Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Between the five of them, in the past fifteen hours they had pulled every book from the shelves that had been built around the vast cavern in the heart of Allt Llwyd.

  There was no Song of the Caers here. He had been so certain they would find it. Without the song, they could not even begin to search for the Treasures. And without the Treasures, there would be no High King. And Havgan would rule a defeated Kymru forever.

  No, that was no way to think. There was one more thing to try. He had not done it before. Dinaswyn had taught him how, of course. But Dreamers only did it if there was no other choice. It was dangerous, for there was a chance the Dreamer could be trapped in the past and not be able to return. But there was no choice now. Mundane means had not sufficed. Now he would try something different.

  The floor of the cave had been scattered with carpets for the ease of those who came to read the books. But he must not lie on the carpet itself. He must not cut himself off from the earth. He picked up the candle on the table. Fire. He would have that. Earth and fire both—only those two for this dream.

  As if already in the dream, he rose from his place before one of the bookshelves, carefully holding the candle, then walked across the cavern until he stood directly in the center. The center of the circle. The best place to begin.

  “Gwydion?” Rhiannon called as if from a great distance. Yet she was there, standing just in front of him. But she seemed so far away.

  “Gwydion, what are you doing? Answer me!”

  But the effort seemed to be too much. Already so much of him had gone on the journey that lay before him. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, then stretched out on the floor of the cave, peeling back the carpet so that his back was against the stone, setting the candle down beside him.

  Elstar, Elidyr, and Anieron came and stood over him, as Rhiannon knelt by his side. Gwydion could see by Anieron’s eyes that the Master Bard knew what was happening. There was sadness there. And fear. And courage. Courage, yes. Gwydion would need it.

  “Gwydion,” Anieron said, his voice soft. “Is there no other way?”

  “None,” he replied, his voice drowsy. The Otherworld pulled at him, pulled him down, down into the center.

  “What’s he doing?” Elstar whispered.

  “Time-Walking,” Anieron said. “The Walker-Between-the-Worlds is going back to the past.”

  “Taliesin himself will sing me that song,” Gwydion whispered. “He must.”

  “Gwydion, don’t. It’s dangerous. You yourself have said that to me more than once.” Rhiannon’s emerald eyes held him. Did he really see the sheen of tears there? Surely not. Something to do with the light, perhaps. Yet she reached down her cool hand and put it to his cheek. Without even thinking, he languidly reached up and grasped her hand, turning his face to imprint a kiss on her palm.

  And then he began the Dreamer’s prayer:

  “Annwyn with me lying down, Aertan with me sleeping.

  The white flame of Nantsovelta in my soul,

  The mantle of Modron about my shoulders,

  The protection of Taran over me, taking my hand,

  And in my heart, the fire of Mabon.

  If malice should threaten my life,

  Then the Shining Ones be between me and evil.

  From tonight until a year from tonight,

  And this very night,

  And forever,

  And for eternity.”

  Then the dream took him.

  He found himself in a dark wood. The sun, bared by the thick, interlaced branches, barely penetrated the gloom. A shaft of light managed to break through here and there, dappling the forest floor. A light breeze filtered through the trees, making them shiver as the patches of sunlight wavered, then steadied. There was a tiny stream running past his feet, the water shallow and clear. He began to follow its course, knowing that it would lead him to the place he must go.

  As he followed, he heard a rustle on the branches overhead, and, knowing it was not the wind, he looked up in time to see a black raven perched in the branches, its eyes red as blood. With a caw, the raven bounded into the air and was lost to sight among the branches. Slowly a dark feather drifted down and floated into his waiting hand.

  He followed the stream to the edge of the forest. Stepping out of the wood, he found himself on a plain of long, wavy grass. The grass was green, dotted here and there with white alyssum, with forget-me-nots of rich blue, with yellow globeflowers and fiery red rockrose. The wind blew the grass into whirling, swirling patterns—patterns whose meaning hovered just at the edge of understanding.

  The stream flowed through the plain, and, still following, he at last came to a deep pool. The water shimmered in the sun, bright and clean. Gravely he presented the raven’s feather, then dropped it on the surface of the pool, where it vanished. A flash of light caught his eyes, and he turned to see a cup made of purest crystal sitting by the side of the pool.

  His offer accepted he grasped the cup and drank deeply. Then waited.

  HE WAS IN A VAST, shadowy chamber. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he knew where he was—the throne room deep inside Cadair Idris, the mighty fortress of the High Kings of Kymru.

  The shadows wavered in the uncertain light of four torches set around the dais where a great throne of gold stood, studded with precious stones. The armrests were shaped like eagles, their upswept wings forming the high back of the chair.

  Eight steps led up to the throne, each step covered with gems representing the Shining Ones of Kymru. The first step, that of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, was covered with black onyx. The second was covered with rubies for Y Rhyfelwr, the Warrior Twins, Camulos and Agrona. The third and fourth were for Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, the Protectors, one step of amethyst, the next of topaz. Then came emeralds for Modron, the Great Mother, and then sapphires for Taran of the Winds. Next were pearls for Nantsovelta of the Waters, and last, opals for Mabon of the Sun.

  He was not alone in the throne room. On the dais, four figures stood, unmoving, their backs to him, facing the empty throne. The very lines of their bodies spoke of grief and loss, yet they stood straight and tall and did not bend before their unspeakable sorrow. One of the men, a man with light hair, was singing the Kymric death song in a rich, beautiful voice.

  “In Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, Still they live, still they live.

  They shall not be killed, they shall not be wounded.

  No fire, no sun, no moon shall burn them.

  No lake, no water, no sea shall drown them.

  They live in peace, and laugh and sing.

  The dead are gone, yet still they live.”

  HE STUDIED THE four figures clustered around the throne, and recognized them. He had seen them before, in the flames the day before Arthur’s birth. And one of them he had seen in visions during his quest for Caladfwlch. Though they had died over two hundred years ago, he knew them to be the Great Ones, beloved of Lleu Lawrient, the last High King.

  And as he knew them, they turned to him, facing him gravely.

  The first man dressed in robes of black and red was Bran the Dreamer. His long, auburn hair was caught at the neck in a clasp of fiery opals. His deep-set gray eyes were filled with grief, and the lines on his face spoke of a burning rage.

  The second, the man who had sung, was dressed in robes of blue and white. Taliesin, the Master Bard, had blond hair, so light to be almost white, which hung about his shoulders. His green eyes (oh, so like Anieron’s eyes) brimmed with sorrow, and with hard-won wisdom.

  The third, dressed in robes of silver and sea green, was the Ardewin, Bran’s brother, Mannawyddan. His hair was light brown; his eyes, a mild blue. An air of stillness, of patience, of calm even in his grief radiated from him.

  The fourth, dressed in robes of brown and green, was the Archdruid, Arywen. Her black hair hung to her waist, and her catlike hazel eyes were beautiful and sad.

  Each held something in their cupped hands. As Gwydion came closer, he saw that the torque of the
High King rested on the empty throne. But the emerald, the opal, the pearl, the sapphire, which should have been part of the necklace, was gone.

  “I grieve for your loss,” Gwydion said softly. “Lleu Silver-Hand is dead. And you mourn his passing. I, too, honored him. But I knew him only as a memory. Know that we, in the Kymru of the future, do not forget him.”

  “Gwydion ap Awst,” Bran said, his harsh voice ringing through the empty chamber. “You have come.”

  “I have come. There is need. Great need.”

  “Yes,” Bran nodded. “There is.”

  Taliesin began to chant, his voice pure and sad.

  “They sing after thy song,

  The Kymri in their grief,

  On account of their loss,

  Long is the cry of sorrow.

  There is blood upon the spears.

  The waves are bearing

  Ships upon the sea.”

  “You knew,” Gwydion said.

  “Yes,” Taliesin replied. “Bran told me. He told us all. And that is why we hid the Treasures.”

  “Which I have been charged to find.”

  “Ah, Dreamer,” Arywen said, her mouth quirking, “did you think we should have made it easy for you? If easy for you, it would have been easy for others.”

  “Lady, you mock me.”

  “No, I only speak the truth.”

  Gwydion nodded. “That is fair. But now I have come to you, because the clues were not enough. I must know—where are they? Where are the Spear, the Sword, the Cauldron, and the Stone? I must have them, for the High King has come again.”

  “For these things you must hunt. So I have dreamed,” Bran said.

  “Even for you, Gwydion ap Awst, the hunt will not be easy,” Manawyddan said. “And there are others who must hunt with you.”

  “I have dreamed of the others,” Gwydion replied. “I know who they are—Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram, and Arthur. Arthur ap Uthyr, our High King.”

  “If you can make him so,” Bran said tightly. “My dreams have never told me this.”

  “The Protectors came to me in a dream. They said, ‘Seek the Song of the Caers.’ And they said, ‘Let the rings be your guide. But it is not enough. I do not know which rings. I cannot find the song. Will you help me?”

  “The rings, Dreamer, are here,” Arywen said as she opened her cupped hands and held out to him a ring with a stone of emerald.

  “And here,” Mannawyddan said, holding up a ring of pearl.

  “And here,” Taliesin said, holding up a ring of sapphire.

  “And here,” said Bran, lifting a ring of fiery opal. “These are made from the jewels of the High King’s torque. You have come in time to watch us as we now set within them the key.”

  “The key?”

  “Recognition of the one who, in time, will claim them. The opal is for the Spear. When claimed by the right man, the opal will guide him to that Treasure. Watch now, and listen.” Cupping the ring in his hands, he closed his eyes. “You have been made to guide the Knowledgable One to Erias Yr Gwydd, the Spear of Kymru. This is his face, and this is his soul. On his hand, you will be his guide.” The opal ring flared briefly in Bran’s hands, then subsided, leaving a fiery afterimage in the shadows.

  Bran nodded to Mannawyddan, who cupped the ring of pearl in his thin hands, then began to recite. “You have been made to guide the Great Queen to Gwyr Yr Brennin, the Stone of Kymru. This is her face, and this is her soul. On her hand, you will be her guide.” The pearl glowed, shining through the Ardewin’s now translucent hands, then faded.

  At Bran’s nod, Arywen cupped her ring of emerald, then spoke, “You have been made to guide the White One to Buarth Y Greu, the Cauldron of Kymru. This is her face, and this is her soul. On her hand, you will be her guide.” The emerald flared in a verdant burst of light, then dimmed.

  Bran gestured to Taliesin, who cupped the ring of sapphire. “You have been made to guide the Great Bear to Meirig Yr Llech, the Sword of Kymru. This is his face and this is his soul. On his hand, you will be his guide.” The sapphire shone a glittering blue, then subsided.

  “These, then, are the rings that you and the others must gather,” Bran commanded.

  “From where?” Gwydion asked.

  “You do not recognize them?” Bran asked. “These are the rings that will be given to each of the royal houses of Kymru. The pearl will go to the House of PenAlarch in Ederynion. The emerald will be given to the House of PenBlaid in Prydyn. The opal goes to the House of PenMarch in Rheged. The sapphire will be taken to the House of PenHebog in Gwynedd. To each of these rulers in my time, I will give a ring. And I will give them the words that will allow you and the others to claim them.”

  “And the words are?” Gwydion asked.

  “You will know them, when the time comes.”

  For a moment Gwydion considered losing his temper, for it would not be easy to gather these rings. The pearl was on Queen Elen’s hand, and she was a captive of the Coranians. The opal was now in the grasp of Morcant Whledig, thanks to Princess Enid’s treachery. The emerald, at least, was in King Rhoram’s hands. And the sapphire was in the keeping of Morrigan, Uthyr’s daughter. He would have to get these rings—in two cases, snatching them out of the enemy’s hands. His silver eyes—eyes so like Bran’s—blazed into the face of his ancestor. But what he saw there halted him. Bran knew the difficulties. And he did as he had dreamed. Gwydion could do no less.

  “Very well,” Gwydion said quietly. “And the Song of the Caers?”

  “Ah,” Taliesin said with a smile. “My best song.”

  “Your most obscure song,” Gwydion retorted, “since I can find no one who has ever heard of it.”

  Taliesin whipped around to face Bran with an accusing stare.

  Bran shrugged. “It had to be protected.”

  “My very best song, and it has been forgotten!”

  “Not forgotten. Just in hiding. Now, Taliesin, I’m sorry, but—”

  Taliesin continued to mutter. “All those hours of work. And no one sings it.”

  “Artists,” Arywen said, her tune musing, “are so unreasonable.”

  “Come, come, Taliesin,” Mannawyddan said quickly, “no doubt, when the Treasures are restored, the song will be sung again. Sung by all the Bards throughout Kymru, as part of the story of triumph over our enemies. And, of course, all your other songs are, no doubt, very, very popular in Gwydion’s time. Isn’t that so, Gwydion?”

  “Um, yes,” Gwydion said, anxious to get the conversation back to his need. “That is so. But what is this Song of the Caers? Can you tell me how to find it? And quickly?” He couldn’t stay here much longer. Already he felt the pull to return.

  “It can’t be found, Gwydion,” Bran said quietly. “It can’t be written down. That’s how I protected it. But it is still sung, though the singer may not know it. Taliesin will give you the tune. You must carry it back with you. It will be recognized. Now, give him the tune, Taliesin. Then, Gwydion, you must go. You have tarried here almost too long.”

  Taliesin, throwing off his sulk, began to hum. A complex tune, it seemed to burn itself into Gwydion’s mind, as though pulling at a memory already there, striking chord after responsive chord deep within.

  The tune completed, Gwydion turned to Bran. “I must go. Yet, one word more. You have never dreamed of the outcome. I heard you say so. You do not know if we will succeed. Have you—have you no word of hope for me? For us? Have you seen nothing?”

  Bran was silent for a moment. The shadows seemed to press down on the four Great Ones as they stood on the dais, looking down at him with pity in their eyes.

  “I have seen nothing,” Bran said at last. “Hope is all I have. I would give that to you, if I could.”

  GWYDION OPENED HIS eyes to meet Rhiannon’s anxious gaze. Anieron, Elstar and Elidyr still stood, looking down at him. He hadn’t been gone long. The candle had barely burned down at all.

  Rhiannon put her arm beneath his shoul
ders and helped him to sit up. Short as the dream had been, he was weak and lightheaded. He felt drained. Empty. But not quite empty. For the tune was still with him.

  He hummed the tune, and it echoed against the cavern walls, rising up to the roof. And now it was no longer familiar to him. He did not know the song any longer. But Bran had said there was one who would recognize it. He looked up at Anieron, for, surely, the Master Bard would know it. “Recognize it?” he asked.

  Anieron shook his head. “No. It means nothing to me.”

  Nothing! Even the Master Bard did not know that song. But Bran had said—

  “I know that tune,” Rhiannon said quietly. She hummed the melody. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “The words!” he cried, grasping her arm. “What are the words?”

  She shook her head. “I never heard the words. I didn’t know the tune had any.”

  No words. Oh, gods. Now what?

  “But,” Rhiannon went on, “the one who used to hum that song to me surely knows them.”

  “Who?” Gwydion asked. “Who?” “Uncle Dudod.”

  “Who is—”

  “On his way back here. He will be here tomorrow.”

  Chapter 9

  Allt Llwyd

  Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru

  Bedwen Mis, 499

  Alban Awyr—afternoon

  The tangy sea breeze rushed through Rhiannon’s hair as she walked the deserted beach. Occasionally she stooped to pick up a shell, delighting in their delicate tints, in their unexpected curves and sharp angles. Delighting, too, in these moments away from Gwydion.

  She had not spent much time with him over the years. For most of the two years from the time between the invasion of Kymru and Gwydion’s latest dream, she had been waiting in the cave in Coed Aderyn for Gwydion to return from one trip or another. Of course, she knew why he left her on her own so much. It was obvious how much he disliked her.

  She knew he despised her—he always had. For the millionth time she told herself that she didn’t care about that. She told herself that she hated him just as much as he hated her. And she willed herself to believe it. Again.