May Earth Rise

by Holly Taylor

  “Who are you?” she demanded, and she held her head high to hide her surprise.

  His expressive mouth quirked and his green eyes danced. He bowed briefly, then replied.

  “I am the son of Poetry,

  Poetry, son of Reflection,

  Reflection, son of Meditation,

  Meditation, son of Lore,

  Lore, son of Research,

  Research, son of Knowledge,

  Knowledge, son of Intelligence,

  Intelligence, son of Comprehension,

  Comprehension, son of Wisdom,

  Wisdom, son of the gods.”

  “I see,” she said dryly. “Well, that answers that.” “My dear, it is as much an answer as you deserve. But I will tell you my name in spite of that, for all my life I have had a weakness for beautiful women.”

  She almost smiled, for she felt the effects of his charm in spite of herself.

  “I am Dudod ap Cyvarnion var Hunydd. And your husband had my brother, Anieron, killed,” the man said softly. But for all its softness the last sentence was said with a tone of such underlying rage and grief, that Aelfwyn was almost afraid.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” she said formally, not knowing what else to say. “And if you wish revenge on him, you will listen to what I have to say.”

  “You have news of a plot, the Doors tell us. A plot to capture the Dreamer.”

  “Yes,” she said eagerly. “And I have been told that the Bards of Kymru can put words to wings. If that is so, you may yet save him.”

  “Tell me of this plot,” Dudod said crisply. “And of your price.”

  “I have no price.”

  Dudod’s expressive brows quirked. “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Then I will rephrase. My price is simply that you use this information to keep the Dreamer free. For there is very little else that my husband desires beyond the capture of his false blood brother. And what my husband desires, he shall not have. That, if it can be said to be a price, is mine.”

  Dudod took a step nearer to her. He looked down on her upturned face and said softly, “It is a pity that the Golden Man would waste the Star of Heaven. For she, diamond hard and diamond bright, might have been warmed at a gentler fire.”

  For some reason she could not fathom his words brought tears to her eyes. Humiliated and angered by his sympathy, she spoke harshly. “That is none of your affair.”

  “You are right, Princess,” he said quietly. “Very right. So, then, we will move on to other things that are my affair. Tell me of this plot. And when it comes to fruition.”

  “Unless I am very much mistaken, it comes to fruition tonight.”

  Dudod, his eyes wide, reached out to her, grabbing her by the arms. “Tell me then,” he said swiftly. “Tell me, and I will give my words wings!”

  “I wish to speak to the High King. I will tell no other!”

  “You will tell me, Aelfwyn of Corania,” Dudod said evenly, gripping her shoulders tightly. “And if you do I will let you leave here unharmed.”

  “The High King—”

  “Is not available to you. But rest assured, he will know of this as though you spoke to him yourself.”

  She hesitated. Though Dudod had not said, she thought it likely that Arthur was not in Cadair Idris. And so she told him of the trap Arianrod had made for the Dreamer.

  Dudod released her then and she stumbled back. “Go,” the Bard said in a terrible voice. “Go, for you have done what you came to do.”

  Then Dudod lifted his face to the sky, and flung back his arms. And though Aelfwyn could not hear his cry with her ears, she knew some message sprang desperately from Dudod’s mind, speeding across the sky to the distant south.

  She only hoped it would be in time.

  GWYDION RODE NEXT to Cariadas at the rear of the party as they neared Cil. The gathering dusk shrouded the small group as they lead their horses through the thickening trees toward a small stream where they could camp for the night.

  The group that had left Caer Siddi with the Master Smiths in tow was dwindling. After returning to the mainland King Rhoram and Achren had equipped the lone Coranian guard for the journey to Eiodel. The man had looked as though he did not relish the task of carrying Arthur’s message. But carry it he would. Rhoram and his teulu had then split off and gone west, heading for the new headquarters set up in Penfro. It would be from Penfro that Rhoram—along with the help of Arthur and the Y Dawnus—would make his bid for the freedom of Prydyn.

  Indeed, the Cerddorian throughout Kymru were on the move to gather near the Coranian-held capitals. Prince Lludd in Ederynion was moving toward his new headquarters in Ial. And King Owein and his folk would soon be moving north, to the commote of Maenor Deilo, to be closer to Llwynarth. Queen Morrigan and her people had already moved to Cemais when their hiding place in Mynydd Tawel was compromised. Soon they would move back northeast, to Coed Dulas, to await the signal to take back Tegeingl.

  And then let Havgan face the Cerddorian of Kymru, the warriors who had waited for the past years to avenge the deaths of their friends and families and rulers. Then let the Warleader of Corania reap what he had sown.

  The Golden Man would have to stand and fight with what he had, for there would be no reinforcements to help him. Havgan’s ships had been burnt and the shores of Kymru were watched to ensure that no help from Corania could arrive in time. With Havgan dead the Coranians would no longer be a threat, for it had been the force of Havgan’s personality, the force of Havgan’s schemes, the force of Havgan’s terrible, terrible need that had bound Corania to this venture.

  The next step in this deadly game would be to free Queen Elen in Ederynion and Queen Enid in Rheged, for Arthur would not leave these two as hostages in the hands of the Coranians when the war began again in earnest. Even now Ceindrech, Aergol’s lover and the mother of his son, was on her way to Ederynion to meet up with Prince Lludd. And King Owein, along with the Druid, Yrth, and a few of his trusted people would soon be on their way to Llwynarth to take Queen Enid back from the enemy.

  In Gwynedd, Myrrdin and Rhodri were awaiting their chance to rid Kymru of Rhodri’s son, the traitorous King Madoc. And then it would be time to deal with Cathbad, the Archdruid, who would dare to use the ceremony of tarw-casgliad to ensure Havgan’s place as ruler of Kymru. For that alone Modron the Mother would surely fry her Archdruid to a crisp. Gwydion was only surprised that she had not done so before this.

  Yes, the Kymri were on the move, and plans were reaching fruition. By Calan Llachar, less than three months from now, the gamble would be lost or won. They would either all be dead, or be free.

  They reached the stream as twilight surrounded them, and Gwydion and his six companions let their horses dip their heads and drink their fill. There were only six left now of the original group that had rescued the Master Smiths from bondage, for yesterday Arthur had split their party even further. He had sent the Druids—Aergol, Aldwr, Menw, and Sabrina—ahead to Cadair Idris with the Master Smiths and their families, giving them orders to make their way to the mountain by circling northwest around Llyn Mwyngil. He gave Aergol the leadership of that party, telling him to split the groups even smaller as he saw fit to ensure that they reached Cadair Idris. Arthur had said that it was best to have the Druids protect the Smiths, and perhaps he was right, for these Druids were experienced and capable. Yet Gwydion knew there were other reasons for Arthur to split the party.

  He thought he understood why. For, besides Gwydion and Rhiannon, the High King had retained in his party the four young people that would, in the fullness of time, be the High King’s Great Ones—Cariadas as his Dreamer, Llywelyn as his Ardewin, Sinend as his Archdruid, and Cynfar as his Master Bard. During this trip Arthur had spoken to these four extensively, getting to know them better, storing in his mind and heart who they were, what they wanted, what—and who—they loved and hated. Gwydion watched him do it and silently applauded the young man. For he saw Arthur examine these four as o
ne might examine a set of tools that one needed for a delicate, prolonged task.

  And he saw something more—he saw the seeds of friendship and love sown between these five. And Gwydion would wonder what the years ahead might bring and know that, whatever they brought, his dreams of the future were nearing an end as Mabon of the Sun prepared to welcome another Dreamer.

  And he was not sorry, for he was more than ready to hand over the dreams to his daughter. He had been Dreamer of Kymru for almost eighteen years and he had sacrificed a great deal to fulfill his task. Soon he would be able to turn to Rhiannon and beg her to give him the chance to show her how very, very much he loved her. When King Rhoram had been a part of their party Gwydion had watched the two of them and had, finally, discovered something—that he did not need to be jealous of the King of Prydyn. For Rhoram had his eye on another woman now, and Rhiannon knew it and did not care. It had become evident even to Gwydion that Rhoram was in love with the captain of his Cerddorian—and that the captain of his Cerddorian was far too wary to reciprocate. He did not doubt for one moment that Achren would lead Rhoram quite a dance. And that Rhiannon would be smiling all the while.

  Ah, Rhiannon. As always he knew exactly where she was without having to check. And he knew she was watching him, without having to raise his head to see. She had been keeping her eye on him closely for the last few days. She was watching him because she knew him too well. She knew he was planning something, but she did not know what. She had no inkling that he had been in contact with Arianrod, but she knew enough to be sure he was planning something of which she would not approve.

  Gwydion knew that no one would approve of what he meant to do. For he would spring the trap that Arianrod had thought to capture him with. He was not such a fool as Arianrod apparently thought he was, for he knew better than to fully believe her.

  It was unlikely that Arianrod would so easily turn herself and Llywd Cilcoed over to Arthur. That she wanted protection for herself and her child from Havgan he could readily believe. She had always discarded her lovers before they could discard her. And Havgan must be tiring of his pregnant mistress. But Arianrod’s price did not seem to be enough. He was sure she had some plan to gain more. Which she would, if she held the life of the Dreamer in her hands. With that she could bargain with Arthur for anything she wanted for herself and her child—guarantees of protection, the comforts of life, whatever she thought she would need.

  As surely as he knew his own name he knew that Arianrod was planning to double-cross both Llywd Cilcoed and himself, but he had not yet determined how. He had kept a close eye on her the past few days, surreptitiously Wind-Riding to observe her.

  Last night he had Wind-Ridden and found her in a tiny clearing outside of Cil, just where she said she would be. There had been one other in that clearing—Llwyd Cilcoed, the one-time lover of Queen Olwen of Ederynion. Llywd had been staring blankly down at his tied hands. He had been pale and shocked as he huddled on the cold ground, looking over at Arianrod, who had sat smiling on a convenient log, trimming her nails with a gleaming dagger. Gwydion had seen the dull gleam of gray lead around the Dewin’s neck and, for a moment, almost pitied the man. He could think of few worse things than to be collared.

  He had told Arianrod that he would not come to her alone. But he had, of course, lied. He would do this thing himself. He did not need anyone else’s help.

  His horse lifted its head and snorted. He led the horse from the stream and fastened the reins to a nearby sapling. That done, he looked up and caught the gleam of Rhiannon’s emerald eyes fastened on him as the dusk deepened.

  RHIANNON KNEW BETTER than to put any faith at all in the innocent looks of inquiry that Gwydion kept giving her whenever he would raise his head and see her staring at him.

  He knew perfectly well why she watched him so closely. He was planning something. And she would not let him get away with whatever foolish action he was contemplating.

  She knew him very well by now. Nothing he could say or do would surprise her. Indeed, it did not surprise her at all that, even after all their time together—almost six years—he would not share with her what he was thinking. He might trust her when the occasion seemed to demand it, but he would not think he needed her. Not now and not ever.

  But he did need her. Not in the way she used to hope for, for Gwydion’s heart was closed and locked and she would not humiliate herself any longer by standing before that door and begging to be let in. It would not open—at least, for her—and that was an end to it.

  No, he did not need her as his lover. But he did need her as his partner in this long and deadly game they played with fate. She would have thought that even a man as stubborn and prideful as Gwydion ap Awst would have understood by now that he could not do everything alone. Sometimes she thought he had learned that lesson, but then he would always go back to who he truly was. When he had publicly apologized for his unreasoning anger toward her when she had saved his life at the Storm Tree, she had thought for a brief time that his pride would allow him to at least acknowledge her as a trusted friend. But that had not lasted. None of the times he had been gentle with her—and there were a few—had ever lasted. He would always seem to come to some realization that he had been kind, and would repent of that. Why he did this she truly did not know. She doubted that she ever would.

  But she was done with eating her heart out for Gwydion ap Awst, so she no longer cared why he insisted on keeping her and the rest of the world at arm’s length. Of course, she seemed to decide that she was through with him quite a lot. And then he would smile at her and his silvery eyes would glow and her wayward heart would skip a beat. Sometimes, like the time he had danced with her at Alban Awyr in Allt Llwyd, she had seen something in his face that made her heart beat faster. Sometimes she would lay awake and wonder what it would be like if she kissed him and let the passion she knew he had inside loose. And she did know that it was there, for she had felt it that day by the lake in Ederynion when he had forgotten himself long enough to kiss her.

  But here she was again thinking about those things when she had vowed to stop thinking of them. For the hopes and dreams she had about being loved by the Dreamer were hollow. And always would be. She determined again, for the thousandth time, to remember that.

  And remember that she would. But for now that was not her concern. Her concern was that Gwydion was planning something, thinking something, scheming something. And she would not let him out of her sight until she knew what it was.

  GWYDION LOOKED AT Arthur as Llywelyn laid the last log for the fire. He wanted to give Arthur a chance to start the fire if he wished. Arthur returned Gwydion’s gaze and nodded to him. Gwydion stretched out his hand and huge, perfectly formed rose-blossoms, made of flames, bloomed over the wood. They floated down and touched the logs and fire burst forth.

  “Very pretty, Da,” Cariadas said approvingly as she stretched out her hands toward the flames.

  “Thank you,” Gwydion said gravely, although there was laughter in his eyes. “But it was not I that lit the fire.”

  “But Arthur nodded to you! I thought he meant that you could do it and not him,” Cariadas protested, looking over at the High King.

  “I did,” Arthur agreed. “But it was not I that lit the fire either.”

  Sinend, the future Archdruid, looked up from her contemplation of the flames. “I did it,” the young woman said firmly.

  They were all somewhat surprised, for Sinend rarely said anything, much less in such a firm tone.

  “Because?” Arthur asked quietly, although Gwydion did not think Arthur was puzzled.

  “Because I am the Archdruid’s heir,” Sinend said simply. “It is I who should Fire-Weave, for that is a druidic gift.”

  “One that both the High King and the Dreamer happen to share,” Rhiannon said gently.

  “Nonetheless, protocol states that, even in the presence of the High King and the Dreamer, the first right of refusal to Fire-Weave belongs to the Archdruid
.”

  “She’s right,” Cynfar said. “That is the proper protocol.”

  “And I am happy to bow to that,” Arthur said with a smile. “I was not aware of that, for I am just an ignorant shepherd.”

  “Arthur!” Sinend said, shocked. “You are not an ignorant shepherd. You are High King!”

  “I was not offended, Sinend,” Arthur replied. “Merely stating a fact.”

  “My intention, High King,” Sinend said earnestly, “was not to belittle you in any way! It was merely to—”

  Arthur, smiling at the vehemence in her tone, held up his hand and Sinend fell silent. “Archdruid’s heir, that you should point out the proper method of showing respect to the Archdruid pleases me. The responsibility of leading the Druids back from their darkness, begun by your father, will later fall to you. I would not have servile Druids in Kymru. I would have ones that know their worth and their place. Ones that are proud to be what they are, and yet ones that acknowledge their true master. Ones that revere the Mother but serve their High King. And I see, now, that you are a worthy heir of the task to ensure that such Druids are made.”

  “And,” Rhiannon said with a smile, “they were such lovely roses.”

  Sinend, who had reddened with embarrassment at Arthur’s words, smiled shyly at Rhiannon.

  “And I know whereof I speak,” Rhiannon went on. “I have traveled leagues and leagues and even more leagues with the Dreamer and have seen him start more fires than either one of us could count. And there would be new ways of doing that every day. Honeycomb and wheat fields, and fiery horses and swords and flame-colored waterfalls and I don’t know what all.”

  Gwydion was still as Rhiannon spoke. He knew she was leading up to something. He could tell by the tone of her voice, although he did not think the others were aware of it yet—except, perhaps, for Arthur.