Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “He cut the collars from our necks with the Sword of Taran,” Rhiannon said, solemnly. “And the Wind itself carried them away, far up to the sky, to do no one further harm.”

  “He saved our lives with the Sword of Taran,” Gwen said, her blue eyes shining. “And called the Wind itself to confound his enemies.”

  By now, the entire crowd was on their knees, bowing to Arthur. Dinaswyn, after a moment’s hesitation, having only to do with the nature of her astonishment rather than any false pride, at last sank to her knees also.

  Arthur’s dark eyes scanned the crowd, resting for a few moments on the bowed heads of his mother and sister.

  “Where is Arianrod?” Gwydion asked quietly.

  “Arianrod is not here,” Dinaswyn answered. “She has gone to Carnavon to take the place of the Dewin there who was captured.”

  “She has not,” Gwydion said. “She has gone to him.”

  Dinaswyn’s breath caught in her throat. “To Havgan?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry with fear.

  “To the Golden Man,” Gwydion agreed.

  “You know this to be true?” Dinaswyn asked.

  “From my dream last night,” Gwydion said. “You must all go south, to Cemais. Begin to leave at first light in groups of no more than five or six. The camp must be cleared within ten days.”

  “So long?” Cai asked in astonishment. “Arianrod is Dewin, and could send a message to the soldiers in a matter of moments.”

  “But she will not. She will carry her message to Havgan himself, and will entrust her information to no other. She will bargain with him before she reveals where we are,” Gwydion said with calm certainty.

  Dinaswyn nodded. Yes, they would have that time, for Gwydion was right. Arianrod would never give the information to any but Havgan himself. And would not give it even to him, until she was sure she would receive what she wished for. They would not be undone by Arianrod’s greed. Instead, her greed would save them.

  A rustle in the trees caught their ears. And from the alders burst Bedwyr, Cai’s nephew. He was travel-stained and unshaven. His brown eyes were wild and fierce, and his brown hair was tangled and wet with sweat. His chest heaved, as though he had run all the way from Tegeingl. And perhaps he had, Dinaswyn thought. Perhaps he had.

  Without a word he dove through the crowd and with a cry of rage, he launched himself at the throat of Jonas. The two men went down, rolling over and over on the ground, with Bedwyr’s hands locked on the Bard’s throat. At Arthur’s quick gesture, six warriors pulled the two men apart and held them. Bedwyr was gasping in fury at being held back from his prey. And Jonas was clutching at his throat, trying to get air into his heaving lungs, his head hanging down as he was held upright between two warriors.

  Arthur strode through the grove, and the crowd parted for him like water. He came to stand before both men, and planted his sword on the ground, crossing both hands on the hilt. His dark eyes bore down on Bedwyr, demanding answers without a word.

  “Who are you who carries such a sword?” Bedwyr gasped out.

  “I am Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, High King to be of Kymru. This is the Sword of Air. And you are Bedwyr ap Bedrawd, returned from a mission to Tegeingl. Where, I think, you have learned something of great value.”

  “I have,” Bedwyr said shortly. “In Tegeingl we have a spy, very highly placed in King Madoc’s confidence, his daughter, Princess Tangwen.”

  “And what information has she given you about Jonas?”

  “He is a traitor,” Bedwyr spat. “A traitor to us all. It was he who was responsible for the capture of the Y Dawnus at Allt Llwyd. He who was responsible for the prisoners taken, for the people killed in the death-march across Kymru, for the death of Anieron, Master Bard, himself. ‘Shall this not be a fair day of freedom,’ Jonas ap Morgan?” Bedwyr asked, his voice dripping with rage as he recited the refrain from Anieron’s Death-Song.

  “You lie, Bedwyr,” Jonas snarled. “You have always hated me. And now you use this false story to be rid of me.”

  “How did you come by this knowledge?” Arthur asked Bedwyr.

  “Princess Tangwen overheard Madoc and General Catha discussing it. They said that, within the next few days, Jonas was due to come to them in Tegeingl, to bring them news of the whereabouts of the Dreamer and his friends, to give them all the locations of the Cerrddorian camps.”

  Dinaswyn came to stand before Bedwyr. “Jonas was due to leave tomorrow,” she said, “to take the place of the Bard in Creuddyn, who had been captured just a few weeks ago.” Dinaswyn turned her gray eyes on Jonas. “He volunteered to go.”

  “He sent the message to the soldiers who captured us,” Rhiannon said, her voice harsh and cold. “Or else how did they know we were there?”

  “He followed us, the first hour after we left,” Gwen said, her face hard. “He must have, to overhear where we were going, but still not be missed.”

  “It was Arianrod who Wind-Rode behind you,” Jonas said, as he bowed his head. “It was she who sent the message where you were. An introduction, she called it, to Havgan.”

  “And you, Jonas ap Morgan, who betrayed the location of Allt Llwyd, as you would soon have betrayed those here in Mynydd Tawel,” Gwydion said with certainty. “It was you.”

  “It was,” Jonas said, his voice breaking. “But not by my choice. I had to.”

  “Your wife and child are dead, Jonas ap Morgan,” Bedwyr said. “They were dead by the hand of Sledda, the Arch-wyrce-jaga, before you even betrayed Anieron and his people.”

  “No,” Jonas sobbed. “No.”

  “Yes. I heard Catha and Madoc say so,” Bedwyr went on, relentless. “They laughed about it. It was all for nothing, even from the beginning.”

  “I see Anieron in my dreams,” Jonas sobbed. “His fingers are cut off, his tongue cut out, an enaid-dal hangs around his neck. He stares at his harp, but has no fingers to play. Then the wind begins. And his song. I hear his song waking or sleeping. He will not leave me. He stares at me with pity in his green eyes. He will not let me go! Let me go!” Jonas screamed, his head thrown up to the sky. “Let me go!”

  Taran’s Sword whistled through the air. The shining blade sliced through Jonas’s body, cutting the man cleanly in half. Arthur swung the sword over his head, once, twice, three times, and the blood sheeted off the blade, until it was once again clean and shining.

  “You have your wish, Jonas ap Morgan,” Arthur said coldly to the corpse that lay at his feet, as he thrust the now-clean sword into its scabbard. “You are free.”

  Chapter 23

  Eiodel, Gwytheryn, and Degannwy,

  Coed Aderyn, and Brecon, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru

  Ysgawen Mis, 499

  Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—afternoon

  Arianrod ur Brychan var Arianllyn rode up to the gates of Eiodel with her head held high. She wore a silken shift of soft primrose beneath a kirtle of amber. The shift was cut low, showing off the deep cleavage between her round, high breasts. She wore an amber necklace around her slim throat, and amber earrings. Her honey-blond hair was worn loose, flowing freely down to her slender waist.

  She rode proudly, but she was afraid. Yet she was determined to let none of her fear show on her beautiful face. Instinctively she knew that to show fear to the Golden Man was to find oneself in bondage to him forever.

  And being in bondage to another person was something she would never do. All her life she had been free from others. And she had done that by caring for no one. Perhaps it might have been different if her parents had lived. But they had been sent away when she was just a child to the land of Corania. And they had never returned.

  When she was just a little girl, she had hoped every day, prayed to the gods every night, that they would return. But they had not. And by the time she had been sent away to school at Y Ty Dewin, she had known that they never would.

  Only two years old when they went away, she could not really remember them. Just snatches of long-ago memories—t
he whisper of honey-blond hair that had belonged to her mother, the brightness of amber eyes that had belonged to her father. These things they had given her. And nothing else, for they had deserted her.

  And so she had learned that hard lesson—to never love another person. And she never had. She never would. She would do as she had always done—seek out those with power. Hold them to her with her body until she moved on to another, making sure that she left them before they could leave her.

  And never, never, let anyone touch her heart.

  The gates of the Golden Man’s fortress were open. The fortress itself was grim, built of dark stone, standing bleak and harsh, facing the closed, jeweled Doors of Cadair Idris, the empty hall of the High King. She wondered if he understood that the Doors would never open for him. Or did he think that they would, someday?

  Perhaps she could promise him a way that they would. After all, she did know where the Treasures were. Or, at least, she knew who had them, and that was enough. She would show him how to get these Treasures, show him how to find Gwydion, Rhiannon, Gwen, and Arthur. With the Treasures in his hands, the Doors would open for Havgan. And he would not know until it was too late that the Treasures would kill him. For the gift of getting into Cadair Idris, Arianrod could demand many, many things.

  The wild grasses and flowers of the plain swayed before her, disturbed by the faint breeze. Taran’s Wind. Stop me now, Taran, if you can, she thought. But the god could not. No one could. She laughed, and spurred her mount toward the gate.

  As she neared the gate, a troop of soldiers barred her way. They wore byrnies of woven metal, which reached to their knees. They carried spears and bright shields, blazoned with the sign of the boar’s head. They were hard-eyed and watchful as she slowed her horse to a walk and drew up before them. She eyed them disdainfully.

  “I wish to see your master,” she said haughtily. “Show me to him.”

  From their midst a man pushed his way through. He had light brown hair, and haunted, dark eyes. He was tall and thin, as though wasting away with a fever from wounds that no one could see. He came to stand before her, holding her horse’s bridle.

  “You are not the Golden Man,” she said with certainty.

  “I am not,” he agreed, “thanks be to God. I am Sigerric, Overgeneral of Kymru. And you are?”

  “My name, for the moment, is my own. I wish to see Havgan, Bana of Corania.”

  “Conqueror of Kymru,” he finished for her.

  “Not yet,” she said with a twist of her lips. “But I can help to make him so.”

  “I see. Then, you of no name, you may dismount, and I will see if Lord Havgan will consent to see you.”

  “He will,” she promised.

  HE KEPT HER waiting for some hours. But she had known that he would and was neither angered nor frightened. She waited in an antechamber, small but comfortable. There was a fire in the hearth. Two chairs were set before the fire, but she disdained them, wishing to be on her feet when he arrived. A beaker of wine and two goblets were placed on a small table between the chairs. She had drunk a glass some hours ago when she had first been shown this room, and had no more, for she would need all her wits for the coming encounter.

  She was standing at the window, her back to the doors, looking out at Cadair Idris and watching the shadows begin to gather, when he came to her.

  The opening door made no sound, and so she only turned when she heard his whisper, a whisper that made no sense.

  “The Woman-on-the-Rocks.”

  She turned around then, startled, and looked into the face of the Golden Man. And she saw that she had disturbed him in some way. But how, she did not know.

  He was tall, and strong. The muscles of his shoulders swelled against the sleeves of the undershirt he wore beneath his golden tunic. The tunic was embroidered with hundreds of tiny rubies. His breeches were black, and his calf-length black boots were trimmed with gold. His honey-blond locks reached his shoulders. His face was tanned and smooth. And his amber eyes devoured her.

  And something in her, something she did not even know was there leapt at the sight of him.

  “I want your name, among other things,” he said.

  “My name is Arianrod ur Brychan var Arianllyn.”

  “Ah. Cousin of the Dreamer, through your father’s brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “And cousin to Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, through your mother’s sister.”

  “You know us well. Anierion, Master Bard, whom you killed, was an uncle of mine. And so was Cynan, the Ardewin whom you killed when you first came to Y Ty Dewin.”

  “But you do not care, do you?” he asked, a faint smile on his handsome face.

  “You do not know me well enough to know what I do and don’t care about. And you never will.”

  “You think not?” He laughed. “We will see about that, Arianrod ur Brychan.”

  His nonchalant air, as he strode into the room and seated himself before the fire, did not fool her. She had seen the lust in his eyes.

  She, too, took a seat before the fire. He poured out a goblet of wine and handed it to her. For a brief moment their fingers touched. And that moment was like nothing she had ever known. She felt scorched by him. Her pulse quickened. Her heart pounded. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then looked over at him.

  And there she saw the telltale beat of his heart at the base of his throat. She saw the fire in his eyes, in eyes that matched her own, even to the shape, even to the amber light. Where in the name of the gods had he come from? From where had sprung this man who was so like her?

  “Your soldiers had the Dreamer and his companions in their hands, thanks to me,” she said disdainfully. “But they failed to hold them. They were fools and died because of it. Are all your people so inept?”

  “Witch, I would not be too proud here in the depths of Eiodel, were I you,” Havgan replied smoothly, but the undertone clearly held menace. “I would ask you to tell me the location of the hidden camp where Morrigan and the Cerddorian were hiding, but I fear they are no longer there.”

  “I am sure they are not.”

  “You waited too long, witch, to tell me.”

  Arianrod shrugged. “I had to wait, to see if we could deal.”

  “And you believe we can?”

  Arianrod smiled. “I am sure of it.”

  “You are unwise to be so sure.” Havgan’s smile was wolfish, and the naked hunger there made her shiver for a moment.

  “If you still seek the Treasures, I know where they can be found,” she said, taking a sip of wine.

  “In the hands of Gwydion the Dreamer. This much I know. Surely you don’t think I will let you live if you give me only information I already have?”

  “Oh, you will let me live, Havgan of Corania. For many reasons,” she said, letting him see the fire in her eyes, drinking in the heat of him.

  He smiled and, dashing the cup from her hands, grabbed her hair, dragging her from her chair to her knees, bending over her.

  “Do not tell me what I will or will not do, Arianrod,” he said softly. “And do not make me tell you that again.”

  “And do not tell me what I may or may not say, Havgan,” she replied fiercely. “Or I will tell you nothing.”

  Their amber eyes locked, testing each other, taking each other’s measure. Slowly he released her, trailing his hands through her hair, then lightly over her breasts as she did so. He sat back in his chair, studying her thoughtfully.

  Calmly she rose from her knees, then took her place once again in her chair. She smoothed the front of her dress as though she had not a care in the world. But, in truth, she felt like laughing. She had him. She could see that in his eyes. She did not think, at that moment, that he might have her, too.

  “The spy you placed in the camp in Gwynedd is dead,” she said steadily. “The Bard, Jonas.”

  “Ah. Which would be why we have not had a message from him all week.”

  “Yes. Arthur ap Uthyr, son of
the dead King of Gwynedd, killed him.”

  Havgan’s amber eyes flickered. “I had been given to understand that Arthur had died in childhood.”

  “We had all thought that,” Arianrod said. “Thanks to Gwydion.”

  “Who must have spirited the boy away, knowing what he was.”

  “The High King of Kymru.”

  “Not yet,” Havgan said coldly.

  “Arthur killed the Bard with the Sword of Taran, the last of the Treasures to be found,” Arianrod said.

  “You were there?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I Wind-Rode to the camp that night and saw it all. I am Dewin.”

  “Yes. I knew that when I knew who you were.”

  “Then you know that I may be of use to you. You know that, among other things, I can find where Gwydion and his friends are now. And I can guide you to them. They have all the Treasures—the Stone of Water, the Cauldron of Earth, the Spear of Fire, the Sword of Air.”

  “If it is true that you can do these things, then is it true that you will?”

  “I might try. For a price.”

  “Yes. Your price. I knew we would come to that. Speak it, then.”

  “I will help you, Lord Havgan, if it is truly your wish to be master of Kymru. And my price is that you will keep me with you for as long as I wish to stay. And you will let me go when I wish to leave.”

  “But I will not let you go, nor will you wish to leave, Arianrod ur Brychan,” he said, as he stood and reached down to pull her up to him. He ran his hands through her honey-blond hair. “The Woman-on-the-Rocks has come to me at last,” he said, and there was a hunger, a longing, in his voice she did not understand. “I dreamt of this, again just last night.”

  “Who is the Woman-on-the-Rocks?” she whispered, as she ran her hands across his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms.

  “A dream,” he murmured against her lips. “Just a dream from long ago.”

  His lips fastened hungrily on hers. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth, tasting her. He kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts, until they were both breathless. With a cruel smile he grabbed the neckline of her gown and tore it, baring her body to his amber gaze. His lips burned, and the rough touch of his hands made her moan in pleasure and fear. He pushed her to the floor and took her slowly, in passion, in lust, in some other longing that she could not name, and she matched him with a fire of her own. They were burning, spiral-ing up and up, harder and harder, faster and faster. At last they cried out together in an ecstasy so intense that it seemed like agony.