Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  With no warning, the door swung open and Angharad, her Captain, stalked in. “Angharad,” Olwen said in a bored tone. “I believe I said we were not to be disturbed.”

  Then, from behind Angharad, the voice of the man she despised most in the world rang out. “Queen Olwen, Princess Elen, Prince Lludd,” Gwydion bowed. He was dressed in a tunic and trousers of black with red trim. Around his neck the Dreamer’s torque gleamed. “I am delighted to see you all again. May I present Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, Dewin of Coed Aderyn?”

  He gestured to the woman standing beside him. She wore riding leathers of dark green. Olwen inclined her head briefly, and Rhiannon inclined hers a fraction in return.

  “And what business do you have with the Queen?” Llwyd asked haughtily.

  “Ah, Llwyd Cilcoed,” Gwydion said enthusiastically. “So very, very good to see you looking so well.” Llwyd opened his mouth, but Gwydion kept going. “No, no. Don’t protest. The extra weight looks good on you.”

  Behind Gwydion, Angharad muttered something derogatory. It sounded like “smart-ass.” Olwen couldn’t agree more.

  “What are you doing here?” Llwyd asked again, his face flushed with anger.

  “We’re here to see the Queen, of course. Olwen, we beg a moment of your time.”

  “Here I am, Gwydion ap Awst. Make the most of your moment,” she said coolly.

  “A moment of your time, alone,” Gwydion elaborated.

  “Elen, you and Lludd run along now,” Llwyd Cilcoed said smugly. “The Queen and I will hear what Gwydion has to say.”

  “No,” Gwydion said gently. “Just the Queen.”

  Llwyd flushed again. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped abruptly when Olwen lifted her hand. In the sudden silence she studied Gwydion intently.

  “Well, Olwen?” Gwydion inquired. “Will you speak with us? Alone?”

  She gestured sharply for everyone to leave. Elen stood up with alacrity, took her brother’s arm, and left without a word. Llwyd left more reluctantly, followed closely by Angharad, who closed the door quietly behind her.

  “Well?” Olwen asked.

  “The Coranians will invade Kymru,” Gwydion said softly.

  She drew in her breath sharply. “When?”

  “I do not know. Soon, I think. A matter of months.”

  “We must set watchers on the coast, then.”

  Gwydion shook his head. “That will be a waste of man power. We have a much more efficient warning system.”

  “What? Your dreams?” she asked contemptuously.

  “No. Gorwys.”

  “Gorwys? Gorwys of Penllyn? He died over two hundred years ago! How can—” she broke off, understanding now. “How much of a warning will he give?”

  “One day only. Now, Dinmael is one of their primary targets. It is imperative that you make plans now for getting as many of your people to safety as possible.”

  “You mean run away? Are you mad?”

  “Olwen,” he said wearily, “we will lose this battle. I have seen the battle plans. They will land all over your coasts, two thousand men for each of your cantrefs. The largest force, over three thousand men, will come here to Dinmael. I have here a copy of the detailed plans that I will leave with you. But in spite of that information, Ederynion will be overrun. The most important thing is to try to save lives.”

  “I won’t run away,” she said flatly. “I will stay and fight, and so will my people.”

  “Olwen,” Rhiannon said urgently, “your son and daughter, at least—”

  “Won’t run away. And that is that. Tell me, Gwydion ap Awst, by chance, have you seen my death in your dreams?”

  Gwydion hesitated. “I have.”

  “Well, that should please you.”

  “Not especially.”

  Her lip curled in disbelief. “I hope you saw that I died fighting.” “I did.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Caer Erias, Llwynarth, Rheged

  KING URIEN WAS helping his oldest son, Elphin, and his youngest son, Rhiwallon, fletch arrows under his expert direction. His wife, Ellirri, was bending over young Enid, helping her memorize basic herbal remedies. His second son, Owein, was off in a corner by himself, carving a block of polished wood into the figure of a hawk. Urien smiled with contentment to have his family around him. He was a lucky man, and he knew it.

  Then the door opened abruptly and the Dreamer walked in, followed by a woman he didn’t recognize. “Gwydion!” Urien shouted, enveloping his half-brother-in-law in his customary bear hug. “Where in the name of the gods have you been?”

  “Oh, out and about,” Gwydion said vaguely, while Ellirri hugged him tight. “Ellirri, Urien, this is Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.”

  Urien whistled. “So, you’re the one who led Gwydion on such a wild chase! But he caught you in the end, eh?”

  “And got more than he bargained for,” Rhiannon said dryly.

  Urien grinned. “I can see that. Sit down, sit down.” He introduced Rhiannon to the children, then settled her by the fire. Ellirri was smiling as she handed around Rheged ale.

  “Tell us where you’ve been,” Urien said heartily. “You dropped right off the face of the earth. Couldn’t get a word out of old Dinaswyn. You know how she is.”

  “I do,” Gwydion said, then hesitated. “Urien, I must speak with you.”

  “Here I am,” he said, grinning.

  But Ellirri, apparently seeing something in Gwydion’s face that Urien himself did not, said, “Rhiwallon, go to Sabrina for your astronomy lesson. Enid, it is time for your harp lessons.” Enid and Rhiwallon left instantly without even bothering to argue, sensing something ominous in their mother’s tone. “Owein, return these arrows to Trystan,” Ellirri continued.

  But Owein was not so easily cowed. “You’re going to let Elphin stay, aren’t you?” he flared. “Then why can’t I?”

  “You heard your mam,” Urien said sharply. Without another word, Owein left.

  “Ellirri,” Gwydion said, “I think Elphin—”

  “Should stay,” Ellirri finished firmly.

  “Very well.” Taking Ellirri’s hand, Gwydion said, very gently, “Soon, very soon, the Coranians will invade Kymru.”

  Ellirri paled, but made no sound. Elphin stiffened. “You have dreamed this? Are you sure?” Urien asked slowly.

  “We have been in Corania. I have seen the plans myself.”

  “Tell me,” Urien said.

  For a moment, Gwydion was silent, his hands still cradling Ellirri’s gently. “They will make landfall all across your coasts, sending over two thousand men to each cantref. I will leave the detailed plans with you. The main force will land on the coast just off Ystrad Marchell and come down Sarn Ermyn, then cut across country to the city. It should take them five days to reach Llwynarth. Do you know the story of Gorwys of Penllyn?”

  “I do.”

  “He will rise from his grave and give us warning. One day only.”

  “Very well. Then we march out to meet them when we hear the call.”

  “No. Don’t do that,” Gwydion said sharply. “This is a battle that we cannot win. It is imperative that you begin making plans now to get your people to safety. You and your family most of all.”

  “Ah, Gwydion,” he said, shaking his head, “you are an excellent Dreamer. But you know nothing of ruling the Kymri. I am the King of Rheged. I cannot run away.”

  “Your wife and children, at least—” Gwydion began.

  “No,” Ellirri broke in, her voice low and even. “I stay with my husband.”

  “And I,” Elphin said strongly, “will stay with them.”

  “We will make provision for the other three,” Urien said. “Owein will be the hardest to get rid of. But Ellirri will think of something.”

  “Urien, you don’t understand—” Gwydion said.

  “Oh, I think I do.” He looked down at his wife, sitting so quietly by Gwydion’s side. Her blue eyes looked up at him, full of the love he had seen there for the
past twenty-three years. No, she would not leave him. And he would not be able to make her. And he saw by her eyes that she, too, knew what Gwydion could not bring himself to say.

  Coed Addien, Rheged

  THEY STOPPED FOR the night near a tiny stream some leagues out of the city. He had followed them all afternoon, and was relieved they weren’t going any farther. He didn’t want to cause his mam and da more worry by being away any longer than he had to.

  He watched from a distance, safely concealed behind some bushes, as the Dreamer and the Dewin set up camp. Rhiannon gathered wood for a fire, and Gwydion set it alight, conjuring fire in the shape of a huge battle sword. The fiery sword hovered above the pile of wood for a moment, then slashed down, igniting the logs. Owein swallowed hard. The Dreamer would be a bad man to cross. He hoped Gwydion wouldn’t lose his temper.

  Meanwhile, Rhiannon, who apparently had no such fear, was saying, “Do you always have to start a fire this elaborately?”

  “I do,” Gwydion replied shortly, as he slipped a hunk of bread onto the end of a stick and held it over the fire.

  “That’s dinner?” Rhiannon asked incredulously.

  “Why not? You said it was my turn to cook. So I’m cooking.”

  “Maybe we should get Owein to cook for us.”

  Still hidden in the bushes—or so he thought—Owein jumped.

  “Come on out, Owein,” Gwydion called. “Rhiannon wants you to cook.”

  Trembling, but trying to hide it, he stepped out from his place of concealment.

  “Can you cook?” Rhiannon asked. “How about making a nice stew?”

  Without a word, he took the pot she handed him and began to prepare a stew. It was a good thing he did know how to cook. As the stew simmered, he stole glances at Gwydion and Rhiannon, but whenever he looked at them, they seemed to be looking elsewhere. No one spoke. Rhiannon sewed stitches on a length of green cloth. With a defiant look at Rhiannon, Gwydion made tiny flames dance above the fire. They twinkled in the night like bursts of sunlight.

  “That’s distracting Owein, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said quietly after a while. “He’s trying to cook. And I believe you’ve proven your point.”

  With a sigh, Gwydion stopped conjuring fire, then went for his own sewing kit and began to mend a tear in his cloak.

  When the stew was done, Gwydion and Rhiannon ate heartily. Owein was nervous. He had come all this way to speak to them, and now he couldn’t seem to speak.

  “What’s on your mind, Owein?” Gwydion asked finally.

  “I—I want to know what you said to them—to Mam and Da.”

  “Ask them,” Rhiannon said gently.

  “They won’t tell me.”

  “Then neither will we,” Gwydion said firmly.

  “You must trust them, Owein,” Rhiannon said, “to know what is best.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I think we do,” Gwydion said easily. “You are galled that Elphin is a part of their magic inner circle. You want to be first in their hearts, and you think Elphin holds that place. Elphin, who will have everything that you want. Everything. And what makes it worse is that you love Elphin—almost as much as you hate him.”

  “No,” Owein said, looking at the ground. “No, I just—”

  “Yes,” Rhiannon said firmly. “Now, you go back home, and quickly. Ellirri must be worried sick about you. Besides, who in their right mind would spend the night sleeping outside if they could help it?”

  “What’s the matter, Rhiannon?” Gwydion said with a grin. “Getting too old to camp out? Getting soft? The brisk night air, a crackling fire—”

  “The howl of hungry wolves, the frost—” she snapped back.

  “A pile of sweet bracken—”

  “Stones digging into my back—”

  “What’s that?” Owein said suddenly.

  “What’s what?” Gwydion asked.

  “I don’t hear—” Rhiannon stopped abruptly as the hunting horn rang out again.

  “Owein, stand next to me,” Gwydion said sharply, reaching for Rhiannon’s hand. They stood together by the glowing fire, straining their eyes into the darkness. The horn sounded again, nearer this time. And with it came the baying of dogs and the sound of horses’ hooves, pounding through the distant fields.

  Suddenly the hounds were there, surrounding them, panting, baying, circling endlessly. Their ghostly white coats glowed in the flickering campfire, and the flames ignited their hungry red eyes.

  A white horse burst out of the night. The rider’s chest was bare, and his breeches were made of deerskin. His leather boots were studded with topaz gems. He had the face of a man but the eyes of an owl. Antlers grew from his forehead. The rider grinned with an inhuman grin, a grin to turn the blood cold.

  “Cerrunnos,” Gwydion said. “Lord of the Wild Hunt. Protector of Kymru.”

  “Well met, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos answered, his voice like the rushing of the wind through tall pines, like the sound of the chase as it closes in, like the heartbeat of a hunter bringing his quarry to bay.

  Another horse, black as midnight, leapt into the clearing. The woman who rode it was slender and lithe. Her black hair cascaded down her back. Her shift was glowing white, the length of the skirt barely reaching her calves. Her boots were leather, studded with amethysts, and she looked down at them with pitiless eyes.

  “Cerridwen. Queen of the Wood. Protectress of Kymru,” Gwydion bowed.

  “Well met to all of you,” Cerridwen replied, her voice shimmering like the sound of a string of silvery bells. “To you, Dreamer. To you, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, and to you, Owein ap Urien var Ellirri, I give greetings.”

  “Why have you come?” Gwydion asked.

  “The time is short. Death will soon stalk our land,” Cerunnos said. “We come to tell you, Gwydion ap Awst, of your next task.”

  “The sword of the High Kings waits in Cadair Idris. And he whose hand will grasp it is safe, for now,” Cerridwen said. “And now you prepare Kymru to bear her wounds. All this is as it must be. I charge you now, that when you see us again you will begin the next task. The task to gather the others you have dreamed of, so that the four of you can seek the Treasures, that the High King may take his place and regain what will soon be lost. Be ready, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, for you are one of these four.”

  “I will be ready,” Rhiannon said steadily.

  “And to you, Owein ap Urien, we give warning,” Cerunnos said, his topaz eyes shining. “Be careful of what you wish for, boy. For you shall surely get it.”

  And with that, they were gone.

  Caer Tir, Arberth, Prydyn

  KING RHORAM WAS sweating profusely. His muscles cramped, aching with the strain. Even his face hurt, so hard was he trying to hold his nonchalant smile. He looked as though he was preparing to savor a coming victory. But really, he wondered if he was going to have a stroke instead.

  Parry. Raise his shield. Move his feet. Keep moving. Keep away from the stinging, shining net of steel she was steadily weaving around him. Parry. Attack. Move, move, move. Gods, he thought, if I’m ever fool enough to challenge her again, just kill me then and there. “Do you yield?” he called.

  Achren laughed mockingly. Her black hair braided tightly to her scalp shone in the bright sunlight. Her dark eyes flashed. “You’re out of shape,” she mocked. “You drink too much. Stay up all hours. Wench too much.”

  “Can a man ever wench too much?” he asked, trying not to sound out of breath. She was right, but she was wrong. He did do all of those things. But he was in better shape than he had been in for years. And she knew it. It seemed to him that her breath was rasping a little, too. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  His folk laughed, calling out wagers—and other suggestions. He grinned at their jests, but kept a close eye on her feet. If she would just move one more inch to the left—

  She did. And then Rhoram’s blade flashed, far to the right, distracting her for one brief moment. Grinding her shield again
st his own, he hooked his foot around her ankles and yanked. She went down. His blade launched itself at her unprotected throat, and stopped.

  “Do you yield?” he inquired politely.

  Her dark eyes laughed up at him. “The Captain of a teulu never yields.”

  “The Captain yields to her King. That’s in the law books, Achren.”

  “Very well, then. I yield.”

  Grinning, he held out his hand to help her up. She took his hand and suddenly yanked hard, throwing him off balance, and he stumbled to the ground. Quick as a flash, she grabbed the knife tucked in her boot and held it against his throat.

  “The Captain, my King, never, ever yields,” she said solemnly.

  “A draw!” his son, Geriant, called.

  “Ha!” Gwenhwyfar called. “Achren wins!”

  “How can you say that!” his daughter, Sanon, said hotly. “He—”

  “She let him win,” Gwen answered.

  Rhoram grinned from where he lay prone. “Maybe she did, my sweetling. But have you no pity for your da?”

  Gwen laughed. She ran across the courtyard, helping him to his feet, flinging her arms around his neck. “Of course, I pity you, Da.”

  “Thank you, dear heart. You are the joy of my old age.”

  Movement at the fringes of the crowd caught his eye. The courtyard was packed with people who had come to watch the challenge, and the gates of the fortress were open. Someone had apparently joined the crowd, someone who was causing quite a stir. He began to catch a few muttered words from those on the fringes of the crowd.

  “Dream … the Dreamer … what dream does he bring to us now?”

  Ah. Gwydion had returned from the gods knew where. And Rhiannon? Where was she? And then he heard it.

  “The Dewin … Rhiannon … she has returned to us.”

  He craned his neck to see them coming. Beside him, Gwen tensed and began to pull away. “No, no, sweetheart,” he pleaded. “Don’t run away.” He tried to hold her, but she slipped away and disappeared into the crowd.