by Holly Taylor
The lead stallion neighed fiercely, rearing up onto his hind legs and plunging into the midst of the enemy, followed closely by a fiery mare. Out of the boar’s herd, ropes flew, catching the two horses around their necks and legs until they were bound tightly. Still they continued to struggle defiantly, screaming challenges even as the boars ripped out their throats with their razor-sharp tusks. And with the death of the stallion and the mare, the broken fields burst into flame. Mercifully, the smoke covered the land from Gwydion’s horrified gaze.
He turned west to Prydyn, already knowing what he would see. As he came to the capital city of Arberth, he saw more of the filthy beasts crawling over the cliffs and into the beleaguered city. And there the wolves that streamed out from the King’s fortress of Caer Tir met the boars with a titanic crash.
Slathering and snarling, the huge gray animals with emerald eyes fell on the boars, almost, for one instant, driving them back. But slowly, as more and more boars crawled up from the shore, the wolves began to fall back. Hemmed in tighter and tighter, they were slaughtered by the hundreds. And then the mightiest wolf, its muzzle covered with blood, threw back his head and gave a howl that shook Arberth to its foundations, then it leapt into the fray with its last strength. When the wolf went down under the boar’s hooves, Gwydion could bear to watch no longer.
He raced north to Gwynedd, his heart like lead in his breast, racing to the land he called his home, to the land where his brother was King. And there, he saw the hawks of Gwynedd, arrayed in the crystal-clear sky, screaming defiance as the dark stain of boars spread over the land, crawling around the broken walls of Tegeingl. As the hawks plunged through the sky at the enemy, Gwydion saw their leader fold his wings as he swooped down for the kill. And, tears in his raven eyes, he watched as spears shot from the mass of boars into the sky, catching the leader in the heart and felling the hawks by the hundreds. As the birds plummeted to the earth, dropping like stones from the sky, Gwydion’s eyes followed the lead hawk, watching as its body slammed into the earth and the blood burst forth, piercing his heart like shards of glass.
Streaking through the air, he made for Gwytheryn, the center, the heart of Kymru. Surely the boars would not dare to go there. But they had. Already he saw that they had overrun Neuadd Gorsedd, the once-fair home of the Bards. Slender, jeweled harps with gold and silver strings were trampled under the boars’ hooves, and the broken bodies of nightingales littered the ground. And then he saw the hideous arms again dart out from the black mass as they grabbed a soaring nightingale with feathers of the darkest blue, the largest and finest bird Gwydion had ever seen. Even as the bird was pulled from the sky, it was singing. Even when the bristled arms pulled off the bird’s wings, and the blood streamed from its mangled body, the nightingale still sang, until death silenced its beautiful song.
Gwydion flew over Y Ty Dewin and saw silver dragons impaled on spears. Some were trying to fly, but they were caught and pinned to the blood-soaked ground with gleaming spikes of dark iron. The largest, most beautiful of the proud dragons struggled on the broken steps, his wings outspread, screaming defiance as he was pulled down to the bloody earth and butchered.
He saw the leader of the doomed bulls from Caer Duir, the home of the Druids, trot out to meet the invaders, the herd following behind. A few bulls charged the boars, heads lowered, their deadly horns gleaming like ivory, but they were trampled and gored to death for their pains.
Then, with a suddenness that made him dizzy, the scene changed. He found himself hurling across the sky to Cadair Idris, the deserted mountain palace of the High King. It was the one place he knew the boars could not defile, for the Guardian of the Doors was not human and could not be destroyed. Only for the High King would the doors to the mountain open.
As Gwydion neared Cadair Idris, he saw row after row of boars gathered in front of the doors. And as he flew through their ranks, a silver dragon materialized by his side, its wings beating in time to his own.
They flew over the boars’ heads and dropped down in front of the massive doors, confronting the enemy. Yes, Drwys Idris still stood, barring entry into the High King’s mountain. The Doors gleamed in the sun with the rich jewel-studded patterns of the gods and goddesses of Kymru. The verdant emeralds of Modron the Mother; the luminous pearls of Nantsovelta of the Moon; the fiery opals of Mabon of the Sun; the cobalt sapphires of Taran, Lord of the Air, all blazed with an inner fire. The onyx of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, gleamed darkly, and the red rubies of Y Rhelfywr, the Warrior Twins, glistened like blood. The flecked bloodstone of Aertan, Weaver of Fate; the diamonds of Sirona’s Net; the dark garnet of Grannos, the Northern Star, all caught the sun and glittered, throwing splinters of light into the red eyes of the herd.
But most of all, the amethyst of Cerridwen, the White Lady, and the topaz of Cerrunnos, the Horned One, blazed with unmatched triumph and grace. The signs of the Protectors glittered, as high in the sky, an eagle screamed defiance. At the sight of the eagle, the boars shrank back, afraid to venture farther.
For a moment, all was still, as though Kymru herself held her breath. Then the ranks of the boars parted, and a pure golden boar with amber eyes, razor-sharp tusks, and hooves polished to a deadly sheen made its way to the shining doors. The eagle plummeted down in front of the doors, landing between the black raven and the silver dragon. For a moment the golden boar and the eagle stood face to face. The boar lowered his massive head to charge. The eagle gave a mighty scream, but Gwydion knew that it could not hope to withstand the force of the boar’s charge. But the amethyst of Cerridwen and the topaz of Cerrunnos glowed brighter still as the eagle launched itself over the head of the golden boar and into the herd, plucking out the eye of a huge, black boar. The eye clutched in its sharp talons, the eagle screamed in triumph and took to the air, circling the mountain. As it circled, Gwydion saw that it wore the torque of the High King around its slender neck. The necklace flashed emerald, pearl, opal, and sapphire, and then the young bird was gone, a mere speck in the sky.
The golden boar, cheated of its prey, threw back its hideous head and screamed.
GWYDION AWOKE WITH the sound of his own screams echoing in his ears.
Dinaswyn was bending over him, shaking him awake, her silvery hair streaming down her nightrobe of dark red. When she saw that he was awake, she sat back on her heels, waiting for him to regain control.
He sat up, his body bathed in sweat, his dark hair tangling in his short silver-tinged black beard. Overhead the crescent moon rode the sky, and moonlight streamed through the roof and pooled on the floor next to his pallet.
Silently Dinaswyn handed him a cup of wine and he drank, taking deep breaths, trying to get his shudders under control. At last he looked up.
“It was bad,” she said quietly.
“Very.”
She crossed the room and sat before the low writing desk. She opened the Book of Dreams that lay on the table, picked up a quill, and, dipping it into the inkwell, signaled that she was ready.
And so Gwydion told it. He told it, suppressing any hint of emotion—even at the part where the hawk that led the armies of Gwynedd met its death. At last he told it all and fell silent.
“Interpretation?” she asked crisply, her pen poised.
He turned to look at her, to scream at her for her businesslike tone in the face of this horror, to make her understand what he had seen. But he saw the shock, the terror in her eyes, and knew she understood only too well.
“The boar is the symbol for the Warleader of the Coranian Empire,” he began, his voice steady. “They will be coming for us someday. Someday soon. And they will defeat us.”
“Yes,” Dinaswyn said, writing slowly. “They will. Now, the swans.”
“The swans are the armies of Ederynion. Their leader was Queen Olwen. She is killed, and her country is taken.” He said it softly, with regret, for, though Olwen was no longer his friend, she had once been his lover, and he had never wished her ill.
“Go on,”
Dinaswyn said, jarring him from his private thoughts.
“The horses are the armies of Rheged. The stallion and the mare are King Urien and Queen Ellirri. They, too, are killed.” He forced the words out, for he felt as though his throat was lined with ashes. He and Ellirri had played together as children. And she had always made him feel welcome in Rheged. Some of his happiest times were times spent there with her husband and children.
Before Dinaswyn could prompt him again, he went on, swallowing past the tears locked in his throat. “The wolves are the armies of Prydyn, led by King Rhoram. He went down beneath their hooves, but I did not see him die.”
“The hawks,” Dinaswyn said implacably.
“Don’t you know?” he asked bitterly.
“The hawks,” she repeated, her voice cool and her face expressionless. But her eyes told him again that she knew.
“The hawks are the armies of Gwynedd, led by Uthyr. He … dies.” This last was a mere whisper as Gwydion spoke the name of his beloved half-brother. “I saw him fall to the earth.” Gwydion dropped his face into his hands in despair. The only brother he had left was to be taken from him. Must he lose everything? And for what purpose? For the amusement of the Shining Ones?
“Now for Gwytheryn,” Dinaswyn went on relentlessly.
Gwydion lifted his head, blinking back tears, and forced himself to go on. “The nightingales—the Bards—are overrun. And they killed the Master Bard. They tore off his wings, and they enjoyed doing it. It almost sounded as if they were laughing.” Though Gwydion did not completely trust the Master Bard, he was aware of a pang at the thought of Anieron’s death in such a manner.
He went on. “The silver dragons are the Dewin. Many are killed. The largest one, the Ardewin, is murdered.” He halted, for the Ardewin, his uncle, Cynan, had always been kind to him.
“The bulls,” Dinaswyn prompted, her pen racing across the page.
“I could not see all of it,” Gwydion said tightly. “They were just starting to be slaughtered when the scene changed.”
“So you don’t know what happened to Cathbad?”
“I am not even sure he was still alive—I did not see a bull that was big enough to be the Archdruid.” He hated to think of Cathbad dead—either before or during the invasion, but it was a distinct possibility.
“Who was the dragon that flew with you?” Dinaswyn asked abruptly, jarring him from that thought.
“I don’t know. A female, I think. And a Dewin, obviously.”
“Of the House of Llyr?” she pressed.
“Perhaps.”
“Arianrod?”
Gwydion snorted at the thought of his beautiful, selfish cousin. “Unlikely.”
“Rhiannon ur Hefeydd?”
That made Gwydion very thoughtful indeed. It could have been Rhiannon. And if so, he would indeed see her again. Was there no end, then, to the cruelty of the Shining Ones?
“Possibly,” he said slowly.
She closed the Book of Dreams and put down the quill. She sat quietly for a moment, her eyes on the moon that rode the sky overhead. At last she rose and went to the door. But there she paused and looked back at him.
“The dreams are not easy. They never have been. They never will be. And what is coming is a horror like nothing we have ever known. I remind you, then, of your promise to me. Do you remember it?”
“I do,” he said steadily. And he did. She had demanded that when the time came, he was to give her an important task, to stop pushing her aside, to make her life—and her death—mean something. He had promised to give her a task, but he had said he would not let it lead to her death. He loved her as much as he was able to love, she who was his aunt, she who had been his teacher.
“See that you keep it,” she said coldly.
“Yes,” he said. It was all he could say.
Then she was gone, leaving Gwydion to begin his long grieving for the coming death of another brother and the enslavement of Kymru.
Gwyntdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—early evening
ALL DAY GWYDION had kept to his tower. When Dinaswyn sent up food, he refused it, not even bothering to answer the knock on his study door.
He took no action, for there was nothing he could do. No matter what he did, no matter what he said or where he went, what he had dreamed would come true. All the twisting and turning and evasion he could muster would change nothing.
Uthyr would die. Kymru would be crushed. Nothing could prevent that.
Only two things gave him the slightest bit of hope. The first was the memory of the eagle, the symbol of the High King. The eagle had flown free in his dream, borne away on the wings of the wind.
The second was the memory of the silver dragon that had stood with him, confronting the boars. He did not know who that was—or, at any rate, he pretended that he was not sure. But the mere fact that he would not be alone was comforting.
Night once again fell over Caer Dathyl. Again he heard a knock on the door, but he did not even stir from his seat before the crackling fire. The firelight played over the silvery globes hanging from the ceiling, the rich bindings of the books that lined the walls, and the glowing silver symbols of the moon’s phases carved on the door.
“Gwydion,” Dinaswyn called through the closed door. “Let me in.”
He did not bother to answer. He reached out with his mind and ensured that the door would not open. He had no wish to speak to anyone. He wanted to be left alone.
But Dinaswyn would not take silence for an answer. The door crashed open, slamming up against the wall. He jumped to his feet and whirled around to face her.
But the angry words he was going to say died on his lips when he saw what was in her arms and realized what she had come for.
She entered the room, her silvery hair falling around her shoulders, bright against her black gown. Her gray eyes were cold and implacable. And in her arms she held a bundle of green wood.
“You need to know,” was all she said.
And she was right, he did.
GWYDION FIRMLY SHUT the door of the Chamber of Dreams behind him. He carefully laid the green wood within the brazier next to his pallet. Overhead the stars were shining through the glass roof, cold and clear and impossibly far away.
Dinaswyn was right. He did need to know. He needed to know all he could about the enemy. He needed to know just who the golden boar was, the man who would lead the armies of Corania. He needed to know what he could do to mitigate the destruction. Surely there must be something. Surely the Shining Ones would give him that much.
To know this thing, he must dream. He must search for a specific dream, a specific message from the gods. And to do so he would have to invite such a message.
Thus, he would have to undergo the mwg-breuddwyd, the smoke-dream. And hope that it would show him that which he needed to know.
He called fire to the wood in the brazier. The green wood began to smolder, and the room began to fill with smoke.
He lay down on the pallet, his hands beneath his head, filling his lungs with the wood-smoke. Usually the Y Dawnus endured the mwg-breuddwyd for as long as three days, but he did not think it would take that long to find out what he needed to know.
He felt the messages waiting for him. He felt the presence of the Shining Ones. He felt that there were things in the billowing smoke that flickered and danced and waited for him.
He felt ready to Walk-Between-the-Worlds.
He closed his eyes.
HE WAS STANDING on the surface of a huge map that floated in some unidentifiable point in space. Stars glittered like diamonds all around him. Comets rushed by, spraying him with fiery drops. Planets spun around him in their measured, uncaring dance.
Beneath his feet the country of Kymru stretched out before him. The fine, white sands and clear blue lakes of Ederynion glittered. The golden wheat fields and beehives of Rheged glowed. The green forests and purple vineyards of Prydyn gleamed. The craggy mountains and aeries of Gwynedd shimmered. And from the center ros
e the deserted hall of the High Kings, Cadair Idris. It was dark and silent, but it stood alert and ready.
The wide, blue ocean sprawled between Kymru and the Empire of Corania to the east. But it was obvious that the expanse of water was not sufficient to protect Kymru.
For a man stood like a beam of shining light, a map of the Coranian Empire beneath his feet. His golden hair glowed, and his cloak of red shone like fresh blood. In his hands he held threads of light, threads that stretched across the Coranian Empire, which he gathered one by one. With these threads he spun shapes that Gwydion was too far away to see. At that moment Gwydion understood he must know exactly what the man was doing if he was to save anything of Kymru, anything at all.
As the man gathered these threads, as he spun them into unknown shapes, he never once took his eyes off of Gwydion, who stood in faroff Kymru, fierce hatred in his amber eyes.
And something else. A longing. A hunger. A terrible, terrible need—all the more terrible for not being fully understood.
With a chill Gywdion realized that he had seen the man before. It was in a dream, a dream of crossroads, a dream from nine years ago. In that dream the Golden Man had, by his choice at the crossroads, led them all down a dark path to destruction and death.
Gwydion knew that he must go to the Coranian Empire, must somehow gain access to this Golden Man, must somehow learn what the shapes were that were being made. But every time he tried to move, he found that he could not. There were fetters of silver around his ankles, chaining him to the land. He was trapped, unable to leave Kymru. He searched around wildly for the key to his chains, but saw nothing. He desperately pulled at his bonds, but he could not get free.
And then the cry of a dragon made him look up to the sky.
She came to him, glittering with silver light as though she carried the beams of the moon in her blood. She had emerald eyes.
And a key in her talons.
And he knew who she was. And he knew that she was the key—indeed, she had always been.
