. Now Connan had been jealous of Idris for many years, and he coveted his sister-through-marriage for himself. It was an easy matter for Pryderi to convince Connan that the High Kingship should be his. How Pryderi stomached Connan’s plans for High Queen Elen was something no one ever knew.

  “Even then it might have stopped there, but for Gilfaethwy. Gilfaethwy, Penduran’s younger brother, had been in hiding for many years, ever since he had raped Goewin, High Queen Elen’s sister. Gilfaethwy, ripe for anything that would turn the tables on Llyr and Idris, convinced the men to seriously challenge Idris’s rule.

  “And this they did. Pryderi, Connan, and Gilfaethwy marched on Cadair Idris, though Pryderi hid his true purpose, saying only that he was coming to his father for aid, and ensuring that Connan and Gilfaethwy were well concealed. He surprised his parents at Cadair Idris and even succeeded in driving them from the mountain for a short time.”

  “Which was long enough,” Amatheon interrupted, “for Connan to attempt what he should never have attempted.”

  “True enough,” Gwydion said. “For Connan, egged on by Pryderi and Gilfaethwy, gathered the Four Treasures and attempted to take his brother’s place as High King, confident that he could pass the Tynged Mwyr, that test from which a man either emerges High King or dead. But Connan was wrong, for he did not pass the test. As he stood on the stone, the cauldron at his feet, the sword in the stone, the spear in his hands, he burst into flame, the energy in these implements turning him to ashes where he stood.