Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Emperor Athelred sat stiffly on the largest golden throne. He was pale and had mild blue eyes. His scant, fine blond hair hung lankly to his shoulders. He wore a cloak of purple and a tunic and trousers of gold. On his head he wore a jeweled diadem and his thin neck seemed bent under the weight. In his hands he held a scepter, carved with the names of the ruling houses throughout Corania’s history—the Cynmaegth and Wufmaegth; the Ealmaegth and the Sigmaegth; and the current ruling house, the Aelmaegth; a house that would end when Princess Aelfwyn’s husand came to the throne.

  Empress Athelflead sat on the smaller throne. Her rich, light brown hair was elaborately curled and braided, piled on top of her head, and held in place by a delicate golden crown. Her green eyes were sharp and cold.

  Between the Emperor and the Empress, Princess Aelfwyn stood. She had long, light blond hair that hung freely to her knees—another cascade of light in this golden hall. Her eyes were cool green. She was dressed in white with a girdle of silver and pearls. She wore a single pearl pendant on a fine silver chain around her slender neck, the pearl resting in the deep pool between her breasts. Steorra Heofen they called her, as bright and as cold as the stars themselves. Beautiful, as Sigerric had proclaimed. But so very cold.

  Princess Aesthryth, the Emperor’s sister, stood to the right of her brother’s throne. She wore a dress of blue silk with a girdle of silver and sapphires around her slender waist. A circlet of sapphires bound her long, blond hair back from her delicate face. Her clear, cornflower blue eyes gave Gwydion the feeling that she could see right through him. But what she thought about him remained a mystery.

  Sigerric and Gwydion came to stand in front of the dais, then bowed deeply.

  “My Emperor,” Sigerric said as he went to his knees. Emperor Athelred nodded, then bade Sigerric to rise. “My Empress,” Sigerric said, and again bowed. Empress Athelflead said nothing but watched him closely, her green eyes hard as emeralds.

  “Princess,” Sigerric said as he bowed again, his heart in his eyes. She would have seen it, if she had bothered to look at him. But she did not.

  “Princess Aesthryth,” Sigerric went on, bowing low. Aesthryth nodded to Sigerric but did not speak.

  The silence spun out and Gwydion knew his time had come. He took a deep breath, preparing to do what minstrels did best—spread it on thick. Rhiannon would say that’s what Dreamers did best, too. “O great Emperor, mighty ruler of this mighty land, I greet thee humbly in the name of Havgan, son of Hengist, a great warrior whose reverence for you is unbounded.”

  Quickly, Gwydion turned to the Empress. “O Empress Athelflead, helpmeet and heart’s love of our mighty Emperor, I greet thee in the name of Havgan, son of Hengist, whose mighty sword arm is ever at thy service.”

  “O Princess Aelfwyn,” he went on, “Star of Heaven. Fairer than silver, fairer than gold, you outshine the very hall itself, until the eyes of Havgan, son of Hengist, are dimmed by thy heavenly beauty.”

  “O Princess Aesthryth, one-time Queen of the Franks, how grateful we are that such a jewel was returned to the Empire, for while you were gone from us, the sun itself was dimmed and cold.”

  It was a fine speech, but the royal family said nothing. The silence was smothering. Gwydion cleared his throat. “Havgan longs to taste the joy of your presence. Many nights has he paced the floor, anxious hours has he spent, hoping against hope that you will grace him. Restless has been his sleep in his longing. Pale has he grown with fears that he is unworthy of the supreme joy your presence would bring to him. Until, lo, as he walked in the deep watches of the night, he resolved to put his fate to the test. A brave man, surely, who knows in truth how humble, how unworthy he is, yet still hopes on that his years of loyal service may count for even a little.”

  The silence was deafening. “And so he begs the honor, begs from the depths of his heart, that you will come to his house, three days hence, and let him feast his weary soul in your presence and bask in your glory. He begs that you, mighty Emperor and Empress, and you, two beauteous Princesses, and the mighty Princes Aesc and Aelbald come to his house.”

  Still silence. Then the Emperor spoke, hesitantly, while turning to the Empress, “I think, my dear, that we should—”

  “No,” Princess Aelfwyn said. Her voice was clear and cold. “I think not.”

  “No, indeed,” a young man to the right of the dais said as he came bounding up to stand next to the Emperor. He was tall and broad shouldered. His light brown hair and green eyes showed a great resemblance to the Empress. So this must be Aelbald, the Empress’s nephew, Havgan’s chief rival. “We cannot come. And that,” Aelbald said, “is final.”

  Gwydion opened his mouth, to say he knew not what, but the Empress forestalled him. “Yes,” she said crisply. “We will come.”

  The Princess turned to her mother, her jaw dropping in surprise. “What?” Her voice rose. “What do you—”

  The Empress held up her hand and her daughter instantly fell silent. Empress Athelflead turned to her husband. “Havgan is a loyal subject, a great and worthy man. I believe that we should go as he requests.” She stressed the last word somewhat. “Do you not agree?”

  Athelred nodded. Aesthryth smiled gently, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Aelbald and Aelfwyn were furious, but said nothing, subsiding after a sharp glance from the Empress’s cold eyes.

  It was then that Gwydion felt a prickling at the nape of his neck. She was here, Rhiannon, watching him. She had chosen to come Wind-Riding after all. He felt her presence like a pressure in the air around him against his skin. Oh, he was angry with her for taking this chance. But there was nothing he could do about it now. In fact, he was so angry that he did not notice Princess Aesthryth’s eyes widen, then flicker, searching the hall for something, but saying nothing.

  Empress Athelflead turned to Sigerric, ignoring Gwydion. “Tell Havgan that we will honor him. You may go now.”

  Bowing, Sigerric and Gwydion backed away from the throne, then left the hall, their entourage following.

  WHEN HE RETURNED to the house, Gwydion bounded up the stairs and into their room as fast as he could. Rhiannon sat next to the window, calmly plying her needle to one of her gowns.

  “Oh, you’re back,” she said.

  Panting, Gwydion growled, “Yes, I’m back. And so, apparently, are you.”

  “So I am,” she agreed pleasantly, still stitching.

  Gwydion reached out and grabbed the dress she was sewing on, throwing it to the floor. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he demanded.

  “You seem a little upset,” she said mildly.

  “Upset? Upset? Just because you risked your life to follow us to the palace? Just because if you had been caught Wind-Riding you would have been killed? Why should that upset me?”

  “Why, indeed?” she asked, raising her brows.

  “Because it would have gotten me killed, too,” he snarled.

  “Oh, yes. That explains it. Don’t you want to know what happened after you left the palace?”

  Gwydion took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. “What do you mean?”

  “After you left, the Empress had a few quiet words with Aelfwyn.”

  Curiosity got the better of his anger. “What did she say?”

  “Maybe you would rather not talk about it. You seem a little upset.”

  “Tell me, right now, what she said,” he replied through gritted teeth.

  “She said that Aelfwyn could not marry a dead man. She said that the feast at Havgan’s house would prove dangerous for the host.”

  “She’s planning to kill him? How?”

  “Unfortunately, she neglected to say. Aelfwyn wanted particulars, but the Empress said that the less she knew, the better.”

  “I can’t believe it. She’s really going to kill him?”

  “Well, I assume she’s actually going to have someone else do it.”

  Gwydion sat down slowly at the edge of the pallet, stunned. “I can’t believe it.
Do you realize what this means?”

  “Of course, I do. No more invasion. Only Havgan could gather the might of the Empire. Without him it all falls apart.”

  “Then the Empress had better succeed in her plan,” Gwydion said grimly.

  Dondaeg, Sol 5—late evening

  GWYDION BEAT THE drums in a savage rhythm. THUM, thum, thum. THUM, thum, thum.

  Rhiannon’s slender body, lightly covered by her gossamer white gown, twisted to the beat of the drums. Gold flashed at her wrists and ankles as she dipped and swayed, her black hair fanning out behind her like a shadow.

  THUM, thum, thum. THUM, thum, thum. The hall was smoky from the hearth fire. The light of hundreds of torches flickered fitfully off the golden and silver goblets, the platters of broken meats, the fine robes and tunics of the people who watched Rhiannon’s sensual dance.

  Havgan’s hawk eyes were fastened on Rhiannon’s twisting body, and the hunger in them blazed fiercely. It was a blaze that was in Gwydion’s own eyes as he, too, watched Rhiannon dance, but he did not know it. The same hunger was also in Sigerric’s eyes as he looked at Princess Aelfwyn, sitting so cool and aloof on Havgan’s left. It was a hunger she would never bother to see.

  THUM, thum, thum. THUM, thum, thum. Gwydion, tense and wary, darted anxious glances at the crowd, trying to see everyone at once.

  The Emperor, seated on Havgan’s right, gazed politely but absently at Rhiannon’s dance. The Empress’s cold, green eyes were fastened on Havgan and her daughter, flickering occasionally to where Aelbald sat, the fury clear on his face. Aelbald had been seated far down the table away from Aelfwyn, and he, too, fastened his gaze on Havgan and the Princess. Aelfwyn herself never looked at Havgan at all but stared down at her platter, her face pale and set.

  Prince Aesc watched Rhiannon closely as he drank his wine and joked with his friends. He laughed often and seemed to be enjoying himself. His sister, Princess Aesthryth, was smiling at the jests as she, too, slowly sipped her wine. Her blue eyes did not watch Rhiannon, but rather darted around the hall as though seeking something or someone.

  Sledda, his weasel-like face covered with a film of lust, licked his lips and watched Rhiannon’s every move. Briefly Gwydion thought how terribly satisfying it would be to shove Sledda into the fire and watch his flesh blacken and peel.

  THUM, thum, thum. THUM, thum, thum. Slowing the pace now, the dance nearly done, Rhiannon sank to her knees, her arms outstretched as though eager to caress the warm flesh of every man at the feast. Then she threw her head back, her face and bare arms glistening with a fine layer of sweat, and arched her back, slowly bending backward until her spine touched the cold stone floor. One last beat from Gwydion, and the dance was done.

  The guests thundered their applause, beating on the table with knife hilts, calling out ribald comments, cheering heartily. Rhiannon rose and bowed, then took her place next to Gwydion on the hearth, picking up her harp. Without a pause, they began to play.

  Rhiannon, still breathing heavily from her exertions, said, “Well?”

  “Very nice,” he replied. “I think the Emperor almost actually woke up.”

  “Are you absolutely sure that a compliment would kill you?”

  “I thought Sledda was going to take you right on the floor.”

  She shuddered. “That’s a compliment?”

  “Minstrels!” Havgan roared through the laughing crowd, and Gwydion and Rhiannon stood up quickly. “Come here!”

  They made their way through the throng and halted before the central table. Havgan, dressed magnificently in red and gold with rubies braided through his tawny hair, smiled down at Princess Aelfwyn. It was a wolfish smile, and Aelfwyn flushed. Gwydion glanced at the Empress who sat calmly in her chair, emeralds dripping from her ears, her neck, and her hands. Her rich, elaborately braided hair was piled on top of her head, baring her long, slender neck and white shoulders. She had a half smile on her face, as though Havgan amused her.

  “Minstrels,” Havgan went on, “the Princess wishes to hear a song.” He grasped Aelfwyn’s cold hand and lightly kissed her fingers, one by one. “You need only command me, Princess.”

  Aelfwyn snatched her hand away. Her golden hair, sprinkled with diamonds, shimmered in the candlelight, and her green eyes were cold. Havgan laughed mockingly. “Any song you wish, it shall be yours.”

  “Deor’s Song,” she replied coolly.

  Gwydion nodded to Rhiannon, knowing full well that this must be the signal for Havgan’s murder, and they began to sing.

  “Ceanwalh mourned her murdered brothers,

  but her own plight pained her more,

  her womb grew great with child.

  When she knew that, she could never hold

  steady before her wit what was to happen.

  That went by; this may, too.

  Ine knew the wanderer’s fate:

  that single-willed Prince suffered agonies,

  sorrow and longing the sole companions

  of his exile. Anxieties bit

  When Yffi threatened his life,

  laid wondering doom to the better man.

  That went by; this may, too.

  All have heard of Cyneburga’s ravishing:

  while her dead child lay still at her side.

  Sigger’s lust was ungovernable,

  their bitter love banished sleep.

  Long she was in the grasp of that grim Emperor.

  That went by; this may, too.

  When each gladness is gone, gathering sorrow

  May cloud the brain; one cannot

  See how sorrows may end—”

  There. The glitter of a knife, clutched firmly in the hands of a preost in a yellow robe standing just behind Havgan. The knife rose and began its deadly descent.

  The moment seemed to go on forever.

  And the next thing he knew, Gwydion gave a tremendous shout and leapt across the table, grabbing the wrist of the preost, and the knife clattered to the floor, unblooded.

  Pandemonium broke out. Princess Aelfwyn screamed. Havgan’s guards wrestled the preost to the floor. The Emperor and Empress leapt up, the Emperor ashen with shock, the Empress ashen with rage. Prince Aesc, too, leapt to his feet, roaring. Princess Aesthryth remained seated, looking at Gwydion with what he thought might be pity in her eyes.

  Havgan grabbed Gwydion by the shoulders and spun him around to face him. “Minstrel,” Havgan breathed. “Guido. You saved my life.”

  Rhiannon stared at Gwydion in shock, and her hands tightened on her harp, tightened so strongly that the strings broke, snapping with a moaning sound.

  Gwydion stared at Havgan, his face white, his gray eyes dull and shocked.

  “You saved my life,” Havgan repeated in a stunned voice.

  Sigerric, the preost subdued, snarled at the man. “Who are you?”

  The preost’s mouth tightened. “I’ll tell you nothing,” the man spat.

  Two soldiers grasped the man’s arms and Sigerric grabbed the man’s hands, examining them closely. They were covered with nicks and scars. “You’re no preost. These are the hands of a warrior. Who are you?”

  “Who did he come in with?” Havgan asked. But it seemed that no one could remember. Certainly no one owned up to it. “Take him to my chamber,” Havgan said. “I will question him later.”

  “No,” the Empress said sharply. “The Emperor will question him.”

  “My Empress, I think—”

  “I am appalled that such a thing could happen, and I intend to get to the bottom of this,” she cut in. “Guards,” she gestured to two of the Emperor’s soldiers, “take him back to the palace. I will come along shortly.”

  At Havgan’s nod, his men released the preost to the care of the Emperor’s soldiers, who dragged him roughly out of the hall.

  The Empress turned to Havgan, “Thanks be to blessed Lytir that you are unhurt. Your minstrel was very quick.” As she said this, she glanced at Gwydion, and he saw his own death in her eyes. “Per
haps I could find a use for such a brave man.”

  “I think not. It pains me to deny you, but I find this minstrel very useful.”

  “A pity,” she replied absently. “Good night, my dear Havgan. Perhaps you would come to the palace in a few days and let us entertain you.”

  “I regret to inform you that I will be leaving the city on an extended journey very soon. Perhaps when I return.”

  “A journey,” the Empress said flatly. “Where to?”

  “Oh, here and there,” Havgan said carelessly.

  “And how long will you be gone?”

  “Some months. But never fear. I will be back before the tournament.” Havgan turned to the Princess and leisurely kissed her hand, holding her eyes with his own. “Until then, Princess. I bid you good-bye. I will count the hours until I return to you.”

  There was a slight commotion outside, and one of Havgan’s soldiers came running back into the hall. “My lord, the assassin is dead! He killed himself. He had a small knife strapped to his arm, and he slit his own throat.”

  “Did he now?” Havgan said with no surprise whatsoever. He glanced at the Empress. “A pity. Now we will never know who hired him.”

  “A great pity, indeed,” the Empress replied.

  And Gwydion, still standing frozen on the spot with the enormity of what he had done pounding in his bewildered brain, felt a touch on his sleeve, and turned then to meet Rhiannon’s blazing eyes.

  MUCH LATER, WHEN all the guests were gone, they returned to their room. Gwydion slumped onto the bed while Rhiannon, tight-lipped, took a chair by the tiny window. He waited dumbly for her to tear him to shreds for what he had done. He would almost welcome it. He deserved it, and he knew he did.

  Why had he done it? Even now he didn’t know. It had to do with a bond between him and Havgan—a bond that Gwydion had not known existed until now. Some kind of recognition, perhaps. Some half-understood thought that he and Havgan were one and the same, two sides of the same coin, brothers in some strange way.