Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “Yes,” she mused. “We are lucky you fought with us at all, I suppose. For you did fight with us, before you received the Archdruid’s letter. I remember you waiting on the beach with my mother for them to come. I remember you setting fire to their ships at my mother’s command. How proud she would be of you if she could see you now! To know that you do not just set fire to ships, but to people, as well.”

  “It was not my wish, Elen,” he said softly.

  “What is your wish, then?”

  “That you forgive.”

  “Never.”

  “Yes, I know that,” he said quietly. “I knew that from the beginning. You do not have to be afraid of me. I would never harm you.”

  “Unless you are ordered to,” she retorted.

  “No. Not even then.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. But it is true. And you understand nothing about me at all. Years I loved you. And you never even noticed.”

  “A fine way you have of showing me you love me,” she said with bitterness of her own. “Turning from your allegiance to me and working with the enemy.”

  “You never noticed that I loved you,” he went on, as though she had not spoken. “And, gods help me, I love you still.”

  “You should not say ‘gods,’ Iago,” she jeered. “As a Druid you are now a preost of Lytir. And preosts believe only in the One God. They revile Modron, the Mother. And the land suffers from it! Our harvests are as nothing, now. The Mother turns from us, because of you and your Druids.”

  “Do not speak of the Mother,” he said, looking at her at last. “Never speak of her to me.”

  The wild agony in his eyes leapt out at her, shaking her to her soul. Without conscious thought, she flinched.

  A low moan burst from his throat as he saw her draw back in fear. “You are afraid of me. Oh, my love, you are afraid.”

  Swiftly he crossed the room and knelt beside her. He took her cool hand and cradled it in his own hot grip. She tried to pull away, but he clutched her fiercely. “Oh, Elen, my true love, don’t fear me!”

  But she did. She, who had once feared nothing, trembled now before the madness in his dark eyes. His tormented face searched her clear blue eyes, and recoiled in his turn from what he saw there.

  He leapt to his feet as if stung. “You hate me,” he whispered. “So be it, then.”

  “What will you do, Iago?” she whispered in her turn. “Will you kill me?”

  “No. I will leave you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I go to seek Talhearn, the Bard. I know what he looks like, you see.”

  “I don’t see. What does Talhearn have to do with you?”

  “We—the Druids in Ederynion—have been ordered to help find him at all costs.”

  “But why?” she pressed. “Even if you found Talhearn, he would never tell you where my brother and his Cerddorian are. Never.”

  “What time of year is it, Elen?” he asked gently, as though she were a very dull child.

  “Why, it’s early spring. Nearly time—” she halted, as understanding came to her. “Nearly time for the Plentyn Prawf. You seek a testing tool. Why?”

  “The Archdruid has at last found a way to prevent Bards and Dewin from using their talents. A collar.”

  “And to identify them, you need a testing tool. Oh, Iago, what if you found Talhearn? Would you really turn him over to the Coranians? He was your friend.”

  “And you are my love. But that is not enough. It never has been.”

  “Yes,” she said bitterly. “I know.”

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

  At last, he had found Y Llech, the Stone, one of the lost Treasures of Kymru. He had found Gwyr Yr Brenin, Seeker of the King. He could see it as it floated just beneath the surface of the clear, shining lake.

  The large, square stone was shot through with a latticework of silver threads. At each silvery junction, where one thread met another, a single pearl rested, gleaming. On the top of the stone, a figure eight, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, was carved and studded with dark onyx.

  He reached out for the Stone, but it bobbed away from him in the water, just out of his reach. For some reason he was rooted to the spot on the rocks beside the lake and could not move. He could only watch the Stone floating serenely beyond his grasp.

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

  Then, suddenly, a silver dragon swooped down from the sky to land on the rocks. A collar of pearls encircled her slender neck, and her silver hide glistened like the surface of the water.

  In her talons she held a wreath of bright yellow globeflowers. She tossed the wreath into the water, and it settled on the surface, floating just above the Stone.

  Ask. Her thought echoed through the deepest chambers of his mind. You are to ask.

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

  Reach, she answered.

  And he stretched out his hands, but they were not his. Instead, he saw the slim, delicate hands of a woman stretched toward the Stone, and the Stone floated gently into the outstretched hands. And the hands turned into silver talons, then back into a woman’s hands, flickering unsteadily from one to the other.

  And then the Stone came to him as the woman/dragon hands reached out and took it, hauling it up from the water as though it was light as a feather. In triumph, the dragon bellowed and shot up into the sky. And the wreath of flowers, which still floated on the water, blazed like tiny suns in the harsh light. And the water dropped from the Stone like diamonds, as his hands, the woman’s hands, held the Stone aloft under the blazing sky.

  Chapter 5

  Tegeingl, Dinas Emrys and Mynydd Tawel

  Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru

  Bedwen Mis, 499

  Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night

  Tangwen ur Madoc sat quietly in the great hall. If she shut her eyes tightly, she could almost imagine the hall as it had been a few years ago when her uncle, Uthyr, was King of Gwynedd. Longingly she remembered those days. She remembered Uncle Uthyr’s great booming laugh, the camaraderie he had with his warriors, the kindness in his dark eyes. She remembered Aunt Ygraine’s beautiful, pale face, her watchfulness, how she rarely took her eyes off her daughter, Morrigan, the only child left to her after her son, Arthur, died.

  Tangwen remembered Morrigan most of all. Morrigan, with her mother’s eyes and her father’s laughing spirit and charm. Morrigan, her dearest friend, was the true Queen of Gwynedd now that Uthyr was dead. But Morrigan was not here in Caer Gwynt, the Fortress of the Winds, her rightful place. Morrigan was hiding with the rest of the Cerddorian, those men and women who fought the enemy still. They raided tribute caravans, burned the hateful temples to the Coranian god, and killed the wyrce-jaga, the most feared and hated of the enemy.

  She closed her eyes even tighter, bowed her head even lower, trying to shut out the sight of the Coranian warriors. She tried to make-believe that they were the men and women of King Uthyr’s teulu, tried to make-believe that Uthyr himself was sitting next to her, that he was alive again, and still King.

  She clenched her fists in the rich, golden material of her gown, then raised her head, shaking back the long hair of reddish-gold that curtained her delicate face. It was no use. Those days were gone, and there was no going back. Instead of the good-natured roistering that her uncle’s warriors had always engaged in, the drunken shouting of the Coranian troops pounded at her ears. And the man who sat at the table beside her, though called the King of Gwynedd, was not her uncle. It was Madoc. Madoc, the traitor. Madoc, her father.

  Madoc’s reddish-gold hair gleamed in the light of the torches that were set around the walls of the hall. As always, he was dressed richly, tonight in a tunic and trousers of dark blue decorated w
ith silver thread and sapphires. On his brow he wore a circlet of silver, for the sapphire torque of Gwynedd had been taken away by Ygraine before that final battle. It was in that battle that King Uthyr had been killed by the man who really ruled Gwynedd—General Catha, whose word was law and whom her father obeyed as a dog obeys its master.

  Shame crept on her again, bringing with it misery and hopelessness. What could she hope for? That Morrigan would return and slay Madoc and drive the Coranians from this land? Could she hope for such a thing as that and still love her father? For she did love him, in spite of what he was. Yet, she was ashamed of him. Sometimes she almost despised him. Especially on those days when she went out of the fortress to the city and saw afresh what the enemy had done. Especially on those days when she walked by the Sacred Grove that was gone now, the alder trees destroyed, a temple to Lytir in its place. Especially on those days when she watched the people of Tegeingl go about their business in silence and misery. Especially on those days when the people were kind to her, knowing who she was, forgiving her in her mute anguish.

  “Tangwen, Catha is talking to you,” her father said sharply, nudging her.

  Jolted out of her reverie, she looked up, startled, her blue eyes wide. “I’m sorry, General. What did you say?”

  The smile on Catha’s handsome face had an edge to it. And there was no smile in his frosty, light blue eyes. “I said, Tangwen, where is the necklace I sent to you?”

  “Oh. I, uh, I forgot it.” The lie was so obvious that she blushed. In truth, she had left it lying deliberately in her room. The touch of it made her skin crawl. For she knew the reason for the gift. Not content with taking Madoc’s mistress whenever the mood struck him, Catha was angling for Madoc’s daughter, as well. The fact that she was eighteen and pretty had not escaped him, nor the fact that, as daughter to the King, she was another avenue to power.

  “You displease me, Tangwen,” Catha said coldly. “You displease me greatly.”

  “I––

  “General,” Arday broke in, “I simply must have a new emerald. I have just received the most heavenly forest-green gown. I ordered it months and months ago, but you know how the people are. They work so slowly these days.” Arday, the former steward to King Uthyr, sister of the traitorous Lord of Archellwedd, mistress of Madoc and now Catha—much to Madoc’s unvoiced displeasure—smiled as she spoke, laying her slender hand on Catha’s arm. Her long black hair flowed down her back, held back from her face by a band of rubies. Her red dress was cut so low that Tangwen wondered why she bothered to wear anything at all. Arday’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes glittered hotly at Catha.

  Distracted, as Arday had intended (but why, Tangwen wondered), Catha bent toward Arday, lazily tracing her cheekbone with his finger, then lightly running his hand over her breasts. “And what, dear Arday, would you be willing to pay for that emerald?”

  “Ah, great Lord, whatever you wish, of course.”

  “Yet I wish for so many things,” he said, taking her hand and slowly kissing her fingers.

  “And you shall have them all,” she purred. “And more.”

  Madoc abruptly stood and turned to leave the table. Tangwen scrambled to her feet to follow.

  “Madoc,” Catha called. Madoc stopped and turned around, his face flushed. “I have not given you leave to go,” Catha said, smiling lazily. “Do you not recall that we have business still to take care of?”

  Slowly Madoc again took his seat.

  “And your charming daughter,” Catha went on, “she, too, must stay. For a little while longer.”

  “I have told you, Catha,” Madoc said sullenly, “that I will do everything I can to assist in finding Susanna.”

  Tangwen’s ears pricked up. Susanna was Morrigan’s Bard, now in hiding with the rest of the Cerddorian. The enemy had been hunting them for two years now—all of them, not just Susanna. Why was the Bard so important now?

  “You know what she looks like, Madoc. Whereas I do not,” Catha went on. “I believe that it would be a good idea for you to think about taking a journey.”

  “I cannot leave Tegeingl,” Madoc protested. “And, besides, how do we know that she will begin the Plentyn Prawf this year? Maybe they will think it far too dangerous.”

  Oh, Tangwen thought. Surely her father knew better than that. Her people—once his people, too—would never pass by the season for testing the children. To do so would be to give up, to admit defeat. And that was something they would never do.

  “You have two weeks to prepare yourself to leave, my King.” The contempt that Catha gave the epithet was profound. “In the meantime, there is one more piece of business that you have forgotten. Ah, here it is.”

  The doors to the hall opened, and four warriors escorted a man through the drunken throng. Though the man was loaded down with chains, he held his grizzled head high. His powerful shoulders strained against his plain brown tunic. As he drew nearer, Tangwen recognized him. With horror she stared at Greid, the Master Smith of Gwynedd. Why, in the name of the gods, had they arrested him?

  Madoc, after a glance at Catha, reluctantly stood as the Smith and his Guard came to a halt before the high table. “Greid ap Gorwys,” Madoc intoned, “you will leave Tegeingl tonight, in the company of these warriors. Your family awaits you now, to share your journey.”

  “And to ensure your cooperation,” Catha put in.

  “Yes,” Greid boomed, “I have been able to figure that part out myself. Thanks just the same for pointing that out, boyo.”

  For the first time, Tangewen saw Catha disconcerted. She almost smiled, but caught herself in time.

  “Just a few questions, assuming your wine-soaked wits will enable you to answer,” Greid went on. “Where are you sending me? And just what do you think I will do when I get there?”

  “You will do as you are told,” Catha said sharply. “As for where you are going—that, too, is something you must wait to find out. Know this, old man, you will do your job well, or your family will answer for it. And that would be a pity. For your sons and daughters have such delightful, beautiful children. And the soldiers who guard them are quite inventive. Just imagine how one of those precious grandchildren might call out to you to end their torment, should you refuse to obey.”

  Tangwen, her face twisted in horror, leapt to her feet. She knew that it was more than foolish, that she might pay for this with her life, but she could not listen to this without doing something. “Da, please. Don’t let them do this. Don’t.”

  “Quiet, girl,” Madoc hissed.

  “General,” she began urgently, “I beg you—”

  “How delightful,” Catha smiled. “Please, do. Offer me what I want, Tangwen, and we shall see.”

  Tangwen froze where she stood. The hall fell silent as the enemy warriors turned from their drunken games to watch. Tangwen looked to her father, her eyes pleading, but Madoc slowly sat down, his shoulders slumped.

  She glanced at Arday, expecting to see hatred or triumph in those dark eyes. But Arday was not looking at her at all. Instead, she was staring at Greid, her lips pressed tightly together. There was a message for the Smith in those eyes, but what the message was, only Greid seemed to know. At Arday’s almost imperceptible nod, Greid spoke.

  “Never mind, lass,” Greid told Tangwen gently. “There is nothing you can do for me and mine. One day the High King will return to us. And then the enemy will be driven out. And, one day, Queen Morrigan herself will come, and kill this upstart General. Leave it be, for now, lass. Leave it be.”

  Llundydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late afternoon MYRRDIN WATCHED AS the Coranian warriors led their prisoners through the mountains. The group would reach the tiny village of Dinas Emrys in a matter of moments. He scanned the village one last time to be sure everything was in place. Then he returned his attention to the warrior band, watching their every move.

  Not that anyone—unless they were of the Y Dawnus—would know that Myrrdin was watching the warriors. For Myrrdin’s body sat by t
he fire in the tiny hut he and Arthur had shared for so many years. The door of the hut was closed, and he sat calmly in his chair by the hearth. For Myrrdin was Dewin—had once, indeed, been the Ardewin of Kymru—and he was adept at Wind-Riding, at sending his awareness many leagues away from his body. So adept was he that he did not even need to close his eyes, did not need to sit still. Every so often, he would reach over and stir the gently boiling pot hanging on the spit over the fire. Only a stew, and a poor one at that. The harvest had, once again, been meager. But it was better than nothing, and he would at least have something hot to give the two prisoners when they were freed.

  He knew them both. The man was Edwy, Bard to the Gwarda of Aberffraw. The Gwarda, Cynwas, had escaped to Mynydd Tawel, as had Edwy, and they were now both members of the Cerddorian, assisting Queen Morrigan in her struggle to regain the rule of Gwynedd. Edwy looked worn, but not too ill-used—not yet, at any rate.

  The woman with hair of shining gold who walked with her hands bound behind her and her head held high was Neuad ur Hetwin. Years ago she had followed him around Y Ty Dewin, hoping he would notice her—which he had, of course. Who wouldn’t notice a girl as beautiful as Neuad? The others had always teased him about it. But he had not even so much as hinted to her how very aware of her he was. For even then he had been an old man. He had not seen her for thirteen years, since he had left Y Ty Dewin in the dead of the night to come here to this village to raise Arthur in secret.

  Once again he scanned the village. Yes, all was as it should be. The men were slowly driving the sheep down from the hills in all different directions. And there, at the village well, the women were gathering to draw water. Already they had several buckets full. Most important of all, a boy with brown hair and a white scar on his face sat casually on the limb of a tall oak tree at the north end of the village. The branches of the huge tree shaded the road. Whistling, the boy was cleaning his nails with a small knife.

  The contingent had reached the outskirts of the village now. The late-afternoon sun shone brightly on their iron byrnies and shining helmets. They carried axes and shields depicting boars’ heads in the red and gold colors of the Warleader.