Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “You are feeling better,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.

  “What do you want?” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, for the past day I have been doing quite a bit. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

  “You want to be thanked? Fine. Consider yourself thanked. Now tell me why you are here.”

  “I need help.”

  His simple answer disarmed her for a moment. He needed help? Since when did the mighty Dreamer need anything? “Help from the woman who was responsible for your brother’s death?”

  He flinched then, and she was surprised at the effect of her words. But he answered steadily. “I said those things in my grief. I did not mean them.”

  “Now you tell me this,” she said bitterly.

  He studied her for a moment, then replied. “You were not in this condition from anything I did. I heard about Gwen.”

  Now it was her turn to flinch. She looked away and gazed into the fire. “She refused to see me. I think she may never forgive me.”

  “Perhaps she will,” he said quietly.

  “Not likely.”

  “So you have been here since you left Arberth? Living in this cave?”

  “Where else would I go?” she challenged.

  “Why, anywhere. You could have gone to Y Ty Dewin and presented yourself to Cynan, asked for a post. You could have found a way to be of use.”

  “But instead I have chosen to be useless, is that right?” she asked sharply.

  “You tell me,” he replied, his voice even.

  “No, you tell me something,” she answered, furious. “You tell me what you are doing here. I thought that it was perfectly clear we didn’t want to see each other again.”

  “I had a dream,” he said quietly.

  “A dream?”

  “A nightmare. War. The Coranian Empire comes to our island, bringing death and our destruction with them.”

  “They defeat us?” she asked, shocked.

  Gwydion nodded. “And they kill, oh, so many of us.”

  “Rhoram?” she asked with her heart in her throat.

  At her question his gray eyes shone coldly. “He went down, yes, but I am not sure he was killed. But Queen Olwen, King Urien, and Queen Ellirri, they were killed.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Uthyr,” he rasped. “Yes, Uthyr dies.”

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  “Another brother to be taken from me.” He went on as though she had not spoken. “The Shining Ones are cruel.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, hoping to jar him from his grief. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I had a further dream. There is a man in Corania. I call him the Golden Man, and it is he who seeks to destroy us, who hates us so. I must go to Corania, to gain whatever knowledge I can of his plans, and return to Kymru with whatever information I can gain, with anything that might help us.”

  “And?”

  “And my dream tells me that you must go with me.”

  “Me?” she asked, startled. “Why me?”

  “Who knows?” Gwydion shrugged.

  “Certainly you don’t. Why, you can’t even imagine how I might be of any use,” she accused, stung by his careless answer.

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You didn’t have to!”

  “Listen—”

  “No, you listen. Before you came into my life last year, I was content. I had my daughter, and we had built a life here. Then you came and everything changed. I left my daughter to do your bidding, and now she will not even see me. I live here alone, because of you.”

  “You live here alone because of you,” he accused, his eyes flashing. “This is your choice. Don’t blame me for it.”

  “My choice?” she cried, springing to her feet. “How dare you say that!”

  “And how dare you blame me!” he retorted, also rising to his feet. “I should have known you would. I should have known that you were far too selfish to even think of helping me. I should have known that you were incapable of thinking beyond yourself, of thinking for one moment that Kymru needs you.”

  “Kymru needed me last year, according to you, and look what that got me! Look, indeed, at what that got you!”

  He turned white at her words, rage in his silvery eyes. “You do not need to remind me the price I paid for finding Caladfwlch. No one knows that better than I.”

  “And if you had known the price was your brother? What then? Would you still have paid it to do your duty?”

  “You are cruel, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” he said quietly, stepping away from the table and to the mouth of the cave. “Would that I had never known how much. Keep the cloak—I’d just as soon not have it back.”

  And with that he was gone.

  SHE STOOD THERE for some time, staring at the water that washed over the cave entrance, not certain he had really gone. After a while she looked out. Yes, his horse was gone. She cast her awareness into the surrounding forest, Wind-Riding to the north. He was riding that way, making, she supposed, for Caer Dathyl. Her spirit hovered briefly, carefully, for she did not want him to know she was looking. She was shocked to see the tracks of tears on his drawn face, tears, she knew, for his dead brother, and for the brother who would soon be dead.

  She returned to her body and turned away. She surveyed the now-tidy room and she felt her face burning, shame at her behavior almost choking her. He had helped her, and she had repaid him by hurting him. Yes, he had come for his own selfish ends. Yes, he had helped her because he wanted something from her. But nonetheless, she owed a debt now, and she knew it. If he hadn’t come, who knows what would have happened to her? Would she simply have starved herself to death? Was she that much of a coward?

  The evening shadows had begun to gather, and she lit more candles. She did not want to sit in the dark alone ever again. She sliced some bread and ate it with the last of the stew. She drank cupfuls of clear, cold, refreshing water. At last she filled up the small pot and set it over the fire to warm. She added chamomile to the pot and then drank several cups of the soothing tea. Then she took her seat in her chair before the fire and prepared to think things through. But even as she settled in, she heard a sound from outside. She rose, cautiously making her way to the entrance. It was night now, and the full moon had risen in the east. Moonbeams shimmered over the surface of the small pool on the other side of the waterfall. The trees that surrounded the clearing were dark and silent, and she could not even hear the sound of animals rustling in the undergrowth. Instead, she heard something else—the faint sound of a harp. It seemed to come from everywhere and from nowhere at the same time. She stepped from the cave, making her way behind the waterfall and out into the clearing, stepping carefully over the wet rocks to come to stand beside the pool.

  She recognized the tune, faint as it was, and found that she was silently singing the song that went with it. It was a song by Amergin, the last King of Lyonesse, written a few days before his execution at the hands of the Drui.

  Being a stone, I must crystallize within the womb of Earth.

  Being a plant, I must root well in the Earth that I may grow.

  Being a fish, I must wash in the waters, swim, and be clean.

  Being a land-creature, I must set my feet firmly on Earth and look life in the face.

  Being a bird, I must soar to the heights.

  Being human, I must live in all worlds for I am of all worlds:

  Yet must I lose none of them.

  If I do not crystallize, I can give no light.

  If I lose my roots, I cannot grow.

  If I do not swim, or walk, or soar, I have lost part of my life.

  Amergin’s message—that one must be what one was born to be, that to run was useless and to hide was meaningless—struck her in its simplicity. She had to do as she was called to do, for if she did not, she could not live, could not fulfill her purpose, and would waste the life she had bee
n given.

  She turned at the sound of horse’s hooves behind her and was, for some reason, not surprised at what she saw.

  The god, Cerrunnos, Lord of the Wild Hunt, sat upon his white horse as motionless as a stone. Antlers sprang from his proud forehead and his owl-like, topaz eyes burned brightly. His bare chest gleamed golden, and his breeches were made of deerskin. His leather boots were studded with gems of topaz. The horse, which had no saddle or bridle, shimmered in the moonlight.

  The goddess Cerridwen, the White Lady, sat upon her horse of jet-black, her head held high. She wore a simple white shift that just reached her calves. Her boots were studded with amethysts. Her midnight-black hair flowed down to her slender waist, and her amethyst eyes gazed down at Rhiannon without pity.

  “You sent the song,” Rhiannon said.

  “We did,” Cerridwen replied.

  “Which we should not have had to do,” Cerrunnos said sternly.

  “I know,” she whispered as she bowed her head.

  “Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, why is it so hard to get you to lend your aid?” Cerridwen went on, a note of exasperation in her beautiful voice.

  “It isn’t hard to get me to help,” Rhiannon insisted.

  “Just hard to get you to help the Dreamer,” Cerrunnos replied.

  She swiftly lifted her head to stare up at the god and goddess, for Cerrunnos’s tone had held a hint of laughter.

  Cerridwen shook her head in what Rhiannon now knew to be mock dismay. “Really, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, has it not yet occurred to you to ask why?”

  “I—no.”

  “Well, give it some thought one day. I think you will be astonished at the answer,” Cerridwen said. “But for now, you have other things to do.”

  “I know.”

  “See to it that you do them,” Cerrunnos said, his tone now firm.

  “I will,” she said as she made her final bow. “I will.”

  Meriwdydd, Disglair Wythnos—night

  THREE DAYS LATER she caught up with him as he camped for the night on the steps of Cadair Idris.

  The dark mountain hall of the High Kings rose from the tall grasses of the plain like a dark sentinel, silent, brooding, keeping its own counsel. Gwydion had lit a fire at the top of the stairs, just in front of the closed, jeweled Doors. In the firelight, the jeweled patterns glowed with a soft light. The azure sapphires of Taran of the Winds, the verdant emeralds of Modron the Mother, the fiery opals of Mabon of the Sun, and the soft pearls of Nantsovelta of the Moon gleamed. Diamonds and garnets, for Sirona of the Stars and Grannos the Healer, glittered. The rubies for Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins, shone like drops of fresh blood. Topaz for Cerrunnos and amethysts for Cerridwen, the Protectors, glimmered. Onyx for Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, and bloodstone for his mate, Aertan the Weaver, glowed.

  She dismounted her horse at the bottom of the stairs and softly ascended the once white, now broken, and muddied steps. To her astonishment Gwydion did not seem to hear her coming, for he was talking to the Doors, confident, no doubt, that Bloudewedd, the spirit that infused the Doors, would have given him warning if danger threatened.

  “Tell me about Gorwys,” Gwydion was saying, his voice weary.

  “Why do you make me speak of him?” the Guardian asked.

  “I need to know. I need to know the nature of his punishment. I need to understand how we can use it.”

  The Doors were silent for a moment. Rhiannon stood beyond the edge of the firelight, wanting to hear how the Guardian would speak of the man she had loved, the man for whom she had murdered her husband, High King Lleu.

  “It was Bran’s doing, of course,” the Guardian said at last.

  “His idea. He said that one day Kymru would again be in danger from the Coranians. He said that a sacrifice was needed to ensure the Kymri had warning of this danger. He said that Gorwys’s soul was that sacrifice.”

  “And then?” Gwydion prompted.

  “And then he buried Gorwys alive.”

  Gwydion froze at the Guardian’s words. At last he spoke softly. “I am sorry, Bloudewedd.”

  “Do not be sorry for us, Dreamer. We did a great evil. It is right that we have paid.”

  “All this time …”

  “All this time Gorwys has been conscious, waiting, lying in the dark underground. Waiting for his call to ride.”

  “How much of a warning will he give us?”

  “One day.”

  “One day! It is not much.”

  “It is as much as you will get.”

  “I will see if we can get more,” Gwydion said.

  “You cannot go alone,” the Doors said, the tone suggesting that she had said this many times that night.

  “I must,” Gwydion insisted.

  “Yet your dream tells you that you cannot go without her.”

  “But she will not go. And so I must.”

  “Perhaps,” the Doors said mildly, “she did not fully understand the need.”

  “She did not want to. She still does not.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Rhiannon said as she stepped out of the shadows and into the firelight.

  He leapt to his feet, his silvery eyes lighting up at the sight of her. “You came.”

  “I came to return your cloak,” she said, holding out the bundle of dark cloth.

  He took it from her, his face guarded.

  “And to say that I have a sudden desire to go to Corania. I have, after all, never been,” she went on.

  He smiled then, and at that sight her heart skipped a beat. “Care for some company?” he asked.

  “Why, yes, I believe I would,” she replied.

  Part 2

  Darkness Falls

  Woe that I was ever born

  And my mother and father reared me,

  That I did not die

  With the milk of the breast

  Before losing my heart’s brother.

  From Bran’s Poems of Sorrow

  Circa 275

  Chapter 7

  Athelin, Marc of Ivelas

  Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire

  Holdmonath & Nemonath, 496

  Sar Daeg, Sol 35—early afternoon

  Rhiannon stood on the deck of the gently swaying ship, gazing at the city sprawled on the shore. She could just make out the skyline, pierced by sharp spires of gray stone, by soaring bell towers of pine, by tall, sloping roofs of gold-inlaid timber glittering harshly beneath the sun. Here and there she could see the inky shadows of closely packed hovels, huddled together as if in shame.

  She found it hard to believe they were finally here, ready to dock at the great city of Athelin, the capital of the Coranian Empire. It had taken them four and a half months to get here, though a journey by ship straight from Kymru to this city would have taken merely a matter of two weeks. But they had not traveled directly to the capital, for it was imperative that their Kymric background be kept secret. So Rhiannon and Gwydion had left Kymru by ship and traveled to Seville, the chief coastal city of Austarias on the western shores of the continent.

  From there they had traveled by horse and on foot through Frankia and Lombardy, until finally reaching Ancona, a city on the eastern shores of the continent. There Gwydion judged that they were safe from suspicion and that no one would be able to identify them as Kymri. It was then that they took a ship around the eastern coast of Corania itself and made their final way to Athelin. As they traveled, Rhiannon slowly gained back her strength. It felt good—oh, so good—to be strong again.

  They advertised themselves as minstrels from Turin, a land in the south of Lombardy, where the people were dark of hair and light of eyes. He gave their names as Guido Asti and Rhea Varins. He taught her how to speak Coranian, which had not been as difficult as she had feared. He taught her song after song, and she was an apt pupil, singing accompaniment to the ballads in a clear, mellow tone. Gwydion was an accomplished musician and could play any instrument he had a mind to. When they performed, they collected what
she considered to be an astonishing amount of money.

  He had taught her dancing, too, which, to her amazement, she was quite good at. In her costume of clinging white linen, gold belt, and heavy golden collar, she danced to the sensuous beat of Gwydion’s drums in the smoke -filled rooms of inns along the way, catching all eyes. All eyes but Gwydion’s, it seemed. Not that she wanted to catch his eye—or any other part of his anatomy, for that matter.

  They tolerated each other, and had lapsed into a caustic, sharp way of talking, waging a continuous verbal battle to keep each other at bay. For her part, she was still angry he had seen her in her weakness, sure that he was going to find a way to use that against her.

  As for him, she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling beneath his habitual mask. He treated her as someone whose company he had to endure, making it clear that he was trying to make the best of a bad situation.

  Once again, she gazed at Athelin. The Kymri and the Coranians had been enemies for time eternal. But never had there been so much hatred as when the new religion of Lytir, the One God, had swept through Coran like wildfire, two hundred years before.

  So many had died because of this new religion. One of the first to die had been Branwen, the sister of Bran the Dreamer, who had married a Coranian Prince. When she had refused to embrace the new religion, she had been imprisoned, and though she was rescued from burning by her brother, she had later died of grief. The Kymri had never forgiven the Coranians for that—and never would. The countries of Mierce and Dere, which had refused to convert, had been invaded by the Coranians, their Kings and Queens killed, their cities and fields burned, their people taken as slaves and absorbed into the greedy maw of the Empire. Thule, the country to the north, still clung to the Old Gods—Wuotan and Holda, Fro and Freya, Donar and Tiw. Separated from the continent by a narrow channel, they had been able to maintain their independence from the Empire.