Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  The other three countries to the south of the Coranian Empire—Austarias, Frankia, and Lombardy—had accepted the new religion. They kept their own rulers, but they were subject to the Coranian Emperor and the Archpreost. And the Archpreost had at his disposal the wyrce-jaga, the arm of the church that gleefully rooted out and killed those of the old religion. The wyrce-jaga were feared and hated, both by the common folk and the nobility, but they were obeyed.

  Gwydion explained more than once that arousing the suspicions of the wyrce-jaga was to be avoided at all costs. Countless times on their trip across the continent, Gwydion and Rhiannon had attended the Sundaeg services in whatever town they found themselves in order to avoid even a hint of suspicion. And they both wore the amulets of the new religion—a medallion carved in the shape of an oak tree.

  Gwydion had also impressed on her the need to use her telepathy and clairvoyance as little as possible. The Kymri did not have a monopoly on the gifts, and there were also Coranians who were born with telepathy, clairvoyance, and the like. They were called Wiccans and their gifts were the same as the Y Dawnus of Kymru. Rhiannon thought she would rather be dead than to be one of those poor wretches, for their choices were cruel. They could deny their birthright and live in fear of discovery. Or they could practice the old religion secretly. Many of them were drawn to it because in the old religion these talents were viewed as gifts by the gods, but they risked death if discovered. Some of them became fortune-tellers and mystics, attaching themselves to traveling carnivals. They paid the wyrce-jaga to leave them be, but sometimes more payment than they could afford would be demanded and then they, too, would die.

  No, she hadn’t wanted to come to Corania at all. As Athelin, the city from which all the darkness sprang, came closer, she shuddered again.

  “Get your cloak if you’re cold,” Gwydion said harshly from his place to the right of her on the deck.

  “I’m not cold. I’m nervous. Can’t you feel it? There’s something terribly wrong with this place.”

  “You could say that about any place in this Empire and be right.”

  “Oh, yes. But here,” she lifted her hands and gestured at the tall buildings, at the crowded, noisome dock, at the closely packed houses, at the ragged sailors and the yoked slaves. “It’s worse here.”

  “Get used to it. We’ll be here quite a while.”

  “We hope,” she said.

  “We will.” He sounded confident as always.

  She set her teeth and willed herself not to toss him into the harbor. “You’re sure we will find him here?”

  “He’ll be here. I’ll find him.”

  “You’ll find him,” she said flatly. “Wonderful. Maybe if I’m very, very good you’ll at least let me watch.”

  “All right,” he said in that mild way of his, like an adult soothing a child about to burst into a tantrum. “We’ll find him, then. Is that better?”

  In their journey they had heard of two men, one of which was surely the man they sought, the Golden Man from Gwydion’s dreams. One was Aelbald, the Empress’s nephew. The other was Havgan, a fisherman’s son from Cantware. Both men were vying for the position of Bana, Warleader of the Empire. The man who would be proclaimed Warleader would one day rule all of Corania through marriage to Princess Aelwyn, heir to the throne. The matter would be decided at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament, some months from now.

  “Now that we’re here,” she said acidly, ignoring his question, “perhaps you would care to tell me just how we are to get inside the Golden Man’s household to do our spying?”

  She hardly expected a response, for she had asked that question of him many times. But to her surprise, he actually answered her as the ship docked, the plank was let down, and they found themselves on the crowded docks of Athelin.

  “We sing for him,” he said. “What else?”

  THEY MADE THEIR way away from the docks, traveling some distance down Lindstrat. The street was cobbled and houses were crowded narrowly on either side, hanging over the road, cutting out the sun and making it dim even in the bright afternoon. To their right the River Saefern flowed through the center of the city, spanned here and there with wooden bridges, arched high enough to allow passage of ships on their way to the sea.

  At last they found an inn, somewhat run-down, but lively enough. Gwydion made a deal with the innkeeper for room and board in exchange for entertainment, and they were led to a small, shabby attic room. There was one bed, a small table with a basin and pitcher, and a brazier of coals.

  “How long will we be here?” she asked wearily, depositing her bag and harp on the floor.

  “Not long,” he answered, in an equally tired voice. “We’ll rest for a while, play here tonight, and go looking for him tomorrow.”

  “I think we had best look today.”

  He looked at her quickly. “Why?”

  “We have to go to their temple. Didn’t you notice the marks on people’s foreheads? As I recall from your interminable lessons, today is Sar Daeg, when all good Coranians, and those not so good, go to church and get the mark in bull’s blood. That means we’d best go, too, unless we want the wyrce-jaga to pay us a visit.”

  “Ah. Yes. Just what I was going to say.” In spite of his airy statement his mouth quirked, acknowledging that she had scored a point. Unaccountably she laughed.

  His gray eyes lit up as he looked down at her laughing face. He smiled and her heart skipped a beat. Abruptly she stopped laughing and his smile faded.

  Stiffly, she turned toward the door. “Coming?” she asked without turning her head. For a moment she thought he was going to say something, but then he changed his mind and followed her out the door.

  THEY CROSSED THE Bogastrat Bridge for Gwydion had decided that the best church to go to was the largest one, Ealh Athelin, on the western side of the city. That was the place where most of the rich and influential people of Athelin gathered, and therefore was the best place to locate the Golden Man.

  The water in the River Saefern had a brown, muddy cast to it, though it flowed swiftly out to the sea. The late afternoon sun was waning, as the days were short this time of year. The air was crisp and cool, but Rhiannon was unable to enjoy it, scented as it was with the smells of the huge city—ill-dug privies, carelessly tossed trash, unwashed bodies. Occasionally they passed other people, but the streets were mostly silent and subdued.

  “And tomorrow,” she said, gesturing at the empty streets, “this will all change?”

  “Oh, yes. Tomorrow is Undeadlic Daeg, when they celebrate the day Lytir came back to life. Today is Sar Daeg, when they mourn his death. It’s the last day of Modcerau, which lasts for about a month. During that time it’s gloomy and quiet. People give up something they like during Modcerau. Not much merrymaking this time of year.”

  “What do you mean—give up something?”

  “For instance, if someone likes their wine, they don’t drink it for all of Modcerau. They think of it as a sacrifice to their God, by giving up what they like best.”

  “Ah.” She cocked a sardonic eyebrow. “And does their God appreciate this?”

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t believe he’s ever said.”

  “As closemouthed as you, apparently.”

  “Do I detect a note of censure?” He shot her a swift glance, his gray eyes keen.

  “Would you care?” she demanded.

  “That depends on whether or not you ever grow up.”

  “I see. So you think I’ve just been sulking for four months.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “You,” she said in a firm but relatively calm tone, “are so arrogant you take my breath away.”

  “Good. As long as you’re breathless, you’re not talking.”

  “I’m not asking you for anything I haven’t earned,” she hissed.

  “You’ve earned nothing yet,” he said crisply.

  “Oh, yes, I have. I’ve learned all you’ve taught me, as painful as it was f
or you to drop those crumbs of information. All I’m asking you is to treat me as a partner.”

  “Then act like one. Stop acting like a child and remember that it wasn’t up to me to bring you here.”

  “I won’t forget that. You won’t let me. It shows through in your every sneer.”

  They turned down Byrnestrat and walked on in stiff silence for some time. The sheer nerve of him made her so angry she couldn’t speak. No doubt Gwydion was reveling in that. The city seemed to reflect her mood—silent and withdrawn. Of course, Gwydion would translate that as sulking. So she made an effort and spoke in a neutral tone. “What’s that up ahead?” she asked, gesturing to a huge complex of gray stone.

  He answered quickly, obviously relieved to be talking again, “That’s Cirice Garth, where the Archpreost lives, and where most of the church business is carried out.”

  She studied the gloomy building. “I wouldn’t like to live in there.”

  “I doubt they would let you in. Women aren’t allowed. And if they did let you in, I don’t think you’d come out again alive. The dungeons of the wyrce-jaga are there.”

  “That’s a cheerful thought—for you, anyway,” she said sourly.

  “Believe it or not, it’s not a cheerful thought for me at all,” he said quietly.

  Before she could reply, he pointed off over the river to their left, “Perhaps you’d like to live there.”

  She followed his gesture and gasped. Before her stood a beautiful building of gleaming white stone with a sloping timber roof inlaid with bands of gold and silver. Four graceful towers as delicate as crystal rose from each corner. The entire shining edifice rested on a island in the middle of the river. A bridge, well-guarded by men in helms of gold, spanned the riverbank to the island.

  “Is that the palace?” she asked in an awed tone.

  “Yes. That’s Cynerice Scima. Just on the other side of the bank is Byrnwiga, the Bana’s palace. It’s empty at the moment, of course. The tournament to decide the Warleader is five months away. We turn here to get to Ealh Athelin.”

  Reluctantly she tore her eyes away from the palace as they turned west down Flanstrat and finally came to Ealh Athelin, the largest church in Corania.

  To her surprise it was not made of stone. It was made of thousands and thousands of carved and polished interlocking pieces of light and dark wood with a series of sloping roofs of different heights, grouped around a large square tower. The tower rose, up and up, reaching to the sky, until she felt dizzy trying to see the top. A walkway ran around the huge building, enclosed by a low wall and topped by an arcade. Protruding from the gables were animal shapes carved with delicate precision—dragons, boars, horses, serpents, and eagles. Some had tusks and claws of gold; others had scales or manes of silver. Some had eyes of ruby, and others had eyes of sapphire. She found her eyes drawn time and again to one dragon shape that hovered over the main entrance. The dragon was rearing up, gold-inlaid wings outspread, with its sinuous neck stretched out and its ruby eyes glittering fiercely down at her, challenging her to enter.

  Stone steps led up to the huge, wooden main doors, which were shut, signaling that a service was in progress. A number of people were milling around the arcade and on the front steps waiting for the next service. At last the doors opened and people came streaming out, all with the rune of Lytir marked on their foreheads, drawn in bull’s blood. The church emptied out, and the waiting crowd was let inside.

  The church was shadowy, lit only by rows of torches set in brackets at intervals around the large, inner sanctuary. The central square was huge, the roof rising up and up until the ceiling was lost in the shadows. Eight round wooden pillars held up the roof, intricately carved with shapes of bird and beast. Row upon row of wooden benches filled the square, all facing a raised wooden dais on which a large, square stone altar rested. A silken banner of white flowed over the altar, the rune for Lytir, the One God, stitched in gold thread.

  On the left of the altar stood a drinking horn set in an ivory holder. To the right an empty golden bowl rested. A gleaming knife lay at the front, and four fat, white candles burned in each corner. Intermittent rustlings came from a deep pit at the foot of the altar.

  Gwydion and Rhiannon quietly took a place on a bench near the back of the sanctuary. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, and goose bumps rose swiftly on her arms. She turned, glancing over her shoulder to try to locate the source of her unease, and almost gasped aloud.

  The Golden Man was exactly as Gwydion had described him.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered. His skin was tanned to a golden brown. His shoulder-length honey-blond hair shone briefly in the light streaming through the doors. He wore a tunic of fine, white cloth, belted at the waist with a golden chain. His form-fitting breeches were also white, and he wore calf-length boots tied with golden laces. His red cloak was lined with white fur and fastened at the neck with a ruby-studded golden brooch. He was clean-shaven and had heavy-lidded amber eyes, the eyes of a hawk, of a bird of prey. His eyes darted over the sanctuary and caught her staring at him. He smiled slowly at her. She flushed and jerked her eyes back to the altar.

  Incredibly, Gwydion had not noticed. He was frowning down at the floor, lost in some personal abstraction. She nudged his ribs sharply. He turned to her, his brows raised. Without a word, she cut her eyes to the left and Gwydion caught sight of the Golden Man as he walked down the center aisle and took a seat in the front row.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” she murmured.

  “It is. I can’t believe we found him so quickly,” Gwydion said, studying the back of the Golden Man’s head. He glanced down at her, a smile flickering across his face. “Maybe my luck has changed with you at my side.”

  “He saw me staring at him.”

  Gwydion shrugged. “That’s all to the good. I want him to notice us.”

  “He noticed me all right. If he notices me like that again, we’re in big trouble.”

  Gwydion stiffened, looking swiftly over at the Golden Man, his eyes lit with some strong emotion that Rhiannon could not identify. “Well now,” he said softly, “that’s something I hadn’t considered.”

  “Well, don’t,” she said sharply. “And don’t tell me that’s part of your plan or I will leave here this minute, do you understand?”

  He looked down at her, searching her wide green eyes and accurately reading her panic. Surprisingly, he reached over and took her cold hand in his. “I didn’t bring you to Corania to give you away,” he said quietly. “Or to let you be taken from me. That’s not going to happen. I promise you.”

  Before she could reply, a man dressed in a robe of green with a golden medallion around his neck rose and lifted his hands for silence. Remembering her lessons, she knew the green robe meant the man was a Byshop. When the crowd was quiet, the Byshop intoned, “Praise now to the Guardian of Heofen, the power of Lytir and his Mind-Plans, who fashioned the beginning of every wonder.”

  As one, the crowd responded, “Eternal Lord.”

  The Byshop continued, “He made first heaven as a roof.”

  “Holy Creator,” the people replied.

  “Then made he Middle-Earth, as a dwelling place for men.”

  “Master Almighty,” came the response.

  The Byshop stood there for a long moment, head bowed. Two men in robes of bright yellow came up and stood on either side of the pit, both holding lighted torches. One man held his torch upright, the other held his torch pointed down. Then the Byshop stripped off his robe and stood before them, clad in a loincloth, his feet bare. He picked up the knife and the bowl from the altar and jumped into the pit. From the pit came an enormous bellow, as man and bull fought each other. The crowd was silent, straining forward. The bull gave a final, anguished scream, then all was quiet. At a signal from one of the torchbearers, another man in yellow strode up to the pit, lowered a ladder into it, and the Byshop emerged, the knife clutched in his hand and the bowl f
ull of blood.

  The crowd cheered as the man handed the knife and bowl to a waiting preost, then put back on his robe. He took the bowl again, and at his signal, people lined up in the aisle, waiting their turn to be marked with the blood on their foreheads.

  The Golden Man rose and unhurriedly made his way to the front of the line. He knelt, waiting impassively for the Byshop to dip his fingers into the bloody bowl and mark the rune of Lytir on his forehead. This done, the Golden Man returned to his seat, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Gwydion nudged Rhiannon, and she reluctantly rose to her feet and took her place in line, with Gwydion behind her. They did not speak, but waited their turn, slowly moving forward to the front of the altar. Surreptitiously, as they neared the front of the church, she eyed the Golden Man, but his head was still bowed.

  When she reached the altar, she knelt and refused to shudder as the Byshop smeared a bloody print on her forehead. She rose and turned to go back to her seat, when she saw that the Golden Man had lifted his head and was looking straight at her. Pretending not to notice, she made her way back to her place, but her legs were trembling from what she had seen in the Golden Man’s eyes. Gwydion was a pace or two behind her, and he took her elbow and helped her back up the aisle, standing close.

  “Did you see that?” she whispered. “Gwydion, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “No. We stay. And don’t worry. Everything’s going to work out perfectly.”

  Up in front of the altar, the Byshop lifted his hands to lead them in the traditional closing melody.

  “He hung on a windy tree

  with spear wounded.

  Offered to Donar,

  Lytir, abandoned.

  Into the depths he descended

  And conquered Sceadu,

  The shadow of Death,

  Lytir, our God.

  He died and lived and wisdom got.

  Our mighty King,

  Lytir, our God.”

  The service was finally over. The Golden Man rose and stood talking to the Byshop, accompanied by two companions. One of the men had light brown hair, dark eyes, and a pleasant, open expression. The other man, a wyrce-jaga dressed in a black robe with green trim, had sharp features, pale gray eyes, and lanky blond, tonsured hair.