Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  The fierce cry of an eagle rang out. Arderydd, the high eagle, soared through the Hunt then plunged down toward earth, coming to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. The eagle cried out again, and the horns of the Hunt rang out in answer.

  But still they did not move.

  Gwydion wanted to howl in frustration. Raising his fists to the sky he called out, “Why! High Kings of Kymru, why do you not come to our aid? Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, Protectors of Kymru, why do you not help us? Why?”

  “We await our warleader,” High King Idris answered at last.

  “Without him we cannot fight,” High King Macsen said.

  “It is forbidden,” High King Lleu called out, “to join battle without him.”

  “Who?” Arthur cried. “Who is he?”

  Gwydion shook his head. “I do not know.”

  “Nothing from your dream?” Arthur asked.

  Gwydion shook his head. “The last part of the dream I had that day ended with a black raven calling out to the Hunt. But the Hunt did not move.”

  “What did you say?” Cariadas demanded, her hand clutching his arm. “A black raven?”

  “Yes. A black raven. Symbol for the Dreamer.”

  “But at the end of my dream it wasn’t a black raven.”

  Gwydion, hope dawning in his face, clutched his daughter’s shoulder. “What was it?” he asked eagerly.

  “It was a raven. But a raven of gold.”

  “Oh, gods,” Gwydion breathed. “Oh.”

  “Havgan should have been, would have been, the Dreamer,” Rhiannon said quietly.

  “The Golden Man,” Cariadas whispered. “Of course.”

  Arthur threw his head back and called out, his voice suddenly huge and powerful, like the rushing of the wind across a storm-swept sky. “Havgan ap Brychan var Arianllyn! I bid you to return!”

  In a flash of gold and red a figure materialized before Arthur. Havgan rode a golden horse. On his head he wore a helmet fashioned like that of a raven with ruby eyes. His cloak of gold rippled back from his powerful shoulders and his tunic and breeches were ruby red as he proudly faced Arthur. “You have called me, High King, and I have come. What do you want of me?”

  “For you to lead the Hunt. For you to drive the Coranians from our land, from the land that we both love.”

  “The Hunt,” Gwydion said, “will not ride without you, cousin.”

  “It is part of the debt I must pay to Kymru. I harmed her and her people. Now, until I am released, I must lead the Hunt into battle. It is a debt I am proud to pay.”

  “Then begin, my blood brother,” Gwydion said.

  “But how? I brought the Coranians here. Though I am now ashamed of that, I cannot kill them. They are not here through their own fault, but through mine.”

  “Then drive them, Havgan of Kymru,” Arthur said. “Drive them to sea. And see to it that they never return.”

  Havgan grinned. “I will, my King.” He turned to Gwydion. “Blood brother, I am glad to see you still live.”

  Gwydion grinned back, though there were tears in his silvery eyes. “And you, Havgan.”

  “After a fashion. Take care of him, Rhiannon,” Havgan went on, turning toward her. “For he is a fool.”

  “Sometimes,” she said, holding Gwydion’s hand in hers, “we all are.”

  “Indeed. Farewell.” Havgan spurred his horse and the stead took to the sky, coming to a halt before the Hunt. Cerridwen and Cerrunnos each took their places on either side of Havgan. The three High Kings arrayed themselves behind, with the host streaming out behind them.

  And then the Hunt, at last, descended.

  ARTHUR NEARED THE closed gates of Eiodel. The bodies of black-robed wyrce-jaga littered the ground before the gates. Aidan and Lluched had done their work well—not one single wyrce-jaga had escaped death that day.

  A man sat cross-legged before the gate. His head was bowed and he idly played the harp he held in his hands. He raised his head as Arthur neared, and his keen, green eyes brightened. Arthur reached out a hand and helped the man to his feet.

  “Dudod,” Arthur said.

  “You know why I am here.”

  “Yes. And you are welcome.”

  The dark fortress brooded silently, making no protest when Arthur, with a gesture, Shape-Moved the gates, forcing them to open.

  He entered the fortress, followed closely by Gwydion, Rhiannon, and, oddly, Tybion. He had said nothing as Arthur had left the silent battlefield to make his way to Eiodel; he had merely followed. Arthur was uncertain where Rhufon was, but he imagined the Steward would be along shortly.

  The courtyard was filled with Lytir’s preosts, but they stood silently, unarmed and uncertain. At their head stood Eadwig, the Arch-Preost. On either side of him stood Aelfwyn and Arianrod. Arianrod’s face was stricken, and marked with tears. But Aelfwyn’s face was cold and she held her head proudly.

  “I beg for the safety of these women, High King of Kymru,” Eadwig said.

  “There is no need to beg,” Arthur answered. “And that you should know.”

  Eadwig shrugged. “Perhaps I do. But it had to be said. You may kill me now.”

  “What for?” Arthur asked.

  “For the part I have played in the subjugation of your people.”

  “I do not pretend to know you, Eadwig,” Arthur said quietly. “But I do know of you. You believe in your God with what is a pure heart. That is something for which no man should be punished. Go, return to Corania. But I need your word that you will never return.”

  “Who would ever want to?”

  Arthur turned to the sound of the voice that had asked that question. Penda and Sigerric had limped through the gates together. They were both wounded, how badly Arthur could not tell. Blood streaked their clothes and ran down their faces.

  “Who would ever want to indeed, Penda of Lindisfarne,” Arthur replied.

  Sigerric drew in a breath as he saw Aelfwyn. He raised his sword and staggered to stand between the Princess and Arthur. “If you so much as touch her I will kill you,” Sigerric hissed.

  And though Sigerric’s defiance in the face of such odds should have elicited laughter, it did not. For it was too bravely done for that. Keeping any hint of a smile from his face Arthur answered, “Your warning is well taken, Sigerric. Be assured I mean your lady no harm.”

  “She is not my lady,” Sigerric muttered.

  Aelfwyn reached out and took Sigerric’s elbow, helping to steady him. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” she said.

  Arthur, recognizing the sword in Sigerric’s hands, nodded to the blade. “I will allow you to take the Bana’s sword back with you to your Empire. And I will allow your preosts, as well as Eadwig and Penda, to go with you. Any warriors still left alive are being chased to the sea by our Wild Hunt, led, as I believe you saw, by Havgan himself.”

  “I saw,” Sigerric rasped. “And he saw me. He smiled at me, and rode on.”

  “Sparing you the terror your fellow warriors are experiencing now in their race to the sea,” Arthur said. He turned to the Princess. “You, Princess Aelfwyn, will ensure that they board the ships they brought with them and leave our land. And you will ensure that they never return.”

  “I will,” Aelfwyn nodded. “And gladly.”

  “Your uncle, Prince Aesc, has been killed,” Arthur went on.

  Aelfwyn closed her eyes for a moment, and nodded. “I saw him fall.”

  “He fought bravely,” Arthur said.

  “And Arianrod?” Aelfwyn asked, her eyes glinting. “You did not mention her as one you will let go.”

  “No. I did not.” Arthur turned to Arianrod. Her tawny hair was snarled and her gown was torn, marks of her grief at Havgan’s fall, at the horrifying truth that he was her brother. Her amber eyes were hopeless and stunned and she stood silently, as though not even aware of her surroundings. Arthur turned to Gwydion. “Uncle?”

  Gwydion shook his head. “I do not know. I fear for the child she carries. It is a child
of the mating of a brother and sister, and I do not know what that could mean.”

  “You made a promise, Arthur,” Rhiannon suddenly said.

  “I know.”

  “A promise to Havgan as he lay dying,” Rhiannon pressed. “You said she would be free to go where she will.”

  “I recall that, Rhiannon,” Arthur said irritably.

  “Then you must keep it.”

  Arthur sighed. “Arianrod,” he said gently.

  She looked up at him, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

  “Arianrod, where do you wish to go? Do you wish to go to Corania? Or to stay with us here in Kymru?”

  “Corania,” she said swiftly, her eyes suddenly keen. “I can’t stay here. I can’t.”

  “Then you will not. Aelfwyn, I charge you to take Arianrod with you. To care for her and for her child.”

  “I am not bound by any promise you made to my husband,” Aelfwyn said coldly.

  “I will be bound, then,” Sigerric said. “For the sake of my dead friend.”

  “Very well. Take her, then, and see that no harm comes to her. And watch that child carefully.” Arthur turned to Tybion, who had been standing silently at Arthur’s elbow. “Tell Rhufon to arrange an escort for them to Ystrad Marchell.”

  “My father, I regret to say, is dead,” Tybion said quietly. “I am the Steward of Cadair Idris now.”

  Arthur gripped Tybion’s arm. “I am sorry.”

  “Thank you, High King,” Tybion said with great dignity, though his eyes were sad. “Be assured that your orders will be carried out.”

  “I am, Tybion.” He turned to Rhiannon. “Would you call for Sinend and Cariadas?” he asked. “I need them.”

  “It is time, Arthur,” Dudod said firmly. “I will wait no longer to bring my brother’s bones out of darkness.”

  “It is indeed time and past time for that,” Arthur agreed.

  “I will take you,” Penda said. The yellow-clad ranks of the preosts parted silently to let them through. Arthur, Gwydion, and Dudod followed Penda down the dark, dank steps into the dungeons of Eiodel. The cells smelled of fear and old blood. The straw under their feet was musty. Torches flickered feebly against a darkness that seemed to be filled with tears and terror, with hopelessness and helplessness, with the acrid scent of death and terror.

  Dudod, his face drawn, had tears in his eyes as Penda halted before Anieron’s old cell. A skeleton lay there in the straw, the bones gleaming whitely through the rags that once clothed it. A harp lay next to the bones, glittering with sapphires. The carved face of a woman looked out from the wood, smiling gently as though in greeting.

  Arthur took off his cloak and laid it on the straw as rats scurried away. Gently, reverently, Gwydion and Arthur picked up the skeleton and deposited it on the cloak, wrapping it securely. Dudod clutched Anieron’s harp, tears streaming down his weathered face. He strummed the harp and the notes sounded out purely, joyfully, and oh, so tenderly.

  “I came for you, brother,” Dudod whispered. “At last.”

  And it seemed to them all that there was a sigh, from somewhere, the kind of sigh a man might give when he reached his home after a long journey, the kind of sigh a man might give when he felt the presence of those he loved, the kind of sigh a man might give when he was allowed to rest. And the words echoed in their minds.

  At last.

  SINEND AND CARIADAS, as well as Gwen, were there as they came up from the dungeon. Though Arthur had not called her, he was glad to see Rhiannon’s daughter. Gladder than he wanted to admit. Her eyes challenged him to send her away, but he would not have even dreamed of it. Instead, he smiled at her in welcome. And she smiled back.

  The new Archdruid of Kymru was pale but composed as she bowed. “The Druids are yours to command, High King,” Sinend said formally.

  “Tear it down,” Arthur said firmly. “Tear Eiodel down, stone by stone. And use the stones to build a cairn for Havgan. Lay him here in the courtyard and then bring it all down. Leave no stone standing.”

  “It will be done, High King.”

  Cariadas asked, “What is your will, High King?”

  “You must come with me to Cadair Idris. We release the spirit of Bloudewedd from the Doors before the sun sets on this day.”

  “Who will take her place?” Cariadas asked.

  He glanced at Rhiannon. Her emerald eyes sparkled and she smiled to herself at the Dreamer’s question.

  “Oh, I have someone in mind,” he said.

  Chapter

  * * *

  Twenty-four

  Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn, Kymru

  Draenenwen Mis, 500

  Alban Haf—midmorning

  The only thing that felt at all natural was the torque around his neck. Since the first moment he had donned it, almost six months ago, it had felt right. The large emerald, sapphire, opal, and pearl rested comfortably against his throat. The figure eight studded with onyx, symbol of Annwyn Lord of Chaos, felt cold, as it always did. He wondered if there would be a time when it would not. He doubted it—the Lord of Chaos was not, and never would be, a comfortable deity.

  But a necessary one, he understood now. For chaos was as much a natural part of the Wheel as order was, for one could not exist without the other. He had been born, chosen, for such a time as this, to live through the chaos of war and to bring his country safely through it. He had done so, with the invaluable help of others, and he would not forget how closely they had come to total destruction. Yet, in the end, they had been victorious.

  The final battle was over, done and finished almost five weeks ago. But Cadair Idris and its environs remained full to bursting. Thousands of Kymric warriors were still camped on the plains of Gwytheryn, most of them still recovering from wounds sustained in the fight. Soon they would begin their journey home.

  The Dewin had worked long and hard to save as many men and women as possible. And they had done well. Yes, there had been those they could not save—Hetwin Silver-Brow; Cadell, King Rhoram’s Dewin; Elstar Ardewin; Aergol Archdruid. But many others had been saved—all of the rulers, their captains, and their lieutenants were still among the living, though all had been injured to a degree. Even Bedwyr would live, though he had no will to do so with only one arm. Still, he was alive. And so many others weren’t.

  “If you could lift your foot, my lord,” Tybion was saying.

  “I can very well put on breeches without anyone’s help,” Arthur said, unable to keep the testiness out of his voice.

  “I am sure you could, my King,” Tybion said coolly, “if only you were paying attention. I have been standing here holding these breeches for some time.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” he muttered as he took the breeches and put them on. Normally he was more than content to dress himself, but today was a special ceremony, necessitating, if he understood correctly, a great deal of fuss and preparation.

  After the ceremony in Brenin Llys, the High King’s Hall, they would retire to the huge grove in Coed Llachar to celebrate Alban Haf, the summer solstice, by the light of the full moon.

  It was to be the first festival in many years that the Kymri could celebrate in complete freedom and the first festival in hundreds of years that would be attended by a High King. Apparently, that meant a certain amount of opulence was necessary. He was required to wear breeches and a tunic of silver and gold, and his brow was bound with a band of twined gold and silver. The tunic was emblazoned with a golden eagle with eyes and beak of shining silver. His cloak was gold trimmed with silver bands and attached to his shoulders with brooches fashioned like eagles’ heads. He sported rings of emerald, sapphire, opal, and pearl. Frankly, he felt like a fool.

  How strange, Arthur thought, continuing with his interrupted musings, that it had been Havgan who had attempted to destroy them all, and yet it had been Havgan who held the key to their salvation. Havgan had led the Wild Hunt against the enemy and driven them to the sea. The Coranians had embarked on their ships without a murmur, glad to leave
Kymru behind. Aelfwyn’s pledge to keep the Coranians from returning would be enough. As future Empress, she would ensure that her word was kept. It was obvious to him that it would take a very brave man to disobey her.

  It still made him uneasy that the Coranians had taken Arianrod and her unborn child with them. But he had promised Havgan, as Rhiannon had so insistently reminded him. And there was nothing to be done about it now.

  As Tybion helped him put on his gold-lined boots, Arthur glanced around the huge room. The High King’s chambers were opulent, opulent enough to make Arthur wonder if Idris, Macsen, and Lleu had ever been truly comfortable here. The bed was large, surely the largest one he had ever seen, with a gilt headboard. The coverlet and hangings glittered silver and gold in the light of the roaring fire in the huge fireplace. Hangings covered the walls. Spun by the woolworkers of Gwynedd, they depicted Cadair Idris in various seasons—surrounded by the first flowers of spring, by heavily laden fruit trees in summer, by blowing leaves of gold and red in autumn, and by bright snow in winter.

  Massive wardrobes covered one entire wall, making Arthur wonder who would ever have enough possessions to fill them. He sighed, for he supposed that one day he would. And would, no doubt, have to wear them all in ceremony after endless ceremony.

  Tybion glanced up at Arthur as he finished putting on the boots. “My lord?” he asked, at Arthur’s sigh.

  “Nothing,” he muttered.

  But Tybion smiled unexpectedly. “It is a bit much, isn’t it?”

  Arthur, startled to see sympathy in his Steward’s eyes, grinned. “Frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

  “Perhaps not,” Tybion conceded.

  “It’s just so huge. Almost half of one entire level.”

  “There is the round table in the center, where the rooms connect” Tybion pointed out. “It takes up a great deal of room. You could easily get all the rulers, their captains, your Great Ones, and their heirs around it at once.”

  “And isn’t that a fun thought?” Arthur murmured.