Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  They must leave soon. The smoke could be seen from many leagues away. Already that false king, Morcant Whledig, and his Coranian watchdog, General Baldred, would know that Owein and his people had struck again.

  Owein nodded at Trystan, and his Captain whistled piercingly, like the cry of a hawk in flight. The men and women of Owein’s teulu melted back into the forest, moving silently for all that they were heavily laden with the spoils they had won. Foodstuffs, cloth, wine and ale, rich jewelry, and golden vessels—tributes that had been bound for Llwynarth and Morcant Whledig’s greedy hands.

  But Owein still stood, savoring the burning, savoring the knowledge that he had taken back some of what Morcant had stolen. One day he would take back far more than this. He would wrench it all from Morcant. He would gut the man like a pig and bathe in the blood.

  He would do this. He had sworn it to himself when he had learned of the death of his brother. He had sworn it when he had listened to the death song for his parents, a song that had emptied his soul, leaving him to fill it with lust for the blood of his enemies. With each Coranian who died from his arrows, or with his dagger in their guts, his heaviness, his sorrow, his grief lessened.

  While his hate grew.

  Yet, no matter how much killing he did, no matter how much blood flowed from the enemy to soak the ground of Rheged, it was not enough to blot out the picture he carried in his mind’s eye. Not enough to blot out his mother’s face as General Baldred’s ax had crashed down upon her. Not enough to blot out his father’s cry as he had leapt to deflect the killing blade, and died with Morcant’s dagger through his heart. Not enough to blot out the way his father’s hand had reached out and clasped the hand of his dying Queen in their last moments of life.

  He had not seen these things himself, for he had not been in Llwynarth during that last, terrible battle. He had not been there because his mother had tricked him, sending him away in the company of Trystan. But Teleri, his Lieutenant, had been there and seen it all, and she repeated the story to him as often as he asked her to. And he asked often. For it was his hate that kept him strong.

  As often as he commanded that story, he commanded to hear another—the story of the night his older brother, Elphin, had died in a midnight raid on Morcant’s camp. It was a story he forced himself to hear, for he had both loved and envied his brother, the one passion just as strong as the other. Owein had loved Elphin for his strength, his kindness, his generous heart, and his laughter. And he had envied his brother for Elphin’s birthright. For Elphin would have been, should have been, King of Rheged. He would have, should have, married Princess Sanon of Prydyn, and begotten fine children with the woman whom Owein himself had loved from the first moment he had seen her.

  Not that such a thing would ever matter to her. For Sanon’s heart had been given to Elphin forever. A truth Owein had learned, to his grief, not so long ago.

  Only three months ago he and his sister, Enid, had journeyed secretly to Prydyn, to the caves of Ogaf Greu, and met with the fugitive King Rhoram and his band of Cerddorian. There, Owein had offered for the hand of Sanon, Rhoram’s daughter, and had been refused publicly by the woman herself. She had declared, in front of everyone, that her heart was dead with her betrothed, and she would never love another.

  Even now, as he looked upon the dead, the memory of that moment still filled him with shame. Sanon’s burning dark eyes and her golden hair flamed in his heart. For he saw then, or thought he saw, that Sanon knew of the envy he had felt for his brother. Knew it, and despised him for it.

  The pure lines of her pale face as she repudiated him still filled him with dread and doubt. For, in one moment, he could be sure that Sanon was wrong. He would know that his love for her was true, and had nothing to do with the brother he had both loved and hated. And yet, in the next moment, he would think he wanted her only because she had belonged to Elphin. And he would know that his soul was a dark and twisted thing that he would reach over his dead brother’s body to the woman Elphin had loved.

  It was better he should be alone. He understood that now. Better to hate in the silence of his misshapen heart, and never marry, never beget children. Better that he should not pass on such twisted seed. Better that he should keep his hatred, his contempt for himself, hidden far away. For what did he have, really, to offer to any woman? Nothing.

  No, he would leave the marrying, the begetting, to his younger brother, Rhiwallon, and to his sister, Enid. Though Rhiwallon was not yet promised, Enid had been betrothed to Geriant, Sanon’s brother. Of late, though, Owein wondered if Enid was as happy in that bond as he had hoped. Something he saw in her eyes, a longing that he had thought stilled long ago, still stirred there when she thought no one was looking.

  But Owein saw. Why should he not see the darkness, the unbearable longing in the eyes of another? He who was so filled with it himself? Nonetheless, she would marry Geriant, who was a good, kind man, a courageous Prince, and who loved Enid with his entire bright, golden, pure soul. She would marry him, and forget the other one who lurked in the shadows of her heart still.

  Owein stepped forward, and turned over the body of the nearest warrior with his foot. The Coranian’s sightless blue eyes stared up at him. The blood running from his mouth was fresh and ruby red. So must his brother have looked, the night he died.

  “My Lord,” Trystan said quietly. “We must go.”

  Owein nodded. He turned to leave the burning wagons and silently melted back into the forest. And as the shadowy green silence reached out to him, shielding him from the harsh sun, he remembered again something Cerrunnos, Master of the Wild Hunt, had said to him. For the god had clearly read Owein’s heart that night long ago, when Owein had stood with Gwydion and Rhiannon in the fields of Rheged, the Hunt spilling around them.

  “Be careful what you wish for, boy,” Cerrunnos had said. “For you shall surely get it.”

  IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time they returned to camp and distributed the spoils into the care of Isgowen Whledig, the false King’s sister, for she had been steward to the true rulers of Rheged for many years, and was loyal to them still. It was she who parceled out the food, the cloth, and the wine to the members of Owein’s band—a harder and harder task as time went on. Two years ago, there had been only a handful to feed and clothe and arm. Now, as time went on, more and more men and women came to him, determined to join him in the fight to take back their land.

  The main camp, hidden deep in Coed Addien, was crowded, as always, with the sad remnants of what had once been happy families. Children, some motherless, some fatherless, many both—ran back and forth throughout the trees. In this camp there were few warriors, for Owein set his bands to patrolling the forest itself. At regular intervals, a band would return to the main camp for a time, then set out again.

  Though he knew that they were well guarded, Owein still winced at the sound of so many people. Yet he knew that, at his signal, they would fall silent, melting into the forest itself until one would have thought the camp had been a dream. He reminded himself over and over that such a large settlement was in no danger of being surprised. For, at the fringes of this great forest, he had set the Dewin and Bards who had been sent to him by Anieron and Elstar. At the first sign of the enemy approaching their domain, the warning would be sounded, and sounded silently—from mind to mind in both words and pictures. Sounded long, long before the enemy could find them.

  It was the same with the other two bands where the Cerddorian of Rheged lived and waged their battles against the enemy. Hetwin Silver-Brow, the Lord of Gwinionydd, and his son, Cynedyr the Wild, led the band in Coed Coch, the forest to the southwest. And far to the southeast, in Coed Sarrug, lived the band led by Tyrnon Twrf Liant, Lord of Gwent, and Trystan’s sister, Atlantas, the Lady of Malienydd.

  Owein did not smile when he saw Isgowen Whledig, for that was not his way. But the stern lines around his mouth lightened somewhat when he showed her the treasures they had brought back. He held back only one t
hing from her—a golden bracelet, for he meant to give it to his sister. When Enid finally reached him through the press of people crowding around him, he clasped the treasure around her slender wrist.

  “Owein,” she exclaimed, delighted. “It’s lovely.”

  “Not enough for a Princess of Rheged, but better than nothing.” As always, he spoke with underlying bitterness. And, as always, he did not, could not, say what he really meant. But Enid understood.

  “A token, surely, of better things to come.” She smiled, but her smile had the tinge of sadness he had seen more and more often in the last few months.

  She was small and slight for her eighteen years. Her red-gold hair—so like their mother’s—was braided tightly to her scalp. She wore a plain tunic of dark green, and brown trousers tucked into brown leather boots. A quiver of arrows was still slung about her shoulders for, though she had not come on the raid today, she had been scouting the forest to the east in Teleri’s company, keeping an eye out for possible Coranian reinforcements coming from Llwynarth.

  But her smile faded, and the faint line between her brows deepened. Her blue eyes flickered as she took a deep breath, ready to plead again the cause she held most dear to her heart. “Owein,” she began.

  But Owein, knowing full well what was coming, did not choose to acknowledge it. “Call the others, will you?” he asked, as he walked past her toward the heart of the camp. “I must know what orders the Master Bard has for us next.”

  “Owein!” she cried, halting him with an urgent hand on his arm.

  He stopped. “Yes?” he asked, feigning puzzlement.

  Her eyes searched his face for some sign that he was ready to listen. But she did not find it. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “I’ll call the others.”

  OWEIN’S BLUE EYES traveled the circle of people gathered in the clearing. To his right, Trystan, his Captain, stood stolidly, stern and silent, as was his fashion these days. Once, years ago, Trystan’s green eyes had danced with laughter. Once, where his eyes would have sought out Esyllt, the Bard of Rheged, now they fastened on Owein with grim intent, to the exclusion of all else.

  Esyllt herself sat at one end of a log, on Trystan’s right. Her light brown hair was loose, flowing down to her slender waist. She wore a plain gown of blue over a shift of white. Around her neck she wore the Bard’s torque of a single sapphire set within a silver triangle. Her beautiful blue eyes were bright with the knowledge of her beauty. Her clear skin, fair and white even after two years of living in the forest, shone translucent, like mother of pearl.

  Across from Owein stood his Lieutenant, Teleri ur Brysethach. Her brown hair was cut short, and her gray-green eyes were intent. She was a tiny woman, barely reaching Owein’s shoulder. Though petite, she was one of the finest warriors in all of Rheged, and her archery was almost legendary. It had been Teleri who had survived that last battle at Llwynarth, and had brought him King Urien’s helm and torque, naming him true King of Rheged, heir to his murdered father.

  Next to Teleri stood Gwarae Golden-Hair, the Gwarda of Ystlwyf. A year ago Gwarae had escaped his captors and come to the forest to join Owein’s band. Gwarae’s green eyes blazed with eagerness, though with the thirst for action or the nearness of Teleri, Owein could not tell. Probably both.

  Enid sat quietly on another log, her quiver of arrows discarded, the golden bracelet flashing in the sun that dappled the clearing. Her eyes were shuttered and silent now, but something flickered there that made Owein quake inwardly half in exasperation, half in pity.

  Rhiwallon, Owein’s younger brother, stood between Owein and Enid. His young, twenty-year-old face was fresh and eager. His redgold hair was tied back in a leather thong at the nape of his strong neck. His blue eyes were clouded, as always, with dreams of glory—glory for Owein’s sake, not his own. How Owein wished that his own heart was so clean and pure.

  But it was time to begin. They were waiting for his orders. As he often did, he twisted the opal ring of Rheged on his finger, the ring that Esyllt had brought him, given to her by King Urien himself before that last battle.

  “Esyllt,” Owein said at last. “What news?”

  Gracefully Esyllt rose. “Today I have received a long message from the Master Bard. First, Anieron gives news that Hetwin Silver-Brow, from his base in Coed Coch, has won a great victory over a force of over one hundred Coranian warriors. These warriors had been sent, it seems, to flush out his band from the forest. Every last one of these Coranians is dead. Their commander is still in Clwyd, awaiting some word from his men. He will wait a long time, of that you may be sure.”

  Owein did smile then, pleasure at the enemy’s defeat lighting up his stern face.

  “There is word, too,” Esyllt continued, “that the band in Gwent, led by Lord Tyrnon and Lady Atlantas, has razed the temple of Lytir in Margam to the ground.”

  “Good,” Owein said shortly. “I hope there were some preosts in it at the time.”

  “There were, my Lord,” Esyllt said, smiling. “And one of the wyrce-jaga was there, also.”

  “Now that is even better news. One less Coranian witch-hunter in Kymru is Kymru’s gain.”

  “Would that we could come across more ourselves,” Teleri said darkly. “That is a gain I would love to help Kymru make.”

  “You shall get your wish, Lieutenant,” Esyllt said. “The Master Bard says there is a band of wyrce-jaga coming up the River Rhymney, passing very close to the forest tomorrow.”

  “If it will please you, Teleri,” Gwarae said grandly, “I shall take their heads and lay them at your delicate, perfect feet.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Teleri said coolly. “Do you think I could let them pass and not be there to greet them myself?”

  “Well, then, what if I shoot one straight through the heart, with an arrow to which I have first whispered your name? Then shall you pierce their hearts as you have pierced mine.” Gwarae grinned, placing his hand over his heart, his eyes mocking.

  Teleri rolled her eyes in exasperation. Gwarae often teased her because, he said, her seriousness amused him. For her part, Teleri declared Gwarae a pest, and ignored him whenever he would let her, which was not often.

  “We will all be there,” Owein said. “That is great news and an assignment I am happy to fulfill. Is that all, Esyllt?”

  “No,” she said hesitantly. “There is more.”

  “Bad news?” Owein asked quietly.

  “Anieron warns us that one week ago Havgan called a meeting of his inner circle at Eiodel. It was impossible to hear what went on there, but just after that meeting, urgent messages were sent out to each of his Generals. But what the messages were, we do not know. Anieron fears the worst, for it was reported by a Dewin who was Wind-Riding near Caer Duir that the Archdruid’s face, as he rode home from that meeting, was triumphant.”

  “Nothing much new to that,” Rhiwallon said cheerfully. “He’s been full of himself for years.”

  “But Aergol’s face was clouded. Now what, Anieron wonders, would be so terrible that Cathbad would be delighted and Aergol would be displeased? Anieron warns us all to be very cautious in the days to come, for surely something of the utmost importance has been discussed, and plans for our further downfall have been laid.”

  “Does Anieron warn against doing anything?” Owein asked.

  “He does not. He suggests only additional caution.”

  “What about the Plentyn Prawf, then? It is almost time for you to begin your journey to test the children. Perhaps it would be best if you remained here this year.”

  “I cannot do that,” Esyllt said quietly. “The Master Bard would not permit it.”

  “You asked, of course,” Teleri said. “And were grateful he did not refuse you permission.” Teleri’s words were correct, but her tone was something else again.

  Esyllt flushed. “I did ask. And was relieved when he said I must go.”

  “Yes, that must have pleased you.”

  “Very well,” Owei
n said hastily. Teleri and Esyllt had never liked one another. “Esyllt, you will leave here to begin the testing next week. I will send Trystan with you as guard.”

  A sharp gesture from Trystan, abruptly stilled, caught Owein’s eye. “Is this acceptable to you, Captain?” he asked, surprised.

  “It is,” Trystan said steadily, “if that is your wish. And the wish of the lady.”

  “It is, indeed, my wish,” Esyllt said warmly. “To whom else could I trust my life but you?”

  Contempt flickered in Teleri’s eyes as she looked at the Bard. Well, after all, though Esyllt had a husband, he had been held captive now for two years. What matter if she should continue to take her pleasure in Trystan, as she had done for years?

  “Well, tomorrow we go to meet the wyrce-jaga who come up-river, and give them a proper Rheged greeting,” Owein said. “An early night, then. If there is no more business—”

  “There is,” Enid said. Her face was pale, but her voice was firm as she rose to speak. “It has long been on my mind that there is another way to strike at Morcant Whledig. A way to deprive him of someone on whom he depends.”

  Oh, gods, Owein thought. Not again. “Enid—”

  “No. Hear me out. Bledri, our own father’s Dewin, sits at Morcant’s feet in Llwynarth, in his own way a captive, too.”

  “He is hardly a captive, Enid,” Teleri said in exasperation. “He is an advisor to Morcant, protected from the wyrce-jaga by the fact that he, too, is a traitor. Or have you forgotten that he was in on the plot with Morcant from the beginning? Have you forgotten that it was his work that delayed the warriors of Amgoed from reaching your parents until it was almost too late? It was he who prevented Hetwin Silver-Brow from coming to their aid. If Hetwin had come to the final battle, perhaps your mother and father would still be alive.”

  Enid flushed, but held her ground. “How can we know what pressure Morcant had brought to bear on Bledri? How can we know that Bledri does not now repent of his betrayal? All I ask is that you send someone to Llwynarth to talk to him, to determine if he is happy with the path he has chosen.”