by Holly Taylor
“Why do they fight?” Enid continued.
“Behold, Modron struggles to bring forth the fruits of the land. She seeks to give birth to the bounty of summer. But she must have vervain to aid her in the birthing. So she sends to Gwlad Yr Haf for the herb, but Aertan, the Weaver of Fate, commands Modron to choose a champion to win the vervain from her.”
Enid asked, “Who are the champions that fight for the vervain?”
Sabrina answered, “Modron chooses the Holly King as her champion.”
At these words a man entered the grove. He was dressed in red and green and carried a branch of holly. He bowed to the assembly.
“And Aertan chooses the Oak King for the fight,” Sabrina continued.
Another man entered, dressed in green and gold, carrying a branch of oak. The two men faced each other, theatrically brandishing their branches. Sabrina went on, “The bounty of the Earth hangs in the balance. The champions begin.”
The Holly King and the Oak King fought each other, clashing their branches together in a stylized manner. Then, with a flourish, the Holly King struck the oak branch out of the Oak King’s hands. A great shout went up from the crowd and the Holly King lifted his branch over his head in victory.
“Celynnen is victorious!” the Holly King shouted. “The Holly has won! Let the bounty of the Earth come forth.”
Sabrina tossed the grains in the golden bowl over the laughing, shouting crowd. “Let vervain, that which Modron has won for us, be given to all.” She threw sprigs of vervain, and, as each person caught them, they fastened the sprigs onto their clothing.
Sabrina shouted, “Let the Dance of the Wheel begin!”
Four men and four women each took a torch from around the altar and danced toward the unlit bonfire. They touched the torches to the holly and oak wood and the fire blazed up, bathing the crowd in its golden light. And then they all began to sing,
Quiet is the tall fine wood,
Which the whistle of the wind will not stir.
Green is the plumage of the sheltering wood.
Golden are the growing fields.
Good is the warmth of the grass.
Swarms of bees hum in the sunlight.
Fair white birds fly on high. The days are long,
We dance for joy, at Modron’s bounty.
Urien was dancing with his laughing wife around the bonfire. Bledri was partnering young Enid, and Elphin was dancing with Esyllt. Gwydion glanced at Trystan standing beside him. Trystan’s face was tight with anger as he watched Esyllt.
Sabrina came up to where he and Trystan stood and Gwydion opened his mouth to ask her to partner him, forgetting that he hated to dance. But instead, she grabbed Trystan’s hand and drew him into the circle around the fire, giving him no chance to protest.
She was laughing and smiling up into Trystan’s stern face. But though Trystan danced with her, all his attention was on Esyllt, as she danced with Elphin on the other side of the fire. Gwydion looked around and saw March, Esyllt’s husband, taking in Trystan’s scowling face. March smiled sourly to himself and quietly left the grove.
MEANWHILE, MANY LEAGUES away in Prydyn, Rhiannon returned to the cave beneath the waterfall, her hands full of vervain to use in celebrating the festival of Alban Haf. But Gwen was not there.
Rhiannon muttered angrily to herself. No doubt the child was still exploring the caves. She went to the back of the cave, to the fissure through which Gwen would always go exploring. “Gwenhwyfar,” she called. But there was no answer.
For a moment she considered Wind-Riding through the caves in an effort to locate her daughter. But she was tired. She would wait a little longer. She turned to the cold hearth where a fire should have been burning. Shaking her head in exasperation, she lit the fire herself, and began preparing the evening meal.
GWEN FOUND HERSELF in the most beautiful cave she had ever seen. She lifted her torch high, awestruck. The torchlight glittered off crystal-covered walls. It seemed as though the cave itself was on fire. Oh, if only she could bring her mother here to see this. Suddenly, it struck her. It was late. She should have been back by now, but she had lost track of time. Her mother would be angry. Maybe if she ran back the whole way she would get home before her mother did.
Quickly she turned and started to run. Although she had traveled far, she knew her location and ran confidently through the dizzying series of caves, competently skirting the occasional ruts that lay in her path.
But she was running too fast. She tripped over a stone and her torch went flying. She landed heavily, all her breath knocked out of her by her fall. She sat up and tried to get her breath back. Suddenly, she was aware of how dark it was. What had happened to her torch? It must have been extinguished when she fell.
She froze where she sat, trying to orient herself. How far away from home was she? How could she find her way back? When she went exploring she left a trail of tiny white stones in her wake. But without the torch, how could she see them?
If only she knew how to call fire. Psychokinesis was one of her gifts, but she still did not know how to use it. But her other gift was clairvoyance. She could use that gift to Wind-Ride to her mother, and Rhiannon would find her and help her get home.
But the dark pressed in on her so. She tried to be calm. She must be calm, for how else could she Wind-Ride to her mother? How else could she get home if her mother did not find her?
Slowly, she got to her feet. She forced herself to breathe deeply. Calm. She must be calm. And she would be calm—if only she didn’t have the feeling that there were things in the dark that were ready to reach out and grab her, pull her down. Dirt would clog her lungs; she would never breathe the air again. She would die here and hidden horrors would feed on her bones.
Suddenly she began to cry in her panic. “Mam,” she sobbed. “Mam.” Her mother would never find her. She would be trapped here under the Earth forever and ever. The dark would take her and feed on her. She would never get out of here.
She must get home! In panic, she started to run, sobbing as she ran. But she had only run a few yards when the earth crumbled beneath her feet, and she began to fall. She clutched wildly at the air to stop her fall, but it was no use. As she slid down to the bottom of the pit, she screamed in fear and despair. And then the earth covered her and she knew no more.
RHIANNON WAS TRULY worried now. Gwen should have been back long ago. She lit one of the torches and made her way back to the fissure. On an impulse she grabbed a length of rope. Taking a deep breath, she ventured into the heart of the earth.
As she walked the torchlight played on the walls, chasing the shadows round and round. She called out Gwen’s name, but could hear only echoes.
Gwen had told her once that she never got lost, because she always marked her way with tiny white stones she carried in her pocket. Rhiannon followed the stones that were laid out on the floor every few feet through the bevy of caves.
“Gwen,” she called again. “Gwen, Gwen,” the echoes mocked her. Cautiously, she made her way around a pit in the cave floor and continued on her way.
And then she heard it. She stopped where she was and listened. There it was again. A sob. Weirdly distorted by the echoes she could not tell where it was coming from. She went on, following the stones. And the sound came closer. “Gwen,” she called again. Quickly now she followed the sound until she came to another pit. Sinking to the ground beside it, she lowered her torch. And saw her daughter’s beloved, dirt-streaked face far below.
“Mam, Mam,” Gwen sobbed, extending her arms for her mother.
“Yes, yes. I’m here,” she said in her most soothing tones. “Hush, little one. I’ll soon have you out.”
She worked quickly; tying the rope around a tall, heavy stone, testing to be sure the stone would bear the weight. She threw the other end of the rope down to her daughter. “Tie this around you, under your arms.”
Still sobbing, Gwen did as she was told, and Rhiannon pulled hard at the rope. Hand over han
d she pulled her daughter up from the pit. At last, Gwen was out. Rhiannon held her as Gwen sobbed hysterically.
“I fell. The torch went out. And I couldn’t find the way. So I ran and I fell into the pit. And the dirt covered me and I couldn’t breathe. And I clawed my way out until I could breathe, but I couldn’t get out of the pit. I thought I would die there. I thought you would never come.”
Rhiannon held Gwen and gently stroked her hair. “All right, little one. It’s all right. I’m here now.” She helped Gwen to her feet, untied the rope, and grabbed the torch. “Let’s get back home. We’ll clean you up and eat, and you’ll feel better.”
They slowly made their way back through the caves, Gwen holding tightly to her mother’s hand. “And next time you go exploring you’ll take two torches, just in case.” Rhiannon said soothingly. “It won’t happen again.”
“No,” Gwen sobbed. “Never again, because I’ll never come back. I won’t ever be trapped again.”
“Gwen, you love the caves!”
“No,” Gwen repeated. “Never, never again.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dinmael Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru Cerdinen Mis, 494
Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—early afternoon
Gwydion stayed in Rheged for another three weeks, spending his time with Urien and Ellirri and their children. He had never been a part of a happy family before, and he found himself fascinated. He sat with them in the evenings as Elphin helped Rhiwallon make a new bow; as Queen Ellirri assisted Enid in stitching a new dress; as Owein carved tiny wooden stags and boars and horses for gifts that he presented to his family. One evening Owein even carved a raven, the symbol of the Dreamers, and gave it to Gwydion.
At last he forced himself to leave and resumed his journey, traveling north. When he passed into Ederynion the landscape changed. Ederynion was a country of forests and sea and fog. The kingdom produced paper from those extensive forests, prized throughout Kymru for its fineness. But more importantly, Ederynion was known for its beautiful glass works. The sandy beaches provided the fine sand to make glass goblets and beakers, glass windows, and delicate glass bottles for perfume.
As he rode he often mused on just what kind of reception he could expect in Dinmael, the Queen’s capital. Years ago he and Olwen had met at the graduation ceremonies at Neuadd Gorsedd. Olwen had been there to represent her father. Gwydion had been finishing up his studies at the college, preparing to journey back to Caer Dathyl to continue under Dinaswyn’s tutelage. The two had become lovers. He recalled that Olwen had been insatiable, a passionate and stirring bedroom partner.
It had been a glorious few days. But that was all it had been. She had actually expected him to return with her to Ederynion. But he was destined to be the Dreamer, and, while he would have been pleased to continue as Olwen’s sometime lover, he refused to go with her. Olwen had been used to having her own way in all things and they had parted badly. But that had been almost twenty years ago. It astonished him that she could hold on to a grudge for so long. You almost had to admire such tenacity, he thought.
As he neared Dinmael the salty air blew fresh against his face and he heard the pounding of the waves against the rocks. Dinmael was at the northern tip of a peninsula, surrounded by the sea to the east and north.
The city itself was built in the shape of a pentagon to honor Nantsovelta, Queen of the Moon and Lady of the Waters. He rode through the southern gate and passed Nemed Aethnen, the sacred grove. Tomorrow the festival of Calan Olau, to honor Mabon of the Sun, would be celebrated there. The aspen trees shivered as he rode by. He rode past Ty Meirw, the brooding standing stones under which the Rulers of Ederynion were buried.
Soon, too soon to suit him in his present mood, he rode up to the gate of the Queen’s fortress. The iron gate was covered in silver. A graceful white swan, outlined in pearls, was carved into the doors. Her wings were outstretched and her emerald eyes glittered balefully at him as he rode through.
A tall, slender woman with an unmistakable air of command halted him as soon as he was through the gate. Angharad, Queen Olwen’s Captain, the PenAethnen of Ederynion, wore sea green breeches tucked into white boots and a white undershirt beneath a sea green tunic. Her flaming red hair was braided into a crown at the top of her head. Her cheekbones were high and proud beneath light green eyes.
“Gwydion ap Awst, Dreamer of Kymru,” she said, her voice low and musical. “I bid you welcome to Dinmael on behalf of Olwen ur Custennin, Queen of Ederynion.”
“You are very formal, Angharad,” Gwydion replied, smiling. “Is this how you greet your friends?”
“No,” she said steadily. She refused to meet his gaze and crisply signaled for a groom to take his horse and for another servant to take his saddlebags. “You are to come with me. The Queen awaits you in her chambers.” Angharad turned then, signaling for Gwydion to follow.
“Angharad, what is this? What’s happened here?”
In a low voice, she continued, “Do as I bid you, Gwydion. I am under orders. Follow me and ask no more questions. I will come to you and explain when I can.” She marched off stiffly, Gwydion following.
As they came to the door of the ystafell, Angharad ushered him inside. When he first entered the room he was momentarily blinded, for the room was dim and the afternoon sun was bright outside. As his eyes adjusted, he noted that there was a bright green banner on the wall to his right, showing a white swan with outstretched wings stitched in silver and pearls. The thick carpet beneath his feet was woven of strips of sea green and white. Open cabinets lined the walls, filled with delicate glass works—colored goblets, plates rimmed with silver, graceful beakers, tiny bottles studded with jewels.
In a straight back chair before the hearth sat a young girl, no more than sixteen years of age. She had auburn hair and deep blue eyes. She wore a gown of sea green and around her throat she wore a silver chain with a single pearl dangling from it. This, without a doubt, was Elen ur Olwen, the Queen’s daughter and heir.
Queen Olwen sat stiffly upright in a chair canopied in white and sea green, stitched with pearls. Olwen wore a gown of white. There were pearls in her rich, auburn hair, woven within a net of sea green ribbons. Around her neck she wore the royal Torque of Ederynion—an imposing necklace of silver and pearls. A large pearl ring glowed softly on her right hand. Her amber eyes studied him coldly.
A man stood in the dim shadows behind the Queen’s chair. He had a proud and haughty face with dark brown hair and glittering brown eyes. Gwydion thought he looked familiar, but could not instantly place the man. Angharad had taken up a position next to Gwydion, between him and the door.
For a moment all was silent as Gwydion waited for Olwen to speak. At last she spoke her voice cold and hard. “Gwydion ap Awst, Dreamer of Kymru, what is your business here?”
No welcome, no gesture to sit down, no offer of food or drink. And he was tired. Remembering that Olwen despised familiarity, Gwydion smiled brilliantly and replied with feigned enthusiasm. “Ah, Olwen. I came because I knew I would find warmth and solace here in your presence. I could not stay away, for I longed for another glimpse of your kind and beautiful face. It has been too long.”
Next to him a choked sound, quickly cut off, told him what Angharad thought of his inane speech. He went on blithely, “And I heard how beautiful young Elen herself had become, the very image of her mother. And I see now that it is true.” He gave Elen a languishing glance and a graceful bow that made her sit up more stiffly than ever—and brought a touch of color to her pale face.
“Do you take the Queen for a fool?” the man behind Ol-wen’s chair hissed.
“Ah, you have the advantage of me, I fear,” Gwydion said in a jocular tone. “I cannot place you. But it’s so hard to see you, hiding behind the Queen.”
“Oh, gods,” Angharad whispered so only Gwydion could hear. “You’ve done it now.” And young Elen, surprisingly, smothered a smile behind her hand.
The man stepped out from behind the
chair and stood in front of Gwydion. He wore a robe of sea green trimmed in silver, which proclaimed him to be Dewin. “I am Llwyd Cil-coed, brother of Alun Cilcoed, the Lord of Arystli.”
“Ah, yes,” Gwydion said. “I recall you, now, for one of the graduation ceremonies I attended at Y Ty Dewin. You were but a journeyman, then.”
“Now I am the Dewin to Rheidden Arwy, the Gwarda of commote Caerinion.”
“Oh,” Gwydion said politely. “Why aren’t you there then?”
Again, there was another choked sound from Angharad. But the Queen had not moved. Her face remained impassive and remote. “Gwydion ap Awst,” Olwen spoke again. “I have asked you a question. Why are you here?”
“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked innocently.
Olwen rose slowly, like a snake uncoiling. Tall and proud she stood before him, pining him with her gaze. “You are not welcome here in my country. Did you not know this?”
“I did not,” he lied promptly. “For what reason?”
“My husband is dead,” she said flatly. “You saw his death in your dreams but you did nothing.”
“There was nothing I could do, Olwen,” he said mildly. “I do not choose my dreams. And the dreams I have are unchangeable.”
“You lie!”
“Someone has lied to you,” he said calmly, his eyes flickering to Llwyd Cilcoed, “if they told you I could have prevented his death. I could not.”
“And I say you lie,” she hissed. “I say you killed him. Out of spite.”
“Out of spite for what?”
“He was my husband.”
“Olwen,” he said wearily, for he tired of this game, “if I had wanted that job, I would have taken it some time ago. But I didn’t, did I?”
The Queen flushed in rage. “You are to leave my country, now.”
In truth, he knew it would be best to leave Dinmael. But Gwydion did not like being told what to do. “I am the Dreamer,” he said calmly but implacably. “And the festival of Calan Olau, which honors Mabon of the Sun, is tomorrow. I claim my right as Dreamer to lead the festival.”
