by Holly Taylor
He strained forward to take the harp in his bloody palms. He ran the back of his hand over the strings, but the jangle of chords made him wince. He laid his head on the frame and wept, as he had not done since coming to Eiodel. He could not sing with his tongue cut out. He could not play with his fingers gone. He could not Wind-Speak with the collar around his neck.
It was all gone. Everything he had. Everything he was. Everything he had hoped to be. Now he waited only for death, a death it seemed would never come. Oh, if only he could have one boon, one gift from Taran before he died. If he could have that, death would be so sweet. He would ask for the harp to play. He would sing one last song—a song to be heard by all those in Kymru, Kymri and Coranian alike, a song like no other, a song of freedom and hope.
Taran, King of the Winds, he began in his mind, I beg—but there here stopped. He could not ask for such a thing. Who was he to have such a gift? No, he could only wait for that blessed moment when his spirit would leave this world for Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer. And there he would meet the friends who had gone before. And there he would wait his chance to be reborn. And maybe, while he waited for rebirth, he could play his harp and sing. He could never do those things now.
The touch of a cool breeze on his face made him raise his head in bewilderment. A breeze in the dungeons of Eiodel? That was not possible. But it was true.
The breeze caught the straw, sending it floating gently. The torch sputtered, then burned brighter still. And, oh, the wind brought with it the scents of Kymru. He smelled the cool mountain air of Gwynedd and the fresh clean lakes and rivers of Ederynion. He breathed in the scent of the sun-baked wheat fields of Rheged and the rich vineyards of Prydyn. He even knew the scent of the meadows and plains of Gwytheryn and a hint of the mountain of Cadair Idris that reached from the meadows to the sky.
His collar dropped off into the straw. His mind drew in the breath of Taran, and his Wind-Speech returned. The shackles around his wrists fell away. Most wondrous of all, the harp began to play the melody that he had crafted night after pain-filled night in this cell. His heart bursting with joy, he began to sing the words in his mind.
And I am manacled
In the earthen house,
An iron chain
Over my two legs;
Yet of magic and bravery,
And the Kymri,
I, Anieron, will sing.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?
You of Corania
After your joyful cry,
Silence will be your portion.
And you will taste death
Far from your native home.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?
And as he sang, he knew that everyone who was in the land of Kymru could hear him. Every man, woman, and child was listening to his song of hope.
He sang, and he knew a joy like no other he had ever known.
GWYDION TURNED TO Rhiannon as they sat by the great campfire in Owein’s hidden camp. They were all there—Arthur and Gwen, Elstar and Elidyr, Owein and Trystan and Sabrina, Cariadas and Sinend, Dudod and Esyllt and March. In front of them all he would beg Rhiannon’s pardon for his treatment of her.
He would never tell her why he had treated her so coldly. He would never tell her of his hideous fear that she would die. He would never, ever tell her that he loved her so. But he would say that he was sorry for his cruelty. Never had Cariadas spoken to him that way before. And he could not even be angry with her, because everything she had said was true. And so he turned to Rhiannon and opened his mouth to say those words. But he did not.
For just then a breeze began, a wind that seemed to swoop down from the stars themselves. And with the wind came a song.
And I am manacled
In the earthen house,
An iron chain
Over my two legs;
Yet of magic and bravery,
And the Kymri,
I, Anieron, will sing.
Elstar leapt to her feet, her arms reaching up to the sky. “Da!” she screamed. “Da!”
Dudod sank to his knees, stunned, his face awash with tears. “Brother,” he whispered. “Oh, my brother.”
And as Gwydion listened to the song, he reached out and took Rhiannon’s hand, the hand that was already reaching out for him. And he began to weep, as he had not done for many years, and Rhiannon held him, rocking him in her arms as she, too, cried.
For they knew that this night, one way or another, the song would end.
IN LLWYNARTH, QUEEN Enid taunted her new husband as Bledri and General Baldred looked on. “The ring of the House of PenMarch has been in my family’s hands for hundreds and hundreds of years! I give it to you and you lose it in less than a day!”
King Morcant reached out and grabbed Enid by the hair. “Do you think I am a fool? You took it from me!”
“How could I?” Enid screamed. “I am no better than a prisoner here. What could I have done with it?”
“I don’t know, but you have done something. And I swear to you—”
The song came to them on the wings of the wind that rushed through Caer Erias, overturning chairs and tearing tapestries from the walls.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?
And Enid, her clothing torn, her hair disheveled, her lower lip bruised and bleeding, smiled as Morcant, Bledri, and Baldred froze in dread.
IN DINMAEL, QUEEN Elen of Ederynion halted with her cup halfway to her lips. In the great hall a wind began to blow. It tossed the tapestries back and forth, and the torches guttered wildly. General Talorcan rose from the table, his sword in hand.
You of Corania
After your joyful cry,
Silence will be your portion.
And you will taste death
Far from your native home.
REGAN JUMPED TO her feet, her face pale as death as she laid her hand on Talorcan’s arm.
“Put up your sword, General,” Elen said coldly. “The singer is not one that you can kill this night.”
Talorcan looked down at Regan. “My love,” he whispered, “silence will be my portion. When I am dead, then you will be free.”
“No,” Regan whispered back. “When you are dead, then I will be also.”
“Anieron,” the Druid Iago moaned, his dark eyes full of fear. “Taran’s Wind brings him.”
“He does,” Elen smiled. “Your new god cannot stop Taran of the Winds.”
Talhearn the Bard sat by the fire in the depths of the forest of Coed Ddu. He sighed. Prince Lludd was at it again.
“I tell you that I will wait no longer!” the Prince cried. “My sister has been captive long enough!”
“And what,” Angharad asked, her green eyes flashing, “might your brilliant plan be to rescue her? Do you have thousands of men up your sleeve, perhaps? Enough to storm Dinmael and bring her out?”
“I will find a way! I am tired of waiting, I tell you—” The wind rose in the forest, hurtling through the trees, bringing with it the song of the Master Bard.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?
“Oh, Anieron,” Talhearn whispered to his old friend, as the rest of the Cerddorian leapt to their feet. “Oh, Anieron. Brave you are. Brave you have always been. Farewell, my friend.”
PRINCESS TANGWEN SAT quietly in the great hall, looking down at her plate. She refused to look at her father, King Madoc, for fear he would see contempt for him in her eyes. She refused to look at General Catha, for fear she would see the lust in his eyes. She would not look at Arday because anything she saw in the eyes of her father’s mistress onl
y confused her more.
“Tangwen,” Catha said as he flicked her cheek carelessly with one finger. Startled, she lifted her head. Catha’s handsome face was inches from her own. “Come, Princess, you must not be so glum. Just think of what I could do for you—”
But his words were abruptly cut off as a strange wind whistled through the hall, darting back and forth, throwing down the tapestries and almost smothering the fire.
You of Corania
After your Joy fulcry,
Silence will be your portion.
And you will taste death
Far from your native home.
“You will taste death,” Tangwen whispered, staring up at Catha. “Far from your native home.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Arday lift her hand to hide a smile.
HIGH IN THE mountains of Mynydd Tawel, Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer of Kymru, sat down by the fire. Her joints ached, as they always did these days. It was not fair to live so far beyond the time of usefulness. For the thousandth time, she wished she had died the day the dreams had passed to Gwydion.
She looked around at her companions. Ygraine sat stiffly, her eyes staring into the flames as though conjuring visions of her dead husband, Uthyr. Morrigan sat next to her mother’s knee, and she, too, was staring into the flames. But if she knew Morrigan, the girl was not seeing the faces of those she loved—she was seeing visions of weapons and war.
Arianrod did not stare at the fire. Her head back, she scanned the stars. The firelight played on her amber eyes and honey-blond hair. What was the child looking for? Dinaswyn wondered. What had she always been looking for?
“Some apples, my lady?” the Bard asked.
Dinaswyn turned and gave Jonas a smile. He was always so helpful, so kind. He had come to them recently, sent by Anieron, just before Allt Llwyd had been taken.
But the smile faded from Jonas’s pale face as the wind whipped down the mountains, thundering into the camp, bringing with it a song. And I am manacled
In the earthen house,
An iron chain Over my two legs;
Yet of magic and bravery,
And the Kymri,
I, Anieron, will sing.
Jonas cried out at the words, and huddled on the ground, his face hidden in his hands. Dinaswyn rose and went to him, patting his shoulders.
“Never fear, boyo,” Dinaswyn said as the tears streamed down her face. “It is the voice of the Master Bard. It is the voice of Kymru herself this night. Never fear.”
GENERAL PENDA GLANCED around the high table. King Erfin, brother-in-law of the dispossessed King Rhoram, was tearing into his meal as though it was his last. Efa, Erfin’s sister and formerly Rhoram’s wife, daintily dipped her hands in a basin of rosewater. Her sensual smile as she looked at Penda was only annoying—he had long since discovered that what Efa had to offer was not much different from any other woman. Ellywen sat stiffly at her place. The woman did everything that way. Penda wasn’t even sure she didn’t sleep standing up. It would be like her.
How much longer must he be here in Kymru? He longed to be back home in Mierce with his father and son. If only he could convince Havgan to let him go. But it was an idle thought. Havgan would never let any of his band go. Penda and Catha, Talorcan and Baldred, Sigerric and Sledda—they were here in Kymru to stay, for as long as Havgan was here.
Somehow, from somewhere, wind whipped through the great hall. Penda leapt up, sword in hand, though he did not know what he could do with it.
You of Corania
After your joyful cry,
Silence will be your portion.
And you will taste death
Far from your native home.
“Ellywen,” Penda whispered. “What does this mean?”
The Druid was pale as death, and her lips trembled as she answered. “Anieron. Taran of the Winds grants him a boon. Oh, Anieron, what have I done?”
IN THE HIDDEN vale of Haford Bryn, Rhoram squatted down next to his son, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Geriant did not say a word, and Rhoram sat next to him on the ground, waiting.
At last, Geriant spoke. “Poor Enid.”
“Yes,” Rhoram agreed. “You loved her.”
“No, I love her. Not loved. Love. And when we battle again to take Kymru back, she will be a widow by my hand.”
“She may not be the girl you love by then.”
“That does not matter. I will make her free. Free to be with whomever she will. I know it won’t be with me.”
Rhoram’s brows raised. “And why not?”
“Da, if she had loved me, she never would have gone to Llwynarth to find Bledri in the first place. She would have been content with me. But she was not. She will never love me. She never has. But that doesn’t matter. I love her, and I will free her.”
“My son–” Rhoram began. But there he stopped.
For a wind whistled over Haford Bryn, and it brought with it a song like no other he had ever heard.
Shall there not be a song of freedom
Before the dawn of the fair day?
Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?
“Anieron,” Rhoram whispered, knowing what this wind meant, knowing that the enemy would not suffer Anieron to live. “Oh, you are brave.”
“Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?” Geriant asked slowly, his eyes gleaming. “Will we not make it so?”
IN THE ARCHDRUID’S chambers at Caer Duir, Aergol sat quietly across from Cathbad. Cathbad could not see it, but then the Archdruid had always seen only what he wanted to. But Aergol knew. Soon, very soon, their Coranian allies would come to Caer Duir with enaid-dals in their hands. The Coranians no longer needed the help of the Druids, and they would soon realize it, if they hadn’t already.
Cathbad drank deeply from his golden cup. “Soon the Dreamer will be in our hands. The word is out across Kymru to find him and Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.”
“The word has been out to find those two for years, but they have never been found,” Aergol replied shortly.
Cathbad waved his hand. “No matter. They will be found. And when they are, we will make them tell us where your daughter is. Sinend will be brought back to Caer Duir, to be trained the way she should be.”
“My daughter is safe enough wherever she is,” Aergol snapped. “And you can just leave her be.”
“Leave her be! Are you mad?”
“Are you?”
And that was when Taran’s Wind came whistling down the corridors of Caer Duir. Cathbad leapt to his feet, but Aergol remained seated and bowed his head.
And I am manacled
In the earthen house,
An iron chain Over my two legs;
Yet of magic and bravery,
And the Kymri, I, Anieron, will sing.
Oh, yes. Of bravery and the Kymri, Anieron would sing, Aergol thought. Would that he could be that—brave, a man of the Kymri. Maybe he could. Yes, maybe he still could.
HAVGAN’S ROOMS IN Eiodel were glorious. Tapestries sewn with precious stones adorned the walls. The stone floor was covered with carpets woven by the Master Weavers of Gwynedd. Delicately etched goblets and glass pitchers blown by the glassmakers of Ederynion were scattered on tables. The finest Prydyn wines filled the pitchers. Fine candles from Rheged cast a soft light. A fire roared in the hearth, illuminating Havgan’s huge bed.
The woman on the bed was naked, and her hands clawed uselessly for Havgan’s face. His huge, battle-scarred hands were wrapped around her throat. He stared down at her, watching her die, watching her eyes for that thing he had been looking for all his life. Her honey-blond hair flowed over the bedspread as she fought to breathe. He had already forgotten her name. She was only a woman of the Kymri, one who had been brought to him because of the color of her hair, because that was the color of the hair of the Woman-on-the-Rocks, the one who was always turned away from him.
Slowly, her struggles ceased. Her eyes remained open as she died. And still they had n
ot shown him anything. Nothing at all. Another waste of his time.
He rose from the bed. The light of the fire crawled greedily over his naked body. He reached for a robe and wrapped it around him. He would have Sledda take care of the body. Sledda would like that. He went to the door and opened it. Both Sigerric and Sledda were sitting in the outer chamber.
“Ah, you have finished, my Lord,” Sledda said, licking his pale lips.
“Take care of her, wyrce-jaga,” Havgan said shortly.
Sigerric turned away from Havgan, looking down into his wine cup.
“Sigerric, my friend,” Havgan smiled. “Is something wrong?”
Sigerric shook his head, but still would not meet Havgan’s eyes. “Come, come,” Havgan went on. “The girl was not anyone you knew.”
“Havgan,” Sigerric whispered. “Why?”
“You know why. But once again I am cheated.”
And then the winds came. They howled through the halls of Eiodel, slashing and tearing. The glass bottles smashed into pieces. The tapestries flew from the walls. The fire roared up. And the song came. And I am manacled
In the earthen house,
An iron chain
Over my two legs;
Yet of magic and bravery,
And the Kymri,
I, Anieron, will sing.
“The Master Bard,” Sigerric breathed. “He is free.”
“He is not free,” Sledda gasped. “I left him in his cell. My Lord, I swear it!”
“Kill him!” Havgan screamed. “Kill him!” You of Corania After your joyful cry, Silence will be your portion. And you will taste death Far from your native home.
“Far from our home, Havgan,” Sigerric said quietly. “Death far from our native home.”
“I said, kill him!” Havgan screamed to Sledda, who stood frozen in the doorway. Without another word, Sledda turned and ran from the room.
THE WIND BLEW. The harp played. And Anieron sang and sang. From all across Kymru they heard him. Some wept as they listened. Some hearts leapt for joy at the promise of freedom. Some were afraid. But they all heard him. Anieron closed his eyes as he sang, overcome with this last blessing of Taran.
