Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Before Enid could answer, a pounding on the barred door make them jump.

  “Sabrina?” Bledri called. “Open up. I want to talk to you.”

  “Go away!” Sabrina called.

  “Open it, Sabrina. Don’t make me have the door torn down. You know I will—I have before!”

  “Don’t make me burn you,” Sabrina shouted back, as she frantically looked around the room. “You know I will—I have before!” She clutched Enid’s arm, murmuring, “Oh, gods, no place to hide you. And the window is guarded. Here, under the bed.”

  “No!” Enid cried, tearing her arm away. “I must see him.”

  “You must not! I swear to you, Enid, you are wrong. Wrong about everything. Please, hide. Then we can talk. I’ll think of a way to get you out of here. Please.”

  “No!”

  “Sabrina,” Bledri called. “Who is with you?”

  “Open the door, Druid,” Enid said quietly. “If you don’t, he’ll bring others to do it for him.”

  Sabrina looked from the door to Enid, despair written on her beautiful face. Without another word, she went to the door and unbarred it, opening it wide.

  “You’ve been avoiding me again,” Bledri said smoothly. “And you know what can happen when you do that.” Then his gray eyes lit on Enid, standing in the middle of the room, and he fell silent.

  Enid removed the linen band from her head, and her hair came down, falling around her shoulders in a shower of red-gold. She removed the ring from the string around her neck, holding it out to Bledri, who still stood, frozen, by the door.

  “This is from Owein, cariad,” Enid said quietly. “You are forgiven for all. Come with me, and let us go to him. Help us in our fight to take back what was once ours.”

  Sabrina gave a low moan of despair and sank to the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. Bledri, his face still, held out his hand, and Enid laid the ring in his palm.

  “Urien’s ring. You have brought it to me,” he said, his tone wondering.

  “I have. Now come with me. Let us go from this prison. Be free.”

  Bledri looked down at the ring, turning it this way and that, enthralled with the fiery opal. Almost absently, he said, “It will make a fine bridal piece, Enid. Very fine.”

  Enid shot a glance of triumph at Sabrina, but the Druid was staring at the floor. And then her heart skipped a beat. She felt cold, colder than she had ever been in her life. Her head swam. Shock, she thought incoherently. This is shock.

  For Bledri had continued. “A fine bridal piece, indeed. And a bride from the House of PenMarch will be just what he needs.”

  “He?” Enid whispered.

  “Morcant Whledig,” Bledri said. And smiled.

  THAT NIGHT THE message sent by the Shining Ones reached into Gwydion’s sleep.

  At last he had found Y Honneit, the Spear, one of the lost Treasures of Kymru. He had found Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge. He could see it as it floated within a mighty ring of fire.

  The long shaft made of twining silver and gold flashed brightly in the light of the fire. Gleaming opals covered the base and the top of the shaft. The spear point itself was studded with onyx in a figure eight, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.

  He tried to reach out for it then, but the fire blazed even brighter. The heat made the Spear shimmer before his eyes.

  And he cried out in frustration and anger, for he was so close but could not obtain what he so desperately sought.

  Then, suddenly, a black raven shot down from the sky. A collar of opals encircled his neck, and his black feathers glowed red in the light of the flames.

  In his talons he held a branch of oak leaves. The raven tossed the branch into the fire, where it settled gently on the shaft of the glowing spear.

  Ask. The raven’s thought echoed through the deepest chambers of his mind. You must ask.

  At first his pride forbade him to speak, but his need was too great. “I beg you, then. I beg you to help me,” he rasped.

  Reach, the raven answered.

  “I can’t,” Gwydion cried. “I’m afraid.”

  Reach, the raven repeated sternly.

  And so he stretched out his arms to the fire as the Spear floated serenely through the flames to his waiting hands. And his hands turned to a raven’s claws, then back into his own hands, flickering unsteadily from one to the other.

  And the Spear came to him as the man/raven reached out and took it, plucking it from the fire. The raven screamed in triumph. The oak branch glowed with the fiery light of the opals around the hilt of the Spear that shone bright and deadly, as he held the Spear aloft in the light of the blazing fire.

  Chapter 3

  Ogaf Greu and Arberth

  Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru

  Bedwen Mis, 499

  Llundydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late afternoon

  Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon, Princess of Prydyn, daughter of the House of Llyr, winced in pain as she scrambled to her feet. Rolling up her woolen skirt, she gravely examined her wound.

  Another skinned knee. Queen Efa would kill her.

  Even in her thoughts Gwen styled her stepmother as Queen. Efa had always insisted on being addressed by that title. Even though Efa no longer ruled over a kingdom, her insistence had not changed. Actually, she was worse than ever.

  Once—and only once—Gwen had made the mistake of asking Efa just what she thought she was Queen of now—the seagulls? Her stepmother’s reaction hadn’t bothered her in the least, but Gwen had repented of her thoughtless words instantly, for the look on her father’s face had almost broken her heart. Once again she had not thought before she spoke, and so had hurt someone she loved. It seemed to happen to her a lot.

  But, she excused herself, as she always did, what can anyone expect of a person who had spent the first eleven years of her life in hiding? What could you expect of someone who had grown up in a cave?

  She sighed. Not many years after she had left the cave in the forest of Coed Aderyn, she had returned to another cave. This one was on the shores of Prydyn. But a cave was a cave. Full circle her life had come, it seemed.

  The cry of a seagull made her look up to track the bird’s lazy flight. The waves washed up to shore with a regularity she found monotonous. The sun had begun its flight to the sea, and the shadows cast by the rocks began to lengthen.

  Sixteen years old, she thought, as she moved through the sandy rocks, stepping delicately with her bare feet. Sixteen years old, and still hiding. She wondered if the time would ever come when they could go home. Wondered when—and if—she would ever see the fair, white walls of Arberth, the city from which her father had once ruled the Kingdom of Prydyn. She wondered if, in the next raid on the enemy, or the next, or the one after that, someone she loved would die. Maybe her father, whom she loved so. Maybe her half brother, Geriant, who was so kind to her. Maybe Achren, her father’s Captain, dark and fierce in battle. Maybe Gwen herself would die.

  She would not think of her death now. And she would not think of the dream that had come to her over a week ago. Even now the remembrance of it still frightened her. She would not think of anything except for the fact that she was out of the caves. For she hating living here, hated being inside the earth itself, hated the feeling it gave her. Once, she had loved the caves. Almost her entire childhood had been spent exploring the caverns that laced the earth beneath the forest of Coed Aderyn. But since that day years ago when she had fallen into a pit from which she could not escape, and the dark had seemed to swallow her, caves had frightened her almost unbearably.

  But she had not died that day, for her mother had come and saved her.

  No. She would not think of her mother. Gwenhwyfar hated Rhiannon ur Hefeydd with all her heart. Her mother had deserted her and gone to the Dreamer. Rhiannon didn’t matter anymore. Gwen had her father now, and her brother and sister. That was all she needed.

  And they needed her. Her father, who had once been bright, glowing with joy and laughter, had chang
ed. Rhoram was a driven man now. He rarely laughed, rarely smiled. All his will was bent now to loosening Prydyn from the grip of the enemy.

  And Gwen’s half sister, Sanon, was only a pale shadow of the girl she had once been, ever since her betrothed, Prince Elphin of Rheged, had died in battle two years ago. So changed was Sanon that sometimes Gwen was frightened, thinking that her sister would just waste away. But Sanon had endured. There was still strength in her, enough strength to refuse the hand of Prince Owein, Elphin’s brother. Gwen was sorry about that, for she had liked Owein, in spite of the fierce sorrow in his eyes.

  And Geriant, though now betrothed to Owein’s sister, and head over heels in love with the Princess Enid, still needed his little sister. If Gwen had read Enid correctly, Geriant might very well need a shoulder to lean on. There had been something in Enid’s eyes at the betrothal ceremony that had Gwen wondering if she truly loved Geriant. Some hint of reservation, though she had said all the correct things.

  “You’ve gone too far again.”

  The voice startled her, and she whipped around, her dagger in her hand.

  “Good,” Achren approved. “Quick, and the stance was right, but you should have heard me coming.”

  Gwen straightened, returning her dagger to its sheath. “Sorry, Achren.”

  “Don’t be sorry; be careful. Understand this—I will not watch your father’s face when they tell him you died because you were careless.”

  Gwen opened her mouth to retort, but thought better of it. Few people argued with Achren. And Gwen had been wrong. She had walked too far from the caves, and she should have heard someone coming, even someone who moved as quietly as Achren. So she bit back what she was going to say.

  “Wise,” Achren said. “Very wise.”

  Achren ur Canhustyr, King Rhoram’s Captain, was dressed in a tight-fitting leather tunic and trousers of black. Her long, dark hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders. Her dark eyes flashed, and her wide mouth was set in a firm line. “Come,” Achren continued, “it’s past time to return.”

  “I hate the caves!” Gwen blurted.

  “I know,” Achren replied shortly. “And you know that it is unimportant, compared to the safety of our people. Come.”

  “Achren …” Gwen began, then trailed off uncertainly.

  “At last we come to it. You’ve been holding something back for over a week now. Let’s hear it.” And though her tone was not particularly sympathetic, Gwen knew Achren very well.

  “I had a dream,” Gwen whispered, her mouth dry.

  “So, you have become a Dreamer now? What will Gwydion ap Awst say to that, I wonder?” Achren’s wide mouth quirked.

  “The Dreamer was there. I remember that.”

  “Was your mother?”

  “No,” Gwen spat, diverted from her terror. “Since when has she ever been there for me?”

  “Since the day you were born,” Achren said firmly. “But we won’t ever agree on that subject, so let’s not start again. Go on.”

  “There was a wood and a pool of water. And Cerrunnos and Cerridwen were there. And, oh, Achren, the Protectors were dying!”

  Achren gripped Gwen’s arm fiercely. “They were dying?” Achren asked, her voice thin and taut.

  “Yes,” Gwen whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  Achren released her grip, but her face was tight. “What else?”

  “There was a golden bowl, a bowl with emeralds on the rim. And then I felt as though the earth was covering me. It was dark, and dirt was smothering me. I couldn’t breathe.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I woke up. That was all.” It lost something in the telling, of course. How could she ever convey in mere words the fear that she had endured in those moments? Who would ever understand her terror that there would be no one to rescue her this time, if the earth tried to claim her again? Her mother was no longer here.

  “Achren,” she went on. “Do you think it was a true dream? And if it was, how could I have done that? I am not the Dreamer.”

  “No, but you have perhaps been caught in his dreams. It happens, sometimes.”

  “I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what I might have to do.”

  “Yes, you should be. But when the task comes to you, you must do the best you can. It will be enough, I think. Now come.”

  Illogically reassured by Achren’s cool compliment, Gwen fell in step beside her as they began to walk back to the caves.

  “The Protectors were not dead yet, in your dream,” Achren said thoughtfully, after a moment. “Then it is not too late.”

  “No, not too late,” Gwen replied softly. Not yet.

  AA ALWAYS, WHEN she entered the caves, Gwen’s fear fell heavily upon her. But, as always, she concealed it as best she could. Bending slightly, she followed Achren through the narrow fissure in the rock face. Momentarily blinded by the shadows, she blinked and went on, knowing that her eyes would soon adjust. She nodded to Aidan, her father’s Lieutenant, who was stationed just inside this entrance. There were many entrances and exits in Ogaf Greu, and they were guarded at all times by Rhoram’s warriors. Rhoram, though he always had Dewin and Bards watching and listening, had learned to be very cautious in these troubled times.

  “You are late for the council,” Aidan said gleefully, a grin on his handsome face. “Which means I win the bet.”

  “And who,” Achren replied, “was foolish enough to bet that Gwenhwyfar would not have gone too far?”

  “The King.”

  Gwen winced inwardly. Achren glanced back at her, then said, “So he believed your promise, I see. He thought you would keep your word. He thought you had grown up, all evidence to the contrary. That was foolish of him, now, wasn’t it?”

  “I said I was sorry,” Gwen snapped, knowing she was in the wrong. But she hated being told what to do and how to do it.

  “And I told you, sorry wasn’t good enough.” Without another word, Achren turned away, striding through another narrow fissure in the cave wall. Aidan gestured grandly for Gwen to go next, then followed.

  Torches lit the narrow passage, casting flickering shadows. They passed another guard, who was coming up to take Aidan’s place. They walked through cavern after cavern, each one filled with people. Some were warriors of Rhoram’s who had survived that last, terrible battle. Others were warriors who had come after, led to this place by Rhoram’s people. Gwen saw the men and women of Hywel’s band, from Penfro, and from Lluched’s teulu of Creuddyn. The warriors from the bands of Anhuniog and Pennardd were absent, sent to the east and south on raiding parties.

  The band of Cerddorian here in Ogaf Greu, commanded by her father, was the largest but not the only band in Prydyn. Far to the southwest in the forest of Coed Gwyn lurked another group of fighters, led by Achren’s sister, Marared, the Lady of Brycheniog, and Dadweir Heavy-Hand, Lord of Bychan. Dadweir, the father of Sabrina, the former Druid to King Urien, was very difficult to get along with. But Achren said that Marared had her ways, and Dadweir did what King Rhoram wished him to do.

  They reached a small cave branching off from the main cavern. Achren lifted the curtain that served as a door and strode in, with Gwen following and Aidan behind. People sat in a ring on the floor of the cave, but Gwen had eyes only for her father.

  Torchlight illuminated Rhoram’s golden hair and blue eyes, playing off the emerald ring he wore and the hard angles of his taut face. It had taken him many months to recover from the physical wound the traitor, Erfin, had given him during that final battle. Even now, two years later, those lines of pain were still chiseled into his oncesmooth face. The other wounds—the wounds he had suffered because Erfin was his brother-in-law, because he thought he had failed his people, because he had survived that last battle—were still raw. Perhaps, Gwen thought, they always would be.

  Gwen took her place in the heavy silence, sitting on the rock floor to the left of her father. As she crossed the circle, her halfbrother, Geriant, sitting at Rhoram’s right, gave h
er a smile. Geriant was always kind to her, even when she didn’t deserve it.

  Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s chief counselor, sat on Gwen’s left. His dark eyes, taking in Gwen’s torn skirt and slight limp, were quietly amused and not surprised. Next to Dafydd, his brother, Hywel, Gwarda of Penfro, sat stolidly, waiting for his orders. Cian, Rhoram’s Bard, sat on Hywel’s left. His green eyes were distracted, and he seemed restless. Clearly he had news from the Master Bard he was eager to share.

  Aidan had taken his place on Cian’s left, with Achren next to him. On Achren’s other side sat Cadell, Rhoram’s Dewin. Cadell’s face showed his habitual worried frown as he nervously plucked at the ragged sleeves of his undertunic. Next to Cadell, his sister, Lluched, Gwarda of Creuddyn, sat, quietly fingering her dagger. Her dark hair was woven into a cluster of tiny braids, secured with small bands of brass, and her almond-shaped dark eyes flickered to Aidan, who returned her glance with a smile.

  There was a heavy silence, until Rhoram took something from his tunic, and flipped it across the circle to Aidan. The torchlight flickered off the gold bracelet as it arced through the air. Aidan caught it, one-handed. “It seems, Aidan, that you have won,” Rhoram said coolly.

  The bracelet soared across the circle again, this time thrown by Aidan into the hands of Lluched. She, too, caught it one-handed, not even dropping her dagger. “It seems, my King, that is it Lluched who has won,” Aidan said smoothly.

  “You two had a bet? What was it?” Geriant asked curiously.

  “A private matter, Prince Geriant,” Lluched said gravely, sliding the bracelet up her slender arm. “And bracelets, Aidan, won’t buy as much as you think.”

  Aidan grinned. “A man can dream, can’t he?”

  At the mention of dreams, Gwen’s own smile faded, and Achren cast her a quick glance. Rhoram, so very quick, caught the brief look and turned to Gwen, his blue eyes grave, waiting.

  But before Gwen could speak, Achren said quickly, “Well, Rhoram, let’s begin.”

  Rhoram looked over at his Captain, and what he saw in her dark eyes forestalled the comment he had been about to make. Smoothly, Rhoram began. “Within a few weeks, it will be time to start this year’s Plentyn Prawf and test the children. Cian, what says the Master Bard about that?”