Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  The garden was located in the central open courtyard of the house. The house was three stories high and built of interlocking planks of light and dark wood. The sloping timber roof glittered with bits of gold leaf, and the eaves were intricately carved with swirling patterns.

  Still strumming his harp, Gwydion thought over what they had learned in the month he and Rhiannon had been in Havgan’s household.

  Many nights Havgan would have guests over to feast, and entertainment was needed. Rhiannon’s dancing was always in demand, a fact that Gwydion secretly did not relish at all. He never bothered to examine why this was so, suspecting, perhaps, that he would not like the answer.

  The men who feasted with Havgan were, for the most part, Byshops and Archbyshops, or wyrce-jaga, the witch-hunters. One wyrce-jaga, Sledda of Cantware, was almost always there at Havgan’s elbow, much to Sigerric’s obvious unease. Clearly the wyrce-jaga and the church supported Havgan’s bid for power—a bid that would come to fruition three months from now at the Gewinnan Daeg tournament.

  Havgan’s main challenger for position of Warleader and husband to the Princess was Aelbald, the Empress’s nephew. Aelbald’s support came from the Empress herself and her cadre of Eorls and Alders who had learned long ago that Empress Athelflead was the real power in Corania. Emperor Athelred, pale and sickly, was an amiable nobody, given to kneeling for hours at a stretch in his private chapel. His daughter and heir, Princess Aelfwyn, was said to be very pretty and as clever as her mother. Clever enough, perhaps, to realize that a marriage with a man of Havgan’s stamp would leave her powerless. She, too, favored a match with her cousin, Aelbald, a man she knew she could control. Rumor had it she declared often (and rather loudly) that she would never submit to a marriage with the son of a common fisherman.

  Still strumming, Gwydion reviewed all he had learned about Havgan’s past and rise as a contender for the throne. Havgan’s father had indeed been a fisherman, and, if rumor was true, his mother was a madwoman. The father had died last year. Havgan’s mother was still alive, living quietly in the Shire of Apuldre under the care of Sigerric’s mother.

  Havgan had been apprenticed as a kitchen boy to the Alder of Apuldre, Sigerric’s father. When he had saved the life of Sigerric, the two boys had become fast friends, and Havgan was allowed to follow Sigerric into the service of the Eorl of Cantware.

  At the age of twenty-four, Havgan had won the local Gewinnan Daeg tournament in Aecesdun where he had, by his own admission, received his revelation from the One God. Gwydion had long since realized that was the very night he had first dreamed of the Golden Man. It had been the dream of the crossroads, where Havgan’s choice was to lead the Kymri into darkness. He struck a discordant note on his harp at that thought.

  Two years later Havgan had again rescued another important man—Aesc, the brother of the Emperor. Prince Aesc and his warband had been ambushed by thieves on the way to the home of Eorl Wiglaf. Havgan and his friends, sent to greet the Prince, joined in the fray. All the thieves had been killed.

  As a result of this rescue, Aesc, impressed by Havgan’s prowess, offered him a place in his warband. Havgan accepted, and over the next seven years, he had gathered wealth and power with Aesc’s support, enough wealth to begin his own warband, the nucleus made up of his closest friends. Besides Sigerric, there were Talorcan and Baldred of Dere, and Penda and Catha of Mierce, the sons of Eorls from those tributary countries. Gwydion had not met these other men. They were in their own lands at the moment, using their influence to gather certain lords to Havgan’s cause.

  Last year, the previous Warleader, Prince Athelric, had been killed. The story was that a woman whom the Prince had been raping had gotten away from him long enough to set the bed on fire. Though she had not confessed, insisting that she had awakened to the sight of the flames surrounding the bed, her story was not believed. She had been killed moments later by the guards, who were convinced in spite of her protests that she had set the fire. Poor woman, Gwydion thought, for he was quite certain she had not committed that crime.

  After the fire, the Emperor declared that the winner of this year’s Gewinnan Daeg games would be proclaimed Bana and wed the princess, thereby becoming the future Emperor of the Coranian Empire. And so the stage was set.

  Gwydion inhaled deeply, breathing in the shy scent of the primroses, relishing his moment alone. It was not often that he could relax from the stress of either Havgan’s presence or Rhiannon’s. Both of them, for different reasons, made him tense and wary.

  Of course, it would never do to become relaxed around Havgan. The man was stunningly intelligent, as well as a possessor of the gifts, even though he did not seem to realize it. Since the day they had entered his household, Gwydion and Rhiannon had not so much as whispered telepathically to each other, for fear that Havgan would pick up on it. Gwydion had also been exceedingly careful not to use his psychokinesis for any reason whatsoever. Havgan would be capable of sensing its use, though he would not necessarily understand what he was feeling. Gwydion would take no chances with that.

  The first time Gwydion had projected his awareness into Havgan’s rooms, he had done so warily, uncertain whether Havgan could sense his Wind-Riding. And Havgan had sensed something, putting his hand to his head, complaining of a sharp pain. So Gwydion and Rhiannon were careful not to Wind-Ride unless they must.

  Gwydion plucked a discordant note, wondering again where Havgan had gotten his gifts. The Wiccan popped up from time to time in Corania, of course. Some possessors of the gifts often did not even admit to themselves that they were in any way different from everyone else. Many of them became rabid “witch” haters. No doubt there were quite a few wyrce-jaga and preosts with the gifts themselves. He was sure Havgan had gotten his gifts from his mother, for she was said to be mad. Certainly possessing the gifts and living in a country that feared and hated them would drive any talented man or woman insane.

  But it was not just the danger that Havgan might sense the use of the gifts, or their true purpose here, that made Gwydion so tense around Havgan. There was far more to it than that. There were times when Gwydion felt that Havgan was hauntingly familiar, like a brother whom he had never known. Like a man who, in another place and time, might have been a friend.

  Sometimes he wondered if Rhiannon had sensed this, and what she thought of it. So far, she had said nothing. But that wouldn’t last.

  Rhiannon. She was another matter that he didn’t choose to examine too closely. There were nights when he lay next to her on the pallet in their little room, wondering what it would be like to feel her smooth skin beneath his hands; wondering what it would be like to kiss her; wondering what it would be like to seek the warmth of the inner recesses of her body and take comfort there.

  But in spite of her close proximity night after night, he had never made a move to find out. He told himself it wouldn’t be fair to push himself upon her here in Corania where her options, should she wish to decline, were few, and the potential for embarrassment extreme. Or, worse still, she might give in and then try to use that against him, as women will, thinking she had a hold on him simply because he had bodily needs and no other way to satisfy them. The thought of going down to the docks for one of the women there did not appeal to him at all.

  That didn’t stop Havgan, who was far less fastidious. Once or twice a week, a woman was brought to the house, easily identifiable as a whore from the poorer parts of the city. There was nothing particularly special about these women—except that they all had tawny blond hair. They might be thin or fat, clean or dirty, but their hair was always tawny. A little strange, that was. And the fact that Gwydion would never see them again was also strange. They arrived at the house at sundown, they went to Havgan’s room, and Gwydion never saw them leave. Perhaps they left in the middle of the night—he thought it quite conceivable that Havgan would want to use them in the night and never see them in the light of day. He had even dared to ask Sigerric about it, once. Sigerric had muttered
something about a dream that Havgan often had, some kind of nightmare. But he refused to say any more.

  “… asking for you.”

  Startled, he looked up and saw Rhiannon scowling down at him. “What?”

  “I said, he’s asking for you.”

  “Havgan?”

  “Who else? The Archpreost?”

  Gwydion sighed. Conversations with Rhiannon always seemed to go this way. “Did he say why?”

  “Not to me. I’m just a woman,” she said bitterly.

  “I see. Tell me, just out of curiosity, is there anything that’s not my fault?”

  “I didn’t say it was your fault.”

  “You didn’t have to,” he replied shortly. He stood up and stretched. “Well, I’d better go see what he wants. Take the harp, will you?”

  She snatched the harp from his hands. “If you’re not too busy later, maybe you can tell me about it,” she snapped. She turned and walked away, her slender back stiff. Gwydion shrugged. She certainly was touchy these days. She didn’t like being in Corania. He smiled sourly. He didn’t like it, either, but he didn’t blame her for it.

  They had done the right thing to come here, dangerous as it was. If they could maintain their charade long enough, they would have a chance to learn what they needed to know.

  They needed to find out what kind of military support Havgan could count on should he become Bana. The Empress did not favor Havgan, but if he were Warleader, would she support him or try to hinder his plans? Just how many warriors would he be able to muster?

  They also needed to discover when the invasion was to take place, and how the Coranians planned to take the country. There were plans, of that he was sure. There was a map of Kymru stretched on the wall of Havgan’s chamber. Occasionally Havgan would sit in a chair before it, staring at the map.

  In addition, there were a great many messages from Cantware these days. Why? What was happening there? Whatever it was, it was important. He knew that much.

  He knew from his dreams that whatever he learned here would not prevent the coming war. But if he could find answers to these key questions, maybe he could save some lives, salvaging something for the future.

  When he reached Havgan’s chamber, Sigerric was also there, dressed in a long blue tunic glittering with amethysts at the hem and throat. His light brown hair was braided, as was the fashion for Coranian lords on formal occasions. He wore a cloak of brown wool, lined with fur and clasped at his shoulders with glittering golden brooches.

  Havgan, on the other hand, was dressed casually in a brown woolen robe. He was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, with his legs resting on the hearth. He was paring his nails with a knife and whistling.

  The chamber was large and airy. A huge four-poster bed rested on the far side of the room, the coverlet of red velvet in disarray. The wood floor was covered with fine rugs of deep blue. Tapestries studded the walls, except for the wall that held the huge map of Kymru. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, stacked with pieces of parchment, some folded clothes, unwashed dishes, a gold flagon, and two gold cups studded with rubies.

  “Ah, minstrel of Turin,” Havgan said as Gwydion bowed to him. “How good of you to join us.”

  “My pardon, lord. I was sitting in the garden,” Gwydion said humbly.

  “I have an errand for you. You are to accompany Sigerric to Cynerice Scima and invite the Emperor, the Empress, Princess Aelfwyn, Prince Aesc, Princess Aesthryth, and that mangy weasel, Aelbald, to a feast at my house three days hence. You are to sing my praises in such a way that the invitation is not refused. It is your task to issue the invitation with style and be sure they agree to attend. Is that clear?”

  Gwydion bowed again. “Indeed, it is clear. But—”

  Havgan’s brows raised and his hawk’s eyes were keen. “But what?”

  “I fear they will turn me away at the palace gate.” He spread his hands, indicating his plain, gray attire. “I have no rich clothes for such an occasion.”

  “No, I didn’t think you did.” Havgan nodded to the pile of clothing on the table. “Put those on. You have a very few moments, so hurry.”

  Gwydion bowed and picked up the clothing.

  “Oh, and Guido …”

  “Yes, lord?” Gwydion tensed and stopped with his hand on the latch.

  “I expect you to prepare suitable entertainment for our royal guests.”

  “Yes, lord.” Again, Gwydion attempted to leave, but Havgan called him back.

  “Do not let them refuse,” Havgan said softly. “Or I shall have to find a new minstrel who is more persuasive. You may go.” Havgan smiled a wintry smile, and Gwydion left, chilled to the bone. It was times like these when Gwydion remembered that Havgan was his enemy. Remembered very well, indeed.

  AS THEIR CAVALCADE left the courtyard and made their way down Landstrat, Gwydion urged his horse up to the front, next to Sigerric. They were followed by an honor guard of ten men, dressed in byrnies trimmed with gold and armed with brightly burnished swords.

  They were a colorful group, Sigerric in his dark blue and Gwydion himself in a splendid tunic and trousers of rich scarlet, trimmed with pearls. His cloak was black, lined with fur, and clasped at his shoulders with huge silver, spiral-shaped brooches.

  Gwydion grimaced to himself, remembering the few moments when he had hurried to his room to change and found Rhiannon there. She had been angry (which was nothing new) when she learned that she would be unable to accompany him to the palace.

  “I can’t help that,” he had said wearily. “You know you can’t come, and I can’t make Havgan let you. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  “Now why do I doubt that?’ she had said dryly.

  “I tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Your interpretation of what I need to know is a little too narrow for my taste.”

  “So, Wind-Ride along with us, if you want to go so badly,” he had retorted and left. He knew she would not do such a thing, since Havgan would sense it, though he would not understand his own reaction. Going to the palace was not important enough to risk that.

  “Lord Sigerric,” Gwydion said quietly, turning his thoughts away from Rhiannon.

  Sigerric turned to him with a brief smile. But the man’s eyes were worried. He always seemed to have that look these days. But why? Everything seemed to be going according to Havgan’s plans. Maybe that’s what Sigerric was worried about.

  “Yes, Guido?”

  “What if they refuse to come? Would …” he made himself sound frightened, not as hard a task as he would like, “would Lord Havgan really get rid of me?”

  “Very likely.”

  “Would he … would he hurt us, Rhea and me?”

  “Probably.”

  Gwydion studied Sigerric carefully. “Would you let him?”

  Sigerric glanced at Gwydion. “Do you think I could stop him?”

  “Well, you have some influence …”

  “At one time, yes. But that was a long time ago. Things were different then.”

  They were nearing the palace now, coming up on the bridge that would lead them to the island where Cynerice Scima stood. Sigerric nodded to their left. “Look there.”

  Gwydion turned and saw a huge, forbidding building made of black stone. The stone gleamed in the afternoon sun, like the obsidian eyes of a snake.

  “That is Byrnwiga,” Sigerric went on, “the palace of the Warleader, the Bana. And that, dear minstrel, is one thing that has come between Havgan and I. That, and the map on his wall.”

  “And Sledda,” Gwydion said. Surely he could say that much.

  “And Sledda, yes.”

  “The princess is very beautiful, I hear.” It was a shot in the dark, and, to Gwydion’s surprise, it hit the mark.

  “More beautiful than anyone I have ever seen,” Sigerric said quietly. “More beautiful than a spring morning, more beautiful than the storm over the sea, more beautiful than the snowcapped mountains of
Thule.”

  “And destined to be the wife of Havgan.”

  “Yes.”

  They reached the eastern bridge that stretched from the riverbank to the island where the palace stood. Armed men guarded the bridge. Their iron shields were rimmed with gold, and in the center was the Emperor’s device, the Flyflot—a circle from which four golden bars radiated outward, each curving upward to the left.

  The Captain of the guard stepped forward. “Who seeks to enter Cynerice Scima, the Light of the Empire?”

  “I, Sigerric, Alder of Apuldre, do seek this in the name of the warrior chief Havgan, son of Hengist.”

  The Captain hesitated for a moment, then barked a command to his soldiers to step aside. “You may enter here. May the light of Lytir brighten your way.”

  The cavalcade clattered across the wooden bridge and onto the island. The white stone walls of Cynerice Scima glimmered in the sun, its four slender towers rising gracefully from each corner. They brought their horses to a halt and dismounted outside the east gate. Men came to take their horses, as the iron gate slowly opened.

  When they came to the end of a long corridor, they stood in front of closed, golden doors. Smoothly, the doors opened inward and Gwydion almost gasped aloud.

  This was Gulden Hul, the golden hall of the Rulers of the Coranian Empire, and it had been aptly named. Eight golden pillars, carved in the likeness of trees, held up the high, golden ceiling. The floor was made of golden tiles, and even the walls shimmered with golden light. Candles filled the hall, making it glow brightly. In the center a huge, golden tree, the symbol of the New Religion, spread its branches. Tiny jeweled birds nested there, glimmering rubies, amethysts, sapphires, and pearls.

  At the north end, a dais stood, covered with a cloth of gold, upon which sat two thrones. On the golden wall behind the thrones hung a large tapestry, worked in gold and amethysts with the Flyflot, the Emperor’s symbol. Four ranks of guards stood on either side of the dais.