Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  But Havgan was not ready for sleep. Too much had happened tonight for that. In a daze he sat down on the rushes amid recumbent, snoring warriors and stared into the glowing embers of the hearth fire, his knees huddled under his chin.

  He began to remember how he came to be here; to remember the sea and how it drew him so, even now, even here. To remember how he longed to sail away across the ocean and find whatever waited for him in a land far, far away.

  HIS FIRST MEMORIES were of the sea. Before he even knew the sound of his own name, he knew the sounds of the ocean. He knew the rush of the water as it grabbed the shore and the hiss when it slid back again. He knew the sound of the gulls, crying of loss and beauty, stirring something deep inside. He knew the smell of the saltwater as it wafted up the cliffs, reaching for him, inviting him to come down and float forever in its green-blue silences.

  He remembered that his mother always insisted on walking down to the beach with him, never letting him go alone. “You are my gift from the sea,” she would say in her off-key, high voice. “And it might try to take you back again, unless I am there.” Often she would say these strange things he didn’t understand—though never in the hearing of his father. When Hengist was around his mother rarely spoke.

  His father was a big man, his skin burned dark by the sun. Every day Hengist and the other men of the village would go down to the jetty and sail their tiny boats far away from shore, casting their nets for the fish that swam beneath the waves.

  Some days they caught nothing, and there would be only milk and bread for supper in their tiny hut. Some days the catch was good, and they feasted on fresh fish wrapped in herbs. And some days the men caught other things from the sea washed up from wrecked ships. Sometimes there were bolts of cloth and crates of fruit. Sometimes there were jeweled cups and pieces of wood. And, sometimes, there were bodies.

  One day, when he was only five years old, he was running down the beach, collecting shell after shell in his tiny hands, leaving his mother far behind. The roar of the waves crashed against his ears, the waves themselves glittered in the morning sun, flashing silver as they arched toward the shore. And as he ran he saw something in the distance. A bolt of cloth, he thought, and hurried toward it.

  But when he reached the dark blot on the beach, he saw it wasn’t cloth at all. It was a dead man. His sightless gray eyes were open and staring at the sky. He wore a tunic of blue and a strange necklace made of silver and a single sapphire. Cradled against his dead body he held a curiously carved harp, its strings broken and silent. Havgan thought that maybe the man had come from a place very far away. And he thought that he would like to go there, and find a harp just like this one that seemed to call out to him. And he reached out to touch that harp.

  But his mother had called out to him and made him come away. She had looked at the man’s necklace with loathing and had whipped Havgan for running away from her. “That man was a witch,” she screamed. “A demon of Kymru. The God hates witches. You stay away from them. Or the God will hate you, too.” And he had sobbed and sobbed, frightened that the God would hate him. If the God hated him, he couldn’t go to Heofen, but would have to go to the realm of Sceadu, the Shadow, who ruled in Hel. And there he would have to endure fire and pain forever and ever. His mother had told him so.

  After that he had been very careful to be good so that the God wouldn’t hate him. And he had been good—until that day when Frithu made him so angry.

  Frithu was a great big boy of nine years old, the son of the village blacksmith. On that terrible day Havgan had been sent to the blacksmith to collect the newly mended cooking spit for his mother. While walking back, he had felt a stinging blow on his bare leg. Someone had thrown a rock. Looking around wildly, he had spotted Frithu perched in an oak tree, laughing.

  Havgan had shrugged and begun to walk on. But Frithu began to say things. He said that Havgan’s mother was crazy. He said that when Havgan grew up, he would be crazy, too. He said that they would have to chain Havgan up, chain him next to his crazy mother. And Frithu laughed as he said those terrible things.

  And Havgan, boiling with rage and fear felt—something— happen. Something unleashed inside him and grew and grew and lashed out with a roar, deafening him and dimming his sight. And when he could see again, he saw that the oak tree had cracked, split down the middle, pinning a now silent Frithu under the heavy, broken branches. The people from the village had come running. Frithu’s father pulled the boy out from under the tree while the men strained to lift the trunk. As they began to fuss over the injured boy, Havgan’s father detached himself from the crowd and walked slowly up to his son.

  For a moment Hengist said nothing, staring down at Havgan with an expressionless face. Then he slowly turned and stared back at the broken tree. And when he turned around again to gaze on Havgan’s still, white face, Hengist’s eyes began to glow with a dangerous light. “What have you done, boy?” he whispered, his anger cutting through Havgan’s daze. He grabbed his son’s arm in a grip that hurt. “What have you done?” And then he dragged Havgan away from the others, across the streets of the tiny village, and threw him into their hut. His mother, who had been crouched before the fire, slowly straightened as Hengist slammed the door.

  “What? What’s happened?” she asked, her voice tight with fear.

  “What’s happened? Just what I always said would happen!” And then Hengist struck Havgan across the mouth, sending the boy crashing into the wall. Hengist grabbed Havgan by both arms and hauled him up, screaming into his face. “Never, never, never do that again. I’ll kill you if you do.” And then he released the boy’s arm and hit him again. “Never. You keep your temper, you understand? Do you understand?”

  And Havgan nodded weakly. Yes, yes, he understood. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t understood then and he didn’t understand now. He couldn’t have done anything to Frithu. Didn’t do anything to the tree. No one could do those things. No one except witches. And he wasn’t a witch. The God hated witches. His mother had said so. He wasn’t a witch, and he hadn’t done anything. And never would. Never again.

  THEY LEFT THE little fishing village of Dorfas soon after that, to live with Havgan’s uncle, Horsa, in the city of Angelesford, many miles away. And though no one ever said it, Havgan knew that they were moving away from Dorfas because he had done something bad. And he thought how unfair it was. For they had taken him away from the sight and the smell of the sea. They had taken him away from that shining road that led to other places, places that he might have been able to call home.

  For six years Havgan worked for his uncle in the tedious, sweat-soaked business of rending salt from the brinepits. For six long years he spent his days winching up bucketfuls of salty brine from the pits and pouring the heavy liquid into huge pans of lead. For six years he built fires to boil and stir the mixture, to evaporate the water and skim the salt. For six years he drew the salt from the boiling water with a long rake, pouring the salt into baskets and setting basket after basket after basket under the hot sun to dry.

  After a time his young body grew strong and hard with this heavy labor. He began to outgrow tunic after tunic, his muscles bulging against the material. His skin darkened to bronze, making his amber eyes seem lighter than ever, and his tawny hair shone like spun gold in the relentless heat of the boiling sun.

  Ever since he could remember, his dreams had been vivid. Sometimes he would wake up, his mind a jumble of images he could not understand—a throne fashioned in the shape of an eagle; silver dragons and black ravens with opal eyes; pearl-white swans and blue nightingales; black wolves with eyes of emerald and hawks with wing bands of bright blue. But he did not understand these images, though they called to him in a way that puzzled and frightened him.

  Sometimes he dreamed of the harp that he had seen on a dead man long, long ago and what it would be like to go to the land where the man had come from. Sometimes he dreamed that the sea called to him, and that he walked her path to come to his true h
ome.

  As he grew he watched the warriors of the Alder of Apuldre, the man who ruled the shire. He saw these strong, big men as they rode out to the hunt, to border skirmishes, to tournaments and fairs. He saw their glittering weapons, their armlets of gold, their arrogance and assurance. And his dreams began to change. He dreamt of a time when he, too, would be a warrior. He would receive rich gifts, booty from wars that he himself won singlehandedly against all odds. He would give his life to save his warband, and the walcyries, the women who collected the souls of dead warriors, would fight amongst themselves for the honor of gathering his spirit to take to the One God.

  When he was thirteen years old, his parents sent him to work for the Alder as a kitchen boy. It was then that he understood that this was the best he could hope for—that his life would be to serve meal after meal to these great warriors, to clean up after them, and to survive the occasional casual beating when he was not quick enough with the mead. He would never become a warrior. Because he was only a fisherman’s son.

  Often while wrestling with platter after platter for the evening meal, Havgan would catch sight of the Alder’s son, who sat at the high table with his father. The boy, Sigerric, was a few years younger than Havgan. And Havgan envied him bitterly his place in the world. Envied him the love that shone out of the Alder’s eyes. Envied him his beautiful mother and her tenderness. Envied him his rich tunic and his easy smile. Envied him his bright future.

  And though he was still bitter, he continued to hope that one day something might happen to him, some great thing that would lift him out of the filth in which he lived.

  And then, one day, something did. That day the fair came to town. And he had a silver penny to spend. His mother had given it to him when he first went to work in the kitchens. She had said no word, merely pressing the penny into his hand. Havgan had never spent it. He had been saving it for just this day. He had made up his mind that when the fair came to town he would go there and see the valla, the seeress, who traveled with the fair. For the price of a silver penny, she would read his fortune, and then he would know if any of his dreams would ever come true.

  Havgan hurried to the valla’s tent, easily identifiable by the dark blue cloth marked with silver stars and crescent moons. He sidled up to the entrance where a thin, bearded man sat crosslegged on the ground, paring his nails with a sharp hunting knife.

  “I’ve come to have my future read,” Havgan said breathlessly.

  The man didn’t even bother to look up. “She don’t do it for free, boy.”

  “I have money.” Slowly, Havgan handed out the silver penny.

  The man grabbed the coin and bit down on it. “One silver penny will buy you one seid with the runes,” the man said. “And that’s all, understand?” Havgan nodded. “Go in, then,” said the man as he drew back the tent flap.

  Havgan entered the tent and stood still for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He smelled the sweet, cloying scent of burning incense. The tent was illuminated by the soft light of two white candles set on a low table that squatted in the middle of the floor. A woman sat crosslegged behind the table on a small, woven carpet. She wore a dark blue robe, embroidered with rune signs in silver thread. Her head was completely covered by a long, gray veil. He could not make out her features behind the veil, but he could see the flash of her eyes in the dimness. She gestured with a bony hand, and he sat down behind the table on the small carpet opposite her.

  For a time she said nothing, merely studying him behind her veil. At last she spoke, “My name is Anawin. I am the valla. I am the keeper of secrets. I am the teller of truths. I speak for the Wyrd, the three goddesses of fate. I speak for past, for present, for future. What is it that you wish to know?” Her voice was ageless, neither old nor young, a voice of power and, therefore, a voice to be feared.

  But Havgan, undaunted, took another step down the path he was following. “I wish to know if … if I will ever be a warrior.”

  “This question from a kitchen boy?” she asked quietly.

  “I’m not. Not just a kitchen boy. I am Havgan. My mother says that I am her gift from the sea. A gift from the God, she says. And once, one time, something strange happened to me.” He seemed to be babbling. Why was he doing that?

  “Yes, something very strange did happen to you. Do you know what you are?”

  “No,” he said, leaning forward eagerly. “What? What am I?”

  Her hands were clenched together tightly. “You ask two questions, boy. I will read the seid for you. But you may ask only one question at a time. Do you wish to know if you will be a warrior? Or do you wish to know what you are?”

  And it was then, in that dim tent of the valla, that he made a decision from which he would never turn back, a decision that would remain unchanged, even to the last moments of his life. He would not ask about this dark thing inside. Not ever.

  He licked lips that were suddenly dry. “My question is, will I be a warrior?”

  “Very well. We will answer that question. You will choose three runes—one for the past, one for the present, one for the future. Then we shall see.”

  She picked up a golden bowl from the table, filled with small, flat sticks of wood. On each piece a rune was carved deep into the wood and filled with gold. “Close your eyes and choose one piece,” she said. “The first piece is for the past.”

  Havgan did as he was told, plunging his hand into the bowl and pulling out a piece of wood. “Open your eyes and lay the rune on the table,” she ordered. Havgan did so and she stared at the wood. “This rune is for your past. It is called thorn,” she said quietly. “Your past has been haunted by a dark force. But you have fought this force. And it has been the fight itself that has become the doorway for you. Now choose the next rune, the rune for the present.”

  Once again, he plunged his hand into the bowl, pulled out a piece of wood, and laid it on the table. She leaned forward, studying the rune. “This is needan. It is the rune for constraint, for necessity, for what must be. There has been sorrow for you, but it has been needful to make you what you must be. Choose now, the rune for the future. This will tell us if needan has destroyed your dream. Or only delayed it.”

  Taking a deep breath, Havgan did as he was told, and laid the last rune on the table. The valla was silent; the only sound was Havgan’s harsh, uneven breathing. Finally, she looked up. “This last rune is eho. It is the rune of change, of progress. Soon there will be a new home for you, a new life.” She hesitated, then went on. “You shall have your dream, kitchen boy. You shall be a warrior.”

  As Havgan leapt to his feet, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him back down. “Listen, boy. Listen to me,” she hissed. “You will be a warrior, as you wish. Someday you will be more than that. But I give you a word of warning. Stay away from the sea. Never, never leave this land. If you cross the sea, you will find such sorrow as you have never known. Such sorrow as no one should ever know.”

  Havgan looked at her uncomprehendingly. What was she talking about? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter now. He would be a warrior! His wish would come true. That was all that mattered.

  She clung to his wrist for another moment, then slowly released him. From behind her veil he thought he saw a crooked smile. “No, you won’t heed me, will you? They never do.” She flapped her arm in a shooing motion. “Go,” she said harshly. “Go.”

  He turned and ran from the tent. In a daze of happiness he wandered around the fair. He soon found himself weaving through the laughing, singing, and dancing crowd. But he wasn’t really seeing anything. He was thinking only that he would become a warrior. His dream would come true. And he felt that he couldn’t contain his building joy—sure that it would burst out of him in a wild leap, a thing of light, not like the dark thing he always kept inside.

  Then he heard it. Later he would say, both to himself and to others, that the man had been talking out loud. But that was a lie. The man had been thinking. And Havgan had heard his t
houghts. I’ll kill his boy. That will teach him. I’ll kill his only son.

  Havgan looked wildly around. A farmer, plainly dressed, leaned against the boards that fenced in the cattle for sale. The man had a thin, scraggly brown beard, and long greasy hair. His face was scarred with the harshness of scratching a living from reluctant soil. His back was bent as if still under the weight of the plow. And his eyes were focused on the figures of a man and a boy, stopped in front of the armourer’s stall. Kill his boy. Like he killed mine. The man’s thoughts swarmed out like angry bees, buzzing and stinging in Havgan’s head. And then Havgan recognized the two figures at the stall with their backs to the farmer. It was the Alder and his son, Sigerric.

  As Sigerric and his father turned from the stall, the farmer drew his hunting knife in a swift motion, and cocked his hand back to throw. But as fast as the farmer was, Havgan was faster. He leapt at the farmer, crashing into him and spoiling his aim just as the knife was leaving his hand. A woman screamed as the knife arced through the air and plunged into the ground, coming to rest just between Sigerric’s feet.

  Havgan wrestled with the farmer, pinning him until the Alder’s warriors came rushing up and hauled them both to their feet. And then the Alder was there in a towering rage. Havgan glanced at Sigerric, who had been standing pale and silent by his father’s side. He saw that Sigerric was looking back at him with his fine, dark eyes. But he was unable to tell what the boy was thinking.

  The Alder had turned to the farmer. “You, why did you try to kill my son?” His voice was quiet as death.

  The farmer replied, his voice shaking with hate, “You killed mine. You killed my boy. He stole a pig from you. Just a pig. You had his hands cut off. After that, he didn’t live long. You killed my boy.”

  “I killed your boy,” the Alder repeated, his face devoid of all expression, and his tone, for all the world, sounded as if he had just heard some marginally interesting news. For a moment, Havgan thought that the Alder would let the man go. But the warriors knew better. They gripped the farmer’s arms even tighter. The Alder went on, his quiet voice slicing the still afternoon air into jagged pieces. “Killed your boy,” he mused. He held out his hand and a warrior handed him the knife the farmer had thrown. “And so you were going to kill my son. With this?” he asked, holding the knife up in front of the farmer’s face. “This is what you were going to use? I have a better use for it, you filth.” And with that, the Alder plunged the knife into the man’s guts, and twisted.