by Holly Taylor
Trystan sighed to himself, for all this talk reminded him of Esyllt, King Urien’s Bard, the woman he had loved for what seemed now to be most of his life. He missed her, and even at this moment the memory of their many nights together stirred him. For she tempted him with her white arms, her silky light brown hair, her beautiful blue eyes, tempted him with her promises, with her low laughter, with her sweet kisses.
Yet promise after promise she had broken. Time after time she had given her word that she would divorce her husband, yet she never had, always drawing back from taking that final step, always pleading with him to understand, always telling him that she truly loved him, and him alone.
Trystan spied movement on the far western horizon. As he expected it was a herd of wild horses making their way through the tall grass. Herds of horses proliferated throughout Rheged, but none were finer than those that roamed the plains of Maenor Deilo.
A fierce neigh drifted across the plain as the lead stallion reared and called out. The herd swirled and eddied restlessly as the stallion continued to call out. And that, Trystan thought later, was all the warning they received. Later he marveled that the horse had sensed what was to happen, that the stallion had done his best to alert them. At the time, however, there was very little time for reflection, for it was difficult to think clearly when fighting for your life.
The men seemed to spring out of the earth itself, although they had surely simply been hidden in the long grasses. They leapt up silently, daggers in their hands. There were at least fifteen of them, maybe more, and they seemed to come straight for Trystan, disdaining the others. The only reason he did not die in that first moment was because of Achren and Angharad.
For quicker than thought these two captains had their weapons out and began fighting the men off so swiftly, so impossibly, it took Trystan a moment to realize he wasn’t dead. Rhiannon’s shout alerted the others and Cai, Amatheon, and Gwydion turned their mounts and rode swiftly back to where Trystan and the three women fought.
Gwydion gestured and fire sprung up between Trystan and the man who was closest to him, forcing the man to back away. In that moment Rhiannon plunged her dagger into the man’s neck and he fell. Another man leapt at Trystan, forcing him from the saddle as the two struggled. Trystan lost sight of what the others were doing as he rolled on the ground, fighting off this attacker. At least the others were drawing the men off him, for he only had the one man to contend with at the moment. Trystan drew his dagger as he rolled on top of his assailant and plunged the blade into the man’s throat. Blood spilled over Trystan’s hands. He rose to his feet, crouched in fighting position, just in time to meet another attacker.
Although he had only a second to take it all in, he clearly saw the entire battle. Achren and Angharad were fighting valiantly, their swords drawn, holding four of the men at bay. Cai was fighting three off at once, a dagger in his left hand and his sword in his right. Amatheon and Rhiannon held their own but they were not as experienced as the captains of Kymru were and Trystan knew they wouldn’t last much longer. Gwydion laid about him with Druid’s Fire, holding his dagger but not using it as much as he did the flames. But Trystan knew that calling fire was not easy, even for the Dreamer, and knew Gwydion could not continue much longer either. There were still eleven attackers on their feet and Trystan could see it would only be a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
Hoof beats laced the edges of his awareness as he continued to fight. Had the herd come to help them, called, perhaps, by Gwydion or even Rhiannon? He would not take the risk of glimpsing around but he hoped that was what it was.
But it was not, for out of the corner of his eyes he saw ten mounted men riding to them from the west. This was, no doubt, more of the enemy and he knew they were done for. He spared a last thought for Esyllt, for his King and his Queen, and for their children whom he loved and would not see again.
It was the war cry that the lead rider gave out that changed everything. For Trystan knew that cry, knew that voice, knew that rider. He answered the cry with a like one, and realized that he would live through the morning after all.
For the rider was Cynedyr the Wild, son of Hetwin Silver-Brow, Lord of Gwinionydd. Cynedyr was one of Trystan’s dearest friends, and one of Amatheon’s, too, for Amatheon served in the court of Hetwin.
Cynedyr and his men fell on the attackers, mowing them down as a scythe mows through wheat. Within moments the attackers were dead. All but one, for Gwydion had cried out and pointed to one of the men, shouting that he was to be spared, and Cynedyr’s men had obeyed instantly.
Cynedyr sprang from his horse and gave out a whoop at the sight of Trystan and Amatheon, who returned Cynedyr’s call, pounding each other on the back in exuberant welcome.
“I see I came just in time,” Cynedyr grinned as he eyed Trystan and his companions. “I may never forgive you for trying to have a party without me.”
Trystan laughed. “It seems that the gods themselves invited you all the same. What do you here?”
“Why, I came to see the Gwarda, Eiddon ap Dalldef.”
“For what purpose?” Trystan asked.
“To collect the galanas, the blood-price, his man owed to my Da,” Cynedyr explained. “Two weeks ago, in Llwynarth, Eiddon’s men and my men ended up engaged in a friendly brawl. But things were awry, and one of my men was killed. I came here and spoke to Eiddon’s court yesterday. They were in agreement that the accused clan was in the wrong, and have granted the galanas I had asked for.”
“And what did you ask for?”
“As this is Maenor Deilo; I of course asked for horses,” Cynedyr replied, his eyes alight with glee.
“How many?”
“Four—three for me and one for the King, as his share of the galanas. King Urien is looking for a new mare for Princess Enid. It was sheer luck that I was nearby at this moment,” he went on, more soberly. “We were west of here, eyeing the herd when the stallion began calling out. He wasn’t looking at us, so we knew we weren’t the cause. We rode east as swiftly as we could and saw your battle, though I was as yet unaware who you all were. Though I know it now. For some of you I know well, some of you only by sight, and one of you not at all.” Cynedyr bowed specifically to Rhiannon, his brows raised, his eyes alight with curiosity and something else.
At his regard Rhiannon’s green eyes sparkled and she smiled at him. But before she could answer Gwydion stepped between them, his silver eyes snapping with imperfectly repressed irritation. “This is Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, whom I believe you know by reputation. The others I am certain you already know.” In a milder tone he went on. “And we are grateful indeed for your help today. For I do not think that any of us would still be alive had you not come when you did.”
Cynedyr bowed, obviously awed by Gwydion. “I am grateful in my turn for the chance to be of service to the Dreamer of Kymru.”
“I would question, now, the prisoner your men hold.”
“Of course.” At Cynedyr’s gesture two of his men brought the prisoner before Gwydion. Cynedyr’s men held the man’s arms in an unmoving grip and forced the prisoner to kneel before the Dreamer.
“Who are you?” Gwydion asked, his silver eyes glittering.
“I will not tell you, Dreamer, so there is no use in asking,” the man said, his dark eyes hard and unyielding.
“What were your orders?”
“Ah, that I will tell you, for my master said I might. Our orders were to kill Trystan ap Naf as soon as he crossed into Rheged.”
“Why?” Trystan asked sharply.
“That I do not know. I know of you and personally bear you no ill will. I and my men did only what we must do.”
“Who is your master?” Gwydion asked.
“That is my business, not yours,” the man said proudly.
“You are wrong,” Gwydion said quietly, his tone deadly. “It is my business. And I will know that answer. Be assured of that.”
The man smiled and seemed to bite the insid
e of his lip. At that tiny movement Gwydion leapt forward, forcing the man’s mouth open. But he was too late, for the mint scent of pennyroyal wafted from between his lips.
“Rhiannon!” Gwydion snapped.
But Rhiannon was already running to her horse and rooting through her saddlebags. She ran back, a small vial in her hand.
“Tip his head back,” she ordered and she poured the contents of the vial down the man’s throat. Gwydion closed the man’s mouth, pinching his nostrils to make him swallow. After a moment, he did, and Gwydion released his hold. But the sickly smile on the prisoner’s face told them their efforts were in vain.
“Sage,” the man said softly, “was the right remedy. But there is not enough of it to counteract what I have taken. I am done for, as I mean to be.”
“But why?” Amatheon said, taking the dying man’s hands in his. “Why?”
The man’s face broke out in a sweat. He arched his back in agony as the first convulsion took him. “I owed a debt,” he gasped. “And did what I must do to repay it.”
“Owed a debt to whom?” Gwydion demanded.
“That I will not tell you, Dreamer,” he rasped. “That is for you to discover. If you can.” At that he cried out, straining against the hands that held him. He bit his lips so hard that they bled, and blood flowed down his chin. His dark eyes stared at the sky above and tears glittered on his lashes. “Forgive,” he whispered as the last convulsion took him. “Forgive.”
Then he was dead, his eyes opened but unseeing, his last breath leaving his body with a sigh.
“Who would do this to him?” Rhiannon asked, her voice shaky. “Who would have such power over him?”
“I do not know,” Gwydion said thoughtfully, speaking in a low voice so that the men of Cynedyr’s warband could not hear. “Whoever it was they knew that Trystan was the next one to walk the past. If he was killed, our quest would be over.”
“Who would know that?” Amatheon asked.
“Someone who was watching us,” Gwydion said.
“Someone who profits by the continued absence of a High King,” Rhiannon put in. “For without the sword a High King cannot come into his powers.”
“Who might that be?” Achren wondered. “Who would not wish a High King to return?”
“Someone with things to hide,” Gwydion said grimly. “Someone with plans that would benefit them, and not Kymru. Long ago the Protectors themselves came to me in a dream. And they warned me to be on watch for traitors among us. This is proof that they were right.”
Gwydion turned back to Cynedyr, who stood with his men, patiently waiting for the low-voiced conference to be over. “You must not think us churlish, Cynedyr,” Gwydion said politely. “We do not wish to offend.”
“You do not offend,” Cynedyr said swiftly. “The business of the Dreamer is not to be questioned.”
Gwydion smiled with satisfaction until he saw that Rhiannon was rolling her eyes.
“Dreamer,” Cynedyr went on, “I believe it would be best if me and my men stayed with you on this journey you are on, to guard you, though I do not pretend to understand what this is all about.”
Gwydion suddenly noticed that Cynedyr’s gaze was fixed on Rhiannon. Trystan, though he would have preferred Cynedyr’s company, smiled to himself. He was in no doubt as to how Gwydion would react now.
“I thank you for your generous offer,” Gwydion said evenly. “But we must refuse. For our purpose must be kept secret if we can make it so.”
“I understand,” Cynedyr said, clearly disappointed, but just as clearly not taking offense. “What, then, can we do for you all?”
“Will you and your men take on the task of disposing of these bodies?” Gwydion asked.
“We will, Dreamer,” Cynedyr replied solemnly.
“Speak of what happened here today to no one,” Gwydion warned. “I wish, for your sake, that you could tell the tale, for you saved our lives and we are more grateful than we can say. But it cannot be, for now.”
“I do not need to puff myself up by boasting of my adventures. As a matter of fact, there are a number of things that my own father still does not know.” Cynedyr grinned. “One more won’t hurt him.
THAT NIGHT TRYSTAN volunteered to stand watch. To his surprise, the others did not quarrel. Perhaps they understood his need to think of what had happened today and what would happen tomorrow.
They camped on the plain in the shelter of a ring of oak trees. Gwydion lit the fire using his gift of Fire-Weaving. Whenever they camped out Gwydion did so, calling the Druid’s Fire in elaborate ways, forming fiery rose blossoms and swords, glowing horses and trees, anything that came to mind. They had all come to the point where they looked forward to Gwydion’s nightly shows. All but Rhiannon. For she usually scanned Gwydion’s face at those times thoughtfully, as though seeking to confirm something she had guessed long ago. But what that thing might be, Trystan did not know. He did not think the others knew either—even Cai who was so good at reading the truth behind men’s eyes.
They had eaten a simple meal and had sat around the campfire for a while, speaking in desultory tones. At one point Amatheon and Angharad had risen and gone for a walk. They all pretended to believe as they had since Ymris, that a walk was all those two had in mind. It was true that they all seemed to have difficulty keeping a straight face at those times, but they did their best.
“Don’t stray too far,” Gwydion warned. “I have been Wind-Riding for the past hour or so and have seen no one. Nevertheless, be wary.”
“Could I perhaps persuade you not to Ride in our direction?” Angharad asked with a grin as she took Amatheon’s hand.
“But of course, Angharad,” Gwydion said airily. “Your wish is my command.”
The two had returned some hours ago and one by one Trystan’s companions had fallen asleep in blankets before the fire.
Overhead the waning moon continued to rise in the night sky. Stars glittered coldly and thickly across the heavens. Trystan walked the perimeter of the camp, taking care to keep the campfire in his peripheral vision, but not to look directly at it, for it would ruin his night vision if he stared at the flames for long.
Movement near the campfire halted him and he crouched down, his hand on his knife. But it was only Gwydion sitting up. The Dreamer freed himself from his bedroll and sat looking into the fire. Trystan wondered if Gwydion had dreamt something and, if so, what it might be. A flicker of movement and Rhiannon, too, sat up.
“Did you dream?” Rhiannon asked, softly so as not to wake the others.
Gwydion nodded. “It is of no matter. An old dream. One I have had many times before.”
“But one that still has the power to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?”
“I can see it in your eyes,” she said quietly. “Tell me.”
For a moment Gwydion hesitated. Then, to Trystan’s surprise, he answered her. “I am at Cadair Idris. It is night and the three High Kings come from their graves to stand before the Doors. They each draw a ghost of Caladfwlch from their scabbards and lay them on the ground. Arderydd, the High Eagle comes and tries to take them.” Gwydion halted.
“And then?” Rhiannon prompted.
“And then the shadows of the plain rise. They moan and twist together. They cry out, threatening the eagle. I leap in front of the shadows, to try to protect the eagle. And then . . .” Again, Gwydion fell silent.
“And then?” Rhiannon pressed.
“And then the shadow reaches for me. It reaches into my chest and tears my heart. It is so cold. The pain is like nothing I have ever known. It is a pain that makes me wish for death to stop it.”
“I am sorry,” she said, gently laying her hand on his arm.
“Don’t be,” he replied harshly, as though already regretting the moment of intimacy. “I neither need nor want your pity.”
“Don’t start,” she warned him.
“Of course pity is what you do best, isn’t it?” Gwydion went on implacably. “Or
is that running away?”
It seemed to Trystan that the slap she gave him would have wakened the dead but the others never moved from their sleep. Gwydion grabbed Rhiannon by her shoulders so hard that his fingers sank into the flesh of her arms. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He looked down at her and she looked up at him. For a moment neither one of them moved. Trystan saw Gwydion bend his head toward her. But he halted before even beginning the kiss he had in mind. He drew back, his face suddenly stern and unyielding. Rhiannon pulled away from him and he let her go. She turned away, going back to her blankets, turning her back to him.
So it was only Trystan that saw Gwydion did not take his eyes from her until morning.
Suldydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—late morning
AS THEY JOURNEYED west for the next few hours they saw the shores of the River Rhymney in the distance. Trees clustered the banks, their leaves of gold and flame blazing in the early afternoon sun.
Millponds branched off from the river and mills dotted the banks, for Rheged was a land of golden grain, and the mill wheels turned constantly to grind the grain to flour. Occasionally they saw a cluster of houses near the river and crossed near field after field of rich grain. A number of the people they saw in the distance were winnowing grain. Using large baskets they threw handfuls of wheat into the air to separate the kernels from the chaff, the kernels, being heavier, fell back to the bottom of the baskets, the chaff floating to the top.
They saw a woman and her young children picking rushes by the shore for use in making candlewicks, for beeswax candles were another staple product of Rheged. Beehives dotted the plain, rising from the grasses like golden towers, bees buzzing gently in the cooling breeze.
Trystan spotted the tall, slender marker that stood in splendid isolation in the middle of the plain. The dark stone stood silently. The sides of the tower were carved with whorls and circles, while tiny figures did their deadly dance of battle in between. Yellow corydalis twined around the base of the obelisk, seeking, perhaps, to brighten the midnight stone.