by Holly Taylor
THE STARS GLITTERED coldly in the night sky. The beams of the full moon glided over the trees, spilling into the tiny clearing, forming a silvery pool in the center. At the perimeter of the clearing, the four of them stood silently, waiting for the signal to begin.
Arthur stood to the north, a feather in one hand and a bell in the other, his face still. Only the whitening of the scar on his face betrayed any hint of tension.
To the west stood Gwen. Her hair cascaded over her slender shoulders—gold changed to molten silver by the light of the moon. In one hand she held a smooth, white stone. A small drum hung at her waist, secured by a leather strap.
Rhiannon stood in the east, her hair flooding down her back like a shadow. In one hand she held a wooden cup of clear water. In the other she held her father’s harp. The pearl of her simple Dewin’s torque glowed softly at the base of her slender throat. Her face was calm, and her eyes seemed to glitter with starry light.
Gwydion stood to the south. The Dreamer’s torque of opal gleamed around his neck in a fiery ring. He held a lit torch in one hand and a silver pipe in the other.
Gwydion let the silence of the night spin out around them. At last he felt a stirring in his heart, a sign that those not of this earth were watching, waiting, ready to hold sway over this night. He nodded to Rhiannon, and she stepped into the center of the clearing.
She lifted her face to the sky, the beautiful face that Gwydion held so securely, so secretly in his heart. The moonbeams carved planes of light and shadow in her countenance. She lifted her cup to the sky. “Nantsovelta of the Moon, Lady of the Waters, I bring this water to honor you. Bless me, so that I may find your Treasure. Through deepest waters will I journey, to bring your Stone back to your people, that we may be free.” With that she turned the cup over, spilling the water onto the ground at her feet. The water lay like a pool of silver, bathed in the rays of the moon.
“Music I bring you,” Rhiannon went on. “A dance I give to you as a sign that I am yours.” She set down the cup and lightly touched the strings of the harp. The music was light, fluid, spilling into the clearing like a waterfall. Still playing the harp, she dipped and swayed with soft flowing movements, arching her back then bending forward, twirling on her feet, moving from side to side. Lit by the moon, she seemed to be as graceful, as soothing as clear water.
Gwydion felt his heart beat faster, a light sweat breaking out at his temples. He was fire, and he was called to her water, to allow her to soothe those places in his soul that were parched and barren. But he could not. He must not. He forced himself to stand where he was, even as he burned.
Another sound, the sound of water rushing in time to the harp, came to the clearing, rising from no place on this earth. The tempo of the water, like the sound of rushing rapids, sped up as Rhiannon twisted and turned, faster now, to the sound. Around and around she spun, her face lifted to the moon, her eyes closed, her fingers traveling over the harp strings so fast the movements were a blur.
With a cry, she opened her eyes, falling to her knees, pointing down to the pool of water that had formed at her feet. For Nantsovelta was there. Her face filled the pool and held a secret smile. Her alabaster forehead gleamed. Her silvery hair ebbed and flowed, swirling in the water. Her eyes changed from stormy gray, to the cool blue of quiet lakes, to the glinting green of the sea. Her voice spoke, sounding in their minds with the fierceness of a huge wave that rises from the sea, reaching for the land, carrying all along with it.
“Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, Great Queen of Taliesin’s Song, marked before birth for this task: Beneath the Water, lies the Seeker. Find the Stone, find Gwyr Yr Brenin, in my name.”
Then the pool vanished, soaking into the earth. Rhiannon put out a shaking, hesitant hand to the spot, but the earth was dry. She panted, taking huge mouthfuls of air as though, for a time, air had been denied her. Gwydion went to her, helping her to her feet. She clutched her harp, looking up at him with wild eyes. Gently he laid one hot hand on the cool, smooth skin of her face.
“She knows,” Rhiannon whispered. “She knows.”
“Knows what?” he asked gently.
But Rhiannon would not answer. Trembling, she turned away. She picked up the cup, still clutching her harp, and returned to the edge of the clearing. Gwydion stood in the center for a few more moments, looking at her, but she would not meet his eyes. With a deep breath, he began his own part of the ritual.
He lifted the torch, staring up at the dancing flame. “Mabon, King of Fire, Lord of the Sun, I bring fire to honor you. Bless me, so that I may find your Treasure. Through raging fires will I journey, to bring your Spear back to your people, that we may be free.” He firmly set the end of the torch into the ground, then stepped back as the fire grew brighter.
“Music I bring to you, and dancing, to honor you.” He lifted the pipe to his lips, then began to play. The music was high-pitched, sharp, and hard as the edge of flame. He began to dance, his movements rapid, blazing like the cracking fire. The fire glowed still brighter, leaping from the torch higher and higher as he danced, as sweat poured from him in the heat, as his arms, his legs, his entire body glowed brighter and brighter with a golden light. Then, with an incoherent cry, he fell to his knees, raising his sweat-soaked face to the flame.
For Mabon was there. His ruddy face glowed, and his bright hair crackled with golden fire. His amber eyes gleamed like the light of a fire so hungry it would kill anything in its path. Then he spoke, his voice blazing in their minds with the roar of hungry flames.
“Gwydion ap Awst, Knowledgable One of Taliesin’s Song, marked before birth for this task: Within the Storm, lies the Blaze. Find the Spear, find Erias Yr Gwydd, in my name.”
Then the face was gone and the flames died down. He knows, Gwydion thought in terror. He knows. And now Gwydion knew what Rhiannon had meant. So, she feared water the way he feared fire. The other two, they must also fear the most that which they must seek. Oh, the gods and goddesses, surely they laughed. How cruel they were. How terribly cruel.
A cool touch on his cheek made him lift his head. “He knows,” Gwydion said hoarsely.
Rhiannon’s face changed, softened, as she understood. “Then we will help each other, Gwydion ap Awst, to face what we must.”
“Help each other?” he repeated, a question in his voice.
“Yes,” she said firmly, helping his to his feet.
He looked down at her for a moment. Help each other, she had said, as though such a thing would be easy to accept. And he knew it should be, but it was not. Slowly he withdrew from her, gesturing her to return to her place. He took his own place, then stood silently for a few moments. At last he nodded to Gwen to step forward. She took her place in the center of the clearing, swallowing hard. She set the stone on the ground then stepped back.
“Modron, Great Mother, Lady of the Earth, I bring stone, the bones of the earth, to honor you. Through deepest caverns will I journey, to bring your Cauldron back to your people, that we may be free.”
Then she began to beat the drum in a slow, heavy rhythm. Slowly, steadily, she danced around the stone in measured paces. The drum took on a hollow sound, as though sounding from the depths of tunnels beneath the earth. Gwen’s feet dragged against the ground, digging shallow trenches as the dirt spilled over her bare feet. Her movements slowed even more, the beating of the drum growing louder and louder. At last she stood still, the earth covering her feet, a look of terror on her face. Then the earth seemed to yank her down, spilling her onto her knees, bringing her face inches from the stone. She cried out, trying to pull away, but she was held fast.
For the face of Modron was there in the stone. Her wheat-colored hair, strewn with flowers, shimmered as her eyes, the color of freshly turned earth, glowed. Her face glittered with precious stones. Her voice echoed in their minds with the power of the earth, as it shakes loose from its moorings.
“Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram, the White One of Taliesin’s Song, marked before birth for this task:
Within the Center, lies the Circle. Find the Cauldron, find Buarth Y Greu, in my name.”
The face faded as Gwen frantically tried to get to her feet. But she struggled in the dirt, unable to rise. Swiftly, Rhiannon reached for her, pulling her to her feet. For a moment Gwen clung to her mother, burying her face in Rhiannon’s shoulder as she wept.
“She knows,” Gwen sobbed. “It will be my death. Covered by the earth forever.”
“No,” Rhiannon soothed, stroking Gwen’s hair, “for we will be with you.”
“You cannot,” Gwydion said quietly. “It is her task alone. But your fears are shared among us. And we will help you to face them.”
After a moment Gwen stiffened in her mother’s arms, then walked back to her place. Rhiannon lowered her arms slowly, then she turned away, taking her place once more, her face impassive. Gwydion stepped back, gesturing for Arthur to come forward. With a deep breath, Arthur moved to the center of the circle. Even as he lifted the eagle’s feather to the sky, a slight breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees.
“Taran of the Air, King of the Winds, I bring an eagle’s feather, to honor you. Through stormy skies will I journey, to bring your Sword back to your people, that we may be free.” Lightly he stooped, laying the feather on the ground. But before he even straightened up, the feather lifted in the air, blown by the wind.
Arthur paled, then began to ring the bell. “Music I bring to you, and dancing.” Arthur began to dance, his arms reaching overhead, cutting the air with swift movements. The bell rang with a light, airy tone. But as he rang the bell, the tone changed. It grew wild, dancing up and down the scale as though hunting for prey. The winds grew stronger, tossing the feather this way and that as Arthur tried to dance around it. The feather darted about as though looking for a way in, for a weakness. At last Arthur cried out, falling to his knees, pointing up at the sky where the feather floated. A small whirlwind had formed above their heads. And there, etched in the Wind, was his face.
Taran’s gray eyes glowed fiercely like the eyes of an eagle. His sharp features seemed carved into stiff angles by the winds. His hair was formed of storm clouds, and lightning was in his eyes. His voice echoed in their minds like thunder.
“Arthur ap Uthyr, Great Bear of Taliesin’s Song, marked before birth for this task: Beneath the Seeker, lies the Guardian. Find the Sword, find Meirig Yr Llech, in my name.”
The winds died down, and the forest fell silent. But Arthur did not move from where he lay huddled on the ground. Gwydion went to him, taking the bell from the boy’s stiff fingers, putting an arm around his shoulders and helping him to his feet. Arthur looked at Gwydion with wide, shocked eyes. “I—”
“Yes. He knows, doesn’t he? Your fears. Do not let them stop you.”
“How can I not?” Arthur whispered. “The winds—the storm that tried to take my life all those years ago. It waits to try again.”
“Lean on us, then. For we, too, have our fears. And so we strengthen each other.”
Arthur stepped back. “You offer help? You? Don’t make me laugh.”
“I offer help, yes.”
“How much easier to offer it than to take it, Dreamer,” Rhiannon said.
“It is, indeed,” Gwydion replied.
Part 3
The Hunt
Cold is the night,
The rain pours down, no trifle;
A roar in which the clean wind rejoices
Howls over the sheltering wood.
Mannawyddan ap Iweridd
Fifth Ardewin
Circa 265
Chapter 14
Dinmael
Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru
Gwernan Mis, 499
Meirwdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—evening
Regan paced the ramparts of Caer Dwyr, the Queen’s fortress in Dinmael. Not that the fortress truly belonged to the Queen, she thought bitterly. Nothing in Ederynion did, not anymore. For the Queen was a captive of the enemy. Regan herself was not really the Queen’s Dewin anymore. She was a bond for Queen Elen’s good behavior. For if Elen ever fully rebelled against her captors, Regan’s life would be forfeit.
The only thing that made their lives even bearable was General Talorcan—the same man who also made Regan’s life so unbearable. Because she knew, even though she had tried to run from the knowledge, that she loved Talorcan of Dere. She loved him in spite of who he was, and in spite of what he had done.
Regan sighed and leaned against the stone walls of the fortress, looking out over the silent city. It was late and the stars glittered coldly overhead. Not so very long ago Talorcan would have come to her, dismissing the guard who lurked a few feet away, taking her arm, twining his fingers around her hand.
But he would not do so anymore. He would not come to her, because he loved her. And he knew what loving him was doing to her. He knew what would happen to her heart if he took her to his bed. He knew, perhaps, what would happen to his.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to pretend the dark city before her was as it had been only a few years before. The walls would be whole and shining. This very night was the eve of Calan Llachar. There would have been singing and dancing in Nemed Aethnen, the sacred grove of aspen trees. Bright bonfires would have burned in the center of the grove. Iago, as presiding Druid, would have told the story of the death and return to life of Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. He would have told of Cerridwen’s courage and daring, and how Cerrunnos had claimed her for his own. Silver vessels holding pieces of bread would have been passed around among laughing crowds. Those people who picked burned pieces would have jumped the flames amid cheering.
And tomorrow! Tomorrow would have been the race to the tree. The winner of the race would have been named King of the Wood and climbed the highest branches of the tree to bring down the crown of rowan and marsh marigold, and used it to crown the woman who was queen of his heart.
But nothing like that would happen here now. The Druids proclaimed the Kymric gods and goddesses to be false, insisting that the people give their allegiance to the Coranian god, Lytir. The sacred grove had been cut down, and a temple to Lytir had been built in its place. Even laughter was a thing of the past, for the Kymri no longer had cause to laugh at anything. They had been crushed utterly. No matter that some bands of warriors fought on still. It was not enough. And they all knew it. But they would never give up. Regan was no longer sure that she could do the same. Giving up sometimes seemed like the only thing left to do.
And that was when she felt it—the pull, a tug at her consciousness. Someone, a Dewin, was trying to get her attention. For a moment she thought of not answering. She had, after all, given her word that she would not Wind-Ride. Only once had she broken that word—the night she had tried to kill herself, to throw her spirit into the stars and never return. Talorcan had stopped her that night. But he was no longer here to stop her. She could do it.
Do you really think, Regan ur Corfil, that death is the only answer for you?
So, the sender was not only Dewin, she was a Bard, one who could speak from mind to mind. Which meant it had to be someone of the house of Llyr. But Regan was only Dewin and could not answer except by using the Anoeth, the secret language of hand signals, used to communicate when sight only could be obtained.
Regan stared blankly out across the city. But instead of stone walls she saw a woman she knew. It was Rhiannon ur Hefeydd who Wind-Rode to her. Rhiannon was dressed in a tunic and trousers of black leather, her hair braided on the top of her head. She was solemn and intent, but her green eyes were kind.
Regan’s hands, shielded from the sight of the guard just a few feet away, moved in gestures small enough to escape his notice. What are you doing here?
We come to seek freedom for Kymru. The battle begins again. And the Shining Ones speak at last, demanding that their people be freed.
Regan shook her head, her fingers moving rapidly. Too late, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Too late, I think.
Do you?
The respons
e was cool. Well, did she? She had, but now?
Listen well, Regan ur Corfil, to what I have to say. Nantsovelta herself has commanded that I find her Treasure. And to do that, I must have Elen’s ring.
Her pearl ring? The one given her by Olwen?
Yes. I must have it.
Elen would surely give it to you if she had it. But …
Who does have it, then?
Guthlac. The Master Wyrce-Jaga. He took it from her.
You and Elen, how closely are you guarded?
Too closely for us to be of any use.
Yet I understand that tomorrow there is a special service at the temple, to distract the Kymri from remembering Calan Llachar too fondly.
Yes, and a feast here at Caer Dwyr afterward.
General Talorcan …
Regan stiffened. What of him?
Rhiannon was silent. Her image stared at Regan, her green eyes veiled. At last she spoke again to Regan’s mind.
I knew him in Corania as a good man caught in something out of his control.
I care nothing for General Talorcan! Who says that I do?
We’ll talk of this later. But for now I must know—does he allow you any freedom at all? Knowing him, he gives you what he can.
And just how had Rhiannon meant that? Regan wondered, her hands still.
Regan, I must go. You begin to look suspicious just standing there. In a moment the guard will jog your elbow. Listen now. I will be in Dinmael by late morning. I must be able to get into Caer Dwyr. Can you do it?
Regan thought. A name, a name whispered to her once by an innocuous-looking stable boy, came to her. Somehow, in some way, she felt less hopeless than she had only a few moments ago. Her people were still alive, still fighting. And she had been ready to give up. And now she was ashamed.
Elen needs a new dress for the feast. She has ordered material from one of the dressmakers in town. Go to the stall of Anawen in the marketplace, the third stall on the southeast side. Tell her that I sent you and ask for the cloth. You can be her assistant and bring the dress for a final fitting. Come to the fortress and ask for me.
