Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  The Coranian guard watched sourly as two peddlers approached the gates of Sycharth. The older peddler wore a cloak of dull gray, patched here and there with bright, mismatched pieces of cloth. His leather boots were worn and cracked. He wore a tunic and trousers of what had once been blue wool, now faded to a drab, slate color. His hair and beard were dingy gray. He looked humbly at the guard and bowed in a move that shifted the weight of the heavy pack on his shoulders so that the man overbalanced and almost stumbled.

  The guard grinned. Obviously the peddlers had little coin between them, but they might be good for some fun, after all. Guard duty in the Kymric towns was dull, for the Kymri were cowed and had little spirit.

  The younger peddler’s clothes were in the same worn condition as the older one, but they were of a faded brown color. His face was set in sullen, suspicious lines as he shifted the weight of the pack on his back and his dark eyes flashed. There was a scar on his face that whitened a little as he stared belligerently at the guard.

  This one, the guard thought, might be interesting. “Name and business,” he said in a bored tone.

  The older man smiled and rubbed his hands. “Well, now, my business may very well be with you—” he began.

  “Forget it, da,” the younger man said shortly. “He doesn’t want to buy anything from us. He just wants to take our money.”

  “What my son means is—”

  “I know what he means,” the guard said. “And he’s right. There is a toll on this gate.”

  “A toll!” the older man exclaimed. “Since when is there a toll to enter this city?”

  “Since the city belonged to us,” the guard sneered. “If you Kymri don’t like it, you should have fought harder to keep it.”

  For a moment the younger man’s eyes flashed. He took a brief step forward toward the guard. But the older man stuck out his foot and the youth went sprawling. “The young,” the older man sighed, “are so impulsive.” The older man helped the younger one to his feet. “All right, boyo?”

  “You—”

  The older man tossed a small purse to the guard. “This should settle the issue of coming into the city. Is there a toll to get out?”

  The guard caught the bag and opened it, then nodded. “Of course, there is,” he said, gesturing them to go through the gates. “Oh, and you had best keep that boy of yours under control. Something nasty might happen to him.”

  “I’ll remember that,” the older man said, pulling his companion along.

  TIGHT-LIPPED, GWYDION turned to Arthur as they made their way through the streets of the city. “You are a fool, boy.”

  “And you are a coward!” Arthur flashed. “Letting him talk to us like that.”

  Grimly, Gwydion restrained himself from delivering a well-aimed kick or two. Once again he reminded himself that Kymru needed a High King, and this sullen boy was it.

  Gwydion took a deep breath. “Pay attention, or we’re both dead. Do you understand?” He waited for Arthur’s rejoinder, but the boy said nothing. “Now,” Gwydion went on, “we are here to meet up with the others, not to start a fight against the entire Coranian army. Have you got that?”

  “You! You never fight. You just sit in the shadows and plot. And people die!”

  “You know, boyo,” Gwydion said in a conversational tone, “there’s nothing that says the hope of Kymru has to be in perfect shape. A broken bone or two might very well teach you some manners.”

  “Try it, uncle,” Arthur said, baring his teeth in what was supposed to be a grin, “and see what it gets you.”

  “How very pleased Havgan would be to meet you,” Gwydion went on smoothly. “He’d love to know someone who gave me almost as much trouble as he does.”

  “Listen, you can’t—”

  “And how sorry Uthyr would be, if he could see you now.”

  The name of Arthur’s father hung in the suddenly still air between them. Arthur looked away. Gwydion continued to scan the crowd in the marketplace, as though the name he had used hadn’t even hurt him. But it had. Even now, two years later, he still missed his brother terribly. But he would not let Arthur know that. That was his business. Not the boy’s.

  There—he glimpsed a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye. He did not turn his head, but slowed his steps, putting his hand on Arthur’s arm to halt him. Arthur looked at Gwydion with a raised brow but, for once, asked no questions.

  A red-haired woman who had been examining the glass beakers in one of the stalls turned and began to make her way through the crowd. She wore a tunic and trousers of dark green over a plain, cream-colored undershirt. Her unbound hair gleamed in the afternoon sun and cascaded down her back like a river of fire.

  Without a word Gwydion followed the woman through the crowd, Arthur tagging behind. As she reached the edge of the marketplace, she turned north, making her way down quiet side streets. The houses, which had once been so fresh and bright, now seemed to huddle to one another for comfort. Occasionally they passed a man or woman sitting in their doorway. These people always looked up and then quickly looked away again when Gwydion and Arthur passed, a half smile playing on their pale faces.

  Once, during the journey, they passed near the junction of two streets patrolled by Coranian guards. But, unaccountably, as the woman neared them, the guards were distracted by a howling cat that ran through their midst, chased by a panting dog, followed by four bright-eyed children, who shouted that the cat was theirs. Their attention diverted, the guards did not even notice the woman and her followers.

  Finally the woman led them to the last house on the last street, nestled against the city wall. The woman entered the front door, and they followed.

  The room was dim, the only light coming from the open doorway. The chamber seemed to be filled with raggedly dressed men. Gwydion did not stop to speak to any of them, but he nodded at a few. They returned his nod, but said no word. The woman disappeared through another door.

  They followed her into a tiny room. A bedstead and a large, wooden chest were the only furnishings. The woman was already on her knees, pushing the chest away from the wall. There was a gaping hole in the floor. Without turning back to look at them, she jumped down the hole. Once down, she lit a candle, dropped to her knees, and crawled away from sight…

  Gwydion shed his pack and helped Arthur shed his. “Down there?” Arthur asked.

  “Where else?”

  Arthur jumped into the hole, and Gwydion threw the packs down to him, then jumped in himself. They found themselves in a long, low tunnel. The roof of the tunnel was crisscrossed with roots, and packed with dirt. They crawled on hands and knees, following the glimmering candle that the woman held. At last the woman halted where the tunnel came to an end. She blew out the candle, then reached up over her head. A slight creak told them that a trapdoor had been opened. Light streamed down into the tunnel. The woman jumped up, catching the sides of the open door with her hands and pulling herself out. Gwydion gestured for Arthur to go next, then followed.

  The late-afternoon sun felt good on Gwydion’s face as he took a deep breath of fresh air. They were in a tiny clearing in the forest that began just a few feet from the city walls. He judged they had come about half a league or so. The woman gestured them away from the wooden trapdoor set in the ground. She closed the door, then set some of the loose brush over it. When she was done, she turned to them.

  “The cart and the horses have been procured as you wished. And the goods, as well,” she said, her eyes staring at Arthur with frank curiosity.

  “Well done, Angharad,” Gwydion said. “A nice little tunnel you’ve got there.”

  “We like it,” Angharad said dryly. “And I will be sure to tell them it meets the Dreamer’s approval. And, dare I hope, the approval of your companion?”

  Arthur bowed as Myrrdin had taught him to do. “You are Angharad ur Ednyved, Captain of the Cerddorian of Ederynion.”

  “I am. And you are?”

  “The son of an old
friend of mine,” Gwydion broke in before Arthur could speak.

  Angharad’s brows rose. “Indeed? Well, son of an old friend of the Dreamer’s, have you a name?”

  Arthur shot Gwydion a quick glance but did not answer, much to Gwydion’s surprise. Perhaps the stakes for which they were playing had finally sunk into Arthur’s brain.

  “For the moment he does not,” Gwydion said quietly.

  “Trusting as ever,” Angharad said shortly.

  “The enemy is everywhere,” Gwydion sighed. “You know that.”

  “So I do. It sounds like an interesting journey ahead of you. And it makes me wish more than ever that I could accompany you,” she said thoughtfully. “You may not know this, son of an old friend, but there is no better warrior than I in all of Ederynion.”

  “I would like to say that she is bragging,” Gwydion said to Arthur with a faint smile, “but she is not. Nonetheless, Angharad, you cannot come with us. It is only to be the four so named on this journey.”

  “Then let us go,” Angharad said, “to the other two.”

  “They are both here? And well?” Gwydion asked, trying to mask his anxiety and, apparently, not succeeding, to judge by Angharad’s amused look.

  “Emrys is with them now. The younger one sulks a great deal.”

  “I’m used to that,” Gwydion said, shooting a look at Arthur.

  “I don’t sulk,” Arthur shot back, scowling.

  Angharad laughed. “So, this son of an old friend causes you a little trouble. He is, then, a boy—pardon me—a young man, after my own heart.”

  “Somehow I knew you’d be amused,” Gwydion said sourly. “Why is it that all my friends laugh at my troubles?”

  “You have no friends, Gwydion ap Awst, only tools,” Angharad said. “Dreamers cannot afford anything more. Come, the others are waiting.”

  HIS EYES WENT to her first, drawn to her as the moon draws the tides. She was thinner, and her face was more strained than when he had seen her last. Her green eyes were shadowed, but she rose when he walked through the door of the woodcutter’s hut and smiled at him.

  “Rhiannon,” he said as he took her hands, bringing one hand to his lips without thinking. But he stopped short in surprise at himself, then lowered her hands. Unable to look at her—and yet, somehow unable to relinquish her hands—he glanced around the tiny room.

  Emrys, Angharad’s Lieutenant, leaned against the uncovered window, a bright dagger in his hands. He nodded at Gwydion and Arthur, then spoke to Angharad as she came in behind them, “All’s quiet.”

  Movement in the corner of the room caught Gwydion’s eye. A young woman stood up from a stool tucked away in one shadowy corner. Her long, blond hair tumbled over her shoulders. She wore a leather tunic and trousers of brown, and her blue-eyed gaze was frankly curious.

  “Gwydion ap Awst,” Rhiannon said, pulling her hands from his grasp, “you remember Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram, my daughter.”

  “I do. It has been many years since I last saw you, Gwenhwyfar, and you’ve changed since then.”

  “I was a little girl, then,” Gwen said haughtily. “But I am grownup now.”

  “So you are. I would introduce you to my companion,” Gwydion said, gesturing to Arthur, who stood behind him as though rooted to the floor, “but some introductions must wait a while longer.”

  “Why?” Gwen asked.

  “Because,” Rhiannon said swiftly, “some names are not to be bandied about without careful thought.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Gwen shot back. “I asked him.”

  Now Gwydion knew what brought the shadow to Rhiannon’s green eyes. He noticed that Arthur was now gazing at Gwen with frank dislike at her rudeness to Rhiannon.

  “This, I think,” Angharad said to Emrys, “is our sign that it is time to leave. Good journey to you all. May you find what you seek.”

  “Thank you, Angharad, and Emrys, for your help in getting us this far,” Rhiannon said. “And for your company. A safe journey back to Coed Ddu to the both of you.”

  “Thank you, Rhiannon,” Angharad said, gesturing for Emrys to follow her out the door, “and good wishes to you. With companions like these, you’re going to need it.” The two Cerddorian left the hut, melting silently into the shadows of the trees.

  Gwydion shrugged off his pack, dumping it unceremoniously on the rough table jammed against the wall.

  “I didn’t think you were so old,” Gwen said frankly.

  “Old?” Gwydion asked in surprise. Arthur snorted, laying his own pack down on the table. “Oh,” Gwydion said, gesturing to his white hair. “It’s flour. It will wash out.”

  “I see,” Gwen said, coming to stand next to him, examining his hair closely.

  “How was your journey?” Gwydion asked Rhiannon as she sank down on one of the stools.

  “Well enough,” Rhiannon said, her eyes cutting to her daughter. “All things considered.”

  “Well?” Gwen asked impatiently, gesturing to Arthur. “Who is this? Or do I not get to know?”

  Arthur flushed, looking at Gwen with hard, dark eyes. “I am Arthur,” he said.

  “Fine. Arthur what?”

  Arthur took a deep breath. “Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine.”

  “The Prince of Gwynedd who was supposed to have died all those years ago?”

  “The very same.”

  “Well, you don’t look dead to me. Why the secrecy?”

  “Ask my Uncle Gwydion,” Arthur shot back, his eyes bright with anger. “It was his idea.”

  “I’m sure he had a very good reason,” Gwen replied sharply.

  Gwydion raised his brows, glancing over at Rhiannon. Something in Gwen’s voice, in the way she defended him, surprised him.

  “You are,” Rhiannon murmured softly, “a very handsome man.”

  “Uh-oh,” Gwydion murmured, eyeing Gwen. Then he did a double take, looking back at Rhiannon. “You think I’m handsome?”

  She looked away, a half smile on her face. Arthur turned from Gwen and crossed the room to take Rhiannon’s hand. “Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” Arthur said quietly. “I hope you are well. It is—it is good to see you again.”

  “And good to see you again, Arthur,” Rhiannon smiled, as Arthur drew her hand to his lips and formally kissed her fingers.

  Gwydion abruptly stood and, going to the door, shut it tightly. He turned, leaning against the door, to survey his companions.

  “Rhiannon, you heard Anieron’s cry,” he said quietly.

  Tears shimmered in her green eyes. “Do you think he is still alive?”

  “Of course,” Gwydion said, his gray eyes cold. “Havgan has no mercy.”

  “We heard that Cariadas is safe with Owein in Coed Coch.”

  Gwydion smiled. “I heard that also, thank the Shining Ones.”

  “The Y Dawnus who survived the march—Angharad says they were taken to Afalon.”

  “Where is that?” Gwen asked.

  “It’s the island in the center of Llyn Mwyngil, the lake west of Cadair Idris, in Gwytheryn,” Arthur replied, his glance withering with contempt. “Anyone knows that.”

  Gwen bristled at the insult. “I meant—” she began. But Gwydion raised his hand for silence and, for a wonder, Gwen subsided.

  “The Bards and the Dewin were taken,” Gwydion said. “And Anieron is lost to us. The Smiths and their families have disappeared. From some hidden place they are forced to make enaid-dals, soulcatchers, collars for the Dewin and Bards that make them blind and deaf. The Coranians have captured a testing device and can now know for certain who is Y Dawnus. Havgan makes his next move, consolidating his hold on this land in his quest to defeat the Kymri utterly. And we four,” he said softly, his eye traveling around the room to the three who stood there, “are going to stop him.”

  “How?” Gwen asked eagerly.

  “By finding the Four Treasures. By finding the Stone of Water and the Spear of Fire. By finding the Cauldron of Earth and the Sword of Air. With these Treasures in o
ur hands, we will go to Cadair Idris, and we must be there by Calan Gaef, the festival of the new year.”

  “And what do we do when we have these Treasures?”

  “With them the Doors of Cadair Idris will open. And with them Arthur will be tested and, should he pass the test, the Tynged Mawr, he will be High King of Kymru. And he shall drive the enemy from this land.”

  Gwen turned to Arthur, looking him up and down doubtfully. “You? High King?”

  Arthur flushed. “Yes,” he said flatly. “What of it?”

  Gwen shrugged. “You don’t look like a High King.”

  “And you don’t look like a Princess,” Arthur shot back.

  “And just what do I look like?”

  “Like a spoiled brat.”

  “Children,” Gwydion said patiently. “I’m not finished.”

  “I’m sorry, Gwydion,” Gwen said softly. “Please go on.”

  Rhiannon rolled her eyes at Gwen’s tone, but did not speak.

  “Before any of us were born, we were marked as the four who would find these Treasures. To Rhiannon, the task to find the Stone. To me, the task to find the Spear. To Gwen, goes the Cauldron, and to Arthur, the Sword.”

  “Just how,” Arthur said sharply, “do you intend to find these Treasures?”

  “The song, a song written by Taliesin himself, has been found. And in the song are we named. And this is how they will be found. The Stone is in Ederynion, so here we look first. Next, the Spear in Rheged, then the Cauldron in Prydyn. And last, the Sword in Gwynedd. And it is by the rings that we shall find the Treasures.”

  “What rings?” Arthur asked.

  “The rings given to each ruler hundreds of years ago by Bran the Dreamer.”

  “My da has his emerald ring,” Gwen said. “If I had known we needed it, I could have brought it with me.” She shot Rhiannon a hard look. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it was not time to take it,” Rhiannon said with an edge to her voice. “Each ring will come to our hands at the proper time.”

  “The ring of Ederynion,” Arthur cut in, “who has it?”

  “Queen Elen in Dinmael.”

  “You mean Elen who is held captive by the Coranians?” Arthur asked. “You can’t be serious. We have to get to her to get the ring?”