by Holly Taylor
Elstar turned to him. “Now we leave,” she said.
But Cynan did not reply immediately. He was thinking of the phantom’s words. Now is the time to die for our land. Yes. He was right. Now was the time. “Yes, Elstar,” he said absently. “Tomorrow you go to Neuadd Gorsedd. Join your husband and younger son there, then go on to the caves. Take everyone with you. You’ll have ten days before the Coranians get here.”
“You talk as if you’re not coming with us,” Elstar said, forcing a laugh.
“I’m not,” he answered. “I must stay.”
“Cynan, no! They’ll kill you!”
“I know that,” he said quietly.
“Then, why? Why?”
He turned to her. For years Elstar had done her best for him. Steering him so he didn’t go too far wrong, loving him through it all. And now he thought of something he could do for her.
“I’ll never make it to the caves,” he said gently.
Her blue eyes suddenly filled with tears as she understood at last.
Neuadd Gorsedd, Gwytheryn
SOMEONE WAS SHAKING him awake. He opened his eyes a fraction, trying to identify the fiend who was interrupting the first real sleep he had been able to get for weeks. Of course. Dudod. Who else but his brother would be so cruel?
“Anieron,” Dudod said, still shaking him. “It’s coming.”
Anieron sighed and sat up in bed. Gods, he was tired. He’d been working too hard lately. The hideous task of clearing out Neuadd Gorsedd—of gathering books, music, instruments, and transporting them in the company of small, innocuous groups of Bards—had taken its toll. And he had been providing the same services to the Dewin. The worst part about Cynan’s ineffectual leadership was that the poor man knew he was ineffectual. And if that were not enough, the task was all being accomplished in the utmost secrecy. It would never do for the traitor to find out where they were going.
The sound of hooves pounding across the plain grew louder. He made himself get up. He knew, of course, what it was coming to say. But there was no call for bad manners. He needed to be there.
The song that had been running through his mind for several days now came to him again as he and Dudod made their way down the stairs and out onto the great stone steps.
It has broken us,
It has crushed us,
It has drowned us.
O Annwyn of the star-bright kingdom;
The wind has consumedus
As twigs are consumed by
Crimson fire from your hand.
Gwenllient, his predecessor by several generations, had clearly had the war to come in mind when she composed this song. He supposed that Nudd, the Dreamer of her generation, had told her of what was to come. Broken, crushed, and drowned the Kymri would be. But they would come back from defeat. He knew it, though he did not think he would be alive to see it. Although the Dreamer had not said so, Anieron had seen that knowledge in Gwydion’s eyes.
Elidyr, his heir and son-in-law, came over to him, pale, but composed. Elidyr’s younger son, Cynfar, came rushing up.
“Granda!” Cynfar demanded of Anieron. “Do you see it?”
The white light that came shooting across the plain shaped itself into the figure of a horse and rider, both with eyes of blood red. The rider lifted a silver spear.
“Bards of Neuadd Gorsedd,” it cried. “The enemy has come! Now must you fight and die for the land!”
“The Bards thank you for your warning,” Anieron called out in return. “We will sing songs of this night, of the Ride of Gorwys.”
The phantom inclined his head. Anieron could almost have sworn that the dead man grinned. And then he was gone.
Tomorrow, the remaining Dewin would arrive. Then they would all set out on the trek to Allt Llwyd, the caves just off the sea, in the south of Ystrad Marchell.
The Druids would not be joining them, of course.
Caer Duir, Gwytheryn
CATHBAD, ARCHDRUID OF Kymru, sat by the dying hearth fire, brooding. It would be soon now. At last the Druids would once again be revered throughout the land. Just as they had been in the old days, in the lost land of Lyonesse, before the Lady Don had changed things forever by creating the Bards, the Dewin, and, most hateful of all, the Dreamers.
At last, he would come into his own. At last. It was for this that he had killed his older brother so many, many years ago, ensuring that he would become the next Archdruid. It was for this that he’d sent an assassin to Dinmael to murder Gwydion, when the Dreamer searched for Rhiannon to aid him in the quest for Caladfwlch. It was for this that he had attempted to kill Rhiannon rather than see her join forces with Gwydion to locate the sword. It was for this that he had blackmailed a band of men to attack Gwydion and his companions as they quested for the sword. It was for this that he had sent his men to the island of Afalon after the sword. Amatheon, Gwydion’s younger brother, had died that day. And although Amatheon had not been the true target, Cathbad had been satisfied, for the loss of Amatheon had hurt the Dreamer deeply.
He had lost in the battle for the sword, for Caladfwlch had been found and restored to Cadair Idris. He still did not know what Gwydion’s plan was for wielding that sword—for there was no High King in Kymru. He had not known where Gwydion and Rhiannon had gone until they returned with the news of the invasion. But he had turned that to his advantage, dispatching a trusted messenger to find Havgan and offer aid.
Yes, his plans were coming to fruition at last. In the past several years he had made sure that every Druid assigned to an important post had complete and total loyalty to him and him alone. Those who passed the test had been left where they were. And those who hadn’t—usually the older Druids—had been quietly replaced and shipped to the most remote villages he could find. And now, everything was ready. Or almost everything.
He had been forced to go cautiously with the Druids assigned to the royal courts. Ellywen, at the court in Prydyn, had proved to be ideal for his purposes. He hadn’t bothered to sound out Griffi in Tegeingl, as it would have been useless. He had high hopes for Iago in Ederynion. The man was a little too devoted to Princess Elen, but Cathbad was sure that Iago would do as he was told. Sabrina in Rheged had disappointed him, but he was sure that she, too, would come to see the light in time.
He frowned irritably. Something was up at Neuadd Gorsedd and Y Ty Dewin, and he was not precisely sure what. He knew that the colleges were being emptied, that the Dewin and Bards were disappearing with all their treasures. What he didn’t know was where they were going. Apparently the Master Bard had guessed what he was up to. Anieron was very clever. More clever than Gwydion, who still seemed to be suspicious of the Master Bard. Soon the Dreamer would learn what a fool he had been. Cathbad was looking forward to that.
The pounding of hooves interrupted Cathbad’s train of thought. He stood up and went to the door, stepping out into the corridor. He went swiftly down the stairs, anticipation making him feel young again. Druids streamed out of their rooms behind him, but there was no talking, no panic.
He opened the heavy doors and stepped out into the night. The sky was strewn with stars, like diamonds thrown on a silken sheet by a careless woman. Across the plain he saw the horse and rider coming, glowing as coldly as the stars.
The horse reared, pawing the air, and the rider, lifting his spear, shouted, “Druids of Caer Duir! The enemy has come! The time has come to fight! To die!”
Cathbad smiled. No doubt the people of Kymru had swallowed that, rushing to their weapons, preparing to defend the land. But not he. He was not so foolish.
The rider turned his horse, then stopped and turned back again. For a moment the rider’s blood-red eyes met Cathbad’s own. For a moment, the Archdruid cringed at what he saw there.
“You will not fight for Kymru,” the phantom said flatly.
“How do you—”
“A traitor knows a traitor,” he said. “Take warning from me and turn aside from your path. Unless you like to ride.”
<
br /> Coed Aderyn, Prydyn
GWYDION TOSSED AND turned, but could not sleep. He racked his brain, trying to discover if he had left anything undone. He had warned Kymru’s Kings and Queens, leaving them to make their hopeless battle plans. He had warned the Bards, the Dewin, and the Druids.
He turned over to his other side, still trying to sleep. Not that he really wanted to. Of late the dream had been stalking him again. Over and over he saw the swan fall from the sky and the horses brought down in a river of blood. Over and over he saw the wolf sink beneath the onslaught and the hawk tumble end over end from the heights. Over and over he saw the nightingale torn to pieces and the dragon disemboweled. Over and over he saw the bulls attack, only to have the dream end abruptly and begin again.
He gave up trying to sleep and rose, making his cautious way to the hearth. He had to walk carefully, for the floor of the cave was rough and uneven. He glanced over at Rhiannon as she slept on the other pallet. Her long, silken hair spilled over the pillow like a shadowy flood. Her lashes formed a dark crescent above her high cheekbones. She was too thin, eating her heart out over her daughter, that ungrateful brat.
Of course, he had been eating his heart out, too. Over other things. He winced away from thoughts of Uthyr. There was no escaping it—these days it was almost as bad to be awake as it was to dream. Nightmares were everywhere before him. No escape. No matter what he did.
The faroff sound of hooves made him start. Now. Now it was coming. At last, his long nightmare of death was coming to life.
Rhiannon stirred, moaning softly. Swiftly he went to her and shook her awake. She reached out and clung to him, trembling. He held her shaking body, reveling in the feel of her, reveling in the knowledge that he was not alone, that she was by his side.
His heartbeat quickened as he looked down at her in his arms. At the same moment, she looked up. Their eyes met—glittering silver to smoldering emerald. His lips parted, to speak, or to kiss, he was not sure which he had intended, when, of their own volition it seemed, his arms dropped away from her and he stood up.
The feelings were strong. Too strong. And he was afraid. He was the Dreamer. And he must press on, unfaltering, unencumbered, to complete the tasks that the Shining Ones had given. He must not fail. And if he were bound in any way, perhaps he would. He cleared his throat. “It’s starting,” he said.
Rhiannon looked away, unable—or unwilling—to meet his eyes. Yet so closely was he watching her, he could see a frantic pulse beat at her slender throat. But when she spoke, her voice was cool, making him think that the uncertain light was the cause of what he had seen. “Thank the gods,” she said. “The waiting was driving me mad.”
She stood up, and they left the cave, passing under the waterfall and out into the dark night. Through the trees a white light was coming fast.
The horse and rider shot from the forest, coming to a stop just before them. The rider’s dead eyes shone like rubies. He held a spear above his head. “Dreamer! The enemy has come! Now comes the fight for Kymru!”
“The fight began long ago, Gorwys of Penllyn,” Gwydion called. “But I thank you for your warning.”
The horse reared as the phantom sawed at the reins. Gwydion felt Rhiannon’s hand slip into his, and he covered her hand with his own. The night fell silent. Gwydion and Rhiannon stood quietly, unmoving. The phantom sat upon his horse, so still that he seemed carved of stone. No rise and fall of his dead chest marred the stillness. This rider had breathed his last long ago.
“Gorwys of Penllyn is dead,” the phantom said coldly.
“So he is,” Gwydion replied. “His body is dead. His soul has lived on to warn us. And so we thank you.”
“How long—” the phantom stopped, cutting off his words in mid-sentence.
“Over two hundred and fifty years,” Rhiannon said, compassion in her voice.
“Has it truly been so long?”
“Ask Bloudewedd, if you don’t believe us,” Gwydion said.
At the sound of that name, the phantom seemed to glow brighter. “Bloudewedd?” he said hoarsely. “She is alive?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Gwydion began.
“She is Drwys Idris,” Rhiannon finished.
“They put her in the Doors? O gods, they did that to her?” the phantom cried, his voice filed with horror. “Bloudewedd!” he cried out, lifting his dead face to the sky, calling to his lost love. “Bloudewedd, I am coming to you!”
And then, he was gone, shooting up into the night sky like an arrow of cold, silvery flame.
Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn
DRWYS IDRIS WAS glowing. The Doors to the deserted mountain gleamed in the dark night, bathed in light and color. Opals caught fire. Luminous pearls glimmered softly. Emeralds cast a verdant glow. Sapphires glistened with an azure light. Rubies shone like blood. Diamonds glistened. Garnets darkened almost to black. Topaz and amethysts burst into life. Onyx and bloodstone gleamed sharply.
The gods and goddesses of Kymru had clothed her in their light. It was kind of them to take the trouble, particularly for one such as her. Would he come to take farewell of his Bloudewedd, sometime High Queen of Kymru, before his soul departed?
Then she saw him. He had come back to her.
She watched him approach, a fiery white light shooting swiftly across the plain. He drew his horse to a halt at the foot of the crumbling stone steps. He gazed up at the dead mountain for a moment, remembering, perhaps, the time when it was alive with light, with laughter, with love, the way it was before they had killed it. Slowly he dismounted and ascended the broken steps.
He was not, of course, the man she remembered. The phantom before her glowed, and his red eyes shone like drops of blood. No, he was not the man he used to be. He was not a man at all.
And she? She was no longer a woman. He was gazing at the Doors that glimmered so splendidly, as though he could catch a glimpse of who she had once been within the jeweled patterns. But there was nothing for him to see of the woman he had loved. All gone, long ago.
“Bloudewedd?” he whispered, uncertainly.
“Yes, Gorwys. It is me.”
“Are you—are you well?”
“I am well. And you?” she inquired politely.
He gave a sound that might have been a laugh and gestured at himself—at his deadly glow, at his blood-red eyes, at the glowing spear in his dead hands. Answer enough, she thought.
Oh, it was hard, so hard to talk. Hard, so hard to say what she really meant. So hard not to ask the same questions he was trying not to ask. Are you the one I once loved? Have you changed? Do you still love me?
At last she said, “Lleu is back.”
“I know. I saw him, in a tiny village in the mountains, of all places. I … I did not know that they had done this to you. I thought Bran had killed you outright.”
“No. For my crime, my punishment was this.”
“But why? It was I who killed Lleu Lawrient by my own hand.”
She was silent for a moment. The mourning wind whipped across the plain, even now, in the dead of the night, creating swirling patterns in the wild grass. “I was his wife,” she said at last. “He trusted me.”
“Ah,” he said, and bent his glowing head. After a moment he raised his head and spoke, his voice hoarse and shaking. “Bloudewedd, I am so sorry. So very sorry, my love.”
She did not reply, and he rushed on. “Is there…is there anything I can do? Is there any way I can ever make up for what I have done to you?”
“What you have done to me? It would be more true to say what we have done to each other.”
“Yet I persuaded you, I think, to do as we did.”
“And I was willing to be persuaded.”
He almost smiled. “You have changed.”
“Oh, gods. I hope so,” she said fervently.
“How much longer for you?” he asked gently.
“If the Dreamer succeeds, it should not be too many more years before I am released.”
“If he succeeds.”
“Yes.”
They were silent again. The unspoken words cried out in the dead of their night.
At last, he said, “When you come to Gwlad Yr Haf, I hope I am still there. To see you once more, as you once were.”
And she? What did she truly hope for? She wished she knew. But the years had made her kinder, so she simply said, “I hope so, too, Gorwys.”
“I must go,” he said. “My task is done. Farewell, Bloudewedd.”
“Say, rather, farewell to Drwys Idris.”
“No,” he said, his dead mouth twisting. “To me, you will always be Bloudewedd.” He turned and descended the steps. He mounted his horse and looked back at her one last time. He raised the spear, saluted her, then began to chant:
“From under earth I come
In Kymru I made my stand,
I ride on the filly that was never fowled,
And I carry the dead in my hand.”
HIS FORM GLOWED, glimmered, flickered, vanished. And he was gone, leaving her alone. Again.
Chapter 16
Dinmael
Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru
Gwernan Mis, 497
Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—late morning
Queen Olwen sat quietly in the saddle, waiting for the sight of the Coranian fleet to stain the distant horizon. The sun had risen, turning the sandy beach into a glittering white carpet. The sea was a clear emerald green, and the waves splashed gently onto the shore. It was strange that it should be so peaceful. All too soon, the sandy shore would be drenched with blood. Some of it, she assumed, would be hers.
Her Dewin, Regan, had gone Wind-Riding this morning, reporting that the fleet would be sighted within this hour. Regan had also reported that the fleet speeding toward them consisted of thirty ships, one hundred men to a ship. Three thousand Coranian warriors were skimming across the sea to try to wrest Olwen’s city from her grasp.
