by Holly Taylor
“Gwydion ap Awst,” the man said, “are you perhaps lost in a dream?”
“A dream that may never come true,” Gwydion said, before he even thought. “One that, perhaps, should never come true.”
And then he realized whom he was talking to, Rhodri, the onetime King of Gwynedd. Rhodri had been married to Queen Rathtyen and had hated the man whom the Queen had truly loved—Gwydion’s father, Awst. The Queen had starved herself to death after hearing of Awst’s death, and Rhodri had left Gwynedd and hidden himself away so many years ago. Gwydion turned to look at Rhodri. The blue eyes reminded Gwydion of Ellirri.
“I loved your daughter, Rhodri,” Gwydion said quietly. “She was kind to me.”
“And my son?”
“You know what Madoc has done.”
“I do. It is one of the reasons I have returned to the land of the living. Who but his father could show Madoc the error of his ways?”
“He was Uthyr’s death.”
“A fact for which I am sorrier than I can say. Sorrier, perhaps, than you might ever believe. Which brings me to what I have to say to you. I hated your father, for it seemed to me that he had taken from me the woman I loved. But I know now that he took nothing from me. Rathtyen loved me. And then the enemy came. And my daughter died beneath their axes. And my son became a traitor. And the Smiths were brought to Caer Siddi and forced to make enaid-dals. And I knew I could no longer hide myself. And so I have returned. And I offer to you the Dreamer, and to Uthyr’s son all that is left of me. Saving only one task that I alone must complete.”
“And that task is?”
“To kill my son.”
The stark determination in the old man’s voice startled Gwydion. “You would really kill him?” he asked.
“Ah, Gwydion, I am not surprised that you do not believe me. Did you think that my hatred of your father would cause me to embrace the enemy? Only now, at the end of my life, do I see what my selfishness has led to. If I had not run away to nurture my wounds, perhaps I could have taught my son better. I have much to make up for, and not much time to do it.”
“Rhodri—”
“I understand I have a granddaughter in Gwynedd,” Rhodri broke in. “Queen Morrigan tells me that Tangwen is ashamed of her father. That she helps the Cerddorian as much as she is able.”
“She does. A brave girl.”
“Who needs her granda. I will see to her. And now, Gwydion, I must leave you. I go with Rhoram and Geriant to the forest to camp for the night. I have one thing left to say to you.”
Rhodri stood and looked down at Gwydion. The blue eyes that Gwydion had always thought so cold were warm now. “The walls you have built, Gwydion, must come down. I have suffered from their building by my own hand. Do not let that happen to you. Tear them down. The gods do not mean for us to be cruel. Not for any price. This is what I have learned. Do not learn it too late, as I did.”
Meirwdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening
HAVGAN DRANK DEEPLY of his wine. He had worked hard today—listening to the latest reports from his men, visiting the Doors of Cadair Idris, participating in war games with his soldiers, and making love to Arianrod all afternoon. Ah, he had earned his thirst. And, in truth, the thirstiest work had been his lovemaking.
Of course, his wife had not been pleased. Not so much with his constant bedding of Arianrod, but with the deference he gave the Kymric woman in public. But what was Aelfwyn to him? What had she ever been? Merely a stepping-stone to power. Steorra Heofan, they called Aelfwyn, Star of Heaven, for her beauty. But her beauty was cold and distant. And she had never relished his bed.
Since she had come to Kymru without his invitation, he had kept a close watch on her. But what her scheme was, he had not yet determined. Though since the time when Arianrod had come to him almost two months ago, he often forgot that he had a wife.
Until, of course, moments like this, when it was all too evident.
“Perhaps my Lord would care to switch to ale now,” Aelfwyn said in her carrying voice. “Or maybe a smaller cup for your wine would be better.”
He lowered his cup of gold and rubies, and smiled lazily at her, as the conversation at the high table halted. “Your worries that I will be unable to perform due to drink are without foundation, wife,” he said mockingly. “For it is no business of yours. Yet, I do believe that it will not be a problem. Not with the partner I have for my bed.” He reached out to his left where Arianrod sat, and ran his hand through her honey-blond hair, turning her face to his and kissing her passionately.
Aelfwyn took in the sight with outward calm, her green eyes cool. Diamonds, hard and cold, were sprinkled through her beautiful light blond hair, which was braided and bound in shimmering coils. Her gown was flowing white with a girdle of diamonds. Only the merest tightening of her mouth gave even a hint that she was displeased.
Sigerric protested. His dark eyes were sad, as though in mourning for one who had died. “My Lord,” he said quietly, “there are those here who owe their loyalty to the Emperor in Corania—not to you. May I remind you that to insult their Princess is an insult to the Emperor, and an insult to the Emperor is punishable by death.”
“My wife has not been invited here to Kymru,” Havgan said, “but she is here just the same. And uninvited guests must take what they are given.”
Sledda sat just to the left of Arianrod, and chose this moment to do his usual toadying. “General Sigerric, I do not believe that our Lord needs any advice from you.” The wyrce-jaga’s remaining eye was baleful, and his sharp features spoke of his disdain for the General.
“You see less than you did when you had both eyes, wyrce-jaga,” Sigerric spat with contempt. “You are a fool!”
Havgan opened his mouth to call them to order, but the command never came. Shouts from the back of the hall drew his attention. But he could not see what had raised the shout. The dining hall in Eiodel was immense. It could feed over three hundred warriors at once, and they were all gathered there now for the evening feast. Bright banners worked in threads of silver and gold and scattered with jewels hung from the dark walls. Hundreds of torches glittered to fill the hall with smoky light.
Havgan leapt to his feet, and the torchlight glittered around him. His tunic and trousers were pure white, and gold glittered at his belt and at the hem and neck of his tunic. The shoulder clasps of his golden cloak were made of gold and fashioned in the shape of boars’ heads. Rubies glittered at the cuffs of his white boots. His tawny hair was held back from his brow with a circlet of gold and rubies.
“Silence!” he roared, and his warriors were quiet. “What has happened?”
The Captain of his guard came running through the press of warriors and came to a stop before the dais where the high table rested. He stood before Havgan stiffly, at attention. In his hand he held an arrow of gold, fletched with red and black feathers. At the sight of the arrow, Arianrod gasped.
“What is it?” Havgan asked her. “What does it mean?”
“The arrow of the Dreamer,” she said stiffly. Her amber eyes were dilated with fear, and the skin of her beautiful face tightened. “His challenge to you.”
“Gwydion’s challenge,” Havgan said, then laughed. “Gwydion, the man who betrayed me, the man who once called me brother. I am glad for the challenge, then, for it means he at last comes out of the shadows to face me.”
“No, it does not mean that,” Arianrod said. “A challenge from the Dreamer is not one from an ordinary man. It is a challenge from the Shining Ones themselves. You must treat this very seriously. For what would drive a Dreamer, one who sees the future, to make a challenge of which he is not sure of the outcome?”
“A challenge from your Shining Ones does not frighten me. My god is the only god. And he is on my side. Where did this arrow come from?” Havgan asked his Captain.
“Over the walls of Eiodel, my Lord.”
“Over the walls!”
“Just a few moments ago. It screamed as it raced through t
he heavens to land at my feet.”
Havgan took the arrow and stared down at it. “And the challenge, Arianrod? Does this arrow tell me anything about that?”
“You will not have long to wait, Havgan,” she said softly. “He will come.”
And he did. A glow in the air from the center of the hall had the warriors backing away in fear. The air glowed opal and onyx, tourmaline and pearl, then solidified. And Gwydion, Dreamer of Kymru, and Rhiannon, Dewin of Prydyn, stood there, staring gravely at Havgan.
They were both dressed for war in laced tunics and trousers of leather. Gwydion wore black, with the Dreamer’s collar of opals around his neck. Rhiannon wore sea green, and her Dewin’s torque of silver and pearl. They had daggers in their belts, and both held short spears.
“Dreamer,” Havgan breathed. “False brother.”
“No, Havgan. Never was I your brother,” Gwydion answered. His gray eyes were cold.
“Golden Man,” Rhiannon spoke, “we have come to give you one last choice. Leave Kymru. Now. Before it is too late.”
“It is already too late, Rhiannon,” Havgan said with a twisted smile.
“Then, Bana of Corania, hear our challenge,” Gwydion said, coldly, implacably. “Tomorrow the Cerddorian of the countries of Prydyn and Ederynion, of Rheged and Gwynedd, will meet you at the crossroads of Sarn Achmaen and Sarn Ermyn. If you do not come, then we shall come for you. We shall storm the very walls of Eiodel, if you are coward enough to remain behind them.”
“Coward?” Havgan shouted, enraged. “You dare to call me that? I will meet you at the crossroads, Gwydion ap Awst. And I will see you spitted on my spear!”
“Come for us, then, Havgan, son of Hengist. And you shall see the Kymri fight.” Then Gwydion began the war chant of Kymru: “
We fight through the strength of the Shining Ones;
“Light of Sun, Radiance of Moon,
“Splendor of Fire, Speed of Lightning,
“Swiftness of Wind, Depth of Sea,
“Stability of Earth, Firmness of Rock.”
“COME TO us at the crossroads, Golden Man,” Rhiannon called as their figures began to fade. “Come to us there, and meet we who are the children of the Shining Ones. Come to us, and meet your fate!”
Chapter 25
Cadair Idris
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Ywen Mis, 500
Calan Gaef—late afternoon
Gwydion, Rhiannon, Gwen and Arthur were at the head of the procession that slowly, silently, made its way through the forest.
The rulers and their heirs followed them—King Rhoram and his children, Sanon and Geriant, and his uncle, Rhodri; Prince Lludd; King Owein and his brother, Prince Rhiwallon; Queen Morrigan and her mother, Ygraine.
The Dreamers came next—Dinaswyn and Cariadas, then the Bards—Elidyr, Master Bard, Esyllt, Susanna, Talhearn, and Dudod. The Dewin followed closely—Elstar, Ardewin, Myrrdin, Neuad, and Cadell. Last came the only two Druids in the party—Sabrina and Sinend.
Earlier that day the Dewin had Wind-Ridden to Cadair Idris, reporting that Eiodel, Havgan’s fortress, was all but emptied, but that Havgan had increased the guard over Cadair Idris before he had taken his Coranians and gone northeast to take up Gwydion’s challenge.
The party, large as it was, moved quietly through the trees of Coed Llachar, the Bright Forest, which stood to the west of Cadair Idris, ending merely a quarter of a league away from the steps to the mountain. It was Ywen Mis, and the days were short. Already long shadows had begun to gather across the plain before the mountain. The dry, brown grass bowed and shook beneath the wind that drew swirling patterns through it. Overhead the sky was gray, and off to the east storm clouds gathered.
At last they reached the edge of the forest and Gwydion held up his hand, silently calling a halt. The guard around Cadair Idris was twenty strong, scattered along the eight broken steps before Drwys Idris, the great Doors of the deserted Hall of the High King.
“Elidyr,” Gwydion breathed, “what news from the battle?”
The Master Bard smiled, but his smile had a twist to it. “My son Speaks to me that our Cerddorian are holding the attention of the Coranians. Havgan and his men are trapped at the crossroads, and we shoot them from the trees. He says that it won’t last much longer. Achren and Angharad are difficult to control—their thirst for vengeance is not yet slaked. Trystan and Cai are ready to follow orders.”
“Good. Tell Cynfar that it will not be much longer now.”
Elidyr nodded, and his eyes took the far-off look of a Bard who is Wind-Speaking.
“Dewin and Druids, to the front,” Gwydion ordered.
Elstar, Neuad, Cadell, Myrrdin, Rhiannon, Sabrina, and Sinend moved silently to stand beside Gwydion, awaiting the signal to begin.
Gwydion signaled again, and King Rhoram, Prince Geriant, Prince Lludd, King Owein, Prince Rhiwallon, and Queen Morrigan silently made their way to stand before Gwydion. Each one wore a sword at their belt and daggers thrust into their boots. They wore tunics and trousers of serviceable leather—Rhoram and Geriant in dark green, Lludd in sea green, Owein and Rhiwallon in red, and Morrigan in blue. The three rulers—Rhoram, Owein, and Morrigan, also wore the jeweled torques of their kingdoms around their necks. Gwydion nodded, and the six dropped to their bellies and began to make their way through the long grass. Taran’s Wind, which was already rustling the long stalks, hid the sounds of their movements as they cautiously made their way closer to the steps of Cadair Idris.
Suddenly, Ygraine and Sanon, both dressed in leather tunics and trousers, leapt from the edge of the forest and dropped to their bellies, following the six who had gone before.
Gwydion began to step from the trees after them when Rhiannon’s hand on his arm pulled him back.
“Let them go,” she breathed.
“I did not say that they could do this,” Gwydion said between clenched teeth.
“They need to do it,” she said simply.
“Yes,” Gwydion replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “I suppose they do.”
As the rest waited, the mountain stood still and silent on the plain. Tall and commanding, the mountain seemed to soar to the sky, unmindful of the doings of the humans at its base. The overcast, threatening sky lowered overhead.
Gwydion Wind-Rode, keeping an eye on the rulers and their heirs as they positioned themselves as close as they could to the steps. The guards had not spotted anything amiss yet, so cautious was the approach of the Kymric rulers, so well hidden were they in the long grass. At last, they were ready.
“Druids,” Gwydion said to Sabrina and Sinend. “Now.”
The two Druids, both dressed in their robes of green and brown, turned to face the steps where the guards stood. As they stared, a rumble was heard. Soft at first, it became louder and harsher. The steps of Cadair Idris began to shake. The guards cried out as they fell to their knees—half of them tumbling off the edge of the steps and falling heavily to the ground.
In that instant, the eight Kymri were upon them. Rhoram took the first one, slitting the man’s throat. As he did, he gave a mighty cry. “For Anieron!” he shouted. King Owein took up the cry as he plunged his sword into the breast of another guard. “For Anierion!” Morrigan cried fiercely as she killed her man. Prince Lludd echoed the cry as his sword whistled through the air, sending a guard’s head flying. Geriant and Rhiwallon, too, screamed Anieron’s name as they killed their men.
But Ygraine, as she rose up out of the tall grass, sword in hand, called out the name of her dead husband as she spitted a guard with the blade. “Uthyr!” she screamed, and she laughed a terrible laugh as the guard’s blood drenched her hands.
And Sanon—pale, quiet Sanon—laughed, too, as she called out the name of her dead lover and killed a guard. “Elphin!” she cried, her face flushed and fierce.
Rhoram, Owein, Morrigan, and Lludd each killed the four remaining guards who had fallen to the ground. The ten guards who had been standing on the plateau befor
e the Doors remained. With a cry, they lunged down the broken steps, their weapons drawn.
“Dewin,” Gwydion called. Elstar, Neuad, Cadell, Rhiannon, and Myrrdin closed their eyes and Wind-Rode, their shimmering, insubstantial forms coming to rest before the guards. The guards cried out in terror and pulled back in confusion. And that was all it took for the rulers and their heirs to finish the job.
Within moments all the guards were dead, and the way was clear. At Gwydion’s signal, the rest of them stepped from the forest and made their way past the dead and dying bodies to stand before the steps leading to the Doors.
The steps, which, in the days of Lleu Lawrient, the last High King, had been white and shining, were dim and broken. Rockrose and white alyssum twined through the broken stone now streaked with Coranian blood. Gwydion, with Rhiannon, Arthur, and Gwen beside him, mounted the steps to stand before the Doors.
“Elstar?” Gwydion asked, as the rulers and their heirs took up their positions, with swords drawn, at the base of the stairs, allowing the Druids, Dewin, and Bards to follow Gwydion.
The Ardewin, whose eyes had had the unfocused look of one who was Wind-Riding, blinked. “No movement from Eiodel, Gwydion,” she said.
Gwydion nodded and turned to face the Doors. Drwys Idris glowed dimly in the uncertain light. Jeweled patterns swirled on the surface of the doors, arranged in the pattern of the constellations of the god or goddess that each jeweled group represented. The constellation of Modron, the Mother and Y Pair, the Cauldron, was outlined in glittering emeralds. Taran, King of the Winds, and Y Cleddyf, the Sword, sparkled with sapphires. Nantsolvelta, Queen of the Waters, and Y Llech, the Stone, glowed softly with pearls. Mabon, King of the Sun, and Y Honneit, the Spear, flashed in fiery opals.
The constellations of Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt, and his mate, Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood, the Protectors of Kymru, shone bright topaz and dark amethyst. The rubies of Y Rhyfelwr, for Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins, winked blood. The black onyx of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, and the bloodstone of his consort, Aertan, the Weaver of Fate, shone dark and cool. Diamonds shimmered for Sirona of the Stars and dark garnet glimmered for Grannos, the Healer. In the center, the constellation of Arderydd, the High Eagle, the sign of the High King, outlined in emerald, pearls, sapphires, and opals, glowed fiercely.
