by Holly Taylor
Yes, Achren knew. But that was no reason not to try.
“They are taking him to Eiodel,” Ellywen continued, her voice unsteady. “To Havgan himself. The Archdruid has found the ancient formula to make the enaid-dals. The soul-catchers.”
Oh, gods. This was worse than she had thought.
“And now they have a testing device. And they will know who are the Y Dawnus. And that means that the Master Bard and the Ardewin must be warned. Go to Rhoram and get him to use his Bards to relay the message. And hurry. For the sake of Kymru.”
“A little late for you to be worrying about that now, isn’t it, Ellywen?” Achren asked, stepping from the shadows of the trees, her knife at the ready. “Repenting of your part in this?”
“Yes,” Ellywen whispered.
“Cian was always kind to you,” Achren said harshly. “He’s a good man.”
“I must go. I must return to Arberth.”
“Can’t stomach watching what they will do to him in Eiodel? Don’t you want to receive your reward?”
Ellywen turned away, then stopped with her back to Achren. “I’ll have my reward, Achren, when you kill me,” she said quietly, not turning around.
“Just for that, I’ll let you live.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. You always were cruel.” Ellywen left the forest, and did not look back.
Eiodel, Gwytheryn
HAVGAN FROZE WITH the wine cup halfway to his lips. He expected the others to stop talking, to make some reference to the cry he had heard, but they did not. Sigerric and Sledda continued to argue, banging on the table to emphasize their points.
He never really knew what instinct kept him silent. The knowledge, perhaps, that if they had heard nothing, then he should not have heard it, either.
But he had. Clear as day. Esyllt, Talhearn, Susanna, Cian! Turn back now! The enemy comes!
No. No, he hadn’t heard a thing. He took a sip of wine and carefully laid the gold cup on the table. The rubies that lined the rim glistened like fresh blood.
Nothing. He had heard nothing. And he never would.
Part-2
The Treasures
Death comes unannounced,
Abruptly he may thwart you;
No one knows his features,
Nor the sound of his tread approaching.
From Bran’s Poems of Sorrow
Circa 275
Chapter 8
Allt Llwyd
Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru
Bedwen Mis, 499
Meriwdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—late afternoon
Gwydion rode down the quiet beach, casting sidelong glances at the woman who rode beside him.
Fool that he was, he was always doing that. He rarely looked directly at her, but he always seemed to keep her in his sight. He knew he did that, but he could not seem to stop. There was something about looking at her that both ruffled and eased him, something that fascinated him, something that fed him even as it frightened him. It had been like that for a long time. The sight of her, he knew, would be the most of her he would ever have. And that was his fault, and his alone.
Rhiannon’s long, dark wavy hair lifted in the slight breeze coming off the sea, fanning out behind her. Usually she braided it, but this morning she had unbound it and combed it out in anticipation of reaching their destination. He had watched her then, pretending to see to the horses, wondering how it would feel to run his hands through her silky hair. Her profile was sharp and clear in the afternoon sunlight, from the high forehead, to the stubborn chin and slender neck. As always, her back was straight, and she carried herself well—for all that, they had been traveling steadily for over three weeks.
She turned to him, a question in her emerald green eyes. Yes, there was no doubt about it—he was in love with Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Much as he had twisted and turned against it, much as he had struggled and run, the truth was there for even him to see.
He had fallen in love, for the first time in his life, and had discovered it too late. Too much had happened between them that she resented. He had pried her from her safe hiding place to search for the sword of the High King. He had forced her to leave King Rhoram just as she had discovered that the King still loved her. He had forced her to leave her daughter, Gwenhwyfar, and the girl now hated her mother for it. He had blamed her for Amatheon’s death. He had dragged her to Corania on a dangerous mission. And in the last two years he had avoided her, leaving her on her own as much as he could.
Yes, he loved her. And he could never, ever tell her so. He had been a fool for these past years, treating her coldly, always holding her at arm’s length, reserving the right to hide behind his defenses. Well, now he would begin to pay for his foolishness. Now the price of the walls he had built around himself was becoming all too apparent. It hadn’t mattered when he had felt safe inside those barriers. It only mattered now, when he wished to reach beyond them and couldn’t.
“What?” he asked, having missed her question.
“I said, why in the world did we have to—”
She broke off as what seemed to be a tiny whirlwind burst from the rocks and descended upon Gwydion, pulling him from his horse, almost tumbling him to the sand, and gripping him about the neck in a hold so tight he almost choked. But he didn’t mind. He hadn’t seen her for so very long.
“Da!” Cariadas cried. “Oh, Da!”
He returned her embrace with fervor, then held her gently for a moment as her shoulders shook and she shed a few hot tears on his shoulder. He gently stroked her hair, murmuring over and over, “Daughter. Cariadas. Oh, child.”
At last she pulled away from him and studied his face so intently he laughed at the scrutiny, laughed for the joy of seeing her again, laughed because he loved her so, and now she was here. She had been the only bright joy in his life for so very, very long.
“Da, where have you been? And you’re safe—really safe. Oh, Da!” She hugged him again. Finally, remembering her manners, she stepped back and looked over at Rhiannon, who had dismounted and stood to one side, smiling.
“How do you do?” Cariadas said, now all dignity. It wouldn’t last long, Gwydion knew. “I am Cariadas ur Gwydion var Isalyn.”
“Of course, you are,” Rhiannon replied gravely, but with a smile in her eyes. “The Dreamer’s heir. I am Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg. And I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance at last. Your da told me so much of you.”
“He did?” Cariadas’s face beamed. “What did you say, Da?”
“That you are the most wonderful daughter a man could ever want. That you bring love and joy into a lonely man’s life. That you never comb your hair,” he teased, ruffling the tangled curls.
Cariadas grinned. “Oh, that. No one’s perfect.” She turned to Rhiannon. “I hope I didn’t startle you.” She hugged Gwydion again, then continued. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, you know.”
“I know,” Rhiannon replied. “And I hope that girl who is still behind the rocks is a friend of yours. Otherwise—”
“Oh,” Cariadas said. “I forgot. Sinend, come out!”
Shyly, the other girl drifted out from behind the rocks. Gwydion frowned for a moment. He didn’t like knowing that the daughter of the Archdruid’s heir was hiding out with the Dewin and the Bards. The girl was a Druid, after all. But as he studied the girl’s face, clearly marked with lines of grief and shame, he was inclined to forget his reservations—for the moment.
In the time that he had hesitated to greet the girl, Rhiannon had already stepped forward and introduced herself. With a sharp glance at Gwydion, Rhiannon turned to him. “I believe you two know each other.”
“We met once, Sinend, at Neuadd Gorsedd, a few years ago, very briefly. I hope that my daughter has not been making your life too miserable—she can be anything but relaxing.”
“Da!” Cariadas exclaimed, lightly swatting his arm. “What a thing to say!” Her infectious grin was like a tonic to him. He grinned back. It felt strange to s
mile again after so long.
“By the gods, Cariadas,” Rhiannon said, mock awe in her tone, “Gwydion’s actually smiling! How did you do that?”
“My natural charm,” she replied flippantly.
“But, of course,” Rhiannon replied, her tone solemn.
“Come, all of you,” Cariadas said eagerly, linking her arm in Gwydion’s. “Anieron is waiting to talk to you both. We got the word this morning that you would be coming, and so I begged him to let me greet you.”
“Ah,” Gwydion said gravely, “so it’s the Master Bard I have to thank for that exuberant greeting. And I thought he wanted to be on my good side.”
THE TUNNELS TWISTED this way and that, branching off into a dizzying array of paths beneath the surface of the earth. The walls glistened with crystal and other gems as the light of the torches set at regular intervals along the tunnels shimmered and shifted.
At last Cariadas stopped before a curtain of blue stretched over a cave opening. “They’re here,” Cariadas announced, flinging back the curtain.
The three people in the small cave rose from their chairs. Anieron was smiling with genuine delight. Elstar looked tense, though she, too, was smiling. Elidyr looked as though he had swallowed a hot coal. Just the kind of welcome Gwydion had expected.
“Thank you, child,” Anieron said. “We will call if we need you.”
Cariadas grinned at Gwydion. “Sorry I can’t stay. I know that, deep in his heart, Anieron wants me to. But I have so much to do—”
“Out!” Anieron said playfully, as Gwydion kissed her forehead and sent her on her way.
The chamber was small, barely large enough for the stone table that was placed in its center. A few tapestries hung over the rough walls, bringing a sense of warmth and cheer to the tiny cave. Across one entire wall hung a map of Kymru, marked here and there with tiny flags of varying colors. There were braziers scattered by the walls, with fires burning in them to take the chill off the stone. Five chairs were placed around the table, cushioned with pillows worked in blue and sea green.
Anieron kissed Rhiannon. “You are well, niece?”
She clung to him for a moment, then said, “As well as any of us can be, these days. And I have missed you sorely.”
The Ardewin rose, her smile stiff. No doubt Elstar was thinking the same thing Gwydion was thinking. That, but for the fact that Rhiannon had fallen in love with King Rhoram and had run away and hidden herself for years, Rhiannon would be the Ardewin now. Does Elstar always remember that she was second choice? Gwydion wondered. Worse still, does she know that her husband, Rhiannon’s cousin and childhood playmate, was once in love with Rhiannon? And perhaps still is? Gwydion thought he knew the answer to those questions. Knew them very well, indeed.
While Elstar formally greeted Rhiannon, Gwydion glanced at Elidyr. His face was set in a smile, but there was something in his eyes … He came forward and hugged Rhiannon briefly, then let her go, almost abruptly. Elstar’s blue eyes gleamed with displeasure, but she retained her smile.
At Anieron’s gesture, the five of them sat down around the table. If Rhiannon had noticed anything amiss in her greeting—and Gwydion was sure that she had—she gave no sign.
“But where is Uncle Dudod?” Rhiannon asked anxiously. “I thought he would be here. Is he all right?”
“My da is well,” Elidyr answered.
“And on his way back here,” Anieron continued. “We expect him in time for the Alban Awyr celebration tomorrow night.”
“We heard your Mind-Shout,” Gwydion said quietly. “What happened?”
“It was news from Dudod that did it. The enemy has enaid-dals. And so they want a testing device, which had to be prevented from falling into the Coranian hands at all costs.”
“And?” This must be the reason for his dream last night, for the Shout heard that morning had echoed in his dreams. In spite of all his training, the dream had faded the moment he had awakened, and he had been left with a feeling of dread, a feeling something very precious had been lost.
“Susanna and Bedwyr escaped Madoc’s clutches with the aid of Princess Tangwen.”
“Madoc’s daughter?” Rhiannon asked. “That’s quite a turn of events.”
“And a fortunate one, too. I have uses for young Tangwen, now that I know where her heart lies.”
“Be careful, Anieron,” Gwydion warned.
“I’m always careful, Dreamer. Talhearn and Angharad encountered Iago, but he chose to let them go, another lucky turn of events. Angharad credits it to the fact that Talhearn was always kind to the Druid. I cannot say if there was more to it or not. Esyllt and Trystan had not even left Coed Addien before the Shout, and they encountered the Druid, Sabrina, whom they brought back to Owein.”
“Did they really? For what purpose?”
“She brought word that Princess Enid had finally talked. The Coranians were on their way to Owein’s camp and would have caught them had it not been for her warning. They have since moved to Coed Coch. And taken her with them.”
“Sabrina is with them? Is that wise?”
“There is such a thing as a good and decent Druid, Gwydion,” Anieron said sharply.
“But they’re few.”
“Granted. But look at Sinend.”
“Sinend. And do you think her a fit companion for my daughter?” The words were arrogant, harsh, but the tone was not. “It would break her heart to be betrayed.”
“Sinend is a loyal friend. Have no fear on that score.”
“And Cian?” Rhiannon asked.
Anieron was silent. It was Elstar who answered, her voice sad. “Cian was taken. As was his testing device.”
“Oh, gods. Where have they taken him?”
“To Havgan. In Eiodel.”
“And Achren?” Rhiannon asked anxiously.
“She survived. She even had a few words with Ellywen, who led the warriors in Cian’s capture.”
“Ellywen let Achren go? Why, she’s the last person on earth I would have thought would do so.” Rhiannon frowned. “Why would she do such a thing?”
“The word is that Ellywen, having been faced with the enormity of what she had done, has repented of it.”
“Very nice, but too late to help Cian.”
“So it is. Achren is on her way back to Haford Bryn. That’s where Rhoram and his folk have gone, since Queen Efa returned to her brother.”
“She would,” Rhiannon said, contemptuously. “Any fool would have known she would do that.”
“I don’t believe Rhoram was too surprised,” Elidyr said mildly.
“By now even such a fool as Rhoram wouldn’t be,” she snapped.
If there was anyone Gwydion didn’t want to talk about, it was Rhiannon’s former lover. Particularly now, when, under Kymric law, Rhoram no longer had a wife. Without a doubt Rhiannon was seeing herself back by Rhoram’s side. The thought was bitter—too bitter for him to dwell on it.
“So,” Gwydion said, “the collars were part of the plans discussed in the meeting at Eiodel. But it is not enough. There must be more.”
“I am sure that there is,” Anieron said heavily. “But we do not know what.”
“We will. I only hope that when we do, it won’t be too late.”
“You have dreamed nothing of it?”
“Nothing directly related to it. But my dreams do say it is time to begin the hunt. The reason we have come here—”
“We wish to know that, of course,” Anieron broke in smoothly. “But we also wish to know where you have been.”
“I,” Rhiannon said quietly, “have been in my old cave in Coed Aderyn. Gwydion has been traveling all over Kymru most of the last two years.”
“Doing what?” Elidyr asked, turning to Gwydion in surprise.
And how could he possibly answer that question? Because, truthfully, he hadn’t been doing anything more than trying to avoid being near Rhiannon. He had known—oh, even as far back as the journey to Corania—how dangerous that was. For soon
er or later he would have told her how he felt about her. And only the gods knew what would have happened then. How could he trust her? How could he trust any woman? He had let his mother ruin all. And he knew it. But now he felt powerless to master the damage he had done to himself, so his voice was harsh when he said, “Traveling. Keeping an eye on things. That’s all.”
He had an uncomfortable feeling by the look in Anieron’s wise eyes that the Master Bard knew exactly what he had been doing.
“So, the task begins again,” Anieron said. “To make a High King and to drive the enemy from our land. What can we do to help you?”
“We have come in search of a song,” Gwydion said.
Anieron’s brow rose. “A song? What song?”
“I had a dream. And in the dream the Protectors came to me. They told me to seek the Four Treasures. And they told me to let the rings be my guide. And to seek the Song of the Caers. Do you know the song?”
Anieron thought a minute, then shook his head. “No, I do not.”
“Anieron, no games. This is serious.” Gwydion couldn’t believe there was a song in the known world that the Master Bard did not know.
“I am not lying, Gwydion,” Anieron said softly, but his eyes flashed. “I do not know the song. Do you know who wrote it?”
Gwydion shrugged. “I assumed it was Taliesin. He was the Master Bard when High King Lleu was killed and the Treasures were hidden. All I know is that the song holds clues to the whereabouts of the Treasures.”
“You are welcome to search our library,” Anieron said. “It is extensive. We saved every single book from Neuadd Gorsedd. Search as much as you like. Elstar, Elidyr, and I will be happy to help. And I hope the gods guide us to what we seek.”
“So,” Gwydion said, “do I.”
IN THE DEAD of night, Gwydion flung the book away from him. Rhiannon picked it up, smoothed its pages, and returned it to the shelf. She said nothing, but he sensed her annoyance. And she was right. It was a stupid, childish gesture. But then, he was feeling stupid and childish. Anieron, Elstar, and Elidyr looked up from the books they had been perusing, but they, too, chose to remain silent.
