Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  In Dinas Emrys, Myrrdin reached out as though to plead with the young boy who heard the cry with an unmoving countenance.

  And in Coed Coch, Dudod whispered, “Oh, my brother, what are they doing to you?”

  NO! NO! N—

  And then it was over.

  Anieron fell to his knees. The silence, oh, the silence in his mind! Gone, everything he was had gone. His soul had been stolen. Who was he now? Across the dark hallway he heard Cian weeping. Anieron looked up, shaking his matted hair from his eyes. The Warleader was smiling.

  “So, witch, your powers are gone. You can have them back anytime you wish. Anytime. Just tell me what I want to know.”

  Hands shaking, Anieron reached out for the parchment and quill. Havgan smiled wider. “You see, Sledda? It’s just a matter of applying the right pressure.”

  Anieron slowly scratched words into the parchment. As he offered the paper to the Warleader, he smiled. He smiled even wider as Havgan read it aloud in a voice full of rage.

  “‘I will tell you nothing.’“

  Meirigdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—midmorning

  SIGERRIC PACED THE ramparts of the fortress. Back and forth, back and forth he walked, willing himself not to think of the torment that Sledda and Havgan between them would bring to the Master Bard, who continued to defy them.

  Yesterday the old man had written one thing only: “I will tell you nothing.” Today he had written the same, with hands swollen and bloody, with broken fingers. “I will tell you nothing.”

  But Sigerric could not think of that. He would not. He willed himself not to think of the torment Havgan had already brought to Kymru; this land once so rich and fair, now so muted and barren, as though the gods of the Kymri wept and grieved over the loss.

  But that was no way to think. There was only One God, only Lytir, who had blessed their efforts here. For many of the Y Dawnus had been captured, their hiding places betrayed. The network that the Master Bard and the Ardewin had created was broken and shattered. Surely they could never rebuild it.

  And the Master Smiths and their families had been dispatched to Caer Siddi. So cleverly had it been done that Sigerric was sure the enemy did not know where the Smiths were held. And they would stay in Caer Siddi to mine the lead there, to make hundreds and hundreds of those collars. The Archdruid had said they were called enaid-dals, soul-catchers. The name alone was enough to send a shudder up Sigerric’s spine.

  But he would not think of that, either. If he did, his heart would surely break with pity for these Kymric witches, those he should hate and despise.

  He shook himself, turning to stare at Cadair Idris across the plain. The jewels on the Doors flashed defiantly in the sun, glittering whole and unharmed. For despite all that Havgan could do the Doors remained closed. And Sigerric, if he ever truly had, no longer believed that they would open.

  A cloud of dust across the plain snared his attention. The sun flashed on bright pennants, on metal byrnies. He squinted, trying to make out the bright banner being carried before the group of riders. It was a banner of royal purple background, with three curved lines radiating from a golden center. One line was of amber, one was of emerald and one was of sapphire, glowing richly in the sun.

  The Flyflot, Sigerric thought, the device of the Emperor of Corania! Had the Emperor himself come to Kymru? Surely not! Could it be Aesc, the Emperor’s brother, one of Havgan’s staunchest supporters? Or perhaps it was Aescwine, the Empress’s brother, one of Havgan’s deadliest enemies. What was happening in Corania that one of the royal family should come here?

  The cavalcade drew closer. He made out fifty warriors, all wearing the Emperor’s device, dressed in white beneath byrnies chased with silver. Horses piled with baggage followed more slowly.

  Then he saw a slender figure riding in the midst of the warriors. The rider wore a cloak of purest white. The sun shone on radiant blond hair. And he knew who it was, and his heart leapt, even as he told himself not to be foolish. For if it were really she, her coming here boded no good for Havgan—and even less for Sigerric himself. But he could not still the wild joy in his heart at the sight of her.

  Aelfwyn, Princess of Corania, heir to the Emperor, wife to Havgan, had come to Kymru. And in spite of himself, his wounded heart sang for joy.

  He hurried down the steps, calling to a guard to bring Havgan, to give him the news that his wife had come.

  “The Warleader is in the dungeon, my Lord,” the warriors said respectfully. “You remember that he said he is not to be disturbed.”

  “Go to him and tell him. You will not be punished; you do so on my orders.”

  “Yes, Over-general,” the warrior said, clearly relieved.

  Sigerric hurried out the doors, flying down the steps. Not matter what happened after, he wanted to be the first to greet her. It would mean nothing to her, he knew. But it would mean everything to him.

  He stood quietly at the bottom of the steps in the courtyard. The party rode through the open gate and halted. Swiftly he made his way through the warriors who guarded her. They knew him and fell back, bowing. He reached her horse and grasped the reins as he looked up at her.

  The years had not changed her. Her golden hair still glistened. Her green eyes were still haughty, still cold, and still beautiful. Her pure, white skin was unmarred, despite the long and dusty journey.

  Steorra Heofan, Star of Heaven, had come to earth, to Kymru, to pierce his heart, as she had done from the beginning.

  “You are welcome here, Princess Aelfwyn. Most welcome.”

  “Am I?” she asked, her voice cool. “Then you may help me dismount.”

  Swallowing, he reached up his hands and grasped her waist. Her gown was white and unstained. It clung to her body in pristine folds, outlining the perfect breasts, the slender waist, and the curve of her hips. He set her down gently, but quickly, not allowing his hands to linger on her body.

  She glanced up at him, something glistening in her green eyes. For a moment she stared at him, and Sigerric was convinced that, for the first time in her life, she actually saw him. And the scrutiny he had often wished for, he now dreaded. What did she see in his face? And what would she do with what she saw?

  Slowly she smiled at him. It was the first smile he had ever seen on her lovely face. Her voice softened slightly. “Well, Sigerric? No words to greet an old friend?”

  “You are neither, my Lady.”

  Her brows raised. “Neither?”

  “Neither old, nor my friend. But you are my Lady, you who will one day be Empress of Corania. And I will serve you until the day I die.”

  “Serve my husband, you mean, Sigerric,” she said lightly, but her eyes narrowed slightly, watching him closely.

  He swallowed hard. “It’s one and the same, isn’t it?” Oh, and what a foolish thing to say. For, of course, it wasn’t. And it never had been.

  She smiled again, dazzling him. “We shall see. And where is my husband? Is he uninterested that I have come? Dismayed, perhaps?”

  “I have sent a warrior to bring him,” he temporized.

  “And where is he?”

  “He is in the dungeon. We have captured the Master Bard of Kymru. Havgan and Sledda were—interviewing him.”

  “Then the Master Bard, at least, must be glad of my arrival.”

  A flash of gold caught Sigerric’s eye. Havgan, dressed in a golden tunic trimmed with rubies, stood at the top of the stairs. He eyed the warriors with disfavor, then caught sight of Aelfwyn and Sigerric. He came down the steps and made his way to them.

  Aelfwyn gave Havgan her hands, then slowly, but only slightly, bent her knees. Havgan turned her hands over and kissed each palm. The slowness, the sultriness of the gesture caused Aelfwyn to flush and quickly draw her hands away. She took a deep breath, then said formally, “My Lord and husband. I greet you in the name of the Emperor and Empress of Corania. And I bring their blessings on your enterprise here.”

  “Money would be better,” Havgan said in
a carrying tone.

  Havgan’s warriors, who were slowly filling up the courtyard, smothered smiles. Aelfwyn’s forced smile stayed on her exquisite face. How she did that, Sigerric did not know. “That, too, I have brought to you.” She gestured toward the heavily laden packs on the backs of the tired horses.

  Havgan’s brow rose. “All this for me?”

  “No,” Aelfwyn said shortly. “Most of this is for me.”

  “What are you doing, Aelfwyn?”

  “I have come to support my husband in his great undertaking. And I am prepared to stay some time, until your task here is complete.”

  Havgan’s amber eyes narrowed. “Are you?” he said flatly.

  “If I am unwelcome, my Lord, I will return home.”

  The tone was even, but anyone could hear the threat there. To send the Princess of Corania back home would be disastrous. The Emperor and Empress would be insulted. And then only the One God himself knew what would happen.

  “But, of course, you are welcome here, wife,” Havgan said. Suddenly he grinned, an unpleasant, wolfish grin. “I am between bed warmers at the moment.”

  Aelfwyn’s smile froze, her eyes widening at the insult. Her warriors stiffened, drawing closer together around their Lady. Sigerric, his face flushed, took a step forward.

  With a swift glance at Sigerric, Havgan went on. “But, of course, as we both recall, such a role is distasteful to you, wife. Therefore, you will have your own apartments, well furnished with the best Kymru has to offer, which is very fine, indeed. Woolen rugs and tapestries from Gwynedd. Delicate glass from Ederynion. Fine candles from Rheged. And the best wines from Prydyn. All these I will give to you. And we will talk. And you shall tell me of home. Of many, many things.” He smiled gently.

  And only because Sigerric was so close to her did he see her slight shudder. Havgan had seen it, too. “Come, my lady wife,” he said, taking her hands and drawing her forward. “There is much to see here in Eiodel. My steward will show you the finest rooms, and you shall choose from them. Tonight we will dine alone, you and I.”

  Pretending to be happy at this threat, Aelfwyn smiled and nodded at the steward who appeared at Havgan’s elbow. Without another word, Havgan turned away and walked through the gates of Eiodel. Sigerric, after a glance at Aelfwyn, followed. No need to ask where Havgan was going. Sigerric already knew.

  He followed Havgan across the plain. The wind whipped in his ears, keening of something lost. The wild grasses blew dead and brown, flattened by the grieving winds. The lonely, shuttered hall of the High King rose from the plain, gray and lifeless.

  Still following, Sigerric mounted the eight broken steps of Cadair Idris and halted next to Havgan, staring at the closed Doors.

  Without taking his eyes from the jeweled patterns, Havgan spoke. “She thinks to defeat me, somehow.”

  “Yes.”

  “We have hated each other from the beginning. That is unchanged.”

  “But what can she do?”

  “God only knows. But she will think of something. She must be watched most carefully, Sigerric. This task I give to you.”

  “It would be best, Havgan, that someone else take this task.”

  “What, Sigerric? Still in love with my lady wife? And she so cold, so cruel, so hungry? She will eat your heart, my friend, if you let her.”

  “You have never even tried to come to terms with her.”

  “It would be useless. If you do not know that, then I truly pity you. For you do not know her at all.”

  Havgan was silent for a time, staring at the bright jewels that seemed to mock him. At last he spoke, his tone absent, musing. “Do you remember, Sigerric, what I have told you of the readings I had back home? What I said of the wyrd-galdra, and how each reading was the same?”

  Sigerric nodded. Even now he felt a stir of terror. The fate-magic had surely marked Havgan.

  “And each time, the card for the goddess, Holda, appeared. And always she reminded me of the Woman-on-the-Rocks, the woman in my dreams. The one who never turns to face me, who never comes to me, never speaks. Her hair is like honey; the lines of her body strain with longing to come to me. But she never does.”

  Sigerric said nothing. In Corania, and here in Kymru, Havgan had sought women with the same color of hair. He had made love to some, had raped others. And he had killed them all, strangling them to see their eyes as they died, searching for something no one understood—least of all Havgan himself.

  Havgan went on. “And do you remember what I told you of the night on Mount Baden, the place in Mierce where the Wild Hunt rides? And how Holda herself spoke to me, and told me she would see me again in Kymru?”

  “I remember, Havgan.”

  “Where is she?” Havgan asked, his voice filled with longing. “Where is she? When the Treasures are in my hands, when these Doors open for me, when Gwydion and Rhiannon lie dead at my feet, it will mean nothing if she is not there. Where is she?”

  Sigerric, unable to speak, only shook his head. Was there anyone but he who knew Havgan’s inner torments? Anyone but he who did what he could to keep Havgan’s soul from becoming swamped in darkness and tears? “Maybe she will come to you, Havgan. Maybe she will,” he said at last, pity in his voice.

  “She is here, in Kymru. I feel her. I see her in my dreams. She is here, somewhere.”

  “What has this to do with Aelfwyn?”

  “With Aelfwyn?” Havgan asked, jarred from his dark reverie. “Nothing, I suppose. Nothing, except the sight of her reminds me that I have been cheated, saddled with a woman whose every breath hisses of her hatred.”

  “Cheated?” Sigerric cried, outraged. “Cheated because you have won her hand, and with it the right to rule Corania someday? Cheated because you and you alone can touch her, hold her? You call that being cheated?”

  Havgan turned from the Doors, his amber eyes gleaming. “This is a woman who will not be held, my friend. And you are speaking of a woman who loathes my very touch. Which makes it all the more interesting to speculate what is so important that she would bring that horror upon herself again. And she will. Make no mistake about that.” Havgan grinned. “Think on that, Sigerric, as you are thinking of all the things I have done that you despise. Think on that as you are thinking of the lies you told the Bard, Jonas, who betrayed his people. Think on that as you think of the Y Dawnus who died on the death-march. Think on that as you think of the wyrce-jaga combing Kymru for witches. Think on that as you pity the Master Bard, lying barely alive in my dungeon.”

  “Why do you wish me to hate you?” Sigerric whispered. “Why?”

  But Havgan did not answer.

  THE OLD MAN moved silently through the forest, carefully cutting to the western portion of the island, the place where the prisoners were being held. Today he was determined to find out the truth of what was happening here.

  He had seen them when they first arrived just over a week ago and had recognized them instantly. Hadn’t he once been a ruler himself? How, then, could he not know the Master Smiths of Kymru?

  He had recognized Greid, the Master Smith of Gwynedd, first. The man’s powerful shoulders were draped in chains, and his seamed face, scarred by the heat of the forge, was a mask of hopelessness. He had seen Siwan, Master Smith of Prydyn, and her children, and her children’s children. He had recognized Llyenog, Master Smith of Rheged, and seen the fire in the man’s eyes. He had seen Efrei, Master Smith of Ederynion, and the helplessness as the man gazed on his family.

  He recalled his shock when he had first laid eyes on them. Fifteen boats from the mainland had come, docking on Caer Siddi, the small island off the coast of Prydyn, a place where no one ever came—no one except the old man himself, and he had come here to live in solitude over twenty years ago. And from these boats came the Master Smiths and their families—and a score of Coranian warriors.

  The old man had watched that day, hidden in the underbrush, moving silently as he had taught himself to do long, long ago. And he had retur
ned to the eastern shores where he had made his home, thoughtful.

  Isolated as he was, he knew what had happened in Kymru. Once a year he took a boat to the mainland, a journey of half a day. There he would trade the furs he had cured for simple necessities—flour, salt, ground meal. His needs were few. And his desires were dead. Two years ago, he had gone to the mainland, as usual, and had learned the meaning of the smoke he had seen hanging like a pall over Prydyn. The Coranians had come, and had taken everything.

  He had learned that his nephew, King Rhoram of Prydyn, had been wounded and, though uncaptured, was not expected to live. He had learned that his daughter, Ellirri, Queen of Rheged, and her husband, Urien, were dead. He had learned that his son, Madoc, had betrayed King Uthyr and was now the King of Gwynedd. And he had thought, then, that the twinge he felt at that last news might have been shame. But it had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel anything that he was not sure. He had returned to his island, with his necessities, and had lived calmly and quietly for another year, his mind carefully blank.

  And then he had returned again the next year. He had learned that his grandson, Owein of Rheged, had gathered to him other surviving warriors and was still fighting the enemy. He had learned that his nephew, Rhoram, had lived, and was doing the same, harassing the enemy all he could. He had learned that his granddaughter, Tangwen of Gwynedd, could barely lift her head for shame of her father, Madoc, and assisted the Cerddorian as much as she was able. And he thought that the twinge he felt at that news might have been pride.

  Again he had returned to his island. But then he had begun to think. And one night he had come out of his cave and stared at the shore, called by he knew not what. The waves rolled onto the sands, rimmed in silver by the moonlight. And, suddenly, his eyes had filled with tears, and he had wept for the first time in twenty-three years. He had wept for the deaths of his daughter, Ellirri, and her husband, a man who had loved her and made her happy. He had wept for the death of his grandson, Prince Elphin, who had hardly begun to live before he had died. He had even—and, oh, was it healing at last?—wept bitterly over the death of King Uthyr, the son of the man Rhodri hated more than any on this earth—the son of Awst and of Rhodri’s own wife, Queen Rathtyen of Gwynedd.