by Holly Taylor
Olwen opened her mouth to refuse permission. But she obviously thought better of it, for under the law, Gwydion did have the right. Finally, between gritted teeth, she said, “You will stay and lead the festival. Then you are to go. Is that understood?”
Gwydion bowed. “Very well.”
“Angharad,” Olwen continued, “you will see to it that the Dreamer stays out of my sight until the festival. Then you will see to it that he leaves immediately afterward.”
“I will, my Queen,” Angharad bowed.
“Go now,” Olwen ordered Gwydion. She turned away and took her place on her chair. “Why are you still here?” she asked Gwydion as she seated herself.
Gwydion opened his mouth for a reply that would have done him no credit, but Angharad caught his arm and dragged him from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“You idiot,” she fumed, as they crossed the courtyard. “Go to the guest house. The steward has assigned a special room for you, at my request. There will be a guard outside your door. Stay there until I come.” She signaled to a warrior, who joined them. “This is Emrys ap Naw. He is my lieutenant. And your guard.” She turned to the young man, who was looking at Angharad with worship in his eyes, worship that she apparently did not see. “Take him to his room. And make sure he stays there.”
THE ROOM WAS small and the furnishings were plain. There were no windows.
A narrow bed with a plain, brown woolen blanket stood in the far, left corner of the room. A large, oak wardrobe was wedged into the corner next to the door. The floor was bare.
Although Gwydion could use his psychokinesis and other gifts to leave this room whenever he truly wished, he stayed here. He wanted to hear what Angharad would have to say to him. So he waited as patiently as he could.
A scraping sound coming from the wardrobe alerted him that he would soon have company. He had noticed the secret catch in the back of the wardrobe hours ago. The door of the wardrobe opened and Angharad entered, followed by a man and a woman.
The man was of medium height with brown hair, lightly powered gray at the temples. He had a genial smile and blue eyes. He was dressed in blue and white and wore the Bard’s torque.
The woman had long, dark brown hair that hung loosely about her shoulders. She wore the formal robe of the Dewin, sea green trimmed with silver, and her Dewin’s torque. Her light brown eyes were wary as she regarded him.
The Bard took a seat nonchalantly on the bed, and patted the place beside him. “Sit here, my dear,” he said to the woman. “It’s safe—I’m old enough to be your father.”
The woman smiled. “Except that my father’s not so handsome,” she teased, as she settled herself next to him. Angharad took up a position next to the door.
“I believe you know everyone here?” Angharad said dryly.
Gwydion bowed, “Talhearn ap Coleas, the Queen’s Bard and Regan ur Corfil, the Queen’s Dewin. Or, the Queen’s official Dewin at any rate. I fear you have competition. I met him this afternoon.”
“Gwydion ap Awst,” Regan asked frowning, “why have you come here?”
“Everyone keeps asking me that,” he complained. “But I have some questions for you. Such as why the Queen’s Bard, Dewin, and Captain have to sneak into my room to speak to me. Why there is a guard outside my door. That sort of thing.”
“Gwydion,” Angharad said wearily, “You heard the Queen’s command. You are to stay out of her sight until the festival. You are the one who insisted on staying.”
“You’ve seen Llwyd Cilcoed. I assume you noticed the kind of hold he has over the Queen?” Talhearn asked.
“Ah, yes. I did notice, thank you.”
“Llwyd Cilcoed is making things difficult here for everyone,” Regan said. “As the Queen’s lover, he has some power, but it’s not enough for him. He seeks to undermine Olwen’s trust in each of us that he may be the only one to hold sway with her. But the Master Bard has told Talhearn, and I have been told by my Ardewin to give you whatever aid you need in your task. Thus we must speak to you, but only in private, so that Llwyd Cilcoed does not get wind of it and misrepresent us to Olwen.”
“Don’t make a mistake, here, Gwydion,” Angharad warned. “These two, as well as Iago, our Druid, will support you in any way they can. But they will not go against Olwen’s express orders. Nor will I. We are loyal to our Queen—not to you.”
“By the way,” Talhearn said curiously, before Gwydion could respond, “What exactly is your task?”
Gwydion sighed. “I’m looking for Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.”
“Have you tried asking Dudod?” Talhearn asked.
“Anieron has sent for him. Do you really think he knows?”
“Oh, yes. The only trick will be in persuading Dudod to tell you.”
“I’m hoping that Anieron’s taking care of that. I also need Olwen to lend me your aid, Angharad.”
“Aid with what?” she asked, suspiciously.
“I cannot say at this time.”
“She’ll never agree,” Regan said.
“I think she will,” Gwydion replied confidently.
“Gwydion,” Angharad said abruptly, “Is there nothing that will get you to leave?”
“Angharad, I won’t be hustled out of Dinmael and that’s that.”
Regan turned to Angharad. “Is he always this stupid?” she asked.
“He’s a man, Regan. They are all that stupid,” Angharad replied.
“Does this mean you don’t want to stay the night?” Gwydion inquired innocently.
“Ha, ha,” Angharad said flatly.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t like me anymore. There was a time—”
“Now you listen to me, Gwydion ap Awst. You will stay here until the festival tomorrow night. You are not to leave this room unless I am with you.” Angharad jerked her head at Talhearn and Regan. “Come on.”
As they piled into the wardrobe and out through the hidden door, Gwydion halted Angharad. “You sure you won’t stay?” he asked with a grin.
“Good night,” she said flatly, but Gwydion thought he saw her hide a smile.
Calan Olau—evening
THE NEXT EVENING Angharad returned to take him to the festival. Silently she motioned for him to follow. Her lieutenant, Emrys, fell in behind him. As they walked out of the gates and down the road to the grove, Regan and Talhearn, each carrying a torch, joined them, one on each side of Gwydion. It was Tywyllu, the week of the new moon, so the night was especially dark and the stars shone overhead like diamonds, cold and hard.
They were silent as they walked. Like ghosts, like shadows, they made their way through the aspen trees into the huge clearing in the center of the grove.
The clearing was full, with hundreds of people waiting to celebrate the festival. An unlit bonfire made of rowan wood was laid out in the center. At the north end stood a large stone altar, on its surface a silver platter holding a loaf of bread and a small mother-of-pearl bowl filled with grain. Around the altar eight unlit torches were set in brackets.
As Gwydion made his way to the altar he saw that Iago, the Queen’s Druid, was standing behind it, waiting for him. Iago was dressed in the Druid’s robe of dark brown trimmed in green. His long, black hair was held at the nape of his neck by a golden ring. His huge, dark eyes glittered as he looked at Gwydion. Solemnly, he drew back and let Gwydion take his place behind the altar.
Off to one side the Queen stood magnificently attired in sea green and pearls. Her face was cold and unyielding. Llwyd Cilcoed stood next to her, a sneer on his face.
On the Queen’s left her daughter, Elen, stood. Dressed in a white gown Elen shone like a luminous candle. Her auburn hair was woven with sea green ribbons and pearls dangled from her delicate ears. A younger boy, about fourteen years old, stood protectively behind Elen. Gwydion knew that this was Lludd, Elen’s younger brother. The boy was tall and broad for his age, and stoicism sat ill on his good-natured features.
Angharad, Emrys, Regan and Talhe
arn had taken up places near the altar and Gwydion lifted his hands and gestured to the unlit torches. “This is the Wheel of the Year before us,” he intoned. “One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.” As he pointed to each torch it burst into flame. “Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Awyr, Calan Llachar, Alban Haf, and Calan Olau, which we celebrate tonight.”
After the torches were lit Gwydion continued, “We gather here to honor Mabon of the Sun, King of Fire, who brings the harvest to Kymru.”
As one the crowd chanted, “We honor him.”
“Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather honor the giver of the harvest,” Gwydion said. “Taran, King of the Winds and Modron, Great Mother of All. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood and Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars and Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”
“We honor the Shining Ones,” the crowd responded.
Lludd stepped forward to speak his part in the ritual. “Why do we gather here?”
Gwydion replied, “We gather to honor Mabon. For behold, he has gone to the depths of Gwlad Yr Haf and returns with the harvest in his hands.”
Then Gwydion began the chant, “In the long night of the year—”
“The land was bare and cold,” the crowd intoned.
“In the dawn of the year—” Gwydion continued.
“Buds burst upon the trees, shoots sprouted from the ground,” they replied.
“In the noon of the year—”
“Flowers bloomed, grain grew, the land was fruitful.”
“Now is the time of harvest. Ripened fruit falls into our hands. The golden wheat falls beneath the scythe. For Mabon has returned victorious,” Gwydion finished.
He raised the bowl of grain and cried, “Behold, the grain that Mabon has given.” He came out from behind the altar, followed closely by Iago, and made his way to the unlit fire of rowan wood.
Iago lit the wood with Druid’s Fire and Gwydion tossed the grain into the fire and said, “The light of Mabon, King of Fire, shines on us at night. The light of Mabon, Lord of the Sun, shines on us by day.”
Returning to the altar, Gwydion held up the loaf of bread. As he did so, loaves were distributed throughout the grove. When everyone had a piece of bread, Gwydion said, “From Mabon comes our bread.” He tore off a piece and ate it, gesturing for the people to do the same. “All hail Mabon!” he cried.
Around the blazing fire people began to dance, singing the ritual song.
Greetings to you, sun of the seasons,
As you travel the skies on high,
With your strong steps on the wing of the heights,
Victorious hero, bringer of harvest.
Sweet acorns cover the woods,
The hard ground is covered with heavy fruit.
Grain has ripened golden.
Greetings to Mabon, bringer of the harvest.
Gwydion turned to Iago, to thank him for his aid in the ritual. His back was to the surrounding trees, so he was completely unprepared for what came next.
Iago gave a shout and pushed Gwydion to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye Gwydion saw the flash of firelight on a knife that flew from the trees toward the place where he had been standing a moment before. With a gesture Iago Shape-Moved the knife, stopping it in mid-air, causing it to fall harmlessly to the ground.
Gwydion, lying prone on the ground, suddenly seemed to be surrounded. Prince Lludd, Princess Elen, Talhearn, and Regan clustered around him to offer further protection from peril. Angharad and Emrys plunged into the trees after the assassin.
Iago reached down and helped Gwydion to his feet.
“My thanks, Iago,” Gwydion said shakily. “You saved my life.”
“My Archdruid has given me orders to give you any aid I can,” Iago said modestly. “I am glad to have been of service to you.”
“Well done, Iago,” Princess Elen said with a smile.
Iago flushed, but did not reply. But his heart in his eyes as he looked at the young and beautiful heir of Ederynion.
At that moment Olwen, followed closely by Llwyd, imperiously made her way up to Gwydion. The people around him fell silent.
“What happened here?” the Queen demanded.
“Someone tried to kill the Dreamer,” Talhearn said. “Tried to kill him in our own sacred grove.”
“Angharad and Emrys went after him,” Elen volunteered. “I hope that they catch him.”
In this hope Elen was not disappointed. For just then Angharad and Emrys returned to the grove, each holding the arm of a man. The man’s clothing was nondescript—brown riding leathers and well-worn boots, one with a crack on the heel. Blood dripped slowly from a minor head wound. He had long, greasy hair and a bushy beard.
“Who are you?” Olwen demanded.
But the man refused to answer, simply staring at the Queen. His eyes shifted to Gwydion, and narrowed when he saw the Dreamer was unharmed.
“That’s right,” Gwydion said softly. “The knife you threw was deflected by the Druid. You have failed your master.”
“What is your cenedl?” Olwen demanded. “Who are your kinsmen?”
“My kinsmen know nothing of this,” the man said. “And I will not tell you who they are.”
“You will tell me,” Olwen said, her tone deadly. “Believe that.”
“I do believe that I would if I were alive,” the man said with a grimace. “But I will not be.”
“Stop him!” Gwydion cried as the man broke free of Emrys’s grasp. The man brought his hand to his mouth and swallowed something. Angharad and Emrys took him in a fresh hold, Angharad forcing the man to his knees.
“What did you take?” Gwydion demanded as he knelt beside the man. “Tell me!”
“I will tell you,” the man rasped. “Because it is too late to help me. It was pennyroyal.”
“How much?”
“All that I have. I am a dead man, Dreamer. You will get nothing from me.”
“You would kill yourself rather than betray your employer?”
“It was in the terms. I do not make promises I cannot keep.” The man gasped and clutched his belly.
Regan also knelt beside the man and put her hand on his forehead. She shook her head. “He’s right. He’s a dead man.”
Even as she said that, the man stiffened and cried out. Then he went limp and slumped to the ground. Angharad gestured and four warriors picked up the would-be assassin’s body and left the grove.
“Take him back to the fortress, Angharad,” Olwen said coldly, gesturing to Gwydion.
“Yes, my Queen,” Angharad bowed.
Olwen turned to Gwydion. “Tomorrow you will be gone from my city. See to it that you make for the border as quickly as possible. I want you out of my kingdom.”
Gwydion held up his hand. “My safety, Olwen,” he said coldly, “was in your hands. Yet I almost died tonight while under your protection.”
Olwen flushed but did not answer, for she knew the truth of that statement.
“You owe me a boon.”
“Name it,” she said between gritted teeth.
“Your Captain, the PenAethnen, must journey to Caer Dathyl. She must be there by Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos, Ysgawen Mis.”
“Very well,” Olwen said stiffly.
Llwyd Cilcoed’s face darkened. “My love, surely you don’t mean to do as he wishes.”
“It is the law,” Olwen said shortly. “The safety of the Dreamer as my guest was compromised. He is within his rights to ask me for a boon. Go now, Gwydion ap Awst. I trust we will not meet again.” So saying she stalked off, with Llwyd close behind.
“Come, Gwydion,” Angharad said sternly. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one evening.”
Gwydion bowed to Iago. “My thanks for saving my life. If there is anything I can do in return, you may call on me.”
Iago, Angharad, Emrys, and Talhearn escorted Gwydion back to the fortress.
When they returned to him room, Angharad said, “I’m locking you in for the night, Gwydion. Both Emrys and I will be right outside your door. Iago, keep an eye on that secret entrance from Gwydion’s room. Have Talhearn stay up with you to watch. I don’t think there is another assassin here, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Yes, Angharad,” Iago said. “Good night, Gwydion.”
“Good night, Iago. And thank you.”
Angharad left, with Emrys right behind her. Gwydion got up from the bed and sat in front of the fire. Disdaining the chair, he huddled upon the hearth, watching the crackling flames. He held his hand out to the fire and did not flinch. For he had taught himself not to do that long ago.
He was psychokinetic and therefore could Fire-Weave, and he often did this elaborately, making a game of it. A necessary game, for, he thought bitterly, how people would laugh at him if they ever found out that the great Dreamer was afraid of fire.
He thought back then, remembering it all as if it had just happened yesterday, instead of years ago. He thought of the last time he almost died—the time when he would have died, if not for Uthyr.
GWYDION AP AWST, the future Dreamer of Kymru, rode nervously on his pony. He was a solemn boy of six years, thin and frail. He despaired of ever becoming as strong and handsome as his father. Awst rode next to him now, laughing and calling out greetings to the people he knew, as they rode down the streets of Tegeingl. They were very close to the fortress of Queen Rathtyen. Gwydion was so nervous he could barely swallow.
He had never met the Queen. And, he had never been out of Caer Dathyl on a trip with his father. His mother had always made sure of that. Of course, his mother had objected strenuously when Awst came to Caer Dathyl to take Gwydion away on this trip. But for once, his mother’s objections hadn’t done any good. Awst had been determined to have his way. Best of all, Gwydion had Awst all to himself, for Amatheon had been far too young to make the trip.
Gwydion worshipped his father, and had been euphoric at the prospect of traveling with him. But he was less happy about their destination. He didn’t think that he wanted to meet Queen Rathtyen. His mother had told him that the Queen was a wicked woman, that she had stolen Gwydion’s father and that was why Awst never came home. She even said that Awst and the Queen had a son—a boy named Uthyr that Awst loved more than he loved Gwydion or Amatheon. His mother even said that the Queen loved Uthyr more than her legitimate children by her husband, King Rhodri, and that was why she made Uthyr her heir instead of her other son, Madoc.
