by Holly Taylor
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “Except that I am not in the least bit tired.” And that was true. He was far too keyed up to be tired.
He poured wine into two golden goblets chased with opals and handed her a cup. She took it and sat at the edge of the hearth. The firelight cast a glow over her smooth features, and her green eyes sparkled in the light of the dancing flames. He took a seat next to her on the hearth. He took a sip of wine, then set the cup down. With a deep breath, he turned to her and began.
“When you heard me Wind-Speak to you, from my captivity, you said you knew I had not escaped,” he said abruptly.
She nodded. “Yes, I knew.”
“You knew that I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“I did indeed.”
“How did you know?” he pressed. For he thought that she would say that she knew him too well to be fooled. And that would be his opening to tell her the truth. But she surprised him.
“Because you called me cariad,” she said with a shrug. “You called me beloved throughout your communication with me. That’s how I knew that someone was telling you what to say, that you were still a prisoner. You would never have called me that on your own.”
“Oh,” he said, for he had not expected that answer. “Oh. Well, as to that—” He broke off for he was unsure how to proceed, and so very afraid.
“Don’t be concerned about it, Gwydion,” she said, putting the cup down. “There is nothing to explain. I didn’t misunderstand for a moment.” She rose. “Goodnight.”
She turned to go but Gwydion rose and stopped her. “Rhiannon. Cariad,”, he said softly. He reached out and framed her beautiful face with his hands.
Her eyes widened. “What?” she whispered. “What are you—”
“Oh, beloved. Did you not know that I have called you that in my heart for so many, many years?” he asked softly, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Did you never guess?”
“Gwydion,” she whispered.
“Oh, my love,” he said. “I beg you to forgive me. All these years wasted. But I was afraid.”
“Afraid?” she asked.
He guided her back to the hearth and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. He tried to explain to her how it had been with his father and mother. How his mother had done all she could to control his father, making Gwydion’s home a battlefield. How his father had rarely come home because of that, how Gwydion had grown up so lonely. And that horror-filled moment when he had discovered their bodies, knowing that his father had died at his mother’s hands.
“From that moment I vowed never to fall in love, never to let a woman into my heart,” he said. “I vowed that my only love would be my duty as Dreamer. It was the only safe thing to cling to. But then I met you. Remember that first time?”
Rhiannon nodded, but did not speak.
“You and Gwen were living in that cave. And you appeared from behind the waterfall. And, oh, you were so beautiful. My heart—even then I think—knew you. When we searched for Caladfwlch I could barely take my eyes from you. That day on Afalon when Amatheon died and I was so cruel to you still shames me.”
“Gwydion—”
“Please, let me speak. When we went to Corania, how often I wanted to take you in my arms, to tell you the truth. But I couldn’t. Not there, for I knew that you still loved Rhoram, and I was afraid. And then when we came back here, and I knew you would be seeing him again, I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t.”
He was almost babbling now in his eagerness to make her understand, in his fear that she would turn away from him if he stopped talking. And all the while he was speaking to her she simply stared at him, her eyes wide and clearly shocked.
“That day by the lake, the day you found the Stone, the day I thought you dead—nothing was worse than that. I wanted to kiss you again so badly, but I couldn’t. I was afraid that I would fail in my duty to Kymru if I—even once—let you know the kind of power you truly had over me. And now—”
“And now?” she prompted when he hesitated for a moment.
“And now I know that my fears are meaningless. Now I know that nothing else matters but that I love you so. When I was wandering in my mind, trapped in the dark, I called for you. I knew that you and you alone could save me. I knew that if I ever saw you again I must tell you this truth. And you would make of it what you would. I beg for you not to tell me that it is too late. But if you do, know that I will still love you. I will love you forever, and if you will allow me to, I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”
He paused, looking into her beautiful eyes. Behind her the flames of the fire leapt higher. “The truth I learned at last is that my love for you did not weaken me. It strengthened me. Without you I could not have done my duty at all. Without you I would not have come back from Corania alive. Without you Caladfwlch would not have been found, nor the Treasures. Without you, Arthur would not be High King. Most of all, without you, I will never smile or laugh again. You are all that I want. All that I need. And I love you so.”
He reached out and took her face in his hands. His thumb brushed her lips and he leaned forward to kiss her. Her lips tasted sweet, so sweet that he was dizzy with desire for her. He plunged his hands into her silken hair, delighting in the softness of it. He kissed her with rising passion. At last he released her mouth, murmuring her name, raining kisses on her face and her slender throat until they were both breathless.
“I love you,” he whispered, pulling back a little to look into her eyes.
“Convince me,” she said. And behind the challenge in her eyes was the promise of things he had barely dared to dream.
“I have always loved you. I always will love you.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, love me, Gwydion. Love me. As I love you.”
His breath caught in his throat as she said the words he had longed to hear. But he began slowly. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her fingers, one by one. Her fingers curved around his mouth and he look up at her. Her green eyes were smokey with desire. His hand found the laces of her gown and he loosened them, baring her shoulders on which he rained tiny kisses. She shivered. He gently pulled down the front of her gown and kissed her silky skin.
He raised his head to look at her. “Rhiannon?” he questioned.
She understood what he wanted to know. She reached out and unfastened the laces of his tunic, then drew off his undershirt. They undressed each other slowly until they stood naked together in front of the fire. He gazed at her, his eyes hot and glowing. He picked her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down on the red coverlet. He bent over her and kissed her again.
“Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg,” he whispered. “I love you.” He took her slowly, giving her all of himself, holding nothing back. At the peak of their ecstasy they cried out together and he called out her name.
Then he gathered her in his arms, his heart still beating wildly from his release. “Cariad,” he whispered as he stroked her hair. “Beloved. Forever.”
SIGERRIC STOOD IN the center of the marketplace in Dinmael. Coranian soldiers ringed the perimeter, their axes and spears at the ready, pinning the people of the city within the crowded market. When a certain measure of quiet was obtained, Sigerric began.
“People of Dinmael, be it known that Havgan the Golden, ruler of all Kymru, calls you to task for your complicity in a crime. For not many days ago Queen Elen was spirited away from Caer Dwfr.”
Even now the Kymri were defiant, for cheers erupted from the crowd at the mention of Elen’s escape.
“It is each one of you who allowed this to happen,” Sigerric called out. “For her rescuers could not have entered and left the city without your knowledge and cooperation. And for this you will be punished.”
He signaled to one of the lieutenants, and the man nodded. The lieutenant lit his torch and raised it over his head. He swung it from side to side, facing the docks to the southeast, once, twice, three times.
“Even
now soldiers are destroying your boats,” Sigerric cried.
An angry mutter broke from the people gathered there.
“You have brought this on yourselves,” Sigerric went on. “The docks will be destroyed. And so will the marketplace.”
At his words smoke from the southeast began to rise into the air. And the soldiers around the marketplace began to move in, pushing the people aside, making for the stalls. They began to tear the stalls down, throwing goods onto the streets, trampling and ruining them.
At first Sigerric thought that the Kymri would rise up against the soldiers and he braced himself. Something he felt in the air told him that everything hung in the balance at that moment. But something, he did not know what, and he did not know from where it came, calmed the crowd. Perhaps it was whispered words of patience. Perhaps it was promises that the destruction would be righted. Perhaps it was remembrance that Cadair Idris glowed again with the coming of the High King, and that Arthur would not suffer his people to remain under the Coranian yoke forever. Perhaps it was the knowledge hidden in their hearts that they would win in the end.
Whatever it was, it prevailed that day. The Coranian solders continued their destructive work unhindered by the people of Dinmael. And if the people did not attempt to stop the destruction neither did they appear to mourn it. No one cried out at the loss of goods. No one tried to save anything. They simply stood quietly, murmuring things amongst themselves, as though the destruction around them was meaningless.
They were right, of course, Sigerric thought. But not for the reason they thought. For the destruction of the marketplace and the docks meant nothing to Sigerric, either. That was not why he was here.
Though the Kymri did not know that. And would not know that until it was far, far too late.
The docks southeast of the city were burned and ruined. Boats drifted in the sea, some half burned, some with holes in their sides and slowly sinking, some simply set adrift. Later the people of the city would swim out to some of these boats and bring them back in for repair. Other boats drifted farther out to sea, riding past the waves that attempted to halt them.
As twilight fell over the sea, one boat, far, far away from shore rocked violently. A man’s head appeared from within the boat. The man peered around, making sure he was far from shore. Then he sat up, took the oars from the bottom of the boat, and locked them into place.
The man smoothed back his scanty, gray hair and raised the tiny sail. He then grasped the oars and began to row. He had a long way to go, he knew, to reach the shores of the Coranian Empire. But he could do it, and do it in time. He had assured Lord Havgan that he could, and Torgar knew better than to fail.
He would reach Corania and find the Emperor’s brother and give him Havgan’s message.
And Corania would then be able to defeat the witches of Kymru once and for all.
Part 3
Day Break
Whence come night and dawn,
Whither the earth is moving on slowly,
The hiding place of night before day.
Taliesin, Fifth
Master Bard
Circa 277
Chapter
* * *
Thirteen
Eiodel & Cair Duir
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 500
Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—midmorning
You must be out of your mind!” Sigerric cried.
Cathbad, Archdruid of Kymru, stiffened in his chair at the insult. But he attempted to keep his voice even when he replied. “I am not out of my mind. And I must insist that you do this the way I say.”
“There is no way,” Sigerric went on furiously, “that I am going to let Havgan go to Caer Duir without a guard. No way under the sun.” For a moment he wondered why he was still such a fool, why he was still so determined to protect the life of the man he had once called friend—once, but no longer. But he knew why. Loyalty was an integral part of who he was. He had always known that. If only he had had the wit to have been more discriminating on whom he originally bestowed it.
“He must come without his men,” Cathbad continued to insist. “The ceremony of tarw-casgliad is sacred to the Druids. Anything which smacks of coercion will compromise the results of the ceremony.”
“You are a fine one to talk about compromising the ceremony,” Sigerric sneered, unable to bear the smug tone of the Archdruid. “Are you not using it for your own ends?”
Cathbad rose, his face suffused with rage. “I am doing this for the Druids! Not for my own aggrandizement!”
“Ha!” Sigerric cried.
The two men continued to argue with each other in the dim chamber at Eiodel, Havgan’s dark fortress. The chamber contained a few slit-like windows, which should have brightened it somewhat as the midmorning sun streamed down. But Havgan’s form blocked the light from the north window, as he stood there looking out over the plain to Cadair Idris, the mountain hall of the High King of Kymru, the edifice that was still denied to him.
A fire glowed feebly on the hearth, shifting shadows across the ceiling and walls. Firelight glinted occasionally off the goblets of ruby and gold on the dark oak wood table that stood in the center of the room.
Cathbad’s dark eyes, even in the gloom, seemed to Sigerric to give off a mad glow. Sigerric knew that the time had almost come to discard this increasingly erratic tool. After the ceremony, perhaps.
Finally Havgan moved, shifting around to gaze at Sigerric and Cathbad. At his movement both of them fell silent.
“We shall do it as the Archdruid says,” Havgan said.
Sigerric was outraged. “What? Go alone? What better time might the Kymri have to kill you than at Caer Duir?”
“You will be surrounded by loyal Druids,” Cathbad insisted, his old face almost breaking into a smile at his triumph.
“Don’t be a fool, Cathbad,” Havgan said smoothly. “Your Druids are anything but loyal.”
Cathbad’s face darkened. “I must protest—”
“Don’t argue with me,” Havgan said his tone smooth but his words clipped. “Your own heir has recently gone to Arthur, taking with him your most talented teachers, as well as his own son. Is that not so?”
“It is,” Cathbad said, making the admission reluctantly. “But that was only six of my Druids. The rest—”
“Are waiting to see who is the stronger—you or Aergol.”
“Say rather, you or Arthur,” Sigerric cut in, speaking to Havgan.
“Yes, you are right,” Havgan replied, crossing the room to pour a cup of wine. The rubies on the cup glittered in the uncertain light like old blood. “I can tell you now which of us is the stronger. For Cathbad will declare me the true High King in the tarw-casglaid ceremony and I will have a claim to Kymru. The restlessness of the Druids will be stilled. And they will, in turn, still the restlessness of the people.”
Sigerric opened his mouth to point out the obvious flaws, but shut it as Havgan raised his amber hawk eyes to him. He saw that Havgan was fully aware that this would not be enough to make him High King of Kymru. The only real way to do that was to defeat the Cerddorian and Arthur utterly on the field of battle. And this was just what Havgan was planning to do—providing the old sailor made it to Corania with Havgan’s message. But all this was something that Cathbad had best not know. So Sigerric remained silent.
Havgan turned to Cathbad, and the Archdruid’s complexion turned from angry red to fearful white as Havgan’s amber gaze pinned him, like the soaring hawk that sights the trembling mouse far below. After a few moments Havgan spoke, very softly. “You will not fail me in this, Archdruid.”
“Great Warleader,” Cathbad stammered at the glimpse of the future promised in Havgan’s predatory eyes should he fail, “I will not.”
“Good,” Havgan said softly.
Gwaithdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—noon
CATHBAD STOOD IN the center of the sacred grove of Nemed Derwen. Hundreds of mighty oaks, the tree sacred to Modron the Mother
, planted in circle after widening circle, radiated out from the clearing and lifted their branches to the noonday sun. Cathbad faced west, the direction of the element of earth, but he could still keep an eye on the south, the direction that Havgan and Sigerric would be led through the trees. Even through the shifting oaks he could glimpse the massive, dark standing stone that made up Aelwyd Derwen, the burial mounds of the Archdruids.
Brown-robed Druids lined the perimeter of the clearing. The most senior, those teachers still left at Caer Duir, stood next to him, engrossed in their own tasks. Two of them sharpened their knives. The sounds of the whetstones grated on Cathbad’s ears, but he said nothing. One of them tended a pot of boiling water that hung on a spit over a crackling fire. The fourth held a sickle of gold, and the sunlight that pooled in the clearing flashed off the curved blade. The fifth held a white, pristine cloth. All five, like the rest of the Druids around the clearing, had their hoods up, covering the sides of their faces, casting their countenances into impenetrable shadow.
Cathbad was dressed in a robe of rich green trimmed in velvety brown. Around his shoulders was a cape of brown bull hide, fastened with brooches of gold and sparkling emerald. The Archdruid’s massive golden torque, glittering with emeralds, was clasped around his thin neck. On his head he wore a tiara of shining gold, studded with the verdant stones.
Even though what he would do here today had been staged in advance, Cathbad was not afraid of offending Modron. For all that he did was with one aim in mind—to increase the power of the Druids in Kymru. And surely Modron would not object to that. Were the Druids not her sons and daughters? Modron would understand and he did not fear that the ceremony—and its preordained conclusion—would enrage his goddess.
Aergol had, of course, disagreed. He had shouted that he would not be a part of such a mockery, such traitorous behavior to the Mother. He had spoken of the sacred nature of the rite, of the responsibility of the Archdruid to dream truly and to declare truly. For the tarw-casglaid was a holy rite, a ceremony to enable the Archdruid to speak to the Mother and hear her will and to dare to use it otherwise was to invite disaster.