by Holly Taylor
He followed the path, which now led through a narrow canyon. His scraped and bleeding shoulders touched either side of the rocks that rose sheer from each side of the path. How many, he wondered, had made it this far? Not many, he thought. Because for the others, the winds would have blown when they stepped onto the path. But, for him, the winds blew only if he stepped off of it. So far, anyway. That could change at any moment. And probably would.
As if the winds heard him, they began. They swooped from the sky, down the sheer rocky face, and began to pound him. He fell to his knees, the wind roaring in his ears. Grit and dust blew into his eyes, blinding him. He crawled forward, unwilling to stop, unable to go back without the Sword.
The winds pushed at him, thrusting him back. Doggedly, he continued forward, leaning into the wind, gasping for breath.
Suddenly, as if the memory lay waiting only a hand span away, he remembered the day he almost died, the day Taran’s storm had come to Dinas Emrys, so many years ago. He had been on the mountain that day, herding the sheep back to the byre. But one ewe had gone astray, and he had gone back up to look for her. He had found her, caught in a bush, struggling to get free. And then the storm had broken. Not a storm, really. Because the sky was clear and there was no rain. But the winds had tried to kill him, to push him off the mountain. And they had. Only at the last moment he had grabbed onto the branch of a low bush. He had dropped the ewe, and she had gone tumbling down the sheer cliff face. And he had hung on, grimly, knowing that if he could hold on long enough, Myrrdin would find him.
He remembered how his strength had ebbed that day, just as it was ebbing now. He remembered that he felt his grip loosening, and he knew that he would die. And he remembered how his hand had slipped from the branch, how, just at that last moment, he felt a hand on his wrist, and had opened his eyes to see Myrrdin above him, hanging on to him, pulling him to safety.
But today Myrrdin was not here. And the winds were going to kill him. Taran’s Winds. Taran did not want the Sword to be found. Taran wanted to kill him. And he would. For the winds were pushing him against the rock faces, tearing more skin from his body. Blinding him. Pushing him back.
From far, far away, he heard the sound of an eagle’s cry. Fierce, proud, the sound came down to him, carried by the winds.
The eagle called out to him. Somewhere, high overhead, an eagle rode the winds, going where they led. Soaring on the wings of the wind. Not fighting against them. Using them, to get to his prey.
And he knew what he had to do. He stopped trying to go forward. He halted on his hands and knees as the winds rushed about him. Slowly, he stood up. For a moment he fought to stay on his feet. But then he let go. He let the winds push him to the ground. He let the winds tumble him back. He rolled with the winds, going where they wanted him to go.
And so he returned to the narrow fissure, fetching up hard against the rocks. Then the winds died. He rubbed the grit and dust from his eyes, blinking tears to wash them away. He stood up, bleeding and bruised. And he waited in the suddenly still air.
A slight breeze tugged at him. He turned with it, and saw, just next to the fissure, a thin, dark gap in the rocks. He stepped forward and released his hold on the rocks, confident that the winds would let him go.
And they did.
He reached the gap and squeezed through. He found himself in a peaceful glade. There was thick, green clover beneath his feet. A gentle stream meandered through this unlikely glade, surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs. Trees lined the perimeter—and he knew them, and why they were there. The long, drooping branches of the white birch trees were studded with tiny yellow flowers and light green catkins. The rowan trees with their rounded crowns spread their branches to the sky. They were covered with white flowers and studded with tiny red berries. The ash trees with their low hanging branches were covered with clusters of long, purplish flowers. And the gnarled oak trees with their thick trunks hung heavy with acorns. A single yew tree wept evergreen needles over the huge, black stone that lay in the center of the clearing.
Of course, for who else would guard the resting place of the Lady Don but the gods themselves? Birch for Taran of the Winds. Rowan for Mabon of the Sun. Ash for Nantsovelta of the Waters. Oak for Modron, the Great Mother. And, finally, yew, for Annwyn, the Lord of Chaos.
Llyr, the First Dreamer, would have planted these trees here, long ago, when his people had first come to Kymru, fleeing the destruction of Lyonesse, that proud island that had sunk beneath the sea twelve generations ago. The Lady Don had died in that terrible time, her body lost in the vast ocean. But Llyr had raised this stone in memory of her.
The mirrored obsidian of the stone seemed to wink at him in the fading light. The ring on his finger pulsed brightly, bathing the glade in an azure glow. Slowly, Arthur approached the rock, and he sank to his knees beside it. He reached out and touched the stone. It was so cold. He thought for a moment of the Lady Don, and her fight against the Druids who had killed her husband. He thought of the legend that her youngest child, Llyr, had been created a whole man outside of her body, in a fashion that no one now understood, aided by the magic of the Danaans who had sheltered her.
The Sword of Taran was in this glade for Arthur to find. The ring on his finger told him that. It was here, but where?
There was not a breath of wind. Nothing to guide him. Nothing except the glow of the ring on his finger. He rose to his feet, and reached out to the yew tree. But the ring’s glow faded slightly when he did so. Ah, the stone itself, then. Once again, he touched the cool stone, and the ring glowed so brightly that he had to squint through the glare to see.
He braced his feet, pushed his fingers beneath the stone, and pulled. But the stone did not move. The Sword was there, beneath the stone. He knew it. But how could he get to it if the stone would not move?
And then the winds came.
They hurled down the rocky cliffs, and the branches on the trees began to dance. The air filled with the tiny flowers that flew from the branches in the violent wind. Arthur was pushed to his knees, gasping. The wind seemed to cut his skin from his bones. And he cried out, then.
“Taran!” he shouted. “Taran of the Winds, help me!”
The winds pushed at him, flattening him to the ground. And then he saw it. The winds had made their way beneath the stone, lifting one end of it. A few inches from his face, he saw a bright glitter. His hand shot out beneath the stone, and he grabbed for the bright twinkle of metal. With the rasp of metal on rock, he pulled out the object and the winds died. The stone sank back into its place.
In the silence, Arthur rose to his feet, the Sword of Air in his hands. He held the blade upright before his eyes. He had it. Y Cleddyf, the Sword. Meirig Yr Llech, Guardian of the Stone. The handgrip was made of silver mesh, chased with gold. The hilt of silver was fashioned like a hawk with widespread wings and sapphire eyes. The hawk’s claws held the knob at the end, on which was the figure eight, the symbol of infinity, studded with onyx. The scabbard was gold, etched with a dizzying array of silver circles and chased with sapphires. Slowly, he pulled the Sword from the scabbard. The blade itself shown brightly, images of a serpent etched on either side of the blade.
He lifted the Sword to the sky, and whirled it over his head. Once, twice, three times. “Taran,” he called, laughing. “I have found it!”
“So you have, boyo.” The voice was rich and musical. “You have at last.”
“Who—?” Arthur began. And then he knew as a shimmer of light condensed beside the Stone and he saw the shade of a man long dead.
The man wore a robe of blue trimmed in white. Around his neck was the ghost of shimmering sapphires.
“Taliesin,” Arthur breathed. “Fifth Master Bard of Kymru.”
“Yes,” the ghost said gently. “I am Taliesin ap Arthen var Diadwa. And I greet you in the name of Lleu Lawrient, my High King.”
“But why are you here? Have you come from Gwlad Yr Haf just to greet me?”
The
ghost’s green eyes, full of joy and sorrow, glinted, and his white-blond hair gleamed. “No, for my spirit has never journeyed to the Land of Summer. I have waited here for you for over two hundred years. Glad I am you have come, so that I may, at last, go home.”
“How could you have done this thing?” Arthur asked, awed.
“Bran the Dreamer asked it of me in the name of Lleu. He asked all of us to hide and guard the Treasures until the time they would be needed again. He asked this in the name of Kymru. How, then, could we refuse?”
And Arthur was ashamed then, for he had, in one way or another, refused in his heart to do the one thing for Kymru that he knew she needed.
“Yes,” Taliesin said gently, reading his thoughts, “but you will do it nonetheless. And that is all that is asked of you. Is it too much?”
“No,” Arthur whispered. “No.” He sank to his knees, the sword held upright before him. “I pledge to you that I will carry this Sword for Kymru.”
And Taliesin sang, his rich voice a balm to Arthur’s shame.
“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’s song,” Arthur whispered. “The one he sang before he died. Taran’s last gift to him.”
“Mourn not Anieron, Master Bard. He dwells with those he loves in the Land of Summer, where I will soon end my journey. He waits, and watches for the fair day of freedom, which is at hand. You will avenge his death,” Taliesin said, his voice stern.
“I will,” Arthur replied, his head bowed.
“Then go from this place. Your friends need you.” Then Taliesin was gone.
ARTHUR MADE HIS way through the narrow gap in the rocks, turning one last time to look at the peaceful glade. The clover was studded with the flowers that had blown from the trees. As he looked, the wind stirred the trees gently, as though the branches themselves were bowing to him.
As he wriggled through the gap, and his feet touched the Dark Path, he heard a voice in his head, urgent but controlled. Gwydion.
Arthur, I know you can hear me, but can’t answer.
He stood stock-still, his heart beating uncomfortably. He had never heard the undertone of terror in his uncle’s voice before.
When you find the sword, you must return to Mynydd Tawel with it immediately. Take the other Treasures and go to Myrrdin in Coed Aderyn. He will help you.
What was he saying? What had gone wrong?
We were captured as we waited for you. They come at us now with enaid-dals. Somehow they knew we would be here. You must go. Now.
How could he? How could he leave them?
I know you will not want to. But you must remember that you, alone, are the important one. Rhiannon, Gwen, and I have done what we set out to do, and the Treasures are yours now. Return to Mynydd Tawel and reclaim them from Dinaswyn. Go now and—
Gwydion’s Mind-Speech was cut off. For a panicked moment, Arthur thought the Dreamer was dead. Strange how, after so many years of wishing for just that, his heart was filled with sorrow and dread. No, Gwydion was not dead. He had been collared, along with Rhiannon, and Gwen. They were to be taken, no doubt, to the island of Afalon to die.
Then he realized that, no, they would not be so lucky as all that. Instead they would be taken to Havgan, the Golden Man. Havgan would kill them, but he would take his time. Again and again Havgan had announced that Gwydion and Rhiannon would be found and would die. And Gwen would not be spared.
Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. Gwydion would die in as great an agony as Havgan could devise. Rhiannon, with her flashing green eyes and lovely smile, would be gone. And Gwen, she who argued with him and exasperated him, whose golden hair he thought so beautiful, would be dead.
He had not known, until now, that he found Gwen beautiful.
He would not let that happen. No matter what Gwydion said, he could not leave them in the hands of the enemy.
And as he made his way down the Dark Path, down the Seeker Mountain, to the place where they had waited for him, he remembered one thing—he did not know how to use a sword.
But that did not matter. Because Taran did.
Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—Alban Nerth, dusk
DINASWYN UR MORVYN, the former Dreamer of Kymru, walked calmly into the now-silent glade within the hidden camp in Mynydd Tawel. The Cerddorian of Gwynedd gathered here, waiting to celebrate Alban Nerth, the festival in honor of Y Rhyfelwr, Camulos and Agrona, the Warrior Twins.
The warriors that lined the perimeter of the alder grove held lit torches. The stone altar in the north quadrant of the grove was heaped with vines—grapevines, barberry vines, blackberry vines, elderberry vines. Scattered throughout the vines were juicy, red apples. Eight unlit torches were set in brackets around the stone.
Dinaswyn surveyed the men and women gathered there. Morrigan, dressed in a fine gown of dark blue, with a kirtle of light blue beneath, stood quietly, for once. Her auburn hair was bound in a single braid and wrapped around her head and scattered with sapphires. Around her neck she wore the sapphire and silver torque of the House of PenHebog. Beside her, Ygraine stood in her customary white, her expression unreadable, her eyes cool. Yet Ygraine could not fool Dinaswyn, for she saw the slight tightening around her eyes that spoke of fear for her son.
Cai and Susanna stood together, not quite touching. Always Cai was close to Susanna, but never did he reach for her. Dinaswyn almost sighed in irritation. Men were such fools. Cai’s face spoke of his fears, too. For his Lieutenant and nephew, Bedwyr, had not yet returned from Tegeingl. He had been due back yesterday, and there had been no message to explain the delay. Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, stood with Jonas, the Bard who had been sent to them by Anieron before he died.
She lifted her hands, and pointing at the eight torches, lit them with Druid’s Fire, one by one. “This is the Wheel of the year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones: Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Awyr, Calan Llachar, Alban Haf, Calan Olau, and Alban Nerth, which we celebrate tonight.
“We gather here,” she went on, “to honor Camulos and Agrona, Y Rhyfelwr, the Warrior Twins.”
“We honor you,” the crowd responded.
“Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the contest. Taran, King of the Winds. Modron, Great Mother of All. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”
“We honor the Shining Ones,” the warriors intoned.
Cai stepped forward, and began. “Why do we gather here?”
“We gather,” Dinaswyn answered, “to honor Camulos and Agrona, the Warrior Twins, son and daughter of Aertan, Weaver of Fate, and Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.”
“Why do we honor them?” Cai went on.
“Behold, they have braved the depths of Bro Yr Hud, Land of Mystery, and the monsters that guard it, and have returned victorious, laden with gifts.”
“What gifts do they bring?”
“They have returned with the vine harvest, the gift of wine do they bring. And, most wondrous, do they bring the apple tree to us.” So saying, Dinaswyn held up an apple and cut it in half. She raised both halves above her head, turning the inside of the fruit to the crowd. “See, then, the seeds of the apple. Within this fruit is the sign of the Wheel.”
“Today,” Cai said, “we celebrated the strength of our warriors. The strongest and bravest stand before us now.” Cai gestured, and those who had won the archery contests throughout the day stepped forward. There was Morrigan and Cai himself, as well as Duach ap Seithfed, Cynwas Cwryfager, and Dywel ap Gwyn.
“How can we choose Y Rhyfelwr from these fine warriors?” Cai asked.
“The warrior blessed by Camulos and Agrona will be the one who impales the apple. Warriors, stand forth!” D
inaswyn called. The five of them stood apart from the crowd in front of the altar. Each carried a bow and an arrow, fletched in their own colors.
“The one whose arrow pierces the apple first in the air will be honored as the greatest warrior on this Alban Nerth,” Dinaswyn said.
The men and women in the grove fell completely silent. In the stillness only the sound of the fire that wavered from the torches could be heard.
Dinaswyn threw the apple into the night sky. Higher and higher it arched, controlled by Dinaswyn’s Shape-Moving ability, until it reached its apex over the grove and began its descent. Moving swiftly now, it fell toward the earth. As one, the five winners of the contests shot their arrows, which sped toward the moving target overhead.
But the apple jerked sideways, impelled by another force, sidestepping the five arrows. The crowd gasped. Before anyone could even put another arrow to bow, the apple arced over the heads of the crowd, toward the fringes of the grove. Suddenly, from the trees, a shining blade appeared in a brown hand, and cut the apple cleanly in half.
Morrigan threw down her bow and cried out with joy. “Arthur!” For the hand that held the sword did indeed belong to Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine. Arthur stood quietly at the edge of the grove, the point of the sword pressed to the earth, his hands clasped on the hilt. The sapphire eyes of the hawk at the sword’s hilt seemed to glow. The scar on Arthur’s face whitened as he put out a hand to stop Morrigan from launching herself at him. And Morrigan stopped where she was, and, taking in Arthur’s sword, Arthur’s stance, Arthur’s gaze, she sank to her knees and bowed her head.
“Behold,” Gwydion said, walking out of the shadows of the grove followed by Rhiannon and Gwen. “Behold, Taran’s Warrior. He who carries the Sword of Air. He who saved us from our enemies, and brought us out of bondage.”
Dinaswyn looked closely at Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Gwen. Their necks were blistered and red. “You have been wearing enaid-dals,” Dinaswyn said flatly.
“We have,” Gwydion agreed. “For we were captured by the Coranians while Arthur walked Seeker Mountain. But Arthur came for us, and not one enemy soldier now remains alive.”
