Dragon's Dream

by Mary Gillgannon

  The two men were silent. Maelgwn could hear Balyn's harsh, almost-labored breathing. "What will you do then?" Balyn asked after a few moments. "What will become of Rhiannon?"

  Maelgwn shuddered. He was cold. The fire was dying; he should send for a servant to tend it. He moved restlessly to the hearth and began to poke at the glowing ashes. As the flames flared up, the memories came to him, unbidden, relentless. Rhiannon lying beneath him, in his bed, on the morning-lit beach, beneath the rustling autumn boughs. He had known such satisfaction in her body, such contentment. That was over now. Never again could he look at her without imagining her soft violet eyes turned to cold, gleaming blue, her vivid hair besmirched to raven blackness, her delicate body transformed into his sister's full-blown, wanton flesh. The thought of it made him shudder again.

  "I care not what happens to Rhiannon," he told Balyn slowly. "So long as I never again behold her face in this lifetime."

  Chapter 20

  Maelgwn's fingers worried the rough edges of the amethysts set in the hilt of his knife. His body ached, and the cold made him shiver. The fire before him was almost completely extinguished, and there was no more wood to feed it. He had sent Balyn for a servant some time ago, but no one had appeared yet.

  He glanced toward the door, where the bloodstains made dark spots upon the paving stones, then he quickly looked away. It seemed like a dream, and yet the mess on the floor proved it had happened. He had stabbed Rhiannon, threatened to murder her. A cold whisper of guilt brushed his thoughts. Even in his most vengeful musings, he could not believe Rhiannon had any part in the planning of their doomed marriage. She was a victim, just as he was. Esylt had used them both—her closest living kin—to weave some murky, twisted pattern of hatred and vengeance.

  He stood slowly, struggling to unbend his stiff muscles. Where was Balyn? Why did he not return? Without the presence of another living being, the ghosts that crowded the bedchamber gained form and substance. Any moment he expected Esylt's wraith to appear again, materializing out of the faint twist of smoke over the hearth. His eyes roamed the comfortable, well-appointed room. There was nothing here to fear, nothing but beauty and luxury. Esylt's curse did not linger in the vivid wall hangings, their colors shifting and glowing by the flickering lamplight. Nor did it dwell in the room's many graceful objects—their shadows wavering eerily as he watched. The curse was inside him, waiting for something to ignite it, like dry tinder set aflame by an errant spark.

  He turned toward the door. He could flee this place, seek out the solitude of the hills and the sea. But there was no escape from the thing that haunted him. Better to stay here, to do battle with the specters as they crept from the dark corners.

  His fingers again sought the hilt of the knife, and he recalled his murderous rage toward Rhiannon. At the time he had felt a kind of certainty that she must die; that only her death could save him. Some dark part of him still believed the spilling of her blood would cleanse his own soul. After all, the ancients taught that blood, especially the blood of an innocent, was a very potent thing.

  Maelgwn's glance jerked to the corner where the chest stood open, its contents scattered. The ornate cross still lay where he had dropped it. A Christian icon, celebrating another death, a death which was said to redeem the evil in the world. The symbol was there again. To defeat the darkness, men believed something of light and beauty must perish. Perhaps that was what had incited him to such violence against Rhiannon. If he had not let Rhiannon go, if he had held her body in his hands and felt the blood and life trickle from her young, soft form—would he not have been freed from the curse?

  A tremor racked him. Nay, his own soul was not worth such a price. It was the darkness itself which suggested such a thing. Even before the spread of the Christian faith, men had rejected human sacrifice for the cruelty it was. Sacrifice arose out of fear, the ugliness inside men that made them slaughter their own kind to win the gods' favor. If he had killed Rhiannon, it would have only put a greater stain upon his spirit. It was well he had let her escape. "Maelgwn."

  He started, then turned toward the door. Gwenaseth stood in the gleaming lamplight, her small form as stubborn and tenacious as the marsh reeds that bent to the wind but never yielded. A sense of deep weariness beset him. Gwenaseth would urge him to keep Rhiannon as his wife. He could not do it, nor could he bear to share his reasons with Gwenaseth.

  "What do you want?"

  "I want you to listen. Nay, you will hear me out," she continued as he made a gesture of protest. "You frightened me away once, but you will not do so again. I will have my say about Rhiannon."

  "Speak then, if you must," Maelgwn said coldly. "But I give you fair warning, you cannot change my mind."

  Gwenaseth took a step toward him. "Rhiannon is innocent, Maelgwn; she did you no harm. She tried her best to spare you from the truth. She even risked her life to keep from bearing a child she feared you would hate. She took some herb meant to prevent pregnancy. Instead, it made her body expell the babe she had already conceived. You know as well as I how dangerous such potions are. Rhiannon might have died."

  Maelgwn's sight dimmed, and he saw Rhiannon sprawled on the floor, the black-red blood staining the skirt of her shift. He had feared she was dead when he first saw her; now he knew how close she had actually come to ending her life.

  "Rhiannon did that without thought for herself," Gwenaseth asserted. "It was you and the babe she tried to spare."

  "What she did was right," Maelgwn answered softly. "A child of our shared blood would be doubly cursed."

  "Cursed! Of all the self-pitying nonsense..." Gwenaseth paused, her breast heaving. "Always, Maelgwn, you have worn Esylt's betrayal as a badge of your great suffering. But most men and women know grief and disappointment in their lives, often at the hands of those they love. Still, they go on; they forgive and forget. They do not let their bitterness eat up the rest of their lives."

  "I cannot forgive and forget." The words hissed past his clenched teeth, echoing the rage that afflicted him. "Esylt's wickedness lingers on even now. She planned this wretched marriage. She used me!"

  "And have you not wondered why? Why Esylt did this thing? After pondering on it for weeks, I have begun to suspect the truth is not so terrible as you would believe. From what I can see, Esylt loved Rhiannon. I don't think she meant to cause her grief by wedding her to you. In fact, I begin to believe she intended for you and Rhiannon to love each other."

  "Oh, aye," Maelgwn answered in disgust. "She intended we should love each other—so that on the day we found out the truth, our suffering would be so much more bitter."

  "I don't believe Esylt would sacrifice her daughter, the only fruit of her womb, to such a brutal scheme."

  "Believe it!" He could hardly control his anger. What did Gwenaseth know of it? How could she dare to defend his sister? "Esylt never cared for another living soul in her life. She was incapable of love!"

  "Are you certain?" Gwenaseth challenged, moving closer. "Are you sure she did not once love you, so much that she could not bear to lose you to Aurora?"

  Maelgwn shook his head. He could not answer. Gwenaseth's question probed too near his grief at discovering his sister's betrayal. The anger and pain were so much more unendurable where you once had loved.

  "Think, Maelgwn. Do you not owe Rhiannon something? You used her dowry to secure your kingdom, sated yourself upon her body, accepted her tenderness and care for your son. Do you not owe her a debt for that, for the happiness she brought you? Don't you owe her a chance to be a wife to you?"

  "No," he answered flatly. "The marriage was based on a lie, intended or not. Be it fair or unfair, I have nothing to offer Rhiannon."

  Gwenaseth moved closer still. He could see that her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping; her small features distorted. "At least do not commit this... this murder. You injured Rhiannon. She has left the fortress, bleeding and in shock. Please send someone after her to make sure she is safe."

  "It was only a
flesh wound," he argued. "Nothing so grievous as to be mortal."

  "Night is coming. The wolves will move down the hills. I beg you, Maelgwn, at least see that Rhiannon is brought inside the fortress."

  A chill swept down Maelgwn's spine. Could he bear the guilt if Rhiannon were found dead outside Degannwy's walls? If the blame for her death could be placed on his angry banishment?

  "Go, then," he said. "Send some men after her to bring her back. But by all the gods and saints, I beg you, do not bring her within my sight."

  Gwenaseth nodded rapidly, then hurried from the room.

  Again Maelgwn went to stand before the dying fire. His anger was spent; all that remained was a sick, empty grief that weakened him until he could scarcely bear his tormented thoughts.

  He crossed quickly to the table in the far shadows of the room. A bronze ewer stood upon the smooth-grained, ancient surface. It would be full, as always, with the weak, sour wine the Cymry imported from Brittany. He took a hammered bronze goblet, the cup of it chased with birds and beasts of gold and silver, and filled it to the brim. He took a deep swallow, then another. Closing his eyes, he willed the liquid to flow in his veins, to sap the sharpness of his pain.

  The sound of thunder aroused him from his uneasy stupor. Thunder in the month of the winter moon? He had seen it before, the lightning striking vividly above the frosted hills. Still, it was rare, a thing men talked about as if it were an omen from the old thunder god, Taranis— and an unlucky one at that. Maelgwn struggled to his feet. He must see to preparing the fortress for a storm.

  He left the bedchamber and went out into the cloud-darkened twilight. The sky was a strange, milky pink, the softness of it shattered occasionally by a jagged streak of silver lightning. The rain had yet to begin, but the courtyard was already in turmoil. Dogs, horses and men hurried to and fro, setting up a frantic racket. Maelgwn saw Gareth trying to subdue a rearing horse. Maelgwn hurried to his aid; as the horse was calmed and led toward the stables, Maelgwn's eyes met Gareth's harassed face across the mare's withers. "Were you out with the search party?" he shouted.

  "The search party?"

  "Aye, I sent Gwenaseth for some men to look for Rhiannon."

  "The queen is outside the fortress?" Gareth looked alarmed.

  "I believe so," Maelgwn answered. "She was seen leaving some time past."

  "I know nothing of it," Gareth insisted. He guided the horse into the dim stable, then turned and faced Maelgwn anxiously. "Pray to God they have found her by now. This storm promises to be a bad one. The beasts sense it; we've had rough work to get the horses in."

  Maelgwn nodded and left. A light rain began to fall as he hurried toward the gate. Two men were trying desperately to push it shut against the furious gusts. Maelgwn joined their struggle. When it was finally latched, he grabbed one of the men by the sleeve. "What of the queen—have they found her yet?"

  The man, Eleri, gave Maelgwn a wild-eyed look. "It's really not my place to tell you, my lord."

  "Tell me what?" Maelgwn's grip tightened on the man's arm. "Did you not find her? Is she dead?"

  Eleri shook his head. "Nay, 'tis not so sure as that. We followed the trail of blood to the beach, but found nothing. It was as if she disappeared."

  A grinding fear started in Maelgwn's belly. "You are sure she did not leave the coast road and head for the forest instead?"

  Eleri again shook his head. "The bloodstains were clear and bright all the way to the sand. It is as if she vanished into the air itself."

  "She could have washed the blood off in the sea, then set out again for the woods."

  The young soldier suddenly averted his eyes from Maelgwn. His features stiffened into an expressionless mask. "I don't think she could have made it much farther. There was a lot of blood; over time such blood loss weakens a man, let alone a woman. If she did make it to the forest, the wolves..." Eleri did not finish, but a slight twitch in his jaw gave away his gruesome thoughts.

  The sick feeling in Maelgwn's guts deepened. "You're telling me that my wi-... that Rhiannon is dead?"

  "Nay, I would not tell you such a thing," Eleri asserted. "It is not my place. I only report that the search has been called off. The lightning spooked the horses, and it was growing too dark to see, even by torchlight."

  It took Maelgwn a moment to remember to dismiss the man. He felt stunned. Though he had drawn his knife on Rhiannon and threatened her, he had not actually confronted the reality of her death. He did not feel the relief he might have expected.

  He nodded curtly to Eleri, then went to climb the ladder to the watchtower. He trod out on the wooden platform. The wind buffeted him about until he braced himself against the heavy oak planks and leaned into one of the notches cut for bowmen to defend the fort from. The rain was falling heavier now, whirled into torrents by the wind. His face and hair were quickly soaked. It was getting hard to see. The pallor of the sky had darkened to a roiling gray, and the storm seemed to suck the remaining light from the landscape. His eyes searched for a glimpse of the coast road, but he could see nothing.

  Crack! A bolt of jagged fire shot through the sky. Maelgwn flinched as the lightning cast the hills around Degannwy into bright relief. A rumble of thunder followed, and an odd, superstitious thought came to him. Did this violent storm signal the old gods' displeasure? Did bold Taranis seek vengeance for the hurt done against Rhiannon? She was very much a child of the woods, a half-wild, half-magic creature. Why should the ancient deities she worshiped not avenge her life with the violent forces they controlled?

  "Blessed Jesu! What ails you, Maelgwn?"

  Maelgwn turned to see Balyn at the top of the ladder, his face contorted from screaming into the wind.

  "Have you heard?" Maelgwn brushed back the strands of soaking hair the wind blew in his face. "Eleri reports they had no luck finding Rhiannon. He thinks she is dead."

  Another flash of lightning shot across the heavens, and Maelgwn caught a clear glimpse of Balyn. His face was pleading. "Even if she lives, she'll not come home in this. Come inside, Maelgwn. You can wait as well by the fire."

  "You think she is dead, don't you?"

  Balyn's voice was so hoarse, Maelgwn could barely hear it over the sound of the wind. "I don't know what to think. We need to rest, both of us. Let us leave this place before we are struck down by a lightning bolt or drowned in the deluge." Balyn advanced, catching his arm. "Please, my lord, come."

  Maelgwn cast one last glance out at the nearly invisible hills, then let Balyn lead him down the ladder. "I am so cold," Maelgwn said, almost to himself. "I don't think I will ever be warm again."

  The men in the search party swore as they guided their horses down the mud-slick track from Degannwy. Although the storm had passed, the rain continued to fall throughout the night and into the morning. If the drizzle had turned to snow, the way would have been frozen and less treacherous. As it was, an unseasonably mild wind blew up the coast, thawing the trackway to a morass of mud.

  They followed the coast road to the cliffs and dismounted. The hounds they had brought gathered around, sniffing the wet ground mournfully. The men tethered the horses together, and Gareth remained to watch them as the rest of the men and the dogs half-slid, half-stumbled down the pathway to the beach. By the time they reached level ground, the rain had worsened. Balyn's voice was barely audible above the sound of the downpour and the raging roar of the surf as he shouted instructions to the men. "Spread out and cover the whole beach. Bring me anything you find."

  Maelgwn flinched at Balyn's words. What could they hope to discover on this storm-ravaged beach besides Rhiannon's broken body? He tried to force it away, but his thoughts dwelled on the image of Rhiannon's corpse, battered on the rocks and half-eaten by sea creatures.

  As the men fanned out, Maelgwn looked up at the cliffs, his eyes envisioning the dark, ghostly forest that covered the slopes of the other end of the valley. If only Rhiannon had fled there instead of the beach. He had some hope that she would be s
afe in the woods, at least for a day or two.

  He tore his eyes away and wandered aimlessly over the sand, unable to make himself approach the crashing surf. His fear of what he might find was too great. He neared the dark boulders on the edge of the beach with almost as much reluctance. Here the memory of the first time he had loved Rhiannon came to him with painful clarity. She had been so lovely in the morning light, so dazzlingly fair and lithe, skipping over the waves like an enchanted fairy-creature, as careless and lovely as a rainbow glimmering in the sea spray. But he remembered her fear, too, the terrible wariness in her eyes. It had taken all his patience and tender coaxing to soothe her dread and win her trust.

  Yesterday he had betrayed that trust, he thought grimly. He had hurt Rhiannon as he vowed he would not, banished her from his life, exactly as he promised never to do. Guilt twisted inside him. The rage was gone; he felt empty and tired.

  He turned toward the sea, watching his men. A group of them had gathered near the water, and he could guess from the way the dogs circled and the men bent their heads toward the sand that they had found something. He looked away for a moment, willing their discovery to be nothing of consequence. If they found a scrap of her clothes, even her bloody, ruined gown, it would mean very little. Rhiannon might well have torn her garments into strips to make a bandage or even stripped off her soiled dress altogether. He would not believe her dead unless they found irrefutable proof she had not fled the beach and found shelter elsewhere.

  He braced himself as Balyn left the group of men and walked toward him. The big man's hair was as wet and matted as a dog's and droplets of rain ran off his nose in a steady, incessant stream. He did not appear to be carrying anything, but as he reached Maeglwn, he extended his hand and held out a sodden object. Maelgwn blinked away rain for a moment before taking the small hide boot. He remembered the day he had brought home the wildcat pelt that lined it. "Wildcats are so pretty," Rhiannon had murmured, stroking the soft, spotted fur regretfully. "I hate to think of you killing them." But despite her qualms over the animal's death, she had used the pelt to line her new winter boots.