by Holly Taylor
“If only the Dreamer had thought to tell us he had called you,” Arthur said with a cold glance at Gwydion, “you might have found a warmer welcome from us.”
“It is of no matter,” Drwys said. “We would not have harmed you.”
“I was thinking of the harm we might have done to you.”
Drwys grinned, and the Cerddorian tried to hide their smiles. “I do not think we would have come to harm from you, boyo,” he said.
“Do you not?” Arthur asked belligerently, his hand going to his dagger.
Gwydion said hastily, “Let me introduce to you the Lord of Dinan. He is not called Iron-Fist for nothing, and I urge you to treat him respectfully. In his day even Queen Olwen’s father, King Custennin, always trod lightly around Drwys.”
“Ah, well,” Drwys boomed. “I was a hothead then.”
“And so different now,” the woman with the dark hair murmured, a hint of laughter in her dark eyes.
“And this is Sima ur Naw, the Gwarda of Is Fechyn. Her brother, Emrys, is Lieutenant to Prince Lludd in Coed Ddu.”
“We met your brother,” Rhiannon said. “He was very kind.”
“Unlike his sister,” the other woman with light brown hair put in.
“And this is Caras ur Saidi, the Gwarda of Mawddwy,” Drwys went on.
Before anyone else could speak, Caras said, “My sister is Ellywen, she who was once Druid to King Rhoram of Prydyn, she who betrayed Cian the Bard into the hands of the Coranians. Know this before you greet me.”
“Caras ur Saidi,” Rhiannon said, “there are some of us who are related to those who have betrayed Kymru. The shame is theirs, not ours.”
Caras lowered her bow. “People must know who I am before they give me greetings. It is only right.”
“The honor of your family is whole, because of you,” Rhiannon said. “There is no dishonor here.”
Drwys gestured to Gwen and Arthur. “And these children are?”
“This is my daughter, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram,” Rhiannon said as Gwen sketched a curtsy.
“And the boy is the son of an old friend,” Gwydion broke in before Rhiannon could continue.
“Ah,” Drwys said. His bright blue eyes gazed knowingly on Arthur, but he did not say what he was thinking. “Tell us now what you wish.”
“The first few days we were dogged by a contingent of Coranian solders.”
“Led by Iago,” Gwen put in.
“Druids,” Caras said, snorting in contempt. But she fooled no one, for the sheen of angry tears was in her gray eyes.
“We lost them by the time we reached the commote of Elfael,” Gwydion went on. “By the time we crossed into Cydewain, we were sure the pursuit was over.”
“Both the Dreamer and I Wind-Ride each day, and we have seen only lone Coranian messengers and a few soldiers here and there,” Rhiannon said.
“And?” Drwys asked.
“And we don’t for one moment believe that we lost the pursuit,” Gwydion said. “Havgan wants us too badly. We think they have gotten word to a contingent up here. We need you to guard our back as we do now what we must do.”
“And that is?” Drwys asked.
“That is something we may not name.”
“I see. Well, then, Dreamer, you shall have what you wish. My Cerddorian will fan out, and we will be sure you do what you must do undisturbed.”
“You simply do as he asks?” Arthur asked indignantly. “No questions?”
“We do not question the Dreamer, boyo,” the Lord of Dinan said with finality. “You would do well to follow our example.” Before Arthur could answer, Drwys and his people melted back into the forest and the quiet descended, as though the Cerddorian had never even been there.
“You might have told us,” Arthur began fiercely.
But Gwydion ignored the boy and turned to Rhiannon, taking her cold hands in his own. His mind was now made up. “You’re not going into that water,” he said firmly.
She turned to him in surprise. “The Stone is mine to find.”
“You can’t swim,” he said. “Or did you forget that?”
She flushed. “Of course. Throw that up to my face.”
“I’m not throwing that up to you! I’m telling you that I will go. You will not risk your life for this.”
“If not for this, then for what?”
“Not for anything. You’re not going,” he said flatly. “And that is that.”
“I am going. Find me a log.”
“A what?”
“A log,” she said patiently. “A piece of wood. Something that floats.”
“No.”
“Yes. You cannot find the Stone and you know it. The ring is for my finger alone, and it alone can guide the way to the Stone. Without that Stone Arthur will not be High King. And without that, we are lost. Now get me that log. Now.”
He stared at her, his anger at fever pitch. Why would she never do what he asked her to do?
“Now, Gwydion. I will not be cheated of what is my rightful task.”
“Rhiannon,” Arthur said hesitantly. “I don’t think Uncle Gwydion’s trying to cheat you. I think he’s trying to help.”
“Fine,” Rhiannon replied between gritted teeth. “He can help by getting that log.”
Gwydion turned away, thrashing through the bushes at the edge of the forest. He found a short log on the forest floor and brought it back to her, flinging it at her feet.
“There,” he said tightly. “Anything else?”
Anything else? She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say, go in my place. Call the Stone and waft it into my hands. But she said none of these things.
“You can have a blanket handy,” she said, “for when I come back.”
She knew what Gwydion had been trying to do. As always, he thought he was the only one who could do things right. He thought he should be the one to get the Stone, because he didn’t trust her to do it. She knew what he thought of her.
She turned to face the lake. In the middle was a pinnacle of rocks jutting up like jagged teeth. The water rippled against it, as though begging to be let in.
Yes, the Stone was there, in Carreg Fedd. In the center of the lake, of course. It was too much to expect it to be at the edge. And she would have said that out loud, but she seemed to have trouble breathing.
She also seemed to be shaking. She had to stop. It was water. Only water. If she kept her head above it, held on to the log, propelled herself to those rocks, she’d find a way in. Get the Stone. Come back. And they’d be on their way. That’s the way it would happen. It would be all right.
With a silent prayer to Nantsovelta, Queen of the Waters, Lady of the Moon, she unlaced her kirtle and stepped out of her wool dress. Her cream-colored linen smock hung to just past her thighs. She unlaced her boots and took them off. She checked that her hair was still tightly braided and bound.
Trembling in every limb, her breath constricted in fear, she picked up the log, walked past Gwydion, Arthur, and Gwen without even acknowledging they were there, and stepped into the water. When the water reached her waist, she positioned the log in front of her, putting her hands on it to help keep afloat.
She turned her head to look at them for what might be the last time.
Gwen was kneeling by the water’s edge, leaning forward slightly as though trying to help Rhiannon begin. Their eyes met, and Gwen smiled in encouragement. And then Gwen dropped her eyes as though realizing she had been too kind.
Arthur smiled at her and nodded, though his smile was strained and his shoulders were tense. His eyes searched the lake warily.
And then she turned to Gwydion. He stood stiffly, his hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white. And as she looked at him, he slowly released his fist and held his hand out to her, as though longing to bring her back. She reached out her hand in farewell and then turned to go.
She took another few breaths to try to calm herself and then launched herself into the water, clinging to the log in front of her. She
set her sights on the promontory, and propelled herself toward it, willing herself to do that which she had feared for years beyond counting.
And willing herself to live through it. To come back to those who waited, with the Stone in her hands.
GWYDION WATCHED HER go without a word. His body was taut with anxiety, his knuckles white with tension. He never took his eyes off of her as she made for the rocks in the center of the lake. She traveled steadily and did not falter. His heart felt as though it would burst with pride—and fear.
And then he felt it. Something was wrong. Where? He wrenched his attention away from Rhiannon’s journey to Ride the Wind, to try to discover what was happening. But before he could even do so, Caras appeared before him as if from thin air.
“Drwys says you were right. The soldiers are here.”
“Where?”
“Over the last hill to the south. There are twenty of them. They carry the banner of Havgan—the white boar on a field of red and gold. Drwys says for you to go, that we will hold them off.”
“We cannot go,” Gwydion said, shaking his head. “Rhiannon is still in the lake.”
“You must go! They will see you.”
“I won’t go without her. Arthur!” he barked. “Take the wagon and move it far back into the forest. Gwen, take your horse and Arthur’s and follow the wagon. The two of you go with Caras. Caras, can your people lead them off?”
“We will do what you wish.”
Arthur, for once not questioning Gwydion’s judgment, climbed into the wagon and grabbed the horses’ reins.
“What about you?” Gwen called out to Gwydion as the wagon lurched forward.
“I’ll stay here,” Gwydion replied as he turned back to the lake to see Rhiannon. “I’ll Wind-Speak to Rhiannon, tell her to—”
But he did not finish what he was going to say. For, as he looked to the rocks, Rhiannon had disappeared, and the log was floating alone.
AS SHE DREW closer to the rocks, Rhiannon tried to still her breathing, telling herself to be calm. The water was cold, and she tried to stop herself from wondering what lay beneath the surface. Perhaps the serpent wasn’t dead. Perhaps it was just waiting in the dark below for the chance to pull her down, to fill her lungs with water, to tear her apart, to devour her …
Stop it, she told herself fiercely. Stop.
She needed something else to think about. Riddles, that was it. What is whiter than snow? Truth. What is sharper than the sword? Understanding. What is blacker than the raven? Death. No, that was the last thing she should think about.
Nantsovelta, help me, she cried deep inside. Help me. I’m so afraid. She remembered a prayer to the goddess, which she had been taught long ago, and she recited it in a low voice, her breath coming short and hard with fear.
“O vessel bearing the light,
O great brightness outshining the sun,
Draw me ashore,
Under your protection,
From the shortlived ship of the world.”
But not now, Nantsovelta, she thought. Do not take me now. Help me to live. Help me to bring back your Treasure to the use of the High King, for whom it was made.
Don’t let me be taken by the serpent, she pleaded. Stop. There was no serpent. It was only water. Water was good. It gave life. It did not mean to kill.
Aunt Llawen, why did you die? Why did the water take you from me when I needed you so much? You left me alone, and I was alone for so very long. Then Rhoram came to me, and loved me, and I wasn’t alone anymore. But he did not stay. No one ever stays. They leave and leave and leave, and I am so alone.
Da. Da, why did you never love me? What had I done? What was I that you loathed the sight of me? Why was I nothing in your eyes?
No, that was no way to think. She had forgiven him, years ago, when she had finally understood. She would not travel that path again. Her da would have loved her, if his spirit had not died the day she was born, the day her mother died.
But her daughter hated her. Her former lover was nothing to her now. And Gwydion was dangerous. She had no one but herself. And it must, it would be enough. She would do this thing and maybe learn to think better of life and her place in it.
But she was so afraid.
At last she reached the rocks, her thoughts incoherent, her body cold and shivering, her spirit shriveled with fear.
She saw and understood then that the path she must travel was beyond her power to take. She could never do this thing. Never. There were no openings above the water. And the Stone must be inside. And to get inside she would have to dive down, try to find a way in before her breath ran out. Oh, and if there was a tunnel, how could she stand to swim into it? How could she know how long the tunnel was? She would be trapped under there, unable to surface, and she would die.
Gwydion’s face came to her, as she remembered his outstretched hand as she left him on the edge of the lake. She wanted to go to him and lay her fear in his hands. She wanted to feel his strong arms around her, to shelter beside him.
And it was that thought that spurred her. What had she been thinking—that she would find shelter in Gwydion? That was the thought of a fool. She would not return to the shore without that Stone. That would show Gwydion what she could do.
She released the log, keeping her head above water for a few moments. Then she took a deep breath, and dove.
GWYDION CROUCHED WITHIN the shelter of the trees, his eyes fixed on the promontory in the center of the lake. The log she had been holding floated alone and she was gone. He tried to Ride out to her, but he could sense nothing, could see nothing. It was as though she had never been there, as though the rocks were a wall that could not be climbed, could not be brought down, could not be lessened in any way.
She was dead. Drowned. And all because of him. All because of his dreams. All because he had found her that day and forced her to stand with him in his fight for Kymru to be free. He had not valued her as he should have. He had never told her the truth. He had been too afraid.
As the Coranian warriors poured down the hill and to the shores of the lake, he did not move. They must have killed the Cerddorian, for he saw no sign of them. He hoped vaguely that Gwen and Arthur had gotten away, but he could not make himself care too much. He knew the soldiers would eventually find him, but that thought had no meaning. She was dead.
And everything was over.
And so, as they came closer, Gwydion did not move from his place.
He merely waited. And wondered that the heart he thought dead could give him so much pain.
IT WAS DARK BENEATH the water. Above her she could see glimmers of light shining through the surface of the lake. But the light died quickly. She put her hands out to the rocks, feeling for a way in. She would always remember that she found it within seconds, as though it had been waiting for her. Perhaps it had.
Knowing that if she stopped to think she would never move, she grasped the rough edges of the tunnel and propelled herself inside. She used her hands to push herself along, shooting through the water as fast as she could. Her lungs were burning, and she could feel a scream building inside her throat.
No. She would not cry out. She would live through this. And she would bring the Stone back. She would do this thing because that was what Nantsovelta required, and for too long she had run from all the things she should have done.
Her hands, feeling the way along the roof of the water-filled tunnel, suddenly grasped nothing. She shot up, knowing that if she did not break the surface she would die. If there was no surface …
But there was. She came up inside the mound of rocks into darkness. She could tell by the sound of the water that slapped at the walls that she was in a narrow cave and the ceiling was low.
She reached out and grabbed hold of the rocks, and rested in the water for a moment. So dark. How could she find the Stone?
But then she saw a glimmer of light and saw that it was coming from the pearl ring she wore. The light grew stronger, a bright, shi
mmering light, like the path of moonlight dancing on water.
The cave was small. The pool of water where she had surfaced was directly in the center of it. A ledge ran around the water, rough and uneven. Shadows capered and menaced throughout.
Where? Where was the Stone? Surely it was not at the bottom of the lake. Surely it was here somewhere. And then she saw an answering glimmer from the ledge. And she saw Nantsovelta’s treasure, Gwyr Yr Brenin, Seeker of the King.
The Stone was square, each side no more than a foot long. The surface appeared to be granite or something like it, shot through with a lattice of bright threads of silver. At each silvery junction a pearl rested, as though formed by the stone itself. At the center on the top of the Stone was a figure eight, the symbol of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. The symbol was studded with shining onyx, black as night. She reached out a trembling hand to trace that figure. There was a cavity at the center, a narrow slot where something must go. But what?
That did not matter now. The Stone glowed even brighter in response to her touch. She seemed to hear a harp, playing a sweet melody. “Nantsovelta,” she breathed, and bowed her head until it rested against the Stone. “Daughter of Chaos and the Weaver, Bride of the Sun, Lady of the Waters, Queen of the Moon, to you I bend my spirit. Do with me as you will.”
“So you have come at last,” a man’s voice said, low and gentle.
Her head shot up, and she looked wildly around. Who was in here with her?
A slight shimmer next to the Stone solidified and became the figure of a man dressed in a robe of silver trimmed in sea green. His blue eyes were mild and sad, yet something in the set of his fine, drawn mouth spoke of a deeper joy, come from the wisdom that grows from suffering. Around his neck was the glow of ghostly pearls.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her heart in her throat.
“I am Mannawyddan ap Iweridd var Fabel,” he replied.
Her breath caught in her throat. Mannawyddan, the Fifth Ardewin of Kymru, one of the Great Ones of Lleu Lawrient, the last High King! But Lleu had been murdered over two hundred years ago.
“Why are you here?” she whispered.
