Dragon's Dream

by Mary Gillgannon

  Anger rose in her, hot and choking. She had only wanted to be herself, to be free. But Maelgwn would not allow it, no man would. Men wanted your soul, to make your spirit so bound up with theirs you could never escape. It was not fair. She had not asked to be wedded to any man. She had passed from Ferdic to Maelgwn like a possession, mute and obedient. Even then, she had some hope she might keep her soul... until Maelgwn stole it with his beautiful body and harsh male hunger.

  Rhiannon gritted her teeth as the longing swept through her. Would she ever be free of the insatiable craving to have Maelgwn hold her in his arms? He had plucked the strings of her heart to make sublime, enchanting music. The tune lingered, ceaseless, relentless, vibrating through every fiber of her being with a dull aching roar.

  Listlessly, she walked back to the hut. A few days ago, she had dreamed of beginning again, inspired by Arianhrodd's example. Like the priestess, she wanted to live her life free of the constraints of men. Someday she might even be a priestess and serve the Lady as Arianhrodd did. She longed to feel the power of the Goddess singing through her, filling her body with invincible strength. She wanted to walk fearlessly to the other side and bask in the golden light of eternity. Now, her dream would never be. She belonged to Maelgwn, and again he claimed her.

  Rhiannon entered the small dwelling and took a seat by the fire. Arianhrodd met her eyes and nodded slowly. Gesturing to the liquid she was preparing in a small bowl, she said, "The drag is almost ready. You should sleep, little one. Maelgwn will come for you at dawn."

  By the time Maelgwn returned to the fortress, the feast of Candlemas had already begun. There were more than a few puzzled looks from those already gathered in the great hall. Father Leichan especially looked reproachful. Maelgwn considered how much more unhappy the priest would be if he knew where his king had been.

  The feast dragged on interminably. In his inner turmoil, Maelgwn could scarcely keep his mind on his responsibilities. He forced himself to listen to his chieftains complain about the Irish raiders and their grievances toward one another. The herdsmen grumbled about their losses of cattle and sheep over the winter. He was polite to the young women—daughters of freemen and chieftains— who were pushed his way so he might consider them as wives or bed partners. By saying little and nodding often, somehow he got through it.

  At last, everyone began to drift drunkenly toward their beds. The chieftains and their men went off to sleep in the barracks, or bedded down in the fire-warmed hall. The poorer farmers and servants sought the stables and other outbuildings. Finally alone, Maelgwn circled the inner courtyard, then climbed the gate tower to look out over the barren hills, faintly illuminated by the still-full moon that peeped out from behind the shifting clouds.

  His eyes searched the coast road for the priestess's messenger. A deep, aching grief filled him. If Arianhrodd failed him, he did not know what he would do. His plan to visit the woods in search of Rhiannon's spirit seemed futile. He was very near to losing hope he would ever see Rhiannon, or her spirit, again.

  Toward midnight, he gave up and climbed down. He headed back toward his council room, the one place in the fortress that was not filled with sleeping bodies. As he reached the door, a small man stepped out of the shadows and spoke his name. Maelgwn jumped like a startled buck. "In the name of Llud! How did you get in here?"

  The man moved into the torchlight surrounding the doorway, and Maelgwn could see the amused expression on his dark, feral face. The visitor wore a rough, weathered leather tunic, and deep lines grooved the skin around his eyes. Maelgwn wondered if he was the fisherman Arianhrodd was said to dwell with.

  "Do you have something for me?" Maelgwn asked. "Something from Arianhrodd?"

  The man held out a packet of leather. Maelgwn took it and opened it. Inside was a little bottle made of reddish-brown clay and marked with strange designs.

  "By the first light of morning, you must drink it all," the man instructed. "Then go down to the beach, to some place that was special to you and Rhiannon. There you will find your wife."

  The man disappeared into the shadows.

  "Wait," Maelgwn called after him. "What is this? What will it do to me?"

  There was no answer from the darkness. Maelgwn looked down at the bottle he held in his trembling hands. He could have dreamed the man, but not the bottle. Stepping closer to the torchlight, he attempted to read the inscription. It was obviously not Latin. It seemed very old, very old indeed.

  What was it? Poison? A shiver of foreboding ran through him. The priestess insisted he must trust her, and this was the test of her demand. If he did not drink the stuff inside the bottle, she must think to know somehow, and fail to send him Rhiannon. But if he drank it and it was poison...

  Impatiently, Maelgwn shook off the thought. He sensed no evil in Arianhrodd. She seemed kindhearted and friendly, a simple peasant woman, albeit a remarkably fearless one. Her faith in the Goddess must give her the courage to treat him so peremptorily. He smiled slightly, remembering Arianhrodd's challenging expression. She expected him to do her will, and the message she sent was just as implacable.

  "Maelgwn—you're still up?"

  Balyn's hearty voice startled him out of his reverie. "Aye, and you?"

  "Been to bed, but couldn't sleep. I kept thinking something was wrong. Is there?"

  Maelgwn turned over the small bottle in his hand. "I might as well tell you. Someone should know if I don't come back. This bottle contains a drug given to me by a healer named Arianhrodd. She has promised to help me converse with Rhiannon's spirit." He paused and met Balyn's appalled look. "I mean to drink the stuff. It represents the only chance I have of seeing Rhiannon again."

  "But it could be poison. What do you know about this healer? Why should you trust her?"

  "She's a priestess of the Great Mother Goddess, an ancient sect dedicated to helping and healing. I don't believe she would harm me."

  "But you can't be sure! You take a terrible risk."

  Maelgwn shrugged.

  Balyn's voice grew more frantic. "This is your life we're speaking of! Or, if you care so little for your life, what of your immortal soul? To willingly consort with spirits... with demons..."

  "I don't fear for my soul," Maelgwn said coldly. "If you do, then pray for me."

  "I will," Balyn whispered in anguish.

  Maelgwn turned away, but not before Balyn stopped him with a trembling hand on his arm. "At least tell me where you're going."

  "The beach... at dawn. If I'm not back by twilight, you may want to come looking for me."

  As Maelgwn left the fortress, morning was merely a promise in the eastern sky, where the clouds broke open in a faint thinning of the night. A bone-chilling mist curled around the fortress walls and slunk across the barren hills. The mist followed Maelgwn as he walked. He felt its damp caress insinuating itself into the neck of his cloak and along the bare skin of his face. He shivered in the icy night air.

  He walked briskly down the coast road. Impatience was spurring his steps. So far he felt no effects from the drug. It had tasted foul and slimy, reminding him of dead and rotting things. What was in it? Bat ear and eye of newt? He grunted in disgust. The priestess had likely given him some repulsive but worthless concoction meant to deceive him into expecting magic.

  Magic! How foolish he was. Did he really think he could find Rhiannon's spirit and speak with it? What a waste of time! Rhiannon was dead. If anything remained of her, it would be a battered corpse. His lovely wife was gone, her beauty wasted on the indifferent worms that ate her flesh.

  His brutal reasoning failed to quench the vague, yearning hope inside him. The huntsman insisted he had seen Rhiannon and held her warm, smooth fingers. Had it been a vision the man experienced, deep in an ecstatic trance? Or was it the woman herself, somehow saved from death and hiding in the woods like a wild thing? He had to find the truth. As long as there was even a slight possibility he could see Rhiannon again—hold her close to his heart—he must pursue it. He
would not sleep soundly until he had exhausted every hope.

  He reached the cliffs above the surf and paused to look down at the desolate beach, still swathed in impenetrable darkness. An uneasy sensation crept over him. His stomach churned, and a huge fist seemed to grab at his insides, twisting his stomach until it writhed in pain. Fighting the urge to vomit, he began walking again. The agony in his stomach increased, and he wondered again if the drug were poison. Had he been fooled by Arianhrodd's aura of warmth and benevolence? What if she was really a sorceress, who used magic to transform her hideous witch's visage into the open, hearty features of a Cymry peasant?

  Maelgwn's stomach convulsed violently, and he bent over and tried to relieve the agonizing pain by vomiting. Nothing came up but a trickle of bitter liquid. It was too late; the drug already coursed through his veins, filling him with sickly faintness. When he tried to rise, he could barely straighten up. A strange weakness overtook him, paralyzing his limbs. He slumped to the frozen grass, wretched and gasping. His legs seized up to his belly.

  Oh, the pain, the dizziness! He was helpless, too feeble to move or even cry out. Panic flowed through him. Was this how he would die? Would they find him here, frozen stiff, doubled up in agony like a sickened dog?

  The thought made cold sweat seep from his skin. He had always counted himself brave, afraid of nothing, not even the damnation of the Christian god. The darkness that swarmed around terrified him. He did not want to die. He had too much left to live for... there was his son... his kingdom...

  The weakness slowly passed. Gradually, his senses recovered, and he could feel the cool breeze blowing on his face, soothing the sudden fever that racked his body. His cramped gut loosened, and his eyes focused again. His body grew stronger and free of pain.

  He got to his feet. It was odd, a moment ago he feared he was dying; now he was well. Indeed, he felt almost refreshed. The youth and vigor had returned to his body, and he was ready to beat any opponent. But he was not going into battle, he reminded himself—he was looking for Rhiannon. The messenger had told him to go to the beach at dawn, and he had lain senseless as the streaks of morning light crept deeper into the darkness. A new anxiety gripped him. Was he too late? Had his chance to meet Rhiannon's spirit already passed?

  Maelgwn hurried down the cliffs as fast as the treacherous pathway would allow, stumbling on a few loose rocks. When he reached the beach, he realized with surprise that it was barely getting light. He had thought himself delayed for hours, but he must have lain stricken on the cliffs for only a short while.

  He looked around, trying to decide where to begin his search. The messenger told him to go to a place special to Rhiannon and him. Ahead was the spill of boulders where he had first loved his shy, fearful wife. Maelgwn squinted at the rocks. One of them looked like a woman in long dark cloak. He moved closer, and the image disappeared. He paused, tense with frustration. Had the mist thickened? The edges of objects appeared blurred. He kept looking out of the corner of his eyes, searching for shapes that disappeared as soon as he turned his head.

  He strained his eyes in the half-light and tried to decide. Was it here or further back they had lain? He could not remember. A gust of harsh wind blew past him, clearing his head. He blinked. For a moment he saw a glint of red among the rocks—the color seemed strangely out of place on the drab winter shoreline. He walked toward the place with cautious, unsteady steps. Aye, he had seen it. Dawn rapidly approached, brightening the frozen beach with misty light, and there was indeed a flicker of color among the gray rocks. He walked faster and reached the place, breathless and panting.

  Damn! There was nothing there. His mind was playing tricks on him. He looked down longingly at the damp sand, willing Rhiannon to be lying there as she once had, a blaze of vivid hair and dazzling white skin. For a moment she was, but Maelgwn knew the image could not be real.

  It wavered and then faded, until he could see the pattern of the sand glowing through the transparent figure of his wife.

  He turned away, and a surge of suffocating anger assailed him. Was this all that fraud of a priestess offered? Did she really think he would be satisfied with these vague apparitions, conjured up by his disordered mind? If he were wise, he would go back to the fortress, sleep off the drug and forget this foolishness.

  Reluctantly, he started back. As he looked toward the east, his gaze was caught by the blazing colors of the sunrise. Delicate pink, glowing orange, a hint of sapphire—he could feel the colors, almost taste them. He paused and stared; the sky seemed to move, to swirl in vast waves of light. The sun turned into a churning spiral of flame. The air around him caught fire, and as he shifted his gaze toward the coast, the ocean itself seemed to be burning. The glow of the morning sun was reflecting on the waves in ripples of gold. Half-blinded, Maelgwn closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, the world was normal again, a pretty winter's morn, but no more fantastic visions. Maelgwn glanced around uneasily. The drug had distorted his perceptions. Things were not what they seemed. Again, he saw the glint of red between the rocks, and yet, he knew nothing was there. It must be a reflection from the fading dawn sky. The flicker of red grew brighter. Perhaps it was... after all... Maelgwn ran to the place with his heart pounding.

  Rhiannon stood in the shelter of the rocks, her eyes wide and fearful, her hair whipping around in the wind. For a moment, Maelgwn feared to move, even to breathe. Rhiannon stood mere inches away from him. He could scarcely believe it.

  She did not look like a spirit. She was dressed strangely, in some sort of rough woolen tunic that barely reached to her knees. Her lips were almost blue with cold and she shivered violently. Even in his confused state, he knew the freezing wind should have little effect on a ghost. He reached for her, stretching out his trembling fingers, unsure what they would touch.

  His hand grazed solid flesh, and he jerked it back in surprise. This was not a phantom, the misty apparition he had anticipated. The thing felt like a living woman.

  Maelgwn closed his eyes, then opened them again. He knew his wits were addled from the drug, but surely they could not deceive him so completely. He reached out again. The woman felt real, and very cold. Instinctively, he pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around her. When she did not vanish, he dared to draw her against his chest. She warmed at his touch, and Maelgwn moaned. If this was truly Rhiannon, he knew there were things he should say, but his mind would not function. The relief he felt at holding her in his arms was too great to disrupt with the complexity of words.

  Trembling, uncertain, he leaned over and kissed the delicate lips that beckoned him. It was Rhiannon; it had to be. No other creature evoked these feelings in him. The sweetness of her, the clean cool smell of her skin and hair—passion streamed through him, raw and desperate. He kissed her harder, deeper, reveling in the awesome splendor of her small mouth, the faint rhythm of her breathing. He was frantic with desire, utterly immersed in the wonder of her nearness. Tears streamed down his face, and his whole body shook. Only the need to breathe finally forced him to break off the kiss.

  He stared down at Rhiannon's face, flushed pink from his kisses. She appeared as amazed as he felt. Her eyes were dazed, shocked. He opened his mouth to reassure her. He could not think what to say. His muddled thoughts flitted away as soon as he formed them. Then he knew. He would not tell her what he felt, he would show her. He would explain with his fingers, his mouth, his body hard within hers. He crushed Rhiannon against his chest, trying to reason out his plan. It had been summer when he last loved Rhiannon on the beach; now it was much too cold, even with his cloak for a blanket.

  The cave! The thought startled him, coming as it did, so suddenly, as if a part of him remained alert and wide awake, prompting from far away. The cave in the cliff wall would be the perfect shelter. Rhun and the other boys had gone there often before the weather turned so cold. They would have left supplies behind, mayhap even things to make a fire.

  Maelgwn picked Rhiannon up and half walked,
half stumbled to the cliffs. He searched steadily, instinctively, until he found the small opening in the cliff wall. He crawled in, cushioning Rhiannon against his chest as he pulled her along with him. The cave was dark and cold, and Maelgwn swore as he scraped his head on the low ceiling. He released Rhiannon and explored the cave floor with his fingers. His excitement built as his hands encountered first rags and rough blankets, then the hard, solid shapes of a flintstone and a lamp, still half filled with oil. With trembling fingers he struck the flint, once, twice. The cave flared into light, and Maelgwn used the first of it to drink in the sight of Rhiannon's face so close to his own.

  Her eyes watched him, wary, solemn. He could scarcely contain himself long enough to light the lamp and push the rags into a pile. He gently removed his cloak from around Rhiannon and laid it down to form a makeshift bed. Then he reached for her.

  He felt her shiver as he pulled her into his arms. She feared him; even now she thought he would hurt her. Anguish choked his throat. He had to show her how much he loved her, needed her.

  He kissed her tenderly at first, beginning with her forehead, her blue-veined eyelids, her delicate cheeks. His mouth grew hungrier as it descended to her neck. He tore her gown slightly as he nuzzled her neck, and she pushed him away. With swift, graceful movements she removed the garment. She wore nothing underneath, and he could not stop staring at her, at the beautiful body he had never thought to see again.

  He gasped and reached for her. She came passively, willingly into his arms. Suddenly, he began to weep, overcome with the pure joy of holding her. He wanted to look at her, to kiss every lovely glowing inch of her, but she would not let him. She pressed her mouth to his and arched her naked body against his bare flesh. His body responded with a stabbing jolt of answering desire. He could not wait; he must be joined with her now!