Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Dudod rose and took Gwen’s hand. “Well, you two have a great deal to talk about—”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Rhiannon broke in.

  “So Gwenhwyfar and I will be on our way,” Dudod continued smoothly. “Come, child.”

  Gwen hesitated, waiting for Rhiannon’s response. Rhiannon reluctantly nodded at her daughter, and the two left the cave.

  Rhiannon went to the hearth and poured two steaming cups of chamomile tea. She placed one in front of Gwydion and sat down at the table opposite him. Holding her mug with both hands, she took a few careful sips, frowning into her cup.

  “I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Gwydion began.

  “Have you?” she said in a disinterested tone.

  “I have,” he replied mildly, and supped his tea. He waited for Rhiannon to ask him the next, obvious question. But she did not. She drank her tea, ignoring him.

  “I went a lot of places looking for you. One place I went to was Arberth.”

  Her eyes cut to him, her green gaze sharp. “And they didn’t know anything there, did they?”

  “No. But I talked to Rhoram. He gave me a message for you.”

  Rhiannon’s hands tightened on her cup until her knuckles were white. But her voice was cool. “Did he?”

  “Yes. He said that he hoped to see you again. He said that he wanted to see his daughter, too, very much.”

  “Is he—is he well?” she asked hesitantly.

  “He wasn’t, no. But he seems to be better now.”

  “For having seen you?” Rhiannon laughed harshly.

  “No.” Talking to this woman was hard work. He felt as though every word he uttered could be turned into a trap, a snare. He took another sip of tea, wishing for something stronger. “It was something that Achren did. He had been very unhappy for a long time. It seems that Queen Efa didn’t turn out to be all that he thought she was.”

  “I could have told him that,” Rhiannon said.

  “So Achren mocked him, you see. She mocked his—what shall I call it—his living death, the living death he fashioned out of his regret. And it woke him, brought him back to life.” He was silent for a moment. “Perhaps the time for living death has passed for you also. Perhaps it is time for life for you as well.”

  Rhiannon sat back, eyeing him sardonically. “What a lovely sentiment. And how kind of you to be concerned. You have been looking for me, you say.” The subject of Rhoram was apparently closed. “Why?”

  Now for it. He took a deep breath. “You hold a memory. A clue.”

  “Do I?” she said flatly.

  He spoke slowly, clearly, and firmly, as though to a child of erratic temperament. “Yes, you do.”

  “And?”

  “And I must get it. It is a clue, handed down through certain descendants of Bran the Dreamer. It has come to rest in you, in your subconscious.”

  “I see.”

  Her palpable disinterest, her monosyllabic replies, stung him. But he attempted to keep calm. “And that is not all.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “The dead High Kings of Kymru themselves have told me that you must accompany the rest of us on a quest.”

  “The rest of us?”

  “The captains of Kymru. Cai of Gwynedd; your friend Achren from Prydyn; Angharad of Ederynion; and Trystan from Rheged.”

  “And the quest is?”

  “To retrieve Caladfwlch from wherever it now lies.”

  “The sword of the High Kings? To give, presumably, to the next High King of Kymru.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you want to hypnotize me to retrieve a memory. Then you want me to leave my home and my daughter and go with you on a quest for the sword. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. So you see, I did understand you. Thank you for using little words so that I could do so.”

  “I’m just trying to explain,” he said patiently, perhaps a little too patiently.

  “You’re treating me like a child, Dreamer,” she said sharply. “But I am not.”

  The skepticism in his face was unmistakable. As soon as he had done that, he knew he had made a mistake. Her face continued to harden. Gwydion had not thought that possible.

  In a dangerously calm tone, she went on, “And what, may I ask, do you suggest I do with my daughter while I go off with you?”

  “How should I know? Why don’t you take her to Y Ty Dewin? It’s where she belongs, after all. She needs training. Training she can’t get living in a cave. She’s psychokinetic as well as clairvoyant. She—”

  “And what right do you have to tell me what to do?”

  “You asked me,” he replied, his voice rising.

  “It was a rhetorical question, idiot.”

  Idiot. This was enough. “Oh, that’s typical. Just like a woman. Doesn’t surprise me at all. Blame the man for what you started. Of course.”

  “Oh, I like that. Just like a man. Come in here demanding things from me. Saying I must do this, I must do that. Men always want something. And they never want to give anything in return.”

  “I’ll be giving something in return, all right,” he shot back. “I’ll be enduring your childish temper tantrums.”

  “Oh no you won’t. Because I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Of course you’re not. What ever made me believe that you would think of anything other than yourself?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk. Since when does the Dreamer care about anyone else?”

  His voice quiet and cold, he replied, “I’ve spent my entire life doing my duty to Kymru. I never think of myself.”

  “You never think of anyone else,” she sneered. “Do you honestly think you can walk in here and get my consent to use me like you do everyone else?”

  “At least you’d be of some use, now, wouldn’t you?” he sneered in his turn.

  “Leave me alone, do you hear me? All I want is to be left alone.”

  “There’s nothing I would personally like better than that. Do you think I want to pull you kicking and screaming from your hole? Do you think I would drag myself all over Kymru looking for you if I could help it? Do you think I’m here because I long for the pleasure of your company? Don’t make me laugh.”

  She jumped up. “You can’t walk into my home and talk to me like that.”

  “Oh yes, I can,” he said, rising to his feet. “You’re nothing but a spoiled brat. You ran away. You secluded yourself for all these years when you should have been learning how to be the next Ardewin. You took your daughter away and condemned her to a life in hiding. Who do you think you are that you can do these things and still demand respect from anybody?”

  “Get out,” she screamed. “Get out.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m leaving. Just try to remember one thing, if there’s any room left in your mind for anything but self-pity. If we cannot find the sword, Kymru is doomed. There will be blood on your conscience. If you have one, which I doubt.”

  “A fine one you are to talk about conscience. Even tucked away in Coed Aderyn, I hear gossip. You never even go to see your brother, to offer him comfort since the death of his son. You treat Dinaswyn as though she were a dilapidated old rag. And you made the mother of your child so miserable that she had to die just to stop the pain.”

  All the color drained from his face. “Congratulations,” he said steadily, his voice like the winter wind. “It takes a very talented woman to know just how to twist the knife into the guts of a stranger.” And with that, he turned on his heel and was gone.

  LATER THAT EVENING, after Gwen had gone to bed, Rhiannon settled down before the fire to think. All day, after Gwydion had left in a rage, taking Dudod with him, Rhiannon had been silent. She had spoken to Gwen in monosyllables, if at all, answering none of her daughter’s anxious questions.

  Rhiannon had changed into her riding leathers and gone hunting into the woods, unable to keep still. She had returned with the
carcass of a fat summer deer slung over her shoulders, her knives tucked into her boots.

  But no matter how busy she kept herself, Rhiannon could not stop herself from thinking.

  Perhaps she had been too hasty. Somehow her conversation with Gwydion had gotten out of hand almost as soon as it had begun. Of course, she had been thrown off-balance by his very presence. It had been a shock. And before she had regained her equilibrium, Gwydion had begun his demands.

  He had spoken to her as though she were a child. Then he had criticized her for the way she was raising her daughter—as though he was entitled to give his opinion. Then, crowning indignity, he had insulted her. Not once, but several times.

  And yet, hadn’t his statements about Gwen stung all the more because they were true?

  But it was the last part of that hideous conversation that had shamed her the most. The part where she had hurt him as greatly as he had hurt her. She had meant to wound, to fight back. But she hadn’t meant to hit quite so hard.

  What had happened to her? Was she so soured by the years of feeling wronged by the world that her very soul had shriveled into something petty, something poisonous? Oh, she wasn’t like that. She wasn’t.

  If only Rhoram had not turned from her. Even now she could not truly let him go, going over and over in her mind how it had been between them, from the glorious beginning to the humiliating end.

  SHE HAD FIRST noticed Rhoram when she was just twenty-two years old, at the graduation ceremony at Y Ty Dewin. Effortlessly he had captured her heart during the ceremony. Captured her with his golden hair, his blue eyes, and his obvious admiration.

  When Myrrdin had put the Dewin’s torque around her neck that day, had framed her face with gentle hands, and had given her the post of Dewin to the Lady of Brycheiniog, Rhiannon was shocked. She had been so sure that Myrrdin was planning on sending her to the royal court of Arberth. And she had so much wanted to go, now that she had seen Rhoram. But she swallowed her disappointment, telling herself that it was not the first time she had failed to get what she wanted. And it would not be the last.

  Later, during the celebration, Myrrdin had sought her out. “Child,” he said gently, “I have just received word from Neuadd Gorsedd. Your father is dying, and begs that you come to him.”

  “No,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation. “I will not go.”

  “Think carefully. Do not do something you will regret later.”

  “I’ll never regret it,” she said fiercely. “Never.”

  “Oh, child, do you think I don’t understand? Now is your chance for revenge on him for all the years he has slighted you. But he wishes to make amends with his last breath. Will you let him do this?”

  “No.”

  “Then so be it. I will remind you of one thing. The Wheel turns, as it always does. What you do today will come back to haunt you. Someday, perhaps, a child of your own will feel that you have wronged them. And perhaps they will take revenge on you as you do today. Think one last time before you do this. Or it may be your turn, one day.”

  SHE HAD LEFT Y Ty Dewin the next day to go to Brycheiniog, in Prydyn. Marared ur Canhustyr who ruled the cantref was not an easy woman to serve, for she demanded the best from everyone. But she was fair and she even had a spark of humor to go with her sharp intelligence. So a year passed in Brycheiniog, as Rhiannon looked after the health of the folk of Tewdos, the chief city in the cantref where Marared had her home.

  Early in her second year there Rhoram’s wife, Christina, died of a fever in Arberth, and she began to dream dreams that she had no business having. For now Rhoram was free to marry again. These were foolish thoughts. She had only seen him once and had never even spoken to him. But she was young and foolish and she began to hope.

  Soon after this Marared’s sister, Achren, the Captain of Rhoram’s teulu, came to visit. Achren was a striking woman with black hair, dark eyes, and a wicked smile. She and Marared laughed and laughed over Achren’s stories of her amorous adventures. Adventures which did not, thank the gods, include Rhoram. Rhiannon, hungry for any word of Rhoram, listened breathlessly to Achren’s stories of life in Arberth.

  She discovered that Rhoram was charming, clever and—hard to bear—unfaithful. But she knew why. It was obvious to her that he simply hadn’t found the right sort of woman. If he did, he would be faithful. She was sure of it.

  Then one day a message came to her from Dinaswyn, the Dreamer. Dinaswyn’s orders were to proceed to the court of Arberth, mate with Rhoram of Prydyn, and become pregnant. She was then to return to Y Ty Dewin to await the birth of the child and begin her instruction as Myrrdin’s heir. She had been selected to be the next Ardewin of Kymru.

  She could hardly believe her good fortune. A glittering future awaited her. At last she would have something that she longed for. To be Ardewin was an honor indeed.

  And to be able to see Rhoram again! To be his lover and to make him happy—until the time came for her to go to Y Ty Dewin, of course. She would bear his child and such a thing would bind them together forever.

  So she left Brycheiniog with a high heart and journeyed to Arberth. It was not until she entered the King’s ystafell and looked into his eyes of brilliant blue that she understood that her life might become quite complicated indeed.

  IN THE BEGINNING they were so happy. She lived in a golden world, warmed by Rhoram’s love. His eyes followed her even in a crowded hall. No other woman existed for him except her.

  Rhoram’s children by Queen Christina—a son, Geriant, and a daughter, Sanon—loved Rhiannon and thought of her as their new mother. She spent hours with them teaching them to ride, picking wildflowers, fishing in the sea. Rhoram’s sister, Isalyn, was kind and the two women became friends. She and Achren also became good friends, the Caption teaching her some of the finer points of weaponry, improving her skill with a knife blade until Rhoram joked he didn’t feel safe with the two of them around and armed.

  All was very well, until the day she discovered she was pregnant. Somehow she had managed to forget that this was the reason she was with Rhoram in the first place. She had managed to forget that her duty was now to leave her lover, to go to Y Ty Dewin and begin her instruction for the important post of Ardewin.

  When she told Rhoram, hesitantly, the news that she was pregnant and explained that she must return to Y Ty Dewin, he begged her to stay. He could not live without her. He loved her so much. Could she wait for just a while? Would she do that for him?

  She allowed herself to be persuaded; saying that it was only for a while. But deep down she knew that she could never willingly tear herself away from him.

  And then the messages began. Messages from Myrrdin begging for her return. Messages from Dinaswyn, demanding her compliance. But she stubbornly resisted. She was in love with the King and he with her. They made each other happy and that was right. Others just didn’t understand. They were jealous of the love she had found.

  She became pale and listless as her pregnancy advanced. She was terrified Rhoram would turn from her then. But he did not. He treated her more gently than ever. And he told her that, after the child was born, he would make her Queen of Prydyn.

  In due course the child was born. They named her Gwenhwyfar and Rhoram was delighted with his tiny daughter.

  And then Rhiannon began her long wait. She waited for Rhoram to keep his promise to marry her and make her Queen of Prydyn. But Rhoram, although he was as kind as ever, began to be distant. And Rhiannon began to be afraid.

  “YOU DON’T LOVE me anymore, do you?” The question hung in the air for a moment before shattering the fragile peace of silence and pretense that existed between them.

  Horrified, Rhiannon wished the words back the moment she uttered them. But it was too late. The words had been said and there was nothing that could change that.

  So she waited for his answer. He laid down his pen and slowly turned to her. It broke her heart to see the caution in his eyes.

  “Why do you ask
that?” he asked carefully.

  Too late to turn back, she went steadily on. “It is the truth, though, isn’t it? Never mind why I ask it. I just don’t understand why. What has happened?”

  “Rhiannon. Stop. Don’t do this. I do love you. I truly do.”

  The words she wanted so desperately to hear rang false, so terribly hollow, a death knell to all her hopes and dreams. And so the tears came. She wept with no sound, but the tears gathered and spilled over her white face, as blood from a gaping wound.

  Rhoram, his sorrow and his guilt written so plainly on his weary face, looked everywhere else, looked at anything else in their sleeping chamber, except at her.

  “It’s Efa, isn’t it? You’re in love with her,” she whispered. She had meant to accuse, to demand the truth, to shame him. But she knew before she started that she was beaten. And so the question came out as a strangled whisper, although she tried to make her voice steady.

  “No. Truly, I am not,” he said earnestly. But the obvious falsehood in his weak denial robbed the words of comfort.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  At last a reaction, a real one. He jumped as though stung. “Go? No. Oh, no. You mustn’t go.” In this she had finally heard the ring of truth. He was not ready for her to leave him. He didn’t want her to go, but neither did he want her to stay. He didn’t know what he wanted.

  He came to her then, held her and kissed away her tears. He told her he loved her and that she mustn’t go. That he could not bear to let her go. Not yet. These last two words he did not say, but she heard them clearly in his halting tones.

  So as they made love she silently said farewell to Rhoram and to the peace and comfort she had known with him. That was all over now.

  When he was spent and sleeping beside her, she intertwined with him as she had done so many times before, listening to his breathing, feeling the beat of his heart, and savoring the feel of his skin beneath her gentle fingers.

  He stirred briefly as she got out of bed, but did not wake. Softly, swiftly, she gathered some clothes, and a few treasures—her Dewin’s torque, an ivory-backed mirror and silver comb that he had given her, a golden bowl, her father’s harp—making an untidy bundle. She got into her riding leathers, picked up her boots, and quietly crept from the room, looking one last time at his beloved face, so defenseless in sleep. So young. She had thought he was a man, but he was just a boy.