by Holly Taylor
As Gwen came up to her, Rhiannon’s eyes gazed hungrily at her daughter. It had been four years since she had last seen Gwen. Her daughter had grown, and they were almost of a height, now. Gwen’s long, golden hair was braided and wound about her head, held in place by a band of blue. Her tunic, trousers, and boots were scuffed brown leather. Her blue eyes glittered above high cheekbones. She was beautiful. For the first time, Rhiannon wondered what young Arthur ap Uthyr would think of her daughter.
Gwen had not moved, had not even acknowledged Rhiannon’s presence. But Rhiannon had been prepared for this. She rose to her feet, facing Gwen squarely.
“Hello, daughter,” she said quietly, unsmiling.
Gwen’s frosty blue eyes flickered over to her, hardened, looked away.
“Greet your mam,” Rhoram said sharply, rising to his feet.
Gwen turned away, then found her way blocked by Achren. She turned back. “Greetings, Mam,” Gwen said quickly, but without inflection.
“You are to come with me,” Rhiannon said. No use in trying to be gentle and persuasive with this stubborn child.
“I will not!”
“You will. You have been named by the Dreamer, named by a song of Taliesin, named by the Wild Hunt itself. You have been named as one who will join in the task to find the Treasures, to stand at the Doors of Cadair Idris and enter there, to witness the making of a High King, and to drive the enemy from this land.”
“I will not go.”
“You have been named. You will.”
“Da,” Gwen pleaded, turning to Rhoram.
“One way or another, Gwenhwyfar, you leave here today,” he said sternly. “You will either leave with your mam, or go your own way.”
“Da!” Gwen cried. “You would leave me? You also?”
“You are named, child. There are no bargains to be made with that.”
“Then I will go,” Gwen said, turning to Rhiannon, her eyes flashing. “But not with you!”
“Your hatred makes you foolish,” Achren said, her tone cold and hard. “Your place on the Wheel must be taken. Or we will all die as captives.”
A cry from above made them all look up. Overhead, an eagle circled, screaming with defiance. It swooped over the camp, and the warriors ducked, not one even reaching for their weapons. For they knew what this was that had come to them.
Arderydd, the High Eagle, the sign of the High King to come, lighted on the rocks in front of Gwen. He fixed the girl with cold, gray eyes. Once again, he shrieked, spanning his wings and arching his proud neck as though to dart at Gwen. Gwen flinched, and turned to run. But Achren held her, forcing her to face the eagle.
Then, from far away, the sound of a hunting horn came to their ears. A flicker of movement at the top of the canyon caught everyone’s gaze. Two riders were there on the rim. One rode a horse of pure white, and antlers gleamed from his forehead. The other rode a horse of jet-black, her shadowy hair streaming out behind her. The rider of the white horse brought a horn to his lips and blew. At the sound, the eagle shrieked again, never taking his cold eyes off of Gwen.
“Answer, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram,” Rhiannon said quietly. “And know truly whom you answer to.”
Gwen’s eyes, wide and shocked, flickered from the riders to the eagle.
“The Hunt waits for your answer,” Rhoram said, unmoving.
Gwen slipped from Achren’s hold, and took a step toward the eagle. Then she sank to her knees and bowed her head. The bird cried out in triumph, then sprang up into the sky. It flew to the two riders, lighting on the arm of the dark-haired woman. The woman raised a thin, white arm in salute. The man nodded his antlered head. Then they flickered, topaz and amethyst, and vanished, the sound of the hunting horn still borne on the wings of the wind.
Meirwdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—evening
GWYDION SAT ON his horse, staring at the closed door of the tiny hut. Night had gathered and descended, cloaking the village of Dinas Emrys in shadow. The village was quiet, only the occasional barking of a dog disturbing the stillness. Overhead, the cold light of the stars had begun to shine. It was tywyllu, the week of the new moon, and not even the barest sliver of the crescent could be seen in the sky tonight. The surrounding mountains could be seen only as sharp, dark outlines against the starry sky.
He dismounted, and even that effort seemed too much, for the journey had not been easy and his mind was in turmoil. His tunic and trousers were dusty and stained with leagues of travel. He had taken side roads where possible, sleeping in the brush during the day, traveling by the light of the moon when he could, knowing he was being sought relentlessly by Havgan’s forces. And knowing those he loved were in danger. It had taken every ounce of his will to keep from turning back, to keep from seeking his daughter in the aftermath of the invasion of Allt Llwyd. Only the knowledge that he would be too late to prevent harm to her had kept him on his way to Dinas Emrys.
Gwydion leaned against his horse, too tired to move. Too tired to knock and enter the small hut. Too tired, in truth, to begin the battle that waited beyond the door.
Grief welled up within him. Grief for Anieron and for what Havgan must have done to wring that Mind-Shout from the Master Bard. Grief for his daughter, for he did not even know if Cariadas was alive. The network was broken, and news was scanty. And hundreds of Y Dawnus had been death-marched across Rheged, almost half of them dying on the way. The old, the small children, those too weak to endure the rough treatment, had laid their heads on the breast of Modron, the Mother, and died.
And Rhiannon—where was she? Had she made it safely to Haford Bryn? Was she even now on her way to Ederynion with Gwenhwyfar in tow, or had she, too, been taken by the enemy? If she died, would he even wish to live?
He made no move, listening to the stillness, waiting to discover the answer that was surely written on the cold stars that rode the wind tonight. Nothing. No sound. Nothing. It was over. Too late to continue this now hopeless quest. Too late.
And then he heard it, coming from some unimaginably distant place—the faint sound of a hunting horn. And at that moment, the door opened, spilling firelight and warmth over Gwydion’s tired face.
“Nephew,” Myrrdin said, his voice tired. “Gwydion. At last you have come.”
Gwydion moved forward, stumbling through the doorway, gripping Myrrdin’s arm. “Did you hear it?” he demanded. “Did you?”
Myrrdin nodded. “I heard the horn. It is not over. It is just beginning. Arthur,” he went on, speaking over his shoulder, “stable Gwydion’s horse.”
The boy pushed past Gwydion, averting his face, going out the door into the cold night. Myrrdin, half-supporting Gwydion, settled him onto the bench before the fire.
“Cariadas?” Myrrdin asked quietly. “Rhiannon?”
“I don’t know,” Gwydion whispered. “I don’t know. You—you heard the Shout a few days ago from Anieron?”
“All of Kymru heard his Shout,” Myrrdin replied, thrusting a cup of warm ale into Gwydion’s hands.
“Did Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it will matter?”
Myrrdin did not reply, turning away to stir a pot bubbling over the fire. “I might have known you would come here at supper time.”
Gwydion tried to smile, but the effort was too great. The back door of the hut slammed, and Arthur stalked back into the room. Gwydion lowered the cup, taking a long look at his nephew.
The boy was now almost a man. Sixteen years old, he would be seventeen next month. His shoulder-length auburn hair was tied with a leather thong at the base of his neck. His dark eyes avoided Gwydion’s gaze. He was slender, but he did not move with the awkwardness expected in boys, but rather with the grace of a hunted thing that knows it must move quietly to survive. Gwydion saw Arthur’s mother, Ygraine, clearly in the shade of the hair, in the shape and color of the eyes. He searched for some sign of Arthur’s father, of Uthyr, of the brother whom Gwydion had loved so dearly, and missed so fiercely. He saw it in
the shape of the face, in the set of the jaw. The firelight illuminated a clear, white line that ran down the boy’s cheek.
“Where did you get that scar?” Gwydion asked, breaking the silence.
“From Arderydd,” Arthur spat. “From the eagle.”
“And you learned nothing from that, I see,” Gwydion replied tiredly. He turned to Myrrdin. “I had the dream.”
“It begins, then. Our chance to take it all back.”
“It begins,” Gwydion agreed gravely, cutting his eyes over to where Arthur stood. “And I have found the song, the clue to the whereabouts of the Treasures. And I know the four who must seek them.”
“And they are?” Myrrdin prompted, for Arthur’s benefit.
“Myself. Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Her daughter, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram. And Arthur. Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine.” Gwydion turned to the boy. “You must be ready to leave with me in the morning.”
“I will go nowhere with you,” Arthur said defiantly.
As though Arthur had not even spoken, Gwydion went on, turning to Myrrdin. “After we leave, I want you to go to Coed Aderyn, to the cave where Rhiannon lived those many years. Wait for us there. By Ysgawen Mis, six months from now, the four of us will return to the cave with the Treasures in our hands.”
“Show me the cave so I may find it,” Myrrdin said.
Gwydion reached out to Myrrdin, and they clasped hands. Both bowed their heads, and the room was silent as Gwydion sent the location into Myrrdin’s mind, tracing the route that led to the cave.
“You should be safe there,” Gwydion said, after it was done. “If we do not return by Ysgawen Mis, we will not be returning at all. If that happens, make your way to Haford Bryn. It’s the closest place of safety. Rhoram and his people will protect you.”
“If you do not return, there will be no safe place,” Myrrdin said quietly. “Not for me, not for any of us. The long night will continue, not to be pushed back, ever.”
Gwydion looked over at Arthur, who still stood tensely in the middle of the room, his hands balled into fists at his side. “We leave here at first light.”
“You did not listen, uncle,” Arthur said firmly. “You never have. I will not go.”
Slowly Gwydion rose, coming to stand before his nephew. They were almost of a height, and, as they stood there, Gwydion’s cool, gray eyes looking into Arthur’s dark, fiery stare, Myrrdin sank down on the hearth, looking away from them both, gazing into the fire.
“You will come with me, Arthur,” Gwydion said, his voice cold and level. “You will not make a mockery out of Anieron’s pain. You will not make a mockery out of the Y Dawnus who died on the death-march. You will not make a mockery out of those who died in battle against the enemy.”
“I will not go with you.”
“You will not make a mockery out of the courage of your mother and sister, who lead the Cerddorian of Gwynedd.”
“My mother! My sister!” Arthur cried. “You took them away from me and then hold them before me now? You took my da from me! You took everything! Do you think that now, when you want something from me, I will say yes?”
“You will not make a mockery out of the Protectors, out of Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, who cling to life with the barest strand of hope in you.”
“I tell you, I will not—”
“You will not make a mockery out of your father’s death.”
Arthur flinched, and the scar on his face whitened further. His dark eyes shimmered briefly, then hardened. “When my da died, I was leagues away. I was here, unable to help him, unable to fight with him, unable to go to him, because of you. Do not speak of my da to me!”
“I found the song. The song that Taliesin, Master Bard, wrote hundreds of years ago, the song he wrote for us, to guide us to the Treasures. In the last verse are words written only for you. Here, this is Taliesin’s message to you, borne across the years, for your ears alone. This is what all of Kymru says to you:
“The enemy congregates like dogs in a kennel,
From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge.
They know not the course of the wind, or the water of the sea.
They know not the spark of the fire, or the fruit fullness of the earth.
I will beg the Brenin, the High One,
That I be not wretched, a prisoner in my own land.”
“I will beg the Brenin, the High One,” Gwydion repeated softly. “Is that what you would have Kymru do? Is that what you would have me do? Must I get on my knees before you? If so, that is what I will do.”
Gwydion sank to his knees at his nephew’s feet, his head bowed. Arthur drew his breath in sharply. Myrrdin rose, making his way slowly to stand before the boy. Then he, too, sank to his knees and bowed his old head.
“I beg you, Arthur, from my knees,” Myrrdin whispered, “that I be not wretched, a prisoner in my own land.”
“Uncle Myrrdin, please, stand up,” Arthur cried, his voice breaking with shame.
Myrrdin shook his head. “I will not rise. Not until you grant my boon. Not until you agree to take up this task, to help find the Treasures, to go to Cadair Idris bearing them in your hands. Not until you agree to become our High King, to save us.”
“Please,” Arthur whispered. “Please don’t make me do this. All my life I have felt the chains of the Hunt waiting for me. Please, I want to be free.”
“Free of your destiny, you mean,” Gwydion said quietly. “But we, all of Kymru, wish to be free to fulfill out destiny, to live our lives in peace and freedom. To sing our songs, to dream our dreams, to love and be loved. This is what we wish. This is what the enemy has taken from us. This is what you can return to us. And this, this is what I have bowed my head to you for, this is what I have gone to my knees for. Do you think I would do that to you—or anyone—for anything less than that? Do you think Myrrdin would do the same for anything less?”
“Please,” Arthur said, his voice breaking. “Please.”
“It is not from us you should ask for release from your place on the Wheel.”
At Myrrdin’s words, the door rattled. The fire blazed, fed by the wind that now blew through the hut. The sound of dogs baying, the pounding of hooves, the cry of a horn, echoed in their ears.
“They come,” Myrrdin said. “Those from whom you must beg for release. But I do not think they will give it to you.”
The door swung open, banging against the wall with the force of the wind. Slowly, as though in a trance, Arthur walked to the door and out onto the road. Myrrdin and Gwydion got to their feet and followed.
A horse, white as snow, cantered down the road. Antlers sprang from the forehead of the rider, and topaz eyes gleamed. Another horse, black as midnight, followed, the rider’s white shift gleaming, her amethyst eyes bright. They halted before Arthur, silent, looking down at him.
Gwydion spoke. “You are most welcome here, Protectors of Kymru. Welcome to Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Welcome to Cerridwen, the White Lady. You are not as you were when I last saw you in my dream.”
“We gather strength, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos said, never taking his topaz eyes from Arthur, “as the High King prepares.”
“He has not yet said he will do this thing,” Gwydion warned.
Cerridwen leaned forward and lightly touched Arthur’s brow, then traced the scar that the eagle had made. “We marked him long ago as the one who would lead the Hunt to take back our land. Blame not the Dreamer, Arthur ap Uthyr, that you were taken from your home, for he did as we instructed him. Do you seek revenge for those lonely years? If so, revenge yourself upon us. Now is the time for you to take up the task for which you were born. Refuse to do so, and your revenge will be complete. For we will fade away, and die, even as the Y Dawnus died from the cruelty of the enemy, even as Kymru dies beneath your feet.”
“Choose now, Arthur ap Uthyr,” Cerrunnos said sternly. “Choose the death of Kymru. Or choose the gamble for freedom.”
“Choose,” Cerridwen echoed.
; Arthur stood silently, looking up into the pitiless gaze of the god and goddess. Gwydion’s hands were clenched tightly, but he did not speak. Beside him, Myrrdin also stood unmoving, his head bowed.
High above in the night sky, the cry of an eagle was heard. In a rush of wings, the bird plummeted from the sky to land on the outstretched arm of Cerrunnos. The bird’s cold, gray eyes gazed fiercely at Arthur. And Arthur’s scar whitened almost to luminescence. Slowly, hesitantly, Arthur reached out his hand toward the eagle, and it launched itself from Cerrunnos’s arm to Arthur’s. The bird’s claws dug into the boy’s flesh, but Arthur did not flinch. The bird and the boy looked at each other for a long moment. Then Arthur nodded. The eagle shot from Arthur’s arm back into the night with a victorious cry.
Cerrunnos and Cerridwen bowed their heads briefly, then turned their mounts, cantering down the road. Their forms shimmered, flickered, and then they were gone.
Arthur cradled his arm as blood welled up from the bird’s claw marks. The blood dripped slowly down his arm and onto the dusty earth. He turned to Gwydion, his face tight and still. “We leave in the morning, Gwydion ap Awst, just as you wished. But do not think all is well between us, just because I do this thing you ask of me.”
Gwydion looked at Arthur’s white, set face, at the gleam in his dark eyes. “No,” Gwydion said quietly. “I will not think that.”
“Here, now, is the first of my blood shed for Kymru. It will not be the last.”
Gwydion tore off the sleeve of his undershirt and quickly bound Arthur’s bleeding arm, with no hint of the grief he felt. “No,” he said softly, “it will not be the last.”
Chapter 13
Sycharth
Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru
Gwernan Mis, 499
Meirigdydd, Disglair Wythnos—early afternoon
