by Holly Taylor
Gwen stood stiffly just outside the entrance to the caves of Ogaf Greu. The rushing of the sea as it crept up and down the sandy beach hissed in their ears. The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky as the stars winked out. The morning was cool—but that was not why Gwen shivered.
Today Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon would enter the cave and search for the Cauldron, the Treasure belonging to Modron, the great Mother. Gwen would go alone. The task was hers, and no one could take it from her.
Rhiannon well remembered that day, years ago, when Gwen had been lost in the caves that branched out from their hiding place in Coed Aderyn. She remembered at last finding her daughter, sobbing, at the bottom of a pit into which she had fallen. After that Gwen had a horror of being beneath the surface of the earth.
True, Gwen had lived here in the caves of Ogaf Greu with Rhoram and his people for years. But she had been sure, she told them, to never be alone there, always having people within call. But today, Gwen would go alone.
Gwydion stood on one side of Gwen. His usual stonelike expression was unmoving as he surveyed the surrounding beach. Arthur stood on Gwen’s other side. He had spoken little in the past few days as they journeyed from Maen to the caves. And he said nothing now. But there was pity in his dark eyes. The scar on his face whitened a little as he looked down at Gwen.
Gwen was dressed in a tunic and trousers of soft, brown leather. Her blond hair was braided tightly to her head. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that the cords on her neck stood out. She twisted the emerald ring of the House of PenBlaid around and around her finger.
At Gwydion’s nod Arthur handed Gwen a length of rope. She shrugged it over her shoulder, still fingering the ring. Gwydion held two torches in his hands. He stared at one, and the end of it burst into flame. He handed them both to her and she took them with trembling hands.
“Remember, Gwen,” Gwydion said sternly, “what I taught you about Fire-Weaving. Don’t lose your concentration, and you can do it. If the first torch should go out, light the other one in that way.”
Gwen nodded. Before she could turn to go, Rhiannon reached out and touched her arm. But at Gwen’s flinch, Rhiannon dropped her hand and stepped back.
Rhiannon ducked her head, staring at the ground, so the others would not see the pain in her eyes. She would not watch Gwen go—Gwen did not need even that from her.
She heard the sound of Gwen’s boots, taking her first, hesitant steps toward the wide, dark mouth of Ogaf Greu, the Caves of Blood. The footsteps halted, then came back in a rush. Gwen threw her arms around Rhiannon. Before Rhiannon even had time to hug her back, Gwen was gone, vanished into the caves.
Rhiannon took a deep breath, trying to surreptitiously wipe away the tears that had come to her eyes. She turned away from Gwydion and Arthur. Then Gwydion’s strong, scarred hands gently grasped her shoulders. Standing behind her, he said nothing, merely pulling her back against him, letting her feel the warm strength of his body.
Without even thinking about it, she twisted in his arms to face him as she burst into tears. Her sobs seemed to go on and on as Gwydion stroked her hair and held her tight. He said nothing, just let her be what she was—a wounded woman, crying out in her pain.
GWEN STOOD WITHIN the shallow entrance to the caves, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Behind her the morning light streamed in, gathering in a pool at her feet, leaving the rest of the cave in shadow.
She glanced down at the ring on her finger. It seemed to glow slightly, pulsing on her finger in time with the beat of her heart. Taking a deep breath, she made her way to the first entrance. Ducking slightly, she began down the familiar passageways. The light from the torch shifted over the cave walls that glittered in the wavering flames.
Not knowing exactly what she was doing, she found herself moving toward the chamber where she used to sleep when she had lived here. But as she did, the glow from the ring faded. So, she thought, so even the familiar ways, which held enough terrors for her were not right. It was not enough that she was, once again, beneath the earth. It was not enough that she was alone. It was not enough that all she could think of was that the walls would collapse and cover her.
Taking a deep breath, she retraced her steps and took an unused passageway at random. The light of the ring strengthened slightly. She followed the passageway down for what seemed like hours. The passageway abruptly ended into a junction. Here there were three more passageways, three pools of darkness, and three more ways to die.
And she knew that she had come to it at last—Cyfnos Heol, the Twilight Road; the path from which no one was said to ever return.
“Stop that,” she muttered, as she stood still, trying to decide which way to take. Her words seemed to be swallowed up instantly, smothered, left lifeless. Like she would be soon. The walls would collapse and she would—
She would start screaming in a minute if she didn’t stop this. She moved to stand before the east passage and looked down at the ring on her shaking hand. It seemed as though the glow had lessened. She moved to the north passage, but the glow did not change. West, she thought to herself as she came to stand before the last passage. Of course, west for Modron the Great Mother. And, indeed, as she stood before the west passage the ring began to glow with a greater intensity. Taking a deep breath, she hitched the coil of rope more firmly over her shoulder, griped the lit torch and the unlit one tightly, and began to walk down the passageway.
It was narrow to begin with, but it seemed to narrow even more as she went. In some places her shoulders brushed both walls. Only the thought of what the others would say if she came back empty-handed prevented her from turning around and running away.
Longer and longer the passage ran. There were no other exits, no openings, nothing but this narrow passageway. Truly she was on the Twilight Road. She was finding it hard to breathe now. She had no idea how long she had been down here. She glanced at the flaring torch and was startled to see how far it had burned down. She would need to light the other torch, soon. But if she did that, how would she make it back before the second torch went out? She should have brought more. Gwydion should have seen to it.
She continued down, following the twisting, serpentine, narrow way. Down she went to the center of the earth, to the realm of the Mother. Twisting and turning, turning and twisting, spiraling through this maze of passageways, traveling the Twilight Road.
The torch guttered. Shocked, she realized that it had almost burned down. She would have to light the second torch. She stopped and, remembering what Gwydion had taught her, took a deep breath to calm herself. She stared at the tip of the unlit torch and willed Fire to come to it. But nothing happened. No, this was wrong. She was trying too hard. Another deep breath, a moment to find and feel the inner balance. A moment to reach for the flames. But still, nothing happened.
Fool, she thought to herself fiercely. You cannot do what every Druid in Kymru could do. Oh, gods, if only her mother had not hidden her away all those years she might have learned how to do this. If only her mother had sent her to Caer Duir to learn, she might be able to bring fire now.
No, these thoughts would not help her now. “Modron,” she whispered. “Great Mother, Giver of Harvests, Queen of the Earth, please help me to call fire.” But nothing happened. Her other torch had nearly burned down. She could not do it. Quickly she touched the lit torch to the unlit one. The new torch blazed up, and she set the old torch on the ground.
Please, Modron, she thought, please don’t let it be much farther. Or else I will never get out of here. But, no, Modron had not answered her earlier plea. Modron cared nothing for her. She felt a pull, a faint tug, something—but what? She stopped, wanting to understand. The ring on her finger lost some of its glow. Had she missed something? Some turning? But how? There were no other ways out.
The glow of the ring became fainter still. The pull she had felt became stronger. And then she realized what she had to do, why Modron had not answered her prayer for fire. F
ire would not do for the Great Mother. Fire belonged to Mabon of the Sun. But the Mother was different. Abruptly she threw the torch on the ground and extinguished the flame. Total darkness surrounded her.
No, there was light. The light from the emerald began to glow stronger. Modron was here, guiding her. She started forward, and the rocky ground became smooth as glass beneath her feet. The passageway began to widen.
Somehow her fear was gone. She almost ran down the passage lit by the verdant glow of the ring. There, not far now, an opening. A pit of blackness far, far beneath the earth. And she was not afraid.
She burst into the cavern, and the ring flared up even brighter than before. The chamber was perfectly round, the walls smooth and glittering with gems. In the center a green light glowed, pulsing, ever-changing. She walked slowly toward the light that came from the pit.
The pit. One much like the pit she had fallen into so many years ago. But this time she was not afraid. The ring on her hand, the glow from the pit, the beat of her heart pulsed in the same rhythm. She squatted by the hole and leaned over to look.
And there it was. Y Pair, the Cauldron of Modron. Buarth Y Greu, the Circle of Blood. The shallow bowl was made of glittering gold with a dizzying array of spirals etched on all sides. The lip of the bowl was covered with emeralds. In the center of the inside of the bowl was a figure eight, etched in onyx, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.
She shrugged the rope from her shoulders. There was nothing to tie it to anyway, and she knew she would not need it. Not now. Not now that Modron had given her access, at last, to that place within her, that place that had always been there, but she had never been able to reach easily or consistently. Because now she could Shape-Move whenever she wanted. She could feel other things inside her that she could now do. She could Fire-Weave, calling fire when needed. These things denied her for so long, were hers now.
“They have always been yours.” The low, musical voice that seemed to come from everywhere, from nowhere, from the pit, from her heart, was warm and kind.
“Who is here?” Gwen asked. “Who are you?”
“I am Arywen ur Cadwy var Isabyr. I was the Fifth Archdruid of Kymru.”
Her heart in her throat, Gwen whispered. “The Archdruid to Lleu Lawrient, the last High King.”
“Yes,” Arywen agreed with a sigh.
A flicker of green and brown shimmered at the end of the pit, then the shade of Arywen coalesced in the emerald light. She had long, black hair, held back from her beautiful face with a band of gold and emeralds. Her Archdruid’s robe was forest green, trimmed in brown at the hem and throat. Around her slender neck hung the ghost of the Archdruid’s torque, shimmering emeralds set in a circle within a circle.
“You—you are here? Have been here all this time?” Gwen asked.
“I have,” Arywen’s shade said.
“How you must have loved him,” Gwen said in awe.
“We all loved Lleu Silver-Hand. Bran and Mannawyddan, Taliesin and I, his four Great Ones, loved him with such a love that death itself could not sunder it. I am glad you have come, White One, so that I may now complete my journey to the Land of Summer and see again those I have loved.” Her green catlike eyes glowed emerald in the shifting verdant glow from the pit.
“I thank you, Archdruid,” Gwen said formally, “that I have been led here. And I thank you, most of all, that Modron’s gifts have at last been given to me.”
“They were always yours, but you would never take them.”
“I was afraid. The caves—”
“Are Modron’s places. The warm, dark places of the earth. Her places just as much as the crops that grow above, the wheat that reaches toward the sun, the apple trees, the wildflowers. To embrace that which she has to give you must embrace all that she is. And this you have never done. Look to yourself, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon, for that reason.”
“My mother—” she began.
“Loves you. And left you for the good of Kymru. Your fears, White One, are your own.”
At last, after so many years, she understood. She knew, now, why her druidic gifts had been so hard to reach. For what gifts could have made their way through a heart so hard?
At last, she said, “I am the White One, the one who comes to take the Cauldron back to the land above, so that we may reclaim Kymru. Joyfully I have come. May I take it?”
“It is yours, daughter. Take it.”
Gwen stretched out her hands toward the bottom of the pit, and the bowl began to rise.
THEY WAITED BY the mouth of the caves as they had waited all day and into the night, rarely speaking, but comforted, nonetheless, by each other’s presence.
Gwydion absently fed another piece of wood to the small fire. Overhead the sky was just beginning to brighten as morning crept over the horizon. He looked over the campfire at Rhiannon. She had not slept—none of them had slept—as they waited. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her fears for Gwen were etched in the tight lines bracketing her mouth.
“I truly do believe she will come back,” Gwydion said quietly.
Arthur rose from his place next to Rhiannon and went to stand by the mouth of the cave. He stared into the entrance and did not bother to answer.
“I have not been able to Wind-Ride after her at all,” Rhiannon said softly. “I can see nothing. Why?”
“Modron,” Gwydion replied. “It is her doing. I have not been able to track her, either.”
Arthur started, then peered even more intently into the cave mouth. “I thought I heard something.”
Rhiannon leapt to her feet and grabbed Arthur’s arm. “Are you sure?”
“No, but I—”
From the mouth of the cave came a faint, emerald glow. The light grew stronger. Gwydion came to stand beside Rhiannon and Arthur.
Gwen walked from the cave to stand before them. In her hands she held the golden Cauldron of Modron. The emeralds on the bowl were glowing, pulsing in time to the emerald on her hand.
Gwen smiled.
“It is done,” Gwydion said.
Part 4
The Return
Three things are worse than sorrow;
To wait to die, and to die not;
To try to please, and to please not;
To wait for someone who comes not.
A Kymric proverb
Chapter 21
Mynydd Tawel
Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru
Gwinwydden Mis, 499
Gwyntdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—early afternoon
Arthur gazed at the purple mountains that rose sharply before him, their stark edges outlined against the deep blue sky. Jagged peaks pierced the skyline, still dusted with snow, even at this time of year. He took a deep breath of clean, cool air. Home. At last, he was coming back, to the only home he could remember, Dinas Emrys, the little village where Great-Uncle Myrrdin had raised him.
This portion of Sarn Gwyddelin, the main road through Gwynedd, wound up and down through the mountains. In front of him the wagon creaked along. Gwydion drove slowly here, trying to avoid the worst of the rocks on the road. In a few days they would have to abandon the wagon, as they made their way closer to Mynydd Tawel, the hiding place that Arthur’s father, King Uthyr, had prepared for his people. And there, they would meet Arthur’s sister, Morrigan, who had the ring of King Uthyr in her keeping. At last he would meet the sister he had been too young to remember.
And there, too, would be Ygraine, the mother Arthur barely remembered, for he had not seen her since he was four years old. All because of Gwydion. All because of the Dreamer’s plots. All because his uncle had plans. His hatred of Gwydion, a hatred that sometimes slept but never fully departed, blossomed again in his heart like a deadly rose.
Suddenly Arthur was filled with a longing to go to Dinas Emrys. Of course, Myrrdin was not there. But he so desperately wanted to see again the only home he had ever known. After all, it was on the way to Mynydd Tawel. No reason that they could not take the time. N
o reason at all. Taking another deep breath, he urged his horse forward next to the wagon box.
“Uncle,” Arthur said sharply.
Gwydion, never taking his gaze from the road, replied quietly, “You are to call me da, boyo. Remember that.”
“There isn’t anyone else around,” Arthur exclaimed, “and you know it.”
“And how would I know that?”
“Because Rhiannon has been Wind-Riding this whole time, looking to be sure we are alone here.”
Rhiannon, in her place next to Gwydion in the wagon box, did not even turn her head. Her gaze was blank, as her spirit roamed the mountainsides, looking for signs of trouble.
Gwen urged her horse up next to Arthur’s. “What are you arguing about now?” she asked.
“What makes you think I’m arguing?”
“You’re talking to Gwydion. And that means you are arguing,” she said smugly.
He flashed her a distinctly unfriendly look. It did not seem to faze her.
“Uncle,” he began again, “we are going to Dinas Emrys.”
“We are not,” Gwydion replied. “We don’t have time.”
“I want to go,” Arthur insisted.
“No,” Gwydion said again.
“Why? Because you know how much I want to?”
Gwydion took his eyes from the road and turned to face Arthur. His cold, gray gaze held a hint of contempt. “There are always reasons for what I do, Arthur. And none of them have to do with pleasing or displeasing you.”
“So I noticed,” Arthur flared, “years ago.”
“Then remember it. And remember, too, what we are doing here and where we are going. And remember that we must be at the Doors of Cadair Idris with the Treasures in our hands by Calan Gaef.”
“Why must we be there at the New Year?” Gwen asked.
“Because that is the time when the nights are the longest, and when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest. If Arthur is to succeed there, he will need all the help he can get.”
