Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  The elbow she dug in his gut took the wind out of him, and halted any romantic thoughts for some time. She rose from their bedroll, swiftly donning her customary black leather tunic and trousers.

  “What did you do that for?” he wheezed.

  “There is no time for what you had in mind, Rhoram,” she replied, crisply, braiding her long, dark hair. “We march today.”

  “But not right this minute,” he grumbled as he, too, rose and began to dress.

  “Always you think of your own pleasure,” she said.

  “And yours.”

  She turned to him and grinned, her dark eyes sparkling. “Well, there is that.”

  He grinned back. “There certainly is.” She left the tent before he did, kissing him passionately then slipping from his arms to ensure that their teulu was making the proper preparations to march.

  Rhoram lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. The day was clear and cool. Overhead the blue sky gleamed, and the sun sparkled on the morning dew. A light breeze blew off of the lake and stirred the long grass on the shore.

  Tents stood on the shore, stretching out as far as Rhoram could see. The Kymri had been mustering here for the past few weeks. Gwynedd was camped to the north, with Prydyn to the west, Ederynion to the east and Rheged to the south. All told he estimated that they were twelve thousand strong. And due to fight tomorrow against more than twenty thousand Coranians, for Havgan’s eight thousand reinforcements were only one day away from Eiodel. Rhoram shook his head at that thought. The Kymri would be badly outnumbered. But there was no turning back now. They did not need Arthur to tell them that. The moment their Bards had given them the news that the Coranians had landed, the rulers of Kymru knew that the battle would go on as planned. Calan Llachar, Arthur’s birthday, the day of a total eclipse of the sun, would be the day. It had been meant to be that day since the beginning of time, and the Kymri were too wise to argue with fate.

  Geriant, the sun glinting off his golden hair, squatted by the campfire, warming his hands. Rhoram put a hand on his son’s shoulder and smiled, letting no hint of his thoughts show through. Geriant looked up and smiled back, but briefly.

  Rhoram knew what had been ailing his son since he had returned from rescuing Princess Enid. Geriant had told Rhoram everything about his leave-taking from her. Countless times since then Rhoram had tried to tell his son things might change. He had told Geriant over and over that Enid would heal. But Rhoram wondered if that was true. For she might not ever really come back from the dark places she had been.

  “Aidan and Lluched went with Achren to ensure Prydyn’s ready to march as soon as possible,” Geriant said.

  “My King?” a voice asked, uncertain, tentative.

  Rhoram turned to see a tall, thin man standing before him. The man’s brown hair was touched with frost. His green eyes spoke of pain long endured, and triumphed over. Though the man had changed greatly, Rhoram did not need to see the sapphire torque around the man’s neck to know who this was.

  “Cian,” Rhoram breathed, opening his arms to welcome back his Bard. “Cian.”

  Cian stepped forward and the two men embraced. Both men were unashamedly weeping. Rhoram could scarcely believe it. Cian, who had been taken by the Coranians and imprisoned in Eiodel for so long; Cian, the last Kymri to see the Master Bard alive; Cian, who had been taken to Afalon, suffering terribly under the whips of the wyrce-jaga; Cian, who had been rescued by High King Arthur and taken to Cadair Idris to heal; Cian, his Bard, had returned to him. At last.

  The two men stepped back from each other, but Rhoram still gripped the Bard’s forearms lightly. “Thank the gods you are still alive.”

  “The High King gave me permission to join you for the battle. You will need a Bard to relay his messages to you.”

  “I need you by my side now and always.”

  “And that is where I shall be, now and always. Arthur says I am to tell you that the package you sent to Cadair Idris arrived safely.”

  “A shame,” Rhoram said, with a grin.

  “I thought so, too,” Cian said, with a grin of his own on his thin, worn face.

  “Rhoram?”

  Rhoram turned to see Owein of Rheged bow briefly. He bowed back to his son-in-law. “All is well with you, Owein? And Sanon?”

  “All is well with us,” Owein replied. He nodded toward Geriant. “I have come to speak with your son.”

  “Then speak your piece,” Rhoram said, sweeping his arm toward Geriant, who rose at Owein’s words.

  “Prince Geriant,” Owein began, “I have a message for you from my sister.”

  “From Enid?” Geriant asked in surprise.

  “She’s the only sister I have,” Owein replied, smothering a smile.

  “And she sends me a message?” Geriant asked again, astonishment on his handsome face.

  “She does,” Owein said.

  “Really?” Geriant asked.

  “Honestly, Geriant,” Rhoram broke in, “at this rate we will never hear the message.”

  Owein, still struggling to smother his smile, bravely went on. “My sister said to give this to you.” He reached inside his tunic and pulled out a silk scarf, woven in the red and white colors of Rheged. “She asks that you might wear it into battle, and, perhaps, think of her.”

  Geriant took the scarf, holding it gingerly, as though it might break. “Da?” he asked.

  Rhoram stepped forward and tied the scarf around Geriant’s upper right arm. His son’s golden hair and blue eyes flashed in the sunlight as he stood straight and proud. “I am honored to wear this token from your sister,” Geriant said rather formally to Owein. “And I thank you for giving it to me.”

  “She is better, Geriant,” Owein said. “Much better, since she herself killed Morcant.”

  “Though Arthur let Bledri live,” Geriant said bitterness in his tone.

  “He exiled Bledri Beyond the Ninth Wave. The death that is in store for the Dewin is a very hard one,” Owein said gravely.

  “Would that I, myself, had been able to give him one even harder.”

  “You must content yourself with the battle tomorrow. I don’t doubt that there will be many opportunities to kill the enemy.”

  “No doubt,” Geriant said, grimly. “No doubt at all.”

  ELEN EXITED HER tent and eyed the clear sky. It would be a beautiful, crisp spring day, perfect for marching. She knew as well as anyone what the odds were against them, but she was eager to come to grips with the enemy, for the years of waiting lay heavily on her. In those years she had been a captive in her own home, forced to wait for rescue. It still galled her, the helplessness of that time. And so she looked forward to tomorrow’s battle, even though she knew that likely some of those she loved would die. But surely the Shining Ones would spare her brother. And they would spare one other, who was dear to her heart.

  “Elen?”

  She turned at the sound of her name on his lips, her heart beating wildly. “Good morning, Rhiwallon.”

  The Prince of Rheged smiled at her. His broad shoulders strained at his red and white tunic as he sketched a bow. His red-gold hair glowed like fire, and his blue eyes were warm.

  He opened his mouth to speak just when Lludd, Angharard, and Talhearn joined them at the campfire.

  Lludd kissed his sister and greeted Rhiwallon. “We will be ready to march within the hour, as the High King has commanded,” Lludd reported.

  Wishing her brother, her captain, and her Bard at the bottom of the sea, Elen replied coolly. “Excellent.”

  Lludd’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as he eyed his sister. But comprehension dawned swiftly, and, lips twitching, he turned to Angharad. “I believe we should guarantee that my statement will be true. Let’s go ensure that all will be ready.”

  Angharad, whose temper was even shorter since Emrys’ death, answered irritably. “We just did that. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  But Talhearn, his wise brown eyes dancing, disagreed. “Now Angharad,
how could the Queen’s teulu possibly get ready without you there to harass them?”

  Angharad snorted. “They know what they are doing.”

  Exasperated, Lludd elbowed the captain. But Angharad was in no mood for subtleties. She rounded on Lludd. “What?” she demanded.

  Talhearn, who had been trying not to smile, gave up at that point and began to laugh. Lludd ruefully shrugged his shoulders and Elen sighed. Rhiwallon, clearly giving up on the idea of a private conversation, cleared his throat and opened his mouth.

  But the Prince was once again forced to wait, for at that moment Talorcan and Regan exited their tent and joined them at the campfire. The former Coranian general smiled at his companions as he greeted them. Elen was struck by his easy manner, quite a change from the man she had known for the past few years. For the Talorcan she had known had been a tormented man—hating the bonds that held him yet unable to break them. But all that had changed. He would fight with the Dewin tomorrow, under Arthur’s direction. And from the look in his clear, green eyes, he was ready.

  Now, if she could only get rid of them all, Rhiwallon might say what he came here to say. But she had underestimated the Prince, for he had clearly decided to take the plunge in spite of their audience.

  “Queen Elen,” he began his tone somewhat formal, “I spoke with my brother this morning.”

  He stopped. Clearly she was expected to say something. “Yes?” she prompted.

  “He has given me permission to fight by your side tomorrow.” His fresh, bright face turned red as he said it. But he did say it.

  Elen blushed in her turn, something she rarely did. Though the blush embarrassed her, it seemed to hearten Rhiwallon and his color subsided. For a moment she did not know what to say. The silence spun out so long, that Rhiwallon’s smile began to fade. That’s when Lludd elbowed her, causing her to take an involuntary step toward Rhiwallon. The Prince reached out to catch her as she fell against him, and he held her briefly before gently setting her back on her feet.

  Elen cleared her throat. “I would be honored to have you by my side.”

  Rhiwallon grinned, relieved. He took her hand and imprinted a kiss on her palm. He bowed briefly then left to join his brother for the day’s march.

  “Very smooth, sister,” Lludd said with a grin.

  Elen, without taking her eyes off of Rhiwallon’s retreating figure said crisply, “Don’t you think there is someone you need to see this morning, too?”

  MORRIGAN STOOD BY her campfire staring out across Lake Mwyngil. She could just make out traces of the blackened, scarred encampment on Afalon. This had been the place where the Y Dawnus had been held captive, up until just a few weeks ago. This had been the place her brother had destroyed, cleansing it with Druid’s Fire.

  Already it seemed the signs of burning were being replaced by fresh growth. Birch trees, with their silvery white bark and drooping branches mingled with tall ash trees, their large, dark green leaves tossing in the breeze.

  Surely, she thought, they were closer to the old encampment than they had been the day before. But then, Afalon had always been a strange, enchanted place. A breeze rippled the clear, blue water as she listened quietly to Susanna.

  “Legend says that when Bran found the High King right here on the shore, Lleu was still alive,” the Bard said. “He begged Bran to spare the High Queen, though she had betrayed him.”

  “Why did he do that?” Morrigan asked.

  “He loved her,” Cai said as he gazed at Susanna. She smiled back at him, her blue eyes alight.

  Gwyhar, Susanna’s son, smiled at the look in his stepfather’s eyes. Even Ygraine’s frosty expression melted a little at the tone in Cai’s voice, as though remembering the love she and Uthyr had once shared. Bedwyr and Tangwen, newly married, also smiled.

  Morrigan sighed inwardly. There seemed to be a great many people in love these days. She was happy that her friends were happy, but it seemed to her that they were easily distracted. And they had serious business to do.

  “Any word from my brother this morning?” she asked Susanna, to get the conversation back to business. She would hear the story of Bran and Lleu another time.

  “He asked me to greet you. And to tell you that he requires Gwyhar to stand with the Y Dawnus tomorrow.”

  Then her mother spoke. “I, too, will join Arthur tomorrow. He has asked me to arm him.”

  Morrigan’s eyes filled briefly with tears at the pride in her mother’s voice, for she knew what it meant to Ygraine to have been asked to do that. And she did not begrudge her mother that task. Still, she felt a little deflated that both Gwyhar and Ygraine would not be with her tomorrow.

  But that feeling was forgotten swiftly when she heard her name.

  “Good morning, Morrigan,” Lludd, the Prince of Ederynion, said.

  ARTHUR SAT IN Taran’s Tower, the chamber at the uppermost level of Cadair Idris. Sunlight streamed through the clear glasslike ceiling, illuminating the silvery walls. Diamonds on the walls, representing the stars over Kymru, glittered brightly. A few small tables and some comfortable chairs completed the furnishings. Arthur sat in one chair, frowning down at the black and white squares of the tarbell board.

  The game had once been in the garden room, a room Arthur loved. But since the wounded Y Dawnus had been rescued from Afalon and brought here to Cadair Idris, they spent a great deal of time in the garden room as they regained both their psychic and physical strength. That room, which held a small fountain as well as shrubs, flowers, and trees, soothed them. So he had given the room over to them and moved the tarbell set up here to this chamber.

  As from the beginning, the tarbell game fascinated him. He had found that he had a knack for this game of strategy, an ability to plan many moves ahead, keeping his eye on the goal—to capture the opposing side’s High King. But there was something else about these particular pieces that drew him. Something he had noticed about them from the beginning. Something that, if other people had noticed, no one had mentioned.

  He heard the door open. He did not have to turn around to know who it was. Gwydion took a seat opposite Arthur. After a moment he reached out and moved the raven-shaped Dreamer’s piece diagonally across two squares.

  Arthur reached out and moved the High Queen to that square, taking the Dreamer’s piece off the board. “You sacrificed the Dreamer,” Arthur pointed out. “Why?”

  Surprisingly, Gwydion grinned. “There’s more than one.”

  “And how is Cariadas today?” Arthur asked.

  “A little subdued, actually,” Gwydion replied, his smile fading a little.

  “Overwhelmed?”

  “She’s young.”

  Arthur snorted. “She and I are about the same age.”

  “So very true,” Gwydion murmured.

  Suddenly, Arthur laughed. “Yes, I too, am young. But it is my time now.”

  “So it is,” Gwydion agreed. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost.”

  Gwydion’s brows raised in surprise. “What do you mean by almost?”

  “There is one thing yet to do before tomorrow. And for that I need both Dreamers.”

  “What do you intend?”

  “I intend to Walk-Between-the-Worlds.”

  “Where do you need to go?”

  “I need to go to Gwlad Yr Haf.”

  “To the Summer Land to speak with the dead? Why?”

  “To be honest, uncle, I do not know. I know only that I am drawn to go there. I hope that once I am there, I will understand something that I do not understand now. I only know that there is something I do not know. Something that I need to know if we are to achieve victory tomorrow.”

  “Unlikely as that is.” Gwydion snorted.

  “It is unlikely,” Arthur agreed. “But it is the only chance we will get.”

  “Very well. Cariadas and I will return here this evening.”

  At that the door opened again. Gwen stood framed in the doorway. She wore a tunic of black leather with
the wolf-badge of Prydyn sewn to the front. Her blond hair was braided tightly and wound around her head. She carried a metal helmet and her expression was defiant.

  Gwydion rose and went to the door. He bowed briefly to Gwen. His silver eyes danced as he took in her outfit and Arthur’s face. But he left without a word.

  Gwen entered the room and came to stand before Arthur. “I am leaving today,” she said abruptly.

  “I see.”

  “To join my father when he nears Cadair Idris.”

  “Yes.”

  “I insist that I be able to fight by his side tomorrow.”

  “Yes, you would.”

  “I would what?” she snapped.

  “Insist. It wouldn’t matter to you that I need you here.”

  “For what?” she snorted.

  “To join the Druids. Battle is the hardest on them. I need as many as I can get.”

  “You won’t miss me, then. I am not trained.”

  “You are not, perhaps, as well trained as some,” Arthur replied evenly. “But Madryn has taught you well these past few months. More than that, you are strong—very strong—in your gift. Stronger than you realize.”

  For a brief moment uncertainty flickered in her beautiful eyes. “Really?”

  “Really.” He lowered his eyes beneath her gaze to stare back down at the tarbell board. For looking at her made him want to say all the things he knew he should not say. Not yet, at any rate. Not until—not unless—he won the battle tomorrow. His eyes rested on the face of the tarbell High Queen and he reached out and took the piece in his hands.

  “You don’t need me here,” she said.

  “I do,” he answered.

  “I don’t believe you,” Gwen said after a moment of silence.

  “I don’t suppose you do,” he said quietly. “To believe me might take some measure of understanding. And you have none.”

  He expected her to be enraged by that. He expected to have a brief fight with her now that would end with her leaving in a rage. He expected to feel better after that, to feel less like he was risking the loss of something dearer to him than life. But she remained silent. At last he looked up. She was staring down at the piece in his hand, a strange expression on her face.