by Holly Taylor
“It is the truth. And it is the truth that hurts the most, isn’t it?”
“I have had enough—”
“No, it is I who has had enough. You are planning something, Gwydion, and don’t bother to deny it.”
“I will deny it.”
She went on as though he had not spoken. “It is not that which is the most hurtful. It is that even now, even after all this time, you still cannot bring yourself to be honest with me. What more can I possibly do to show you that you can trust me? What more can I do?”
“Rhiannon,” he began, appalled to see the sudden gleam of angry tears in her eyes. “Rhiannon, I do trust you.”
“You are a liar, Gwydion, and we both know it,” she went on furiously. “How could you say that? You have never trusted me if there was a way around it. Over and over and over again in these past six years I have shown you that you can. But you refuse to. Over and over and over again in these past six years I have hoped that you would see how we could have—”
She broke off as though startled to hear what she was saying.
“How we could have what?” he asked, puzzled.
“Nothing,” she muttered. “It was never anything at all. As you have always strained to make so clear to me.”
“Rhiannon, what are you—”
“Never mind. Never mind any of it. Keep your secrets. I am done trying to make you see that you don’t need to. Done.”
She turned and stalked back to the campfire. Gwydion stood frozen at the edge of the clearing as he stared after her. What had she almost said? Could she have possibly meant—? No, she couldn’t have.
Arthur raised his head again from the fire and looked Gwydion full in the face. And Gwydion saw pity there. And understanding. And he even thought he saw the knowledge of what Gwydion was about to do, but he would never be sure of that.
And Gwydion, knowing that if he did not go now he would not go, knowing that it was far too late to change who he was, knowing, even, that he was being a proud fool, Shape-Moved, causing a bush on the other side of the clearing to rustle loudly.
And as the others around the fire leapt to their feet, drawing their weapons, he slipped away from the clearing like a ghost, rushing to meet the fate that awaited him in another clearing not far away.
RHIANNON TURNED TO where Gwydion had stood, slipping her dagger back into its sheath. Whatever had rustled the bushes was gone, and the others began to relax, turning to take their seats next to the fire.
Rhiannon’s eyes darted around the clearing, but Gwydion was gone. “That son of a bitch,” she said softly.
“What do you suppose it is he is planning?” Arthur asked.
“You knew he was planning something?”
“Of course. Since two nights ago. I could swear he left the camp that night to Wind-Ride.”
“But Wind-Ride to who?” she asked. “I believe that too, but who in the world could he have been talking to and what could they have been saying that he would not tell us of it?”
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t know. But I tell you that I don’t like what is happening here tonight one bit. Something is terribly wrong.”
Rhiannon nodded. She knew what Arthur meant. There was a tension in the quiet night that seemed to raze her skin. “I’ll Wind-Ride after him. I’ll find him, and when I do—”
She cocked her head, breaking off what she was saying. She thought she heard something, a faint cry echoing in her mind. She glanced over at Arthur and saw that he, too, had cocked his head as though straining to hear something.
“What?” she whispered.
“Someone trying to Mind-Speak with us,” Arthur said. “From too far away.”
“Use Cynfar and Cariadas,” she said urgently. “Cynfar is a Bard, and Cariadas can Mind-Speak. Use their powers to help whoever is trying to Speak to us.”
Arthur nodded as Cariadas and Cynfar rushed to join Arthur. He took their hands in his own and bowed his head. Rhiannon strained to hear something, opening all her senses as fully as she could. If Arthur could use his power to augment the message that was trying to reach them, she, too, would be able to her it.
For a moment the Mind-Voice quieted, then she could hear it louder, but she could not yet distinguish the words. And then, as Arthur linked their powers of Cynfar and Cariadas, as the High King reached up and out and across Kymru to find the message and the messenger, the words burst upon her brain appallingly clearly.
Warn the Dreamer! It is a trap! Arianrod waits for him with twenty warriors. Warn him! Oh, gods, can anyone hear me? Anyone at all?
No time now to wonder how Dudod had found this out, for she recognized the Mind-Speech of her uncle. No time to reassure him that his warning was heard. There was only a brief moment to wonder how Gwydion could possibly be such a fool before she sent a message straight to him, one she hoped with all her heart it was not too late to send.
GWYDION! IT’S A TRAP! COME BACK!
GWYDION MADE HIS way swiftly through the trees. He knew exactly where Arianrod and Llwyd were. He would go there, thwart whatever transparent plan Arianrod had and return to Arthur and the rest with both traitorous Dewin in tow.
He halted as he neared the clearing. It looked right. Llwyd was still sitting on the ground, to all appearances securely bound, with a collar around his neck. Arianrod was sitting on a log, impatiently tapping her foot.
“Ah, there you are, Gwydion,” she called out. “I have been waiting.”
“I’m sure you have, Arianrod,” Gwydion replied pleasantly from the shelter of the trees.
“Come on, we don’t have all night.”
When he did not immediately move she laughed. “I see. You think that two poor Dewin could possibly betray the Dreamer. You, Gwydion, are a fool.”
“Not as big a fool as you apparently took me for,” Gwydion said, still scanning the clearing. “Or did you think I would blithely put myself in your hands?”
“You are not putting yourself in my hands, Gwydion,” Arianrod said with a smile. “For I could never hold you and you know it. Did I not already tell you that Llwyd Cilcoed would only appear to be bound? Did that not show my good faith?”
Llwyd gasped as he jumped to his feet. The bonds around his hands slipped to the ground. “You told him that?” the Dewin cried. “What game are you playing?”
“My own, you fool,” Arianrod laughed. “When have I ever played anyone else’s?”
Enraged, Llywd leapt at Arianrod and slapped her so hard she screamed and went flying back, falling heavily to the ground. Llwyd did not hesitate, but strode to where she lay. He straddled her swollen belly and wrapped his hands around her throat.
“This is the last time you even think to double-cross me, you bitch,” Llwyd hissed. “The last time.”
It was as he was leaping into the clearing, as he was knocking Llywd Cilcoed aside from Arianrod’s prone body, as he was propelling himself after the Dewin that he heard Rhiannon’s Mind-Shout.
GWYDION! IT’S A TRAP! COME BACK!
And it was as he was realizing just what kind of fool he had been that he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head. His eyes caught a glimpse of Llwyd’s and Arianrod’s smiling faces, of a clearing suddenly filled with Coranian warriors, of the dull gray of a collar, when darkness swallowed him.
Part 2
The Prisoners
The hall is dark tonight,
Without fire, without bed;
I shall weep a while, I shall be silent after.
The hall is dark tonight
Without fire, without candle;
Longing for you comes over me.
Peredur, King of
Rheged
Circa 270
Chapter
* * *
Seven
Sycharth & Dinmael, Kingdom of Ederynion &
Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn, Kymru
Bedwen Mis, 500
Suldydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—evening
He wandered through the dark wood fr
om place to place, searching desperately for a way back to a world bathed in the golden light of the sun, searching hopelessly for the possibility of living through this dark, cold, eternal night. Searching helplessly for her.
But she was not there. He knew why. It was because he had left her time and again. And now he had left her for the last time. This time he would never return. He would never again know the light of her smile, the warmth of her spirit, the comfort of her heart.
He would never get out of this darkness. He would never see her again.
He tried to call out with his mind, but there was only silence. He tried to separate his essence from his body and spring up into the sky, but he was earth-bound. He tried to call fire to light the way, but there was only darkness.
He tried to dream, but found only nightmares. There was no way out. He was trapped. Trapped in the dark. Alone, forever.
“Gwydion,” the voice murmured softly. “Gwydion. Answer me.”
There was the voice again—the voice that asked questions he should not answer. The voice that asked questions he must not answer.
Oh, but the voice promised so much. The voice promised to show him the way out. The voice promised that he could be with her. If only he would answer.
He was cold and tired, hungry and lonely. He would always be, now. Never again would he know the warmth of life and love. Never again would he behold her beautiful face. Never again.
“Gwydion, it is I, High King Arthur. Now tell me. Tell me the ways into Cadair Idris. Cadair Idris is my home, now. And I must know.”
He did not understand why the voice asked him these questions. Arthur knew the secret ways into Cadair Idris. Why should he ask?
“Gwydion, I have forgotten. I have forgotten the way in. I must know. My people await me. They wait for me to lead them into freedom. But I cannot get into the High King’s hall. You must help me.”
Gwydion shook his head. No, that wasn’t right. For Arthur knew the way.
Bewildered and exhausted Gwydion fell to his hands and knees on the forest floor. Strange, but the earth beneath his feet felt like smooth wood. And the leaves that covered the ground made no sound at all as he plunged his hands through them.
He lifted his head and peered into the twilight, into the unforgiving darkness that he wandered in, searching for the owner of that voice. Searching for Arthur, for the boy that he had turned into a High King. But he was alone.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, his fists clenched. He would find a way out of here. He must. He tried to move forward, to thread his way through the dizzying maze of gnarled and darkened trees. Yet the trees themselves always seemed to shift and block his way so that he never left the place he started from.
There was no path. No way out. He would never get out.
“Gwydion, answer me! Answer me and I will lead you out of here and into Cadair Idris itself. Answer!”
But Gwydion shook his head. He could not tell. He should not tell. He must not tell.
“You must tell me, uncle, what I am to do next. Tell me, Dreamer, what is my next move?”
Surely Arthur knew that. Why, Arthur would know that better than anyone else, for Arthur had been directing this game ever since he had survived the Tynged Mawr—ever since he had put the torque around his neck and ascended the throne of Idris and declared himself High King of Kymru.
The voice fell silent when Gwydion did not answer. Gwydion glanced around the darkening wood. How to find a way out? How?
“Rhiannon waits for you, Dreamer,” the voice said softly. “She waits for you in Cadair Idris.”
Rhiannon! Rhiannon, his love, though he had never told her so. She waited for him?
“She waits for your return. She will not eat or sleep in her grief. She waits for you. You must go there. To her.”
Cariad, Gwydion thought. Beloved. Oh, beloved, I am coming to you. Oh, cariad, my heart’s delight, I am coming.
“Yes, Gwydion,” the voice soothed. “That’s right. Tell me. Tell me and I will take you to her. Tell me.”
He shook his head. He must not. He could not. Not even to see her again.
Someone yanked his hair, forcing his head back. Someone forced his mouth open and poured something down his throat. He tried to spit it up, but someone held his mouth shut, pitching his nose until he swallowed.
“Gwydion,” the voice said. “I grow tired of waiting.”
Tired. Yes, he was tired. He would never get out of this place. And no promises could make it so. He did not know how he knew that, but he did. He did not remember who spoke to him, but he knew it was not Arthur. He did not remember how he came to the dark wood, but he knew he was lost in it forever.
Lost without her.
LLWYD CILCOED GROUND his teeth and stepped back from Gwydion’s still form.
He gestured sharply and the two guards that held the Dreamer’s chains pulled them tight and secured them again against the wall so that Gwydion hung limply from the chains, his head sunk to his breast. The Dreamer’s tunic was crumpled and stained with dirt and blood. His face was bathed in sweat. Around his neck hung a dull, gray collar. At the edge of the collar Gwydion’s skin was raw and blistered, for that is what an enaid-dal did when hung around the neck of an Y Dawnus.
Llwyd seated himself back in the chair and thought.
Gwydion was trapped in his own mind, trapped there by the enaid-dal and by the continuous doses of mistletoe he had been given. But even trapped, the Dreamer got away. Llwyd had gained absolutely nothing in the two weeks since he had captured Gwydion.
It had taken a week to get to Sycharth, traveling cautiously to ensure that they were neither watched nor followed. During that week Gwydion had been collared and drugged, but Llywd had been unable to question him with so much activity around them. And the second week was proving as unfruitful as the first, for Gwydion simply refused to answer.
No matter what Llywd promised, no matter who he pretended to be, Gwydion would not answer. The Dreamer hadn’t even spoken one word since being captured. Llwyd knew enough about the drug and the collar to know that Gwydion did not know who had captured him, did not even fully realize that he was a prisoner. But Gwydion should have been too confused to keep his secrets, too cold and weary to hold anything back.
But the Dreamer had always been made of stone and ice. He had never behaved like a normal human being. Why would he start now?
Llwyd Cilcoed stared at the nearly unconscious Dreamer. He must think of a way. He must. He had to give Havgan answers to the questions the Golden Man most wanted to know—how to get into Cadair Idris, and what the High King’s next moves were in this deadly game.
If Llywd Cilcoed could not give Havgan the answers he sought, then his own life would be forfeit. He would never become Lord of Arystli. He would never rid the world of his hated brother, Alun. He would never be somebody. He would never be anything more than just another Dewin in Kymru. He would never be more than just a hunted man.
He had to think of a way.
And then he thought of it. And it was so simple that he could scarcely believe it had taken him so long.
He stood and walked to stand before Gwydion. He reached around and gently unclasped the collar. He pulled it from the Dreamer’s neck and heard Gwydion sigh in relief as the ability to reach outside his mind began to return.
He gently took Gwydion’s battered face in his hands and lifted the Dreamer’s head up. Gwydion’s gray eyes, dilated until they were almost black, blinked and teared in the smoky light of the torches set in brackets around the walls of the dim, cold cellar.
“She is waiting for your message, Gwydion,” Llywd said softly. “Call to her. And she will come to you. Call for her, Dreamer. Call.”
GWYDION SHOOK HIS head to clear it. The voice. The voice said that he could call to Rhiannon. The voice said she was looking for him.
If she found him she could lead him from this wood. This wood called—
“Sycharth,” the voice said. “That is wha
t it is called.” Sycharth, Gwydion thought. That is the name of the wood.
Yes.
“She must come to you alone, Gwydion. She is the only one you trust. There must be no one else, for they mustn’t see you like this. Only Rhiannon is to know. Only her. And she mustn’t tell anyone.”
Yes. There was no one else. Only her. He would call to her. And she would come and let him out of the darkness. He would call to her.
His beloved.
Rhiannon sat across from Arthur at the small table in the garden room at Cadair Idris. The trees around the perimeter of the room seemed to shiver momentarily as Arthur stirred in his chair and hunched over the tarbell board, frowning in concentration. The fountain laughed as it threw droplets of sparkling water in the fresh, flower-scented air.
The High King’s massive torque of emerald and opal, of sapphire and pearl and onyx glittered around Arthur’s sinewy neck, bathed in the glowing light that emanated from the golden walls. His long fingers reached forward and curled around the silver dragon with outspread wings. The pearl around the dragon’s neck glittered as he shifted the piece forward from its white square to a black one.
Rhiannon stared down at the board, but she did not really see it. All she saw was Gwydion’s handsome face and his silvery eyes. She wanted to scream with rage when she thought of him as a prisoner of the Golden Man. Havgan would ensure that Gwydion suffered exquisitely before he killed the Dreamer. He would see to it that Gwydion died and died and died again. He would—
“Gwydion is not at Eiodel, Rhiannon,” Arthur said quietly. “Havgan himself does not have him.”
“Does that matter?” she asked sharply. “He is still a prisoner.”
“Of Llywd Cilcoed. Not of the Golden Man.”
“What do you care?” she retorted. “Either way we cannot get to him. Not if we can’t find him.”
“I told you why we could not rescue him when they first took him.”
Rhiannon looked up into Arthur’s piercing, dark gaze. The scar on his face whitened momentarily as he returned her stare. She clenched her hands in the folds of her skirt to keep herself from hitting him.
