Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “Tell me,” Havgan said, “how you and Talorcan have been doing here in Dere.”

  Things were going well. Baldred and Talorcan had managed to gather a great deal of support for Havgan’s plans. Names were mentioned, along with their military strength and political connections.

  Rhiannon paid little attention to the details since Gwydion would be listening carefully for that. Instead she studied the Eorl and his wife. The Eorl did not, apparently, completely approve of Talorcan’s lord, though he never even came close to saying so. He spoke little and did not even appear to listen closely.

  Ingilda’s expression was uncomfortable at the talk of conquering another country and Rhiannon knew why, for Ingilda was clearly Derean, a woman who had married a man of Corania, a man who was the enemy. A man she had come to love, apparently. What battles had taken place, were taking place still, in that woman’s heart? What battles had she passed on to her son? For the talk of subjugating another country struck at Ingilda’s heart and, from the look in her son’s eyes, struck at his, too.

  “Talorcan,” Ingilda said, breaking in on the conversation. “Havgan has never seen our city. Perhaps a short tour would be in order.”

  Talorcan looked at his mother in surprise. Catching his father’s gaze, he flushed. “Of course,” he said quickly.

  “When you return,” Ingilda said, forcing a smile, “the feast will be ready and the guests will have arrived.”

  Havgan rose and bowed. “My thanks, lady, for your hospitality.”

  AT THE END of their tour, Talorcan led them to a pile of rubble of considerable size. Moss had lined the stones, and tangled briars reached greedy fingers throughout. Here and there wild-flowers grew and daisies bobbed gently in the light, mournful breeze.

  “This,” Talorcan said, clearing his throat, “was the watch tower. It was here that Queen Hildelinda threw herself off to her death when she saw that King Ingild and her son, Prince Indere, were dead.”

  The wind mourned again, and Rhiannon shivered. Queen Hildelinda’s despair laced these stones, surrounding them with misery and sorrow. Gently, she plucked a daisy and twirled it in her fingers. She remembered one of the tunes Gwydion had taught her, a song of the words Queen Hildelinda had spoken to her husband as he went to battle that day. Moved by she knew not what, she opened her mouth and sang softly.

  “Let not your royal strength

  droop now, nor your daring—

  now that the day has come

  when, son of Ida,

  you shall surely either

  give over living or a long doom

  have among after-men, one or other.

  “Know that whether you fall or triumph

  will I hold in my heart always

  days that my lord clasped and kissed me,

  times when on my breast he laid his

  hand and head and heart.

  “The covenants of companionship

  shall never be broken.

  Death cannot touch us.

  I am yours forever.”

  And as the song died away, Rhiannon saw the sheen of tears in Talorcan’s fine, green eyes.

  THE HALL WAS bright, lit by hundreds of candles and by the glow of the roaring fire in the huge hearth. Gwydion and Rhiannon played their harps softly as the servants brought in nuts and cheeses, signaling an end to the feast.

  At the high table the Eorl sat in the center, with Havgan on his right and Ingilda on his left. Sledda, Sigerric, Catha, Penda, and Baldred sat to Havgan’s right, while Talorcan sat to the left of his mother. Also present were Berwic, the aged Archbyshop of Dere, in his robe of blue, and Oswy, the Byshop of Bernice in green. Next to them sat Hensa the Arch-wyrce-jaga in a robe of black with blue piping around the hem and sleeves.

  The hall was warm, and Rhiannon, who had earlier danced for them, was still flushed. Her white gossamer gown glowed in the light of the fire.

  “Sledda and Catha are still drooling,” Gwydion said softly. “Are you sure you don’t want to take advantage of it?”

  “Very funny,” she replied. “If you don’t like my dancing, why did you teach me?”

  “Because that’s the way things are here,” he said irritably. “I can’t help that.”

  At that moment the Arch-wyrce-jaga stood, and the hall fell silent. He raised his cup. “Let us drink now in honor of our guest, Havgan, son of Hengist, who will soon lead us to victory. Death to all witches!”

  Rhiannon was grateful that she and Gwydion, as servants, were not required to drink to such a toast.

  “I have a gift for our guest,” Hensa went on. He was a thin, cadaverous-looking man, with sharp features and dark eyes. “I have arranged a hunt for you, Lord Havgan.”

  Havgan bowed slightly. “I am grateful for the honor.”

  “It is not just any hunt. This one is special. Tomorrow we hunt the Heiden!”

  “The Heiden?” Sigerric asked blankly. “What do you mean?”

  The Eorl’s face was white and still. “Yes, Hensa. What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Know that yesterday my wyrce-jaga sniffed out a nest of Old Believers engaging in their filthy rites in Wodnesbeorg. I have arranged for them to be brought here. We will then turn them loose and hunt them down.”

  “We are honored to take part in such a hunt,” Havgan said, his hawk’s eyes shining with enthusiasm.

  “Our people?” Talorcan said sharply. “You bring our people here to be hunted?”

  “They are not your people,” Hensa said firmly. “They are the Heiden. The people of Sceadu. Enemies of the One God. They are animals. And, as such, they will be hunted by those faithful to Lytir.”

  Talorcan, his face white and his green eyes blazing, stood. “My father should have been consulted. He is the Eorl.”

  “And I, Talorcan, am the Arch-wyrce-jaga of Dere,” Hensa said, his own eyes lit with fire. “The right is mine. Do you tell me that your father objects to the killing of these evil ones? On what grounds?”

  Ingilda put a hand on Talorcan’s arm before he could reply. Then the Eorl said, “We were merely surprised. I am sure that the Lord Havgan and our guests are gratified by your care for their entertainment.” The Eorl nearly hissed the last word.

  Calmly, Havgan said, “Indeed, we are gratified, Archwyrce-jaga. We look forward to it.” Havgan obviously meant it, but Sigerric and Penda looked ill. Sledda licked his thin lips in anticipation.

  “How many?” Ingilda whispered.

  “Fifty men, women, and children. And we captured their Godia, their priestess, too,” Hensa smiled.

  “Women and children?” Ingilda asked, appalled.

  “Indeed, yes,” Hensa replied. “May I remind you, lady, that they are all filth. Even the young ones. Do not distress yourself.”

  “You have the Godia?” Havgan asked.

  “Indeed, we do,” Hensa said proudly.

  “I wish to speak to her alone, tomorrow. Keep her out of the hunt.”

  “As you wish, Lord Havgan,” Hensa said, obviously curious, but too wary of Havgan’s reputation to press for the reason.

  The Archbyshop, an elderly man with a kind face, turned to Ingilda. “Do not distress yourself, my child. The Heiden are those who have willfully refused Lytir. We do but send them on to the One God’s judgment.” He gently patted Ingilda’s thin hand, and she forced herself to smile.

  “As you say, Archbyshop. But, women and children …”

  “You must stay with me tomorrow, during the hunt,” he went on kindly. “I am too old to take part. We will read the Book of Lytir together and be comforted.”

  She smiled again, in true gratitude this time. Then Ingilda shook herself, and once again became the proper hostess. “Well now,” she said brightly, “with such an important day ahead of you all tomorrow, you will wish to retire. Havgan, if you would have your minstrels play me one last song, I should be most grateful.”

  “It shall be as you wish, my lady.” Havgan signaled to Rhiannon and Gwydion, and they came t
o stand before the high table.

  “The Lady Ingilda requests one last song.”

  “Yes,” Ingilda said. “I wish you to play ‘The Lament.’“

  Havgan nodded at Gwydion and Rhiannon, and they began to play. The melody was simple but haunting, and they sang together, a mournful harmony, singing of the past glory of Elmete.

  “Well-wrought these walls

  Yet the stronghold burst

  Rooftrees snapped and towers fell

  On the day of the Coranian hordes.

  The work of stonesmiths moulders.

  “Walls stood, then the King fell,

  The high arch crashed

  Hacked by bright weapons

  On the day of the Coranian hordes.

  Halls now sunk in loam-crust.

  “Oh, Elmete!

  Bright were the buildings

  High, horn-gabled, much throng-noise

  With bright cheerfulness

  Many mead halls filled.

  “Oh, Elmete!

  Here once many a man, mood-glad,

  gold bright, of gleams garnished,

  flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear,

  gazed on bright gemstones, on gold, on silver,

  On wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amber,

  On the bright city of broad dominion.

  “Came the day of fate,

  On all sides men fell dead

  Death fetched off the flower of the people

  On the day of the Coranian hordes.

  Broken blocks, rime on mortar.

  “Oh, Elmete!

  We remember you.

  Bright city of our father’s fathers.

  We remember you.”

  The hall was hushed as they sang. Ingilda’s eyes were wet, her hands clasped tightly together, and Talorcan’s head was bowed.

  Rhiannon’s own eyes filled with tears. Never in all of her life did she wish to hear a song like this about her own beloved Kymru. She would do anything to prevent that. Anything at all.

  Tiwdaeg, Sol 38—late morning

  THE DAY WAS bright and clear, unfortunately. Rhiannon had hoped for rain, floods, maybe a tornado or two—anything to prevent this awful hunt from taking place. But summer days in Dere were habitually fine, and today was no exception.

  She stood now next to Gwydion, outside the city gates. To the north a small forest stood some distance away. Before it was a large field dotted with long grasses and wildflowers. Birds were singing gently.

  Her heart beat fast, and her mouth was dry. Her hands were clammy. If fate had been cruel enough to make her a woman of the Coranian Empire, she might very well be one of the hunted today.

  Not that the crowd of fifty shivering, frightened people who stood before her now, ringed by mounted warriors, were all Wiccans. Most of them, no doubt, had no powers at all. They were just plain folk who cleaved to the religion of their ancestors. Yet some of the Heiden were gifted. The Godias, the priestesses, always were. And there was always a sprinkling of those with true powers in any coven.

  A hand, as clammy as hers, slipped into her own and held it tightly. Gwydion. She squeezed his hand, holding on to it for dear life. And as she did, a little strength seemed to creep back into her spirit.

  She glanced at him. He was pale, as pale as she must be herself, but his face was set in stern lines. The agony that she knew he felt did not show, unless one looked closely at his gray, stormy eyes; eyes that looked at this scene and would not forget; eyes that promised retribution, one day, to those who took part in it.

  At least, thank the gods, they were merely servants here in this land, and as such, were not expected to take part in the slaughter. To her right, just beyond the doomed crowd, Talorcan, Sigerric, and Penda huddled together, a tight knot of distaste. But they would take part in the hunt, like it or not. They had no choice.

  Havgan, eagerly looking forward to the kill, sat tall and proud on his horse. He was dressed in red and gold, and rubies flashed off the shaft of his spear and the gauntlets covering his strong hands. The sun turned his tawny hair to gold.

  Behold, Rhiannon thought bitterly, the Golden Man. She felt a fierce contempt for him, anticipating the day when Havgan would meet them again in Kymru, realizing that he had been betrayed.

  She felt someone watching her closely. Startled, she looked around and met the eyes of a woman in the crowd of Heiden. The women’s gray eyes pierced through Rhiannon, and she knew that her thoughts had been read. The woman smiled, unpleasantly, as though she, too, was looking forward to the day when Havgan would suffer. The woman looked away before anyone else could notice her stare.

  “Gwydion,” she whispered.

  “I saw. It’s the Godia, I think.”

  “Gwydion,” she said again, urgently. “I think she knows …”

  “I think so, too. But we can’t help that. We’ll just have to wait and hope she says nothing.” He squeezed her hand again and she fell silent.

  Hensa, mounted on a jet-black horse, his golden amulet of Lytir sparkling in the sun, gestured to one of the huntsmen, who sounded the horn. Then Hensa rose in his stirrups. “Know all that you folk of the Heiden are condemned to die this day for your crimes.”

  Men put their arms about their wives and children. Women lifted their little ones and held them, crooning softly. Then the crowd hushed.

  “I call for the Godia!” Hensa cried.

  The woman with the gray eyes turned to the man beside her and gently kissed him. As she drew away, he grasped her hand to stop her. She shook her head, and he let her go, agony in every line of his taut body. As she made her way through the crowd, she stopped occasionally to speak an encouraging word, to dry the tears of a crying child, to gently touch the arm of a shaking man or woman.

  Then she stood before Hensa, contempt in her eyes. A slight breeze gusted her gray homespun gown and kicked up dirt before Hensa’s horse. The horse tossed his head, and Hensa had to pause to settle him down. The Godia’s smile mocked him.

  Havgan’s amber hawk’s eyes fastened on her, and he gestured her over. She raised her brows, then moved over to stand unflinchingly before him.

  He folded his arms across the bow of his saddle and leaned forward to look closely down at her. He said nothing, nor did she speak. But something passed between them at that moment. At last Havgan asked, “You are a Wiccan?”

  She grimaced. “They say that I am.”

  “And so do I. Do you think I cannot tell?”

  “Oh, I think you see very well, my lord. Very well, indeed,” she sneered. He flinched ever so slightly.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “I am called Lingyth.”

  “We will not hunt you today, Lingyth. We have a task for you.”

  “No!” she cried, as Havgan gestured for two warriors to take her back to the city. “No! Let me die now, with him. Egild, Egild!” She tried to reach her husband, but the guards held her fast. He tried to run to her, but a warrior knocked him over the head, and he fell, senseless, to the ground.

  “Egild, my love! Egild!” she screamed. Suddenly a wind swept the field, flattening the grasses. Wild patterns appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again as the wild wind blew. Dust choked the air.

  “Gwydion,” Rhiannon said urgently. “Can’t we help her? Can’t you do something? You are a Shape-Mover, as she is. Can’t you—”

  Gwydion turned to her, anguish in every movement. “I can’t. Havgan will know. I can’t.” He turned from her, his shoulders slumped in misery and shame.

  She reached for him, placing one hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know we can’t. I just … I’m sorry.”

  He turned back to her urgently, grasping both her hands like a drowning man who clutches at something that will save him.

  Suddenly the wind stopped, as abruptly as it had begun. Lingyth stared at Havgan in shock. But Havgan returned her stare with disdain.

  “Take her away,” Havgan said firmly. “N
ow.” The two warriors guarding her swallowed hard, their faces tight with fear. “Now!” Havgan commanded. “She will do you no harm. I have asked the One God to protect us from her tricks. Have no fear.”

  The two warriors dragged the sobbing Lingyth away, back through the city gates. Friends helped Egild up from the ground as he recovered consciousness. Blood streamed down his face, and Rhiannon had to turn away from the look in his eyes when he saw his wife dragged away.

  “Truly, great lord,” Hensa said, his manner servile, “you are blessed by Lytir.”

  “Yes, Arch-wyrce-jaga, I am,” Havgan agreed. “He has given me a mighty task. And I shall not fail him. Enough of this. Now we hunt!”

  Hensa nodded, his thin face shining. “Now we hunt! People of the Heiden,” he shouted, “All-mighty Lytir is merciful, even to those who hate him. You have a chance for life. Those who make it as far as the trees will live. Run! Run!”

  For a moment the crowd remained frozen. Then one man grabbed his wife’s hand and scooped up a toddler with the other. The family ran into the field, making for the distant trees. Men and women picked up the littlest children and ran for their lives.

  Hensa nodded again, and a warrior lifted his horn and sounded the call to hunt. Instantly, Havgan and Hensa were after the running mob, followed closely by Catha, Baldred, and dozens of other warriors.

  Talorcan, Sigerric, and Penda held back their horses for a few moments. “You do not hunt,” Talorcan said to Gwydion, pain in his green eyes.

  Gwydion bowed. “We are merely minstrels, lord.”

  “Yes,” Talorcan said bitterly. “Would that we were all minstrels,” he went on, gesturing to Sigerric and Penda beside him. “Come, my friends, let us do what we must do. The quicker we start, the quicker it is over.”

  Sigerric nodded. “Havgan leads us. And we must follow where he leads. We swore it long ago.”

  “Yes we swore,” Penda replied heavily. “Swore by blood.”