Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Watching all those people eat made Gwydion feel a little queasy. Susanna noticed it, of course. “Not feeling too well are we?” she asked loudly.

  Gwydion winced. “There’s no need to shout.”

  Susanna grinned. “Perhaps I should fetch Arday. She might want to do something about the hangover of yours.”

  “If you so much as think about it, Susanna, I swear I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” she challenged.

  “Now, now, children. No fighting.” Griffi said in a paternal tone. “I think I hear the runners now.”

  A shout went up from the crowd. People rushed to clear a space for the runners. Twelve men sprinted across the square, legs pumping, sweat pouring down their faces.

  Griffi and Susanna took up their positions next to the tree, a purple ribbon stretched between them, held tightly in their hands. Gwydion saw that Cai and Madoc were in the lead. He wondered what had possessed Madoc to enter the race. He had always thought the man far too indolent to do such a thing.

  Neck and neck the two men raced to the finish line. At the last moment, Cai, in what seemed to be a superhuman burst of speed, pulled ahead and broke through the purple ribbon a fraction of a second before Madoc did.

  The crowd cheered wildly, for Cai was a favorite with the people of Tegeingl. Gwydion grabbed Cai’s arm and raised it high in the air, shouting, “I declare Cai ap Cynyr, the PenGwernan of Gwynedd, winner and king of Calan Llachar!”

  Chest heaving, his face wreathed in smiles, Cai staggered back as his wife burst through the crowd, throwing herself into his arms. He swung her around, laughing, and planted a quick, hearty kiss on her lips. Then somebody yelled, “You can do better than that, boyo.” Cai grinned and gave Nest a long, leisurely kiss, which the crowd cheered even more wildly.

  “Hmm, who do you think Cai will chose for his festival queen?” Griffi asked.

  “Looks like Arday has been disappointed again,” Susanna said, nodding to the sight of Arday wiping Madoc’s perspiring face.

  Gwydion’s jaw dropped open. “Arday and Madoc?”

  “You just weren’t fast enough, Gwydion. With some women you’ve got to be pretty quick,” Griffi replied.

  “That woman’s got no taste at all,” Gwydion said sourly.

  “Why do you think she went for you first?” Susanna asked. “Oh, look, Cai’s starting his climb.”

  With a mighty leap, Cai grabbed hold of one of the lowest branches on the huge tree and began to climb amid catcalls from the exuberant crowd. As he neared the top, he reached for the crown woven of rowan flowers and marigold. The delicate white of the rowan and the hardy orange of the marigolds seemed to flash in the sun as he reached for them. Perhaps that was why he lost his balance and slipped from the branch he was standing on. The crowd gasped, but Cai caught himself just in time, grabbed the branch and hauled himself up again. He waved at the crowd and carefully picked up the crown.

  Cai descended, the crown clutched tightly in one hand. Proudly he made his way up to Nest and, placing the crown on her shining brown hair, knelt at her feet.

  Voice trembling with tenderness, Nest spoke the ritual words, “I call to the King of the Hunt, the Lord of the Wild. To the woman be man. To the Queen, be King.”

  “I seek no kingdom. But as Protector, I answer. Hunt with me and I will be man to your woman. And King to your Queen.” Cai replied steadily. Nest held out her hand to her husband and Cai rose, the ritual complete.

  “Great king of Calan Llachar, what are your orders?” Gwydion called out.

  “To dance!” Cai shouted gleefully. At his signal, dozens of men and women formed two rings around the tree. Those in the inner ring, Cai and Nest among them, grasped the orange and purple ribbons hanging from the lower branches. The others placed themselves within the outer ring. As Susanna grabbed her harp and struck up a tune the dancers in the inner ring began to circle the tree, twining the ribbons around the trunk as they danced. The dancers in the outer ring circled in the opposite direction, while those not dancing began to clap their hands in time to the music.

  After a moment Susanna began to sing and others picked up the chant.

  Fair season, welcome noble Spring.

  Flowers cover the world.

  The harp of the wood plays melody,

  Color has settled on every hill.

  Tender fruits bud,

  The speckled fish leaps on high.

  The glory of great hills is unspoiled,

  Every wood is fair.

  A joyful peace is spring!

  Everyone shouted the last words. At the shout the dancers changed direction, untwining the ribbons as they danced. The verse was sung again, and when the crowd shouted, “A joyful peace is spring!” the dancers again changed direction, once more twinning the ribbons around the trunk of the tree.

  Gwydion glanced up at the sun. It looked like some unimaginable giant had taken a tiny bite from the edge of the great glowing disk. He glanced over at Griffi. “You called it. It begins right on time.”

  “Of course I called it. We Druids are astronomers, you know.”

  At that moment, Cai shouted to Gwydion. “Over here, man! Dance with us.”

  The orders of the king of Calan Llachar could not be disregarded, but Gwydion tried anyway, shaking his head. He hated to dance.

  “I command you, Dreamer of Kymru, to dance!” Cai shouted again. A few hardy souls grabbed Gwydion by the arms and hauled him up to a grinning Cai. Laughing, Nest and Cai each grabbed a hand.

  “Now, Dreamer, dance with us!” Cai said. Gwydion did, executing the complex steps perfectly.

  “Why, Gwydion, you’re a wonderful dancer,” Nest complimented him. “I never knew that!”

  “That’s because he never dances,” her husband replied.

  “Why not?” Nest asked curiously.

  “I don’t like it,” Gwydion replied shortly.

  “Dancing’s too fun, right? Never met a man who hated to have fun as much as you do. Except for Madoc.”

  “There’s no need to be insulting, Cai.” Gwydion said stiffly.

  “Come now,” Nest laughed. “If Cai didn’t insult you then you’d need to worry!”

  When the dance was over Gwydion slipped away from the ring. The sky was darkening perceptibly.

  “When’s the next one?” Cai asked to Griffi, nodding up at the eclipsing sun.

  “Exactly eighteen years from now,” Griffi replied.

  “I wonder where we’ll all be then?” Cai mused.

  “Oh, we’ll all be old and fat, I’m sure. Isn’t that right, Gwydion?” Griffi asked, grinning.

  Gwydion hesitated. He cleared his throat, absently scratching at his short beard. “Of course. We’ll all be old and fat. Particularly Cai, here.”

  “Why do you grow that beard if it itches?” Nest asked curiously.

  “I like it,” Gwydion replied shortly.

  “Sky’s getting darker,” Susanna said.

  “I’m going to the grove.” Gwydion announced. “That is, if the king of Calan Llachar will allow me?” He gave Cai a mock bow.

  “Indeed, you may go my good man.” Cai replied haughtily. “You may give Ygraine my best regards.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s one way to get beaten to a pulp,” Gwydion said sourly as he began to make his way out of the square. As he walked through the crowd he was so intent on his own thoughts that he did not notice that people instantly give way before him, fairly melting out of his path.

  As he neared the grove, the ring of alder trees shivered. The wind was coming up, as the sky grew dim. Making his way through the trees, Gwydion noticed that the birds had stopped singing. An unearthly silence was spreading over the grove, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves stirred by the stiffening breeze.

  Ygraine was walking the perimeter of the clearing, supported by Uthyr, who was speaking in low, encouraging tones. Her white over-robe discarded, she wore a short rose-colored linen shift, now drenched with sweat. Her hair
was braided tightly to her scalp, and her still imperious back was to Gwydion.

  Amatheon stood by the altar stone, arms folded, absently eyeing the darkening sky. On the grass next to the stone a wool blanket had been spread, a low backrest squatting on the blanket. The back was covered with a cushion, the Hawk of Gwynedd embroidered on it in silver thread. The wooden arms were polished to a smooth, satiny finish.

  Cynan was standing on the other side of the stone, supervising a small fire, where a pot of water was boiling. Another pot of water sat on the ground close by. A tiny woolen blanket, a large golden bowl, and a jar of oil rested on top of the stone.

  “How goes it?” Gwydion asked Cynan.

  “Oh, hello, Gwydion. It won’t be long now.” Cynan’s eyes darted nervously across the grove to Ygraine. “I don’t think she wants you here.”

  Cynan looked decidedly uncomfortable. He, too, had seen the figures last night. Perhaps he also feels the tension in the air, Gwydion mused. Now that his hangover was beginning to subside, Gwydion was aware once again of the feeling that something—that someone—was coming.

  A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn quickly. He stared hard at the trees, but nothing looked out of place.

  “Who won the race, Gwydion?” Amatheon asked, joining them.

  “Cai did. Madoc came in second.”

  “Gwydion, I really don’t think Ygraine—too late,” Cynan sighed.

  Slowly, with Uthyr’s aid, Ygraine crossed the grove and stood before the three men. Uthyr looked anxious and weary, but he stood firmly by his wife’s side.

  “What are you doing here?” Ygraine asked. “I told Cynan to allow no one else.” She stopped abruptly, a spasm of pain rippling across her face. Then she turned her cool, dark eyes on Gwydion.

  “Let me guess,” Gwydion said. “You want me to leave.”

  “Out.”

  Gwydion withdrew from the grove without argument. He wasn’t going to tangle with her over such a minor issue. He could observe the birth from the shelter of the surrounding trees. Quietly he returned to the edge of the clearing, screening himself behind the trees. The sky drew darker by the minute. Soon they would have to light the torches. He squinted up at the sky. The sun was almost two-thirds covered now and the wind was picking up.

  “Didn’t go too far, did you?” Amatheon spoke in his mind.

  “No one’s going to keep me from this, brother. Or don’t you recall who is being born today?” Gwydion replied.

  “I know.”

  Uthyr continued to walk with Ygraine at a steady pace around and around the grove. Amatheon and Cynan lit torches as the sky continued to darken.

  Flicker. Again that movement—just out of one’s range of sight. Gwydion turned his head quickly, but could not see anything out of the ordinary. Yet there was something there. He knew it. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he shivered as the darkness continued to swallow the grove.

  “Now, I think.” Ygraine said to Uthyr. He guided her to the blanket and helped her down onto it. She lay propped up against the backrest, her hands gripping the wooden arms, her legs drawn up and apart, as Amatheon knelt in front of her. Cynan dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water, and gently sponged her face.

  “All right, Ygraine,” Amatheon said quietly. “Push.”

  Ygraine took a deep breath and bore down.

  “Again,” Amatheon said.

  The wind moaned through the trees. To Gwydion it sounded like a howling beast. Or horns, he thought suddenly, the horns of the Hunt.

  Flicker. Again the brief movement at the edge of his vision. And again, nothing there. The darkness was almost complete. A thin, fiery ring was all that remained of the sun, the center filled with darkness.

  Then the light was gone. The stars seemed to spring from the sky, shining coldly in the sudden night.

  “Again,” Amatheon ordered.

  Ygraine took a deep breath and pushed. “Now. Oh, Shining Ones,” she gasped.

  Suddenly, in the very center of the grove, two figures appeared. To Gwydion’s eyes, they seemed to glow in the darkness. One figure had antlers springing from his forehead, untamed topaz eyes glimmering. The other was a woman with long, black hair and a pitiless, amethyst gaze. His dream had come to the grove as Cerrunnos and Cerridwen, standing motionless, stared down at the woman on the blanket.

  Neither Uthyr nor Ygraine gave any sign that they saw the two glowing figures. But Gwydion saw Amatheon’s and Cynan’s eyes widen, and heard them draw in a quick breath. But at Uthyr’s anxious, questioning gaze they shook their heads, indicating that nothing was amiss.

  Then Cerrunnos raised a horn to his lips, and, as Ygraine’s single, shocking scream tore through the air, he blew the horn. The two sounds mingled in a dreadful counterpoint, and then the grove was quiet. The figures were gone. A small, pitiful wail rose up into the dark sky.

  “A boy,” Amatheon called out in delight. “A beautiful, sturdy, healthy boy.” Gently, he laid the squirming baby on Ygraine’s belly. She reached out a trembling hand to the child. “A son,” she whispered. She turned her head slightly to look at Uthyr, crouched next to her. “My love, we have a son!”

  Uthyr stared at the baby, then gently kissed Ygraine’s forehead. “Yes, cariad. We have a son this day.”

  Amatheon reached for the child. With woolen thread he quickly tied off the birth cord, then severed it. Then he picked up the baby and handed him to Cynan. Cynan gently laid him in the golden bowl of lukewarm water, washing him carefully. Dipping his hands into the jar of oil he cleaned the baby’s ears and nostrils with his little finger. Then he dried the tiny body and put the child into Uthyr’s large, sword-callused hands.

  Uthyr stood for a moment, looking down into the face of his tiny son. The child stopped crying, looking up at his father with wide eyes.

  “His name?” Amatheon asked Ygraine, for the mother alone named her child.

  “I name him Arthur. Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine.”

  Slowly, Uthyr raised his hands over his head, lifting the child to the sky, which had just begun to brighten again.

  “I name him Prince of Gwynedd, son and heir to all that I have.” Uthyr said in a tone of quiet wonder.

  Gwydion, watching through the trees heard voices on the wind, the sound of silver bells, the sound of golden chains. “We name him High King of Kymru; heir of Idris, heir of Macsen, heir of the mighty Lleu. We name him Arderydd, High Eagle, quarry of the Hunt. We name him ours.”

  Chapter Four

  Tegeingl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 482

  Lludydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—dusk

  Gwydion’s horse stumbled. Jolted out of his reverie, he noticed that dusk was beginning to settle over the quiet forest.

  “Sorry, Elise,” he said to his horse. “I didn’t realize it was so late.” He dismounted and, looking around spotted a clearing just a few yards to his right. Leading the way through the trees, his horse followed with exaggerated patience. When they reached the clearing and Gwydion took off the saddle to rub the horse down, he thought the animal was looking at him somewhat critically. “I said I was sorry,” Gwydion said defensively. Elise did not deign to answer. Instead, the horse slipped away from under Gwydion’s hands and, ambling over to a nearby bush, began to eat. Gwydion sighed. Elise was not the forgiving type.

  Leaving Elise to his meal, Gwydion began to gather wood for the fire, digging a shallow pit with his small shovel and resuming his interrupted musing.

  He did not want to go back to Tegeingl and do what he must do now. But there was no way to avoid it. He had not been to his brother’s city for four years, since the year Arthurs was born. Over and over he had avoided Uthyr’s invitations to return, citing excuse after excuse. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Uthyr. It was simply that he could not bear to look on Uthyr’s beloved face, knowing what he knew about Uthyr’s son, and not yet being prepared to speak of it.

  He had even avoided returning to Tegeingl
two years ago, when his niece had been born. He had been told that tiny Morrigan was a replica of her mother, but that she had her father’s smile and easy charm.

  Yet now he had to return whether he liked it or not. Because, in just four days time, young Arthur ap Uthyr would undergo the Plentyn Prawf, the test given to all children of Kymru to determine if they had the gifts. The test would be public, and, unless Gwydion’s plan worked, all of Kymru would discover that Arthur was destined to be High King. And that was something that had to be avoided for now, no matter what the cost. The child’s safety still lay in anonymity.

  The words of Cerrunnos hammered in his brain as he continued to set up camp for the night. “There are traitors among the Kymri,” the Lord of the Hunt had said. “Remember that those you can trust are few.”

  But that, of course, was something Gwydion had always known. There were very few people he trusted, in any case.

  He knew it would have been better, safer if he had taken Arthur away the day of his birth. But he had found it impossible to do so. He could not have deprived his brother of his firstborn son—not then. The time would come, and it would be soon, when he would have to do just that. He could not wait much longer. He must hide Arthur away soon and do what he could to ensure that the trail grew cold as quickly as possible.

  The wood laid, he stood back for a moment and passed his hand over the pit. The shape of a lion, glowing golden in the solitary clearing seemed to leap from the ground at Gwydion’s feet and fall hungrily onto the wood, setting it aflame. Elise looked over curiously but did not stop nibbling at his dinner. The horse could not be startled with the shapes Gwydion chose to light the fire any more—he was far too used to it by now.

  Gwydion smiled tightly. Once again he had proven to himself that the great Dreamer was not afraid of fire. Of course he was the only one to prove it to at the moment. But it was best to stay in practice. For it would be unthinkable for the Dreamer, whose element was fire, to be afraid of it. Unthinkable.

  The reddish gold of the crackling fire reminded him of his own little daughter, Cariadas, for her hair was exactly that shade. He smiled again, a true smile this time, at the thought of his tiny, perfect little girl. Although he had suffered much to get her, he was glad now that he had paid the price. As he stared into the fire, he thought on how it had all begun.