Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  She had found him. The one she had waited for so long. And she would never let him go.

  HAVGAN ROLLED OFF of her, and they lay side by side on the cold floor, sweat-soaked and gasping for air.

  The Woman-on-the-Rocks, he thought to himself, incoherently. At last, the woman in his dreams who only turned and turned toward him but never faced him. She was here. She was the one who had haunted his dreams since he was a child. She was the one whom the cards of the wyrce-galdra had spoken of. She was the one whom the goddess Holda had told him would be here for him. The other half of himself, the one he would find in Kymru.

  At last, she had come to him.

  At last, he could kill her.

  Kill her—not just the pale shadows of her he had taken and murdered throughout the long years. At last, he would read the mystery of who she was, and what she meant, in her dying, amber eyes. At last he could punish her for all those years when she never turned to face him. At last.

  When he mounted her again, she gave a satisfied laugh, which was cut off abruptly when his hands encircled her neck and he began to squeeze.

  Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at him. But she did not struggle. She did not try to scream. She did not make a sound. Instead, she smiled up at him as he began to murder her.

  For she knew, somehow, that he could not do it.

  And he could not. Her smile was the answer. It always had been. The Woman-on-the-Rocks had turned to him and faced him at last. And he knew that he would be in bondage to her from now until the day he died. And he knew that he should kill her now. He knew that to leave her alive might solve the mystery of his life—a mystery to which he never wanted to know the answer.

  But he could not. And he did not understand why.

  His hands dropped away from her neck. Still straddling her naked body, he looked down at her, then leaned forward and kissed her mouth in violence, in passion, in the knowledge that she was his. And the fire began to build again, coursing through his body and hers.

  He knew he would let her live.

  For now.

  Gwyntdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—afternoon GWEN SIGHED TO herself as Gwydion called a halt just outside the gates of Degannwy. Though she loved Gwydion with all her young heart, there were times when he could be just a bit tiresome. She could tell from the expression on his handsome face that he was going to give them the same warning he gave before they entered any village, town, or city. He said it every time, as though they were mental defectives who could not possibly be expected to retain complex information. She could see by Arthur’s expression that he, too, was feeling the customary warning to be a bit worn.

  Gwydion’s gray eyes flickered over them; to Gwen, her golden hair bound in a long braid, wearing a brown leather tunic and trousers, the pack on her back hiding the Cauldron of Earth; to Rhiannon, dressed in a tunic and trousers of hunter green, her dark hair pulled back from her face with a leather band, the pack on her back carrying the Stone of Water; to Arthur, whose dark eyes traveled restlessly over the walls of the town, and whose bedroll tossed over his shoulders contained the Sword of Taran.

  Gwydion himself, his gray eyes demanding their attention, dressed in a tunic and trousers of black leather, the bedroll on his back containing the Spear of Fire, said sternly, “Remember, we are a poor family down on our luck, and we—”

  “—are not to draw any attention to ourselves,” Arthur said in a bored tone, completing Gwydion’s customary sentence.

  “Correct,” Gwydion said sternly. “You must remember—”

  “—that our descriptions are circulating through all of Kymru,” Gwen finished.

  “There may be wyrce-jaga here—” Gwydion went on. “—as well as soldiers. Be careful. Do your business quietly,” Arthur interjected, with a solemn wink at Gwen.

  “And keep your hands on your packs at all times. That is most important,” Gwen said. “We did not go through all this to get the Treasures to lose them now.” She grinned impudently at Arthur as she continued reciting Gwydion’s customary speech. Arthur grinned back. Rhiannon smothered her smile by turning it into a cough.

  Gwydion frowned, but for a moment, she thought she saw a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “It is especially dangerous,” he said coldly, “now that Arianrod has reached Eiodel. She has surely told them that we carry all the Treasures and she will have guessed that we are making our way toward Cadair Idris.”

  “So,” Gwen interjected, finishing Gwydion’s usual warning, “you must be very careful.”

  Gwydion did not answer, but turned on his heel and stalked through the gate, making for the marketplace in the middle of town. Gwen followed and Arthur came next, with Rhiannon behind them. Rhiannon’s low laughter floated through the late-morning air. In spite of the stiffness in his stride, Gwen was sure that if she could see Gwydion’s face, he would be smiling.

  At the marketplace they made their purchases of foodstuffs without incident. As always, Gwen was puzzled by the behavior of the townsfolk. There was no way they could possibly know who the four travelers were who had entered their town. Yet, as the folk of Kymru always did, they somehow seemed to know that Gwen and her companions were on a matter of urgency. Customers ahead of them at the booths seemed to melt out of the way as they approached. But they were always surrounded by the people, and kept from the prying eyes of Havgan’s solders who were stationed throughout the square.

  Everything went smoothly until they began to leave the marketplace. And then it all seemed to fall apart at once as a group of soldiers blocked their way.

  “Hold there,” the soldiers barked. “Hold for the preosts of Lytir!”

  Gwydion stopped in his tracks and motioned for the others to do the same as two preosts made their way across the road, dressed in robes of bright yellow, and the wooden amulets of Lytir hanging around their necks on chains of gold. The two men were solemn and haughty, their plump hands tucked inside their flowing sleeves, their faces set in determined piety.

  The preosts had almost passed them when Gwen saw Gwydion’s shoulders stiffen slightly. She glanced around to see what had alarmed him, and met the eyes of the Captain of the guard. The man’s blue eyes were narrowed in suspicion, as he looked at the four of them as if ticking off in his brain the descriptions he had surely received—descriptions of them all, from Arianrod herself.

  She watched in dismay as the Captain’s suspicions reached a certainty. The man opened his mouth, and then her view of the Captain was cut off, replaced by the sight of a dozen burly backs belonging to the men of Degannwy.

  “Ho, preost!” one of the older men shouted good-naturedly. “Tell me, boyo, why does your god seem to hate for you to work?”

  The crowd laughed as more and more people began to edge in front of Gwen and the others, pushing them back to the rear.

  “Holy Lytir,” one of the preosts began, his voice haughty, “does not disdain work. It is for the thralls to work the earth, for the Lords to work the thralls, and for our mighty King to work the Lords. But the preosts of Lytir do the most glorious work of all—to praise the name of God.”

  “Hard work, indeed, preost,” one of the other men called out.

  “Very hard!” a woman shouted. “Hard to praise your god when your mouth is full of our food!”

  The crowd murmured agreement, and, as one, took another few steps toward the preosts. The Captain, still searching the crowd for the four people he thought he had seen and recognized, made no sign to his soldiers. The preosts began to look frightened, but continued to stand their ground.

  “It is written, people of Degannwy,” the second preost announced, “that ‘great is the fear of Lytir; the earth trembles before him.”

  “Someone trembles now,” another townsman said with a grin, “but I don’t think it is Lytir. Tell me, preost, is it true that your god welcomes martyrs?”

  “Captain!” the first preost barked. “Are you going to let these folk threaten us?”

  For a moment, it looked as tho
ugh the Captain would do just that. His eyes scanned the crowd, and he was clearly considering abandoning the preosts to go after Gwen and her companions.

  “Of course, he is,” a woman called out. “Why risk his neck for the likes of you?”

  At this the Captain gave the crowd a startled look, as though seeing them for the first time. So busy had he been trying to look through them, that he had not really noticed them. In that moment he realized that practically the entire population of Degannwy was staring at him, surrounding him and the preosts, bent on doing more, perhaps, than distracting him. The Captain decided to deal with the more obvious threat. “Stand back!” he barked. “Stand back and let the preosts through to their duties.”

  The townsfolk stared sullenly at the Captain and the preosts, and for a moment all was still. Then Gwen and her companions were at the fringes of the back of the crowd, just moments from the gate. One man murmured to them quietly, “Go now. We will take care of this.”

  Gwydion grasped the man’s forearm in gratitude. “How can we repay you?”

  “Remember the people of Degannwy when Kymru is free again. Now, go.”

  As they made their way through the gate, Gwydion grasped Rhiannon’s arm to pull her along. “Go see what’s happening,” he hissed.

  Rhiannon’s eyes took on a glazed look as Gwydion hurried her along while she Wind-Rode back to the center of town. Just as they reached the trees a quarter of a league outside the gates, Rhiannon halted. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment as she shook her head as though to clear it.

  “The crowd backed off,” she said with a tiny smile. “But the preosts are still a little pale. The Captain has begun searching the town.”

  “But won’t, as we know, find anything,” Gwydion said.

  “How did they know who we were?” Gwen asked. “The townspeople, I mean?”

  “They didn’t, Gwen,” Rhiannon said absently as she settled her pack more firmly on her back.

  “Then why?”

  “The Kymri guard their own,” Arthur said, his dark eyes quiet. “They always have.”

  Suldydd, Cynuddu Wythnos—late afternoon

  RHIANNON WALKED THROUGH the woods of Coed Aderyn silently. There, she remembered, was the spot where she had snared the rabbit on Calan Morynion, the year that Gwydion had come to her. And there was the place where she had killed her first deer, and skinned it. It had taken her many hours to do that, for, when she first came to these woods, she was inexperienced. But she had learned. She had learned to live here, to feed herself and her child, to exist in a sort of shadow-life, cut off from the world.

  And there, in front of her at last, was the clearing she had first noted when just a little girl. And there was the pond, fed by the waterfall that played over the rocks. And behind the waterfall, she knew, was the cave. Her cave. The place she had come to so many years ago to nurse her child and her wounds.

  She stopped by the pool, staring down into it, seeing her wavering reflection. Without a word to the others, she set down her pack and loosened her hair from its braid. The others—Gwydion, Arthur, and Gwen—did not speak. She ran her fingers through her now-loosened hair, then knelt down beside the pond. Though the day was somewhat cool, she rolled up the sleeves of her linen shirt, and plunged her hands into the cold water.

  She murmured the prayer to Nantsovelta beneath her breath,

  “O vessel bearing the light,

  O great brightness

  Outshining the sun,

  Draw me ashore,

  Under your protection,

  From the shortlived ship of the world.”

  How glorious it was, she thought, to fear water no more. How wonderful to like to plunge her hands into the coolness, to want to dive in and discover the depths and the mysteries that lay there. How magnificent it was to know this freedom from fear. And how sad it was to think of the years wasted. But she would not be sad. Not today.

  She rose from the pond and faced the others. And she smiled, as she had not smiled in some time. “Home,” she said, drinking in the forest, the water, the warm sunlight that dappled the clearing, and the quickening air.

  “Yes,” Gwydion agreed, gravely, as he reached out and laid a light hand on her hair. “You are home.”

  And for a moment she ached for him, for she knew that he was thinking of his own home, of Caer Dathyl, closed and shuttered, surrounded by Coranian soldiers. They had passed near Caer Dathyl on their way back to Mynydd Tawel after Arthur had retrieved the Sword of Taran and rescued them from the Coranian soldiers. And Arthur, whose hatred of Gwydion had been so intense for so long, had offered to go just a little way out of their path, so that Gwydion might look on his home. But Gwydion had refused, saying only that they did not have the time. Yet Rhiannon had seen the telltale beat of the pulse at his throat when he had said it. And she had known how much he had longed to return to Caer Dathyl.

  So now she reached out and tentatively laid her hand on his arm. “You will return to your home, one day. I swear it.”

  Unexpectedly, Gwydion smiled. “You will see to it, of course. I would back you against a contingent of Coranian soldiers any day.”

  “As well you should,” she said, relieved that he had not seen fit to leap away from her touch. Maybe they could be friends. Even though he did not, had never, wanted her for a lover, they had been partners, working together for some years now for the freedom of Kymru. And if that partnership were all she had ever had from him, all she would ever have, well, her life then would be well spent. Better, she knew, than it would have been if he had never found her, if she had continued to hide away, fearing to be hurt again.

  She caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned to face the waterfall.

  “He’s here,” she said with a smile, and nodded at Arthur.

  Arthur did not move at first as the old man stepped out from the cave behind the waterfall. It was only when the man stepped over the rocks and stood within the clearing, his arms spreads wide, that Arthur dropped his pack and ran into Myrrdin’s arms.

  WHEN RHIANNON STEPPED inside the cave, the first thing she did was to sink to the ground in front of the hearth, holding her chilled hands out to the crackling fire. A pot of stew bubbled over the flames, as well as a smaller pot that steamed fragrantly. Chamomile tea, she thought as she went to the familiar cupboard and pulled out five clay mugs. Wrapping a rag around the handle of the pot, she poured the tea into the mugs and set them down in front of the others as they gathered around the rough, wooden table.

  She noticed that Myrrdin’s trunk, the one carved for him by his father many, many years ago, sat against one wall. Fresh rushes covered the floor. The light of the fire played off the walls, which glittered with rock crystal. Rough, wooden shelves held books and a few pieces of crockery.

  Myrrdin, his white beard clipped short, smiled. His dark eyes were kind as he gestured for her to sit on the bench next to him. “You are looking well, child,” he said gently.

  “As are you, uncle,” she replied with a fond smile. “By the way, Neuad especially charged me to remember you to her when next I saw you.”

  “Did she now?” Myrrdin said dryly. “I had hoped she would have forgotten me.”

  “Not in the least,” Rhiannon said. “Why, when she spoke of you her whole face lit up.”

  “Wonderful,” Myrrdin said sourly.

  “Come, uncle, you don’t fool me. You are not as displeased as you let on.”

  “You are wrong,” Myrrdin said, a little too sharply. “Why, the girl is less than half my age!”

  “She is not a girl, Myrrdin,” Rhiannon pointed out. “She is a woman.”

  “To me she will always be a girl.”

  “We’ll see about that soon enough, won’t we?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Arthur broke in. “Is Neuad coming here?”

  “They are all coming here, Arthur,” Gwydion said. “And, much as I am enjoying this beautiful moment discussing Neuad and her fo
olishness, I think this is the time for Myrrdin to give us all the news.”

  “Who do you mean? Who is coming here?” Arthur demanded fiercely.

  Gwydion turned to Arthur and studied the young man for a few moments. At last, he said quietly, “I am sorry, Arthur, that I have not taken the time to discuss our next moves with you.”

  Rhiannon was astonished. Never had she heard Gwydion apologize to Arthur for his high-handed way of doing things. It underlined to her, once again, how the power had shifted, since that night when Arthur had returned to Mynydd Tawel with the Sword of Taran in his hands.

  “Apology accepted, uncle,” Arthur said firmly, but without rancor. “Now, tell me.”

  “I have sent for the key leaders of the Cerddorian to join us here in Coed Aderyn. King Rhoram and his people from Haford Bryn in Prydyn; Prince Lludd and his folk from Coed Ddu in Ederynion; King Owein and the rest from Coed Coch; and your sister, Queen Morrigan, and the folk formerly in Mynydd Tawel. They are journeying here now, in small groups, and will begin to arrive in a few weeks.”

  “Why?”

  “We must get into Cadair Idris. To do that, we must bring the Treasures to the Doors and use them to gain entry. And to do that, we must distract Havgan and the Coranians. Havgan’s fortress of Eiodel is just a few steps away from Cadair Idris. Cadair Idris is always guarded.”

  “And is even more so now,” Myrrdin said quietly. “The guard has been doubled in the last week.”

  “Arianrod,” Rhiannon said bitterly.

  “Yes,” Myrrdin said. “She came to Havgan’s fortress last week. And offered her help to him.”