by Holly Taylor
The Druid in the tree unhooked the golden sickle and carefully cut the clump of mistletoe. The mistletoe fell from the branch, landing squarely in the center of the white cloth. The Druid who had caught the mistletoe brought the plant with its milky-white berries to the Druid who was tending the boiling water. Both Druids tore the leaves from the plant and dropped them into the boiling pot. The water took on a greenish hue that seemed to glow faintly. Then they plucked the white, leathery berries and dropped these too, one by one, into the bubbling pot.
At that moment two more Druids led a brown bull into the clearing. The bull, secured by ropes tied to the golden ring in its snout, was docile, for it had been drugged before the ceremony. Its small, brown eyes were glazed and its movements were slightly sluggish.
The Druid who had climbed the tree was now back in the clearing, and she handed Cathbad the golden sickle. Cathbad made his way to stand by the bull. “Oh, Great Mother,” he called. “Oh, Modron, Queen of the Earth, guide my hand!” He leapt on the bulls back, grabbing the hair between the ears to steady himself. The bull shifted beneath him, but did not run. With his other hand he brought the golden sickle down to the bull’s throat and, in one swift motion, killed the animal.
The bull fell to his knees and Cathbad rolled off to stand to one side. Blood spurted in a fountain from its throat and a Druid caught the liquid in a golden bowl. When the bull fell to its side, dead, the two Druids that had sharpened their knives went to work. Expertly, swiftly, they skinned the bull and cut up the meat, piling it on a golden platter.
Finally, their work was done. The two Druids brought the bull hide to Cathbad and laid it on the ground at his feet. Cathbad sat down on the still-warm and bloody hide. Two more Druids brought the bull’s blood in the golden bowl and the bull’s meat on a golden platter. Cathbad took the bowl and drank, spilling some blood down his chin and onto his fine robe. He then took meat from the platter and began to eat, chewing on the raw meat and swallowing as much as possible. When he could eat and drink no more, he motioned for the Druids to take the bowl and the platter away.
The Druid who had been tending the concoction of mistletoe poured a portion of the contents of the pot into a large goblet of gold and emerald. She brought the cup to Cathbad and he drank. He drank less than it seemed, for though his throat worked he did not swallow much of the liquid. He took care to let some of it spill down his face. If he had drunk the entire cup, as he was supposed to, the contents would indeed induce hallucinations and he did not want that. He did not need those fevered dreams for the Mother to speak to him. After all, he already knew Modron’s will. He set the cup down next to the hide, deliberately spilling some of its contents. The brew sank swiftly into the earth, and it was impossible to tell how much he had drunk, just as he had intended.
“Now will I dream the dreams that Modron sends,” he declared, careful to make his voice somewhat sluggish. For the entire dose of mistletoe would have lowered the speed at which his blood coursed through his body and slowed his heart, and therefore his speech. “For the Great Mother of All will surely speak to me, giving the Kymri the guidance that we crave.” So saying he lay back on the bloody hide while four Druids wrapped the skin around him. Then each stood over him, two at his head and two at his feet.
At that moment the earth trembled beneath them, ever so slightly. The trees rustled as their roots danced. For a moment Cathbad’s nerve almost failed him. For surely Modron herself had indeed come to them. But, after a moment, when the earth again stilled, he took heart. He was doing this for her.
That he was really doing it for himself was a secret he was sure he held inviolate in the deepest recesses of his heart.
And that, he realized later, was his biggest mistake of all.
FOR A MOMENT Cathbad lay on the hide, his eyes still open, staring up at the oak branches that spread across the blue sky over the clearing. In a moment he would close his eyes and pretend to dream. In a moment he would—
He started, every muscle in his body tensed. For he thought he saw—something. For a moment it seemed as though the face of one of the four shrouded Druids that surrounded him was the wrong face. It should have been that of Hywel, one of the teachers of the almanac. But, instead, for one moment it seemed to have been Aergol’s face. He blinked, looking closer at the Druid above him. But the face was shadowed by the Druid’s cowl and the hands tucked into the long sleeves of the Druid’s traditional robe. And, any way, that was nonsense. Absolute nonsense. Aergol, his heir, was gone. Aergol has repudiated his master, and would not return.
He knew what it was. He had drunk as little of the mistletoe as possible, but he had still drunk some of the concoction. He had, perhaps, swallowed more than he had thought, bringing on the hallucinations he had been trying to avoid. For it was not possible, not at all possible that Aergol was here.
He closed his eyes and willed his body to relax. He needed to lie here for a few moments, at the very least. For a moment he thought that he again felt the ground tremble very so slightly. For a moment he thought he heard the oak leaves rustling as the trees themselves shivered. For a moment he thought he smelled the scent of ripe apples, of grapevines heavy with purple fruit, of aromatic lilies, of thyme and rosemary, of spring gentian and violets.
Indeed, for a brief moment he thought he heard the cry of an eagle as it soared high in the air somewhere over Caer Duir—over, perhaps, this very clearing.
For a moment he thought he heard a woman’s voice calling his name from far away. Something in the woman’s tone frightened him. Something in the pitch seemed to promise retribution for some wrong.
Beneath him the ground shook again. Surely enough time had elapsed. It would have to do, for he would not spend one more moment lying on the warm and bloody hide. He would not spend one more moment thinking that the earth beneath him was restlessly awaiting its chance to swallow him. He would not spend one more moment imagining that the Mother herself was coming for him in a fury.
He opened his eyes and the four Druids that had been hovering over him drew back, effectively again hiding their shadowed faces from him. Cathbad sat up and stretched out his hands to the Druids. Two of them moved forward and helped him to his feet.
All around the clearing the Druids moved in closer, standing shoulder to shoulder, their hoods covering their expressions. Havgan and Sigerric stood a few paces to the south of Cathbad. The golden sun that streamed into the clearing lit Havgan’s robes until the Warleader seemed to be shrouded in a nimbus of flame.
Cathbad raised his hands and declared in a voice that tried to be firm but shook somewhat, for he was unnerved, “Modron has spoken!”
Not a Druid in the clearing moved. In fact, the entire grove itself seemed to fall silent, waiting for Cathbad’s next words.
“I dreamed and dreamed truly,” Cathbad continued. “I begged the Mother to tell us her will in the matter of a High King. And she told me that the gods themselves were in full agreement. For the High King of Kymru is to be none other than Havgan, son of Hengist, the Golden Man!”
At his declaration Havgan stepped forward. But, to Cathbad’s quickly covered dismay, the Druids were still silent. They stood as statues, and did not react at all.
Cathbad held out his hand to Havgan as he came forward and took it. Cathbad raised the Warleader’s hand in the air. “Behold your High King!”
Again, the Druids remained silent. The only sound was the cry of an eagle as it circled over the clearing and what seemed to be the far-off call of a hunting horn. Havgan’s triumphant smiled faded and Cathbad turned cold. A cloud covered the sun, darkening the grove and Cathbad shivered.
“Cathbad ap Goreau var Efa, Eleventh Archdruid of Kymru, you are a liar.” The man who declared this, one of the four Druids who had surrounded Cathbad as he pretended to sleep, pulled off his hood. In the shadowy clearing the man’s dark eyes gleamed with truth and purpose. And Cathbad had recognized the voice, had known who it was even before the man had taken off his ho
od. And why not? Had he not heard the voice every day for years?
“Aergol,” Cathbad said, attempting to keep his voice even, “what do you mean? What do you want here?”
“I mean that you are a liar,” Aergol ap Custennin, the Archdruid’s heir, said firmly. At his words the other three Druids removed their hoods and Cathbad was horrified to discover himself face to face with Gwydion the Dreamer, with Rhiannon var Hefeydd, and—most frightening of all—with Arthur ap Uthyr.
A faint scar ran down Arthur’s lean face, giving it a dangerous cast, and his dark eyes were fixed on Havgan, ignoring Cathbad completely. Cathbad clearly saw the boy’s resemblance to his father, Uthyr of Gwynedd. But his eyes belonged to his mother, Ygraine of Ederynion, and in those eyes was the coldest look Cathbad had ever seen.
Havgan returned Arthur’s stare, he, too, ignoring Cathbad. The two men faced each other over the abandoned bull’s hide, and the air in the clearing seemed to thicken.
All around the clearing the Druids were removing their hoods. And among them Cathbad noted the unwelcome faces of Druids that had previously deserted him. He saw Sabrina, she who was once Druid to the King of Rheged, and the woman’s blue eyes were blazing with contempt. He saw Ellywen, once Druid to King Rhoram of Prydyn, and the woman’s gray eyes reminded Cathbad of thin ice, the kind that hides swift death beneath its depths. He saw three of the teachers that had left Caer Duir with Aergol—old Yrth, Aldur, and Madryn. He saw a young woman who could be none other than Gwenhwyfar of Prydyn. Then two young people came from the fringes of the clearing to stand on either side of Aergol. They were Aergol’s children—Sinend and her half-brother, Menw.
“What are you doing, Aergol?” Cathbad asked evenly. Perhaps he could brazen this out long enough to get the other Druids here to turn the tables on these upstarts.
“I am declaring you unfit to lead the Druids of Kymru. I am declaring you reviled by the Mother. I am declaring that you are no longer the Archdruid of Kymru.”
“By whose authority? You cannot do that!” Cathbad raged.
“Oh, but he can,” Gwydion said softly.
Cathbad turned on the Dreamer, swift as a snake. “Who are you to say what the Druids can do?” he screamed. Why, oh, why did the other Druids not make a move? Why did they not turn on Aergol and his lackeys?
“Hear me, Druids of Kymru,” Aergol cried in a huge voice. “Hear me as I declare the truth—a truth you already know in your hearts. I declare that Cathbad ap Goreau is using the tarw-cas-glaid for his own schemes, as he has used you from the beginning. For listen now as I tell you of a wonder. I have been to Cadair Idris. I have seen the Treasures in the golden hall of Brenin Llys. I have seen Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine sitting on the Eagle’s throne. I have seen the High King’s Torque around his neck and Caladfwlch in his hands!”
At Aergol’s words Arthur discarded his Druid’s robe. He was dressed in a tunic and trousers of silver trimmed in gold. The jewels in the torque around his neck flared—emerald, sapphire, pearl, opal, and onyx. And Caladfwlch, Arthur’s gold and silver sword, sang as Arthur pulled it from its sheath and lifted it to the sky. The blade flared as the sun chose that moment to come from behind the clouds.
All around the clearing the Druids sank to their knees. And Cathbad knew that he had lost.
AERGOL, TAKING IN the prostrate Druids, Cathbad’s white face, Havgan’s enraged countenance, knew that the game was won. In the next few moments he would do his best to ensure that the Druids would return to their proper allegiance. It was the least he could do before carrying out his final plan.
“Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, High King of Kymru, fount of all justice in the land, I ask for your wisdom now. What shall be done with the traitor, Cathbad ap Goreau var Efa? For he has betrayed the Druids, Kymru, and Modron herself.”
Arthur gazed for a moment at Cathbad then replied. “Since he has offended his Goddess, he must die by her hand. Let him suffer the sacrificial death of the Mother.”
“No!” Cathbad cried. “No! Not that. I beg you!”
“Yes,” Arthur said quietly. “I will not cheat Modron of the agony you deserve.”
Cathbad turned to run, but three Druids had already surrounded him. Two held him steady while one tied his hands behind his back. Cathbad began to sob uncontrollably. Aergol stepped forward and unclasped the Archdruid’s torque from around Cathbad’s neck. At his gesture Gwydion unclasped the brooches that held the Archdruid’s cape and took the ceremonial cape from Cathbad’s shoulders. Rhiannon stepped forward and divested the former Archdruid of his golden tiara.
“Please Aergol,” Cathbad continued to sob as the Archdruid’s trappings were stripped from him. “If I must die, do not let me die like this.”
“For every moment you spend dying know that you brought that moment with the innocent blood of the Kymri,” Aergol said sternly. “Think of the thousands that died at the hands of the Coranians because of you.”
“Think,” Arthur said softly, “that one of them was my father. See his face before you as you wait for death in misery and terror.”
“Think,” Gwydion said quietly but implacably, “of my brother. Think on Amatheon, whom you had murdered. Think of him.”
“Demand your galanas then, for their deaths,” Cathbad cried.
“There is no galanas high enough to repair that injury,” Arthur said quietly.
“Name it!” Cathbad cried again. “I will pay it!”
“Yes,” Gwydion said his face hard and cold as stone. “You will.”
“Take him,” Aergol said to the Druids. Cathbad, still screaming, was dragged from the clearing.
“What manner of death is this?” Sigerric asked, his voice shaking.
“The Death of the Mother is death by her element. Earth,” Aergol answered.
“You mean—” Sigerric began, his face sick.
“He will be buried alive, entombed in Aelwyd Derwen, the burial mounds of the Archdruids. He will lie there beneath the stone and earth until he can breathe no longer. Earth will eventually fill his lungs and stop his breath,” Aergol explained. “Come, Sigerric, do not be so dismayed. You always disliked him. You knew from the beginning that he was mad.”
Sigerric nodded but did not reply.
Aergol turned to Arthur and noted that, once again, Arthur and Havgan were staring at each other, taking each other’s measure. Arthur’s dark, eagle-like gaze clashed with Havgan’s amber hawk eyes as the two enemies scrutinized each other.
“So,” Havgan said to Gwydion, not taking his eyes from Arthur. “This is the one you betrayed me for.”
“This is the High King of Kymru,” Gwydion said evenly. “This is the one I have worked to protect all my life. He is the reason I came to Corania. He is the reason I became part of your household, so I could learn all I could of your plans. I never betrayed your brotherhood bond, for I was never your brother. I was always Arthur’s man. Never yours.”
“Havgan of Corania,” Arthur said, “again I must bid you to leave Kymru. Or, better yet, stay here with us. Send your men back to Corania. Give up this battle for Kymru and gain it another way—by living here peacefully. For there is something in you that belongs here. Something I sense—”
“There is nothing!” Havgan cried. “Nothing! I will not send my warriors away! I will stay and I will crush you!”
Overhead an eagle wheeled in the sky. It now folded its wings and dove into the clearing. Arthur raised his fist and the eagle came to rest on his arm, beating its wings and screaming defiance at Havgan.
“This,” Arthur said, nodding his head to the eagle, “is Arderydd, the High Eagle of Kymru. This is the bird that marked my face when I tried to run from my nature, from the truth about myself. Beware, Havgan of Corania, that this does not happen to you.”
“I will not yield,” Havgan said between gritted teeth. “I will not do other than kill the witches of Kymru as I can.”
“So be it,” Arthur said.
Sigerric moved up to sta
nd next to Havgan, pulling the dagger from his belt.
“Put up your dagger, Sigerric,” Gwydion said. “There will be no more bloodletting here today.”
“What do you mean?” Sigerric demanded. “Surely you won’t let us walk away from here!”
“But we will,” Aergol said softly. “For this is the tarw-casglaid and to spill more blood would profane the Mother. The Druids have offended her enough. We will do so no more.” It was hard for him to say, for the Golden Man had personally killed Aergol’s mother, and he wanted so badly to pay Havgan back for that. But he knew that he must not. Not now.
“Go,” Arthur said, still not taking his eyes from Havgan’s. Arderydd sat quietly now on Arthur’s arm like a statue. “Go. We will not fight today, Havgan of Corania. But I promise you, the day is coming soon when we will face each other on the field of battle. On that day you will die.”
“Brave words from a little boy,” Havgan sneered, but Aergol saw the flash of fear in the Golden Man’s amber eyes.
“On that day,” Arthur said again, softly, “you will die.”
With a whirl of his golden cloak Havgan turned and stalked from the clearing. Sigerric had turned to follow, when Gwydion raised a hand to stop him.
“Sigerric,” Gwydion said, “stay.”
Sigerric halted and turned to face Gwydion. Havgan turned at the edge of the clearing to look back.
“Sigerric,” Gwydion pleaded. “Don’t follow him. Stay. Stay with us. As Talorcan has chosen to do.”
“Stay, Sigerric,” Rhiannon said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “We know you. We know you for who you really are. Stay with us.”
