Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “It seems so peaceful here,” Amatheon said softly, effortlessly responding to the magnificence of the golden afternoon. “Hard to believe what happened here.”

  “So long ago,” Rhiannon agreed. “Yet still, one might think that the battle had left some mark. If not on the land than at least on the walls of time itself.”

  “We must hope that it did,” Gwydion said, looking around him. “For if it did not than I do not know what we could possibly discover here.”

  “Tell us, then, Gwydion, exactly what happened,” Trystan said, his green eyes keen as he surveyed the scene.

  “Yes, we want to hear all about the Battle of Naid Ronwen,” Achren agreed as she dismounted.

  “Perhaps then we will know what to look for,” Angharad said, her bright red hair glowing as she absently loosened it from its braid.

  Amatheon stared mutely at her molten hair as she shook it out. As he did, Achren’s generous mouth quirked in amusement, but she held her silence.

  Angharad caught Amatheon’s gaze on her and smiled slowly. Amatheon’s blue eyes darkened and a flush came to his cheek, but he did not look away. He smiled back and would, perhaps, have spoken, if Gwydion, not noticing his brother’s distraction, had not chosen that moment to speak.

  “It is called Naid Ronwen, Ronwen’s Leap, because it was here that Ronwen, the mistress of the King of Gwynedd, chose to take her life and the life of their daughter well over three hundred years ago. It was right at this spot, so legend says,” Gwydion went on, gesturing to a rock that protruded from the bank and into the rushing water, “that she leapt.

  “This is the story. Gwynledyr, daughter of High King Idris, was Queen of Gwynedd. And she chose Eadwulf, Prince of Corania, as her husband, to help seal the recent peace we had made with that land. In Eadwulf’s retinue was a woman named Ronwen, the wife of one of his retainers. But she was also Eadwulf’s mistress whom he had refused to give up on his marriage. After a time Queen Gwynledyr suspected her husband was being unfaithful to her. She insisted that Ronwen be dismissed, so Eadwulf pretended to send Ronwen back to Corania; but instead, he had her installed in a tiny house deep in the forest of Coed Dulas. There, Ronwen gave birth to a daughter, Sabra.

  “By now the King and Queen had three children. One day Gwynledyr took her children with her to visit her father and mother in Gwytheryn. While she was gone, Eadwulf took it into his head that his chance had come to have both his mistress and the rule of Gwynedd. His head turned by his own courtiers, who do things very differently in Corania, he declared that a woman was unfit to rule. He had himself proclaimed King and chose Ronwen as his Queen, imprisoning Gwynledyr’s chief officials.

  “But Gwynledyr swiftly learned of her husband’s perfidy through the Bardic network. Enraged, she returned to Gwynedd and raised a sizeable army. She came to Coed Dulas and had the love nest of Ronwen and Eadwulf put to the torch. She then marched on Tegeingl only to discover that her people had already ousted Eadwulf the day before. Eadwulf, Ronwen, Sabra, and their retainers had fled, but Gwynledyr, using her Dewin, readily located them heading east.

  “She and her teulu pursued Eadwulf’s men and brought them to bay here on the shores of River Mawddoch. Seeing them crest the hill, Eadwulf turned and ran, leaving Ronwen, Sabra, and his men behind. But Gwynledyr pursued him and drew her bow. The arrow flew across the hills to bury itself in Eadwulf’s traitorous back.

  “Gwynledyr’s teulu descended on Eadwulf’s band and killed them all to a man. But they spared Ronwen and Sabra, bringing them instead before Gwynledyr, who was waiting for them here on the banks. Gwynledyr had it in her mind to spare these two, thinking to send them back to Corania. But Ronwen unwisely taunted Gwynledyr, thinking, perhaps, that her life was already forfeit. She mocked the Queen, saying that Eadwulf was disgusted with Gwynledyr, always longing to be free of her and her embraces. In a rage, Gwynledyr ordered that Ronwen be killed, but said that Sabra would be spared.

  “But Ronwen, mad with grief and fear grabbed seven year-old Sabra in her arms and leapt into the river. Gwynledyr’s men leapt after her but it was too late, for they had both long since drowned.”

  “And what,” Achren asked, “did the Coranians do at the death of Eadwulf?”

  Gwydion smiled. “At the news of his brother’s death the King of Corania sent Queen Gwynledyr a present of six cups of silver and sapphire.”

  “Of course,” Achren said gravely. “Brotherly love.”

  “Speaking of brotherly love,” Amatheon began to Gwydion.

  But Gwydion cut him off. “We will try it without you, first, as I said before.”

  Amatheon opened his mouth to protest but stopped at the look on Gwydion’s face.

  “Well?” Rhiannon asked, her arms folded. “Just how do we do this?”

  “We follow the instructions from your poem,” Gwydion said coolly. “To refresh your memory, it said:

  Y Dawnus, joined together.

  Guarded by alder and aspen,

  By hawthorn and hazel,

  Shall walk the corridors of time”

  “WHICH MEANS?” RHIANNON pressed.

  “Which means that you and I are to join hands and kneel,” Gwydion answered, as he took her hands in his. Since Cai was watching very closely, he saw that a faint flush came to Rhiannon’s cheeks, ebbing away swiftly. Even more interesting, a reddish cast also came to Gwydion’s face, but it, too, quickly faded. Cai smiled to himself.

  “Now,” Gwydion went on, his voice steady, “the captains will please circle us.”

  Achren, Angharad, Trystan and Cai huddled around the two Y Dawnus, forming an outer circle, placing their hands on Rhiannon and Gwydion’s shoulders. Rhiannon and Gwydion bowed their heads and waited.

  The afternoon grew hushed—the birds stopped singing and even the sound of rushing water was muted. But beyond that, nothing happened. They stood there a while longer, concentrating as hard as they knew how. But still nothing.

  “Gwydion,” Amatheon said gently from outside the circle. “Brother.”

  Gwydion’s head came up and his hands tightened on Rhiannon’s. He stared at Amatheon with fear in his silvery eyes. But it was obvious that Gwydion would do what he knew must be done.

  At last, he did. He nodded, letting go of one of Rhiannon’s hands, gesturing for Amatheon to kneel on the bank beside them. Amatheon knelt and joined hands with them. Then the three of them again bowed their heads as Cai and the others placed their hands on them.

  And then Cai stiffened as a force bore down on him, expelling all the air from his lungs and bringing a curtain of darkness over his eyes.

  AT FIRST EVERYTHING was dark. Then a shining light spiraled through the darkness, illuminating what were clearly the banks of the River Mawddoch. But this time his companions were gone. There was no sound to any of the images he saw as they silently spun before him.

  He saw a small party of men gathered around a woman and a little girl. The woman’s mouth opened in a silent scream and she clutched the arm of a golden-haired man as she pointed to a band of horsemen clothed in blue and brown that were descending the clover-studded hills to the west.

  But the golden-haired man shook himself loose from the woman’s crazed hold, throwing her roughly to the ground, breaking from the knot of men, and running to the north as swiftly as he could. His blond hair streamed out behind him, his powerful legs pumping, his shoulders straining against his rich tunic of sapphire blue. Around his neck an ornate torque of sapphires glittered.

  One person from the band of descending horsemen pealed off from the rest, going in pursuit of the running man. The pursuer was a woman, and her rich, auburn hair streamed out behind her as she grasped a bow and knocked an arrow to the string. With a fierce cry she let the arrow loose, and it flew across the plain to bury itself in the back of the running man.

  He fell to the ground and lay there, moaning. The woman drew her horse up beside him and looked down, her face impassive, as the man struggled to rise. But he could not, f
or he was wounded too deeply. At last he raised himself to his knees and looked up at the woman. For a moment they stared at each other. There were tears on the man’s handsome face but none on the woman’s. The man nodded his head as though something had been proven beyond a doubt then fell forward, dead.

  The woman dismounted and reached out to the dead man’s neck, snapping off the massive torque of silver and sapphire and placing it around her own neck.

  The woman remounted, turned her horse and sped to the knot of fighting men without a backward glance at the dead man on the plain. The fight on the shores was brief and fierce, and when the band of horsemen in blue and brown were done, there were none left standing of the group on the banks save the screaming woman and the little girl.

  The woman on horseback dismounted and came to stand before the other woman and the little girl. The little girl was a beautiful child with hair of gold and tear-filled eyes of sky blue. The little girl’s mother was also beautiful and she, too, was golden-haired. But her eyes were a hard, emerald green and her mouth was set in a sneer, as she looked at the auburn-haired woman with the sapphire torque.

  The golden-haired woman’s face was contorted as she called what were clearly deadly insults at the auburn-haired woman. The men that surrounded them both put their hands to their weapons but at a gesture from the auburn-haired woman they subsided.

  The auburn-haired woman gestured at the little girl, offering something. But the golden-haired woman, a smile of triumph on her beautiful, mad face snatched up the child. She backed away from the men, her child in her arms, her back to the river. Step by step she retreated to the rock that overhung the water. The auburn-haired woman cautiously advanced, her hand outstretched, speaking what were perhaps soothing words.

  But the golden-haired woman, with a triumphant look on her face, whirled away and leapt over the water, her screaming child in her arms. The two hit the water with a mighty splash. The auburn-haired woman gestured and a number of her warriors leapt into the water, clearly bent on saving the two. But the golden-haired women’s head was swiftly drawn under the water. The men dove again and again, searching for the two, but came up empty-handed.

  Then the scene changed. He could tell by the lengthening shadows that some hours had passed. But the auburn-haired woman still stood on the banks, looking into the water. On the plain behind her a bonfire burned, consuming the bodies of the men who had died that day. A smaller fire burned next to the larger one but the auburn-haired woman did not even turn around as the body of the golden-haired man was thrown into the roaring flames.

  Someone hailed the woman and she turned from river. Five warriors came to her from the south. Four men carried the body of the golden-haired woman, while one man cradled the dead child in his arms. The auburn-haired woman wept at the sight, her hand reaching out to the little girl, grief etched on her beautiful face.

  Again the scene changed. The fires were gone—indeed, Cai could not even tell where they had been, for clover once again grew thickly on the ground. A single horseman descended the hills toward the river. He wore a tunic and trousers of black. Around his neck a massive torque of gold and opals glittered with a fiery light. His hair was rich auburn and secured at the nape of his neck with an opal clasp.

  The man dismounted at the riverbank and stood still for a moment, looking at the rock from which the woman had leapt. At last he turned and made his way to the willow tree closest to the rock. He took something from his saddlebag wrapped in a black cloth. He laid his hand on the tree and the bark split beneath his fingers, showing a shallow hollow within the trunk. The man placed the bundle in the tree then again laid his hand over the gap. The bark drew tightly together over the hollow, sewing itself up as though the fissure had never been.

  The man nodded, satisfied, and turned to mount his horse. But as he did, he stopped for a moment, and looked Cai full in the face. The man’s silvery gray eyes bore into Cai with a power that Cai shivered to see. But the man smiled a sad and wise smile.

  Then the darkness descended again, and Cai knew no more.

  HE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS slowly. At first he could not understand why he was laying full length on the ground or why his companions were kneeling beside him, anxiously scanning his face as he opened his eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Amatheon asked, his blue eyes dark with concern.

  “I hope to be,” Cai said hoarsely. He sat up, aided by Trystan and Gwydion. He did not feel that it was wise to rise to his feet just yet—not with his head splitting in two the way it was. In addition he felt a low ringing in his ears and his stomach was queasy.

  “Just give me a few moments,” he said hollowly, closing his eyes against the pain in his head.

  “What did you see, Cai?” Achren asked, apparently too impatient to give him his few moments.

  “Achren,” Rhiannon pointed out, “Cai just asked for a few moments. I assumed he meant a few moments of silence.”

  Achren snorted. “Don’t be such a baby, Cai.”

  Cai sighed. He liked Achren very much, in spite of the fact that she was tough as old boots and expected everyone else to be the same. “You’ll understand better when it happens to you,” Cai said, gingerly holding his head in his hands. He thought that his head might very well burst, but then the pain subsided to a dull ache. At last he lifted his head and eyed them all as they clustered around him.

  “Can you talk yet?” Gwydion asked as he handed a dripping water skin to Cai.

  Cai gratefully took a drink of cool water from the River Mawddoch.

  “Here,” Rhiannon said, handing him a small bottle of some unidentifiable liquid.

  “What is it?” Cai asked even as he swallowed a portion of the contents.

  “A tisane of feverfew. It will help your headache.”

  “If you have done playing doctor, Rhiannon,” Gwydion said, “perhaps we can get on with it.”

  “I am a doctor,” Rhiannon flared. “I don’t know what you meaning by ‘playing,’ but—”

  “Please,” Cai begged, his head still aching. “Not now.”

  Rhiannon subsided with a flush on her cheeks, her green eyes hard as emeralds. Gwydion merely looked at her coolly then turned back to Cai.

  “I saw the Battle of Naid Ronwen,” Cai said quietly.

  “Everything?” Angharad asked. “Even—”

  Cai nodded. “Everything; even when Ronwen jumped into the river with Sabra in her arms. I saw Queen Gwynledyr come down from the hills with her warband. Eadwulf, coward that he was, he ran, leaving his companions behind. But Gwynledyr rode him down and killed him. She took her torque back, and rode away without a backward glance. And she wept when they brought back the bodies of Ronwen and Sabra. I saw it all.”

  “And what might that mean?” Trystan asked Gwydion. “What clue is there in that?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwydion answered with a frown.

  “Oh, that wasn’t the clue,” Cai said wearily. “It was what I saw next.”

  “And what was that?” Achren asked impatiently.

  “I saw a man ride up to the willow tree over there,” Cai went on, pointing to the trees on the riverbank. “I think it was Bran—he wore the Dreamer’s Torque.”

  “Ah,” Gwydion said with satisfaction. “Of course. What did he do?”

  “He took something from his saddlebag. I couldn’t tell what, it was wrapped in cloth. Then he placed it in the tree trunk.”

  Amatheon had risen to his feet and was inspecting the tree Cai had indicated. “I don’t see any kind of hole in this trunk,” he said, baffled.

  “He Shape-Moved,” Cai said. “He opened the trunk then closed it when he was done.”

  Gwydion, the only one of them able to Shape-Move walked over to the willow tree. “About here?” he asked Cai, placing his hand on the trunk.

  “A little lower down and to the left,” Cai replied.

  Gwydion placed his hand where Cai indicated, and the bark of the tree parted like water beneath the
Dreamer’s palm. He reached in to the trunk and grasped something, pulling it out into the light. Before he examined his find he again placed his hand on the trunk, then sealed up the fissure he had made.

  He walked back to them, Amatheon by his side, as he gently held something in his hands. The cloth had disintegrated long ago and the thing he held flashed brightly in the sun. Cai rose to his feet with the rest of them, his headache subsiding, and joined the others as they crowded around Gwydion.

  The thing Gwydion held in his hands was flat and made of bright, untarnished gold. It was formed in an arc, and sapphires winked on the rounded side. On the upper right-hand side the words “Seek the” glimmered, outlined in emeralds. On the lower, pointed portion of the arc was a cluster of pearls outlined with rubies in a second, tinier arc. Words were etched in the golden arc and they were silent as Gwydion read them out loud:

  Death comes unannounced,

  Abruptly he may thwart you;

  No one knows his features,

  Nor the sound of his tread approaching.

  “Bran’s words surely?” Rhiannon asked softly.

  “No doubt written at High King Lleu’s death,” Gwydion said quietly. “How Bran suffered at the death of his friend.”

  “This must be a piece of the broken circle that the poem mentions,” Trystan said.

  “Then there are three more of these,” Angharad put in.

  “With a chance for a headache for the rest of you,” Cai said, “at the other battlefields.”

  “We can only hope, then, that when we have assembled the full circle it will mean something to us in terms of the location of the sword,” Amatheon said.

  “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Gwydion said absently as he gently held the arc in his hands. “We’ll understand it, when the time comes.”

  MEANWHILE, FAR AWAY to the northwest, a hawk circled the sky above the mountains of Eryi. The huge bird rode the winds, occasionally emitting a fierce cry.