by Holly Taylor
Behind him, Trystan and his band of twenty warriors followed closely. Only twenty were left of the one hundred with which he had set out a week ago, for the Coranians had taken a toll. For the last seven days, they had been encountering small bands of Coranian warriors. But Owein and his men had merely fought their way through, then fled, for he would not be waylaid on his journey to Llwynarth.
A shout just a few paces to his left made Owein rein in his horse abruptly. A strange Kymric warrior stood at the base of a hill, gesturing for them to come to him. Owein glanced back at Trystan. They had heard rumors that some of his countrymen were in league with the Coranians.
“He’s wearing Hetwin’s badge,” Trystan said quietly. “What do you think?” Owein asked. “I’m not sure. Let’s talk to him for a moment.” Trystan gestured for their warriors to draw in closer. The warriors fanned out in a circle, letting the stranger through and then closing up the path behind him.
“Owein ap Urien?” the man asked. “Is it really you?” “Cadar?” Owein asked uncertainly. Cadar was the Captain of Hetwin’s warband.
“Yes, it’s me,” Cadar replied. “Hetwin saw you coming. He wants to talk.”
Owein glanced around. “Saw me coming? Where is he?” Cadar pointed to a tiny forest less than a league to the north. “Our base is there, for now. We had to abandon Neigwl.” “Your city is lost?” “Man, all the cities are lost.”
“But Hetwin is here? Didn’t he go to Llwynarth? That was my father’s plan.”
“But Urien changed his plan! Hetwin got a message from Bledri.”
“Impossible,” Owein said flatly.
“I tell you, he did.” Cadar frowned. “You’d best come with me and talk to him. I fear some mischief is afoot.”
“Some mischief, indeed, if all the cities of Rheged have fallen.” “They have, Owein. They have.”
OWEIN, TRYSTAN AND their warriors made their way through the trees to the tiny clearing where Hetwin Silver-Brow now stood. Hetwin was a huge man, who had served Urien devotedly for years. His large hands were nicked and callused with the scars of war. His silver hair fell over his broad shoulders.
“Owein ap Urien,” Hetwin bowed. “What news from Llwynarth?”
“What news?” Owein repeated blankly. “I do not know.”
“You don’t come from there?”
Owein shook his head. “We come from the south. I am on my way to Llwynarth now. I know nothing. Why are you not there?”
It was Hetwin’s turn to look blank. “Urien changed his plans. My Dewin received a Wind-Ride from Beldri.”
“So you have no news of what is happening in the capital? No news of my family?”
Hetwin shook his grizzled head. “Nothing. But do you think—” Hetwin broke off with a puzzled frown.
“I don’t know what to think,” Owein replied slowly.
“Hetwin,” Trystan broke in. “We have traveled far and fast. Is what Cadar says true? All the cities have fallen?”
“I do not know if all of them have. But word has it that all the cantrefs on the coast have fallen to the enemy. I know this only by the word of the city folk who escaped. And pitiful few that is, too. And you know about the Druids.”
“What about the Druids?” Owein asked.
“Why, they are in league with the Coranians. My own Druid disappeared a week ago. They fight with the enemy.”
“All of them?” Trystan gasped.
“Most. Perhaps only a handful of them are faithful. I do not know.”
A rustle in the trees made them all stop talking. They tensed, laying their hands to their weapons. Then came a muffled hail and Hetwin relaxed. “A scout. He must have news,” Hetwin said.
And so he did. He had Esyllt with him. She was white and drawn. Her eyes were shadowed, and her tunic was torn. Her hair was tangled and dusty. But her weary face lit up when she saw Trystan. Trystan took a step toward her.
But before she could even greet her lover, Owein leapt at her, grasping her by the arms. “Esyllt! What news? Tell me!” Owein demanded.
“Let her sit down, Owein,” Trystan broke in. “And give her something to drink.”
“Tell me now, Esyllt!” Owein persisted, not letting go of Esyllt’s arms.
“Morcant Whledig attacked the city,” she said tonelessly. “Neither the Gwardas of Amgoed nor Hetwin Silver-Brow came to our aid.”
“But—the message!” Hetwin gasped.
“False. Put out by Bledri, in league with Morcant.”
Hetwin paled. “I …” he began in a strangled voice.
“Never mind that now, Hetwin. Go on, Esyllt,” Owein urged.
“Four days we fought without aid. On the fourth day, Amgoed came and relieved us. But the Coranians were only one day away. That was two days ago. I don’t know what happened after that. Urien sent me to bring Hetwin’s men when his Bard would not answer me.”
“He was killed three days ago,” Hetwin said heavily, anguish in his old eyes.
“We thought you did not come because you had betrayed us.”
“You know something else,” Owein said, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me!”
“Owein,” Trystan said gently, “let her sit down, at least.”
“Tell me now!” Owein demanded.
Esyllt looked up into Owein’s face and sighed. “Elphin is dead. Your brother died on the third day.”
Owein abruptly let her go and stepped back. Trystan put his arm around Esyllt’s shoulders and gently lowered her to one of the fallen logs scattered about the clearing. He then sat down beside her and cradled her as she began to sob.
Owein stood unmoving. Elphin dead. The thing that he had half-wished for, the thing he was ashamed to have ever hoped for, had happened. He had loved Elphin—and envied him for his future as King of Rheged, for his betrothal to Sanon of Prydyn. And now Elphin was dead. Owein felt no elation, no joy. Only shame. Only sorrow. He was lost and alone, and if he could have had one wish, it would have been to see Elphin standing before him now, alive and whole.
He remembered that night many months ago when he had stood with Gwydion and Rhiannon, when the Protectors had come with their Wild Hunt. The words that Cerrunnos had spoken to him, words that he had not understood at the time, came back to him now, and they were bitter: “Be careful of what you wish for, boy. For you shall surely get it.”
Esyllt, her face streaked with tears, pulled herself from Trystan’s embrace and rose to stand before Owein. “Your father gave me something to give to you.” From a small pouch at her waist, she pulled the opal ring of Rheged and held it out to him.
“These words King Urien bade me say to you,” Esyllt went on, her voice trembling. “These are the instructions of Bran the Dreamer, given years ago when he gave this ring to the House of PenMarch. Guard this ring carefully. One day it is to be surrendered to the Dreamer who asks for it. And the Dreamer will ask for it with these exact words: ‘The High King commands you to surrender Bran’s gift.’ To the Dreamer who speaks these words, and none other, is the ring to be given.”
Before Owein could reply, before he could even begin to speak around the tightness in his throat, another shout from the woods reached them.
One of Hetwin’s warriors was leading someone to the clearing. It was Teleri, Urien’s lieutenant. Her tunic was bloodstained. Her right arm was wrapped with a field dressing, the bandage dirty and bloody. Lines of pain were etched across her drawn face. Her gray-green eyes were bloodshot. Her steps dragged with weariness, and she clutched a cloth-wrapped bundle to her breast.
As she saw him, some of the tension left her face. She stumbled to him and clutched at his arm. “Owein ap Urien var Ellirri. I have found you. I have fulfilled my task.” She opened her mouth to say more, but her knees buckled and Owein caught her before she fell. He sank to the ground with her slight form in his arms. Hetwin handed Owein a brimming mug of ale, and Owein brought it to Teleri’s lips and forced her to drink.
When she was done, Owein said, “Tell me
.”
“Llwynarth has fallen,” she croaked. “Before the battle, Urien gave me a task. If I lived, I was to find you. And so I have. I have come to offer my service to my King.”
“King!” Owein said, startled. “I am not—” He broke off, silenced by the look in her gray-green eyes. “My father …”
“Dead. I saw him fall.”
“My mother …”
“Dead. They fell together.”
No one moved in the now-quiet glade. Old Hetwin’s face twisted with grief. Trystan’s jaw clenched tight. Esyllt’s eyes filled with tears. But no one spoke.
At last, Teleri broke the silence, “Urien gave me this to give to you.” She reached into the sack and pulled out the opal torque of Rheged.
Owein stared at the torque. The sun, peering through the trees, flashed fire, setting the opals shimmering. To his suddenly tear-blinded eyes Teleri seemed to hold a river of gold and flame, cascading in a flood from her hands.
Teleri reached up and clasped the torque around Owein’s neck. “He gave me words to say to you,” she said. “He said to say: ‘Owein, my beloved son—’“
“Stop. Oh, stop for a moment,” Owein begged. It was too much to bear. Beloved son. Beloved son of a father he would never see again.
Again, Teleri reached into the sack and this time she pulled out Urien’s helmet. Sunlight danced on the golden helm and the opals in the horse’s fierce head glittered. “I took this the night of the battle as his body was waiting to be buried. He wanted you to have this, too. Against the day you would return to Llwynarth to take back that which is yours. He said: ‘To you I give all that I have, for your brother is dead. Hail to Owein, King of Rheged.’“
King of Rheged. But there was no Rheged. Rheged was gone, crushed under the heel of the enemy. But Morcant still lived. Ah, but there was a remedy for that. Owein stood and turned to leave the clearing. Trystan’s sudden grip on his arm stopped him.
“Where are you going?” Trystan demanded.
“To Llwynarth.”
“Llwynarth is lost, Owein.”
“Morcant’s in Llwynarth.”
“And?”
“And I’m going to kill him,” Owein said impatiently. “What do you think?”
“And how do you plan to kill him? Do you think you can just walk up to him and put a dagger in his ribs? Do you think the Coranians will just part the way for you and cheer you on?”
Owein wrenched his arm from Trystan’s grasp. “Let me go!”
Then Esyllt was in front of him, blocking his way.
“Get out of my way, Esyllt. Don’t make me hurt you,” Owein warned through gritted teeth.
But Esyllt did not answer. Instead, she pulled a letter from her tunic and held it in front of his eyes. He jerked his head back. “What is this?”
“Word from the Dreamer. He left it with me months ago. He said I would know when to give it to you. And so I do. Read it.”
Owein raised his arm to sweep her from his path. He didn’t want to read it. Didn’t want to do anything but kill the man who had done this to him and his.
“Your father would have read it,” Esyllt said.
Owein froze. Very well. He would read it and then be on his way. He didn’t care what Gwydion said. Nothing, nothing was going to stop him from what he chose to do now. He snatched the letter from her hands. And read aloud, in a toneless voice.
To: Owein ap Urien and Trystan ap Naf:
By now Elphin, Urien, and Ellirri are dead, and your country is in the hands of the Coranians.
My heart goes out to you in the face of so many losses. But you must not give up. A great task awaits all of you. Gather the survivors, and find a safe place to shelter. By stealth and by cunning you must gather a teulu that will become a thorn in the side of the enemy. From this seed will come a mighty army. For one day soon the High King will come again. And when he does, he will lead us to take back our own. I command you, in the name of the High King soon to be, that you take on this task. Though you may wish to die, you are commanded to live. This is your duty to Kymru.
Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon
Dreamer of Kymru
Very well, he had read it. Now on to Morcant. Owein thrust the letter into Trystan’s hands. Again he turned to go.
“Leave the torque and the helm with me if you are going, Owein,” Teleri said clearly. “I must give them to Rhiwallon.”
Owein stopped and turned back to Teleri. “To Rhiwallon?”
“To Rhiwallon, your brother. He will be King, if you will not.”
“King?” Owein laughed harshly. “King of what? King of nothing! There is nothing left of Rheged to be King of!”
“You understand nothing. The Dreamer himself tells you that the High King will come again and lead us out of bondage. He tells you that you have a duty to live. But you won’t even bother to hear it. Go and be killed by Morcant, then. I intend to do my duty to Kymru, as the Dreamer commands.” Teleri’s gray-green eyes flashed with contempt as she held out her hands for Urien’s gifts.
Owein was silent. His duty. He could not do just as he wished. And the knowledge was bitter. All that he had ever wanted had come to him, and the weight of it crushed him. He thought of the horrible choices to be made for the rest of his life, of the choice between duty and longing, between what he must do and what he wished to do.
And he knew then what he would do, bitter as it was. He would do his duty.
But he could say none of those things. He was young and did not know how. And so, instead, he turned to Esyllt. “Their song. Their death song. Do you have it?”
Esyllt nodded. “It is done.”
“Then sing it. Sing it now for us.”
Esyllt had no harp, no drum. But that did not matter. Her voice rose in song, clear and sweet, as she gave the Bard’s farewell to her King and Queen.
“Before Urien,
I saw white horses jaded and gory,
And after the shout, a terrible resistance.
“Before Ellirri,
I saw horses white with foam,
And after the shout, a terrible torrent.
“In Llwynarth I saw the rage of slaughter,
And biers beyond all number,
And red-stained warriors.
“In Llwynarth I saw the edges of blades in contact,
Men in terror, and blood on the breast
Of Urien, great son of Rheged.
“In Llwynarth I saw the weapons
Of men, and blood fast dropping,
And Ellirri raise her spear.
“In Llwynarth they were slain,
And before they were overpowered,
they committed great slaughter.
“Brave they were before the foe.
Urien and Ellirri.
Brave before the foe.”
Owein listened to the song, unmoving. As the last note died away, he listened to his heart. He listened to that part deep with him where Urien and Ellirri lived on still. And always would.
A thorn in the side of the enemy. He liked the sound of that.
Chapter 19
Tegeingl
Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru
Gwernan Mis, 497
Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning
King Uthyr gazed down from his place at the top of the city walls into the grinning, gleeful face of his traitorous half-brother, Madoc.
Uthyr’s face was stern and set, showing none of the pain and bitterness he felt at his betrayal. His hawk-shaped helmet, fashioned of silver and studded with sapphires, glistened in the morning light. His dark blue cloak, fastened onto his broad shoulders with sapphire brooches, stirred slightly in the fitful breeze. Around his neck hung the silver and sapphire torque of Gwynedd, glittering on his breast in the morning light.
His wife, Ygraine, stood by his side, her auburn hair braided tightly to her proud head, her slender body clothed in a plain tunic of blue and brown. Behind the couple, Cai, the Captain of Uthyr’s warband, stood armed and
ready with spear and shield. Beside Cai stood his nephew, Bedwyr, lieutenant of Uthyr’s forces.
On Uthyr’s other side stood Griffi, his Druid, on whose pale face freckles stood out in bold relief. His usual infectious grin was absent as he surveyed the army drawn up before the gates of the city. Next to Griffi stood Susanna, Uthyr’s Bard and Griffi’s lover. Her red-gold hair shone in the sun, and her blue eyes were cold.
“What do you do here, brother?” Uthyr called down, as though the seven hundred warriors at Madoc’s back did not exist, as though his half-brother did not fly the banner of the golden boar, the symbol of the Warleader of Corania.
The sun turned Madoc’s bright hair to spun gold, and his blue eyes were fastened hungrily on the torque around Uthyr’s neck. “All Kymru is under attack by the Coranians, brother,” Madoc replied. “The Kymri have no chance against them. Their Warleader will crush us beneath his heel, unless we cooperate with them. Gwynedd needs a new King, one who can bring our kingdom safely through these perilous times.”
“Ah. And you are that man?” Uthyr asked.
“I am. I have come to take the torque of Gwynedd for my own. Submit to me, and you will be unharmed.”
All these years, Uthyr mused, he had ignored warnings about Madoc. Instead, he had given Madoc control of one of the kingdom’s richest cantrefs. He had given his half-brother gifts of horses, fine clothes, bright weapons. He had given his trust. And for all that, he had been betrayed. The betrayal left a bitter, bitter taste in his mouth. And there was only one way to rid himself of that.
So he spat, and the bile arced through the air to land squarely on Madoc’s upturned, triumphant face. Madoc’s expression darkened, suffused with rage as he hastily wiped the spittle from his cheek.
“Your life is measured in hours, Uthyr!” Madoc raged. “I have seven hundred warriors, and you have only four hundred. We have already killed the Gwarda of Is Dulas. Reinforcements cannot come to your aid in time. Your city will be mine!”
“Pit your seven hundred against my warriors, brother! And you shall see how true warriors of Gwynedd fight! Come against me, then. We are ready for you!”
