by Holly Taylor
He glanced at the left-hand road and shuddered. It twisted horribly as it made its sluggish way across the plain, like a dying serpent. It was full of shadows that stretched across the road like greedy fingers. The road led into a tunnel of darkness unimaginable. It frightened him to think of what was waiting in that dark tunnel in the middle of the plain. If only he could move, he would run like the wind up the glowing right road, run far away from this terrible crossroads and from this terrible choice that was not his to make.
Then he became aware that there were others waiting at the crossroads. People began to emerge from the tall, waving grass and step reluctantly onto the road, pulled there against their will by a force they could not break.
He saw Uthyr and Ygraine with their daughter, young Morrigan, followed closely by Cai, Gwynedd’s Captain. He saw Queen Olwen of Ederynion put a protective arm around the slim shoulders of her daughter, Elen, and ignoring her son, Lludd, while Angharad, Ederynion’s Captain guarded them all. He saw Urien, the King of Rheged, with his wife and four children clustered around him, followed by Rheged’s Captain, Trystan. He saw King Rhoram of Prydyn with his son, Geriant, and daughter, Sanon, shadowed by Achren, Prydyn’s Captain.
More and more people were stepping onto the road behind him, all waiting silently to travel the road they were destined to take. Dinaswyn and Arianrod appeared, their hands linked by a silver chain Arianrod was struggling to break. Cathbad, the Archdruid, his expression serious and thoughtful, stepped onto the road, followed by Aergol, his heir, whose face was carefully expressionless.
He saw Anieron, the Master Bard, step from the tall grass and look around him with knowing eyes. He was followed closely by his brother, Dudod. Then Anieron’s daughter, Elstar, and her husband, Elidyr, and their two sons stepped onto the path. Gwydion’s daughter, Cariadas, was with them. He longed to go to her but somehow knew that he could not.
Myrrdin made his way up the road, his arm around the shoulders of a young man whom Gwydion knew to be Arthur. And Arthur, slim and tall, with his auburn hair and his dark eyes, left Myrrdin to stand next to Gwydion at this terrible crossroads.
And then, most surprising of all, a woman stepped out of the tall grass. Her long dark hair was black as night and her eyes were a startling emerald green. She walked up the road to stand on Gwydion’s other side, and he instantly knew her—Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, the woman of the House of Llyr who had disappeared so long ago. She was holding the hand of a young girl with blond hair whom Gwydion somehow knew to be her daughter, Gwenhwyfar. The sunny-haired girl reached out and clasped Arthur’s hand tightly.
Thus the four of them—Gwydion, Rhiannon, Arthur, and Gwenhwyfar—stood together, the rest of Kymru fanning out behind them, standing silently at the crossroads beneath the darkening sky, waiting for the one who would make the choice. And at last he came.
Out of the tall wind-swept grass a man rose up, golden and proud. His hair was honey-blond, and his eyes were amber, set above high cheekbones in a handsome, powerful face. As he made his way up to the crossroads, the crowd parted before him like water. And then he stopped, staring at Gwydion. For a moment they looked at each other. And for a moment it seemed to Gwydion that he had always known this man. Face to face they stood silently as the wind grew stronger, whipping around the Golden Man and the Dreamer.
The man looked up the road to the right and took a hesitant step in that direction. Gwydion sighed in relief. But then the golden man looked back to the left road and all was lost. For in the middle of that road a helmet of gold appeared. It was fashioned like the head of a boar, with tusks of ivory and ruby eyes. Trans fixed, the Golden Man stepped onto the left road, reaching for the helmet. He raised it high, and the lightning began to flash. Jagged spars reached down from the sky, bathing the left road in fire. The golden man lowered the helmet over his head, and the right road suddenly vanished from the plain. There was only one road now, the road of fire leading into darkness.
One by one the people took the left road, following the Golden Man down, down into the dark. Gwydion was pulled helplessly along with the rest, terror-stricken, his heart pounding. But Rhiannon held tightly to his hand, giving him strength in this horror as the darkness loomed over him and swallowed him whole.
AS GWYDION JERKED awake, the thought came clearly. Cross-roads—the place where decisions are made. Something had happened, somewhere. The Golden Man, whoever he was, wherever he was, had made a decision to travel the left road down to darkness, taking everyone with him.
And as he thought that, the wind came up, whipping through the mountains, reaching even into the Chamber of Prophecy, stirring the fire in the brazier. The gale shook the tower, scraping over the stone, tumbling leaves with the sound of bones rattling, making the mountains shiver. And bringing with it the faroff sound of a hunting horn as the Wild Hunt rode the night sky.
Chapter 3
Camlan, Marc of Gillingas,
Aecesdun, Marc of Cantware
& Athelin, Marc of Ivelas
Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire
Falmonath & Sifmonath, 488
Wodaeg, Sol 11—early afternoon
Havgan walked through the ruins of the once-white halls of Ealh Galdra, the Temple of Magic. Though the roof was long gone, the stone pillars that had once held it were still standing. Here and there white glimmered from stones stained with dirt, age, and soot—for the fire that had raged through the temple centuries ago had burned fiercely, imprinting its deadly memory onto the stones.
Behind him the others stood in a knot just outside of the ruins. Catha and Baldred appeared to be almost bored, but Havgan had expected that. They and their families had long ago accepted the worship of Lytir, and they gave no credence to, nor had any real understanding of, the power of the Old Gods.
But Talorcan and Penda did, and for that reason, Havgan knew, they both were tense and wary. They had done their best to argue him out of coming here, to this place where the Old Gods had once reigned supreme through the once-revered Maeder-Godias, the mother-priestesses. Before the new religion of Lytir had come to Corania, women of the royal family had often become Maeder-Godias, leading the country in the worship of the gods. But when the worship of Lytir had become universally accepted, this place had been burned, and the reigning Maeder-Godia, Valeda of Dere, had been taken away to Athelin and burned at the stake.
Before her death Velada had chosen her successor, a princess of Dere named Infleda. But whom Infleda had chosen as successor was unknown, for by that time Dere had been absorbed into the Empire and the Heiden, as those followers of the old religion were now called, had been outlawed, as had the Wiccan, those who had special gifts akin to the witches of Kymru. Rumor had it that the line of Maeder-Godias still continued, in secret. Their capture was the dream of every wyrcejaga in the Empire. But those women who had held the position since Infleda had been far too canny to be caught—if they even really existed at all.
He brushed his hand against a blackened stone and shivered as an unexpected chill ran through his body. The wind moaned softly as it made its lonely way among the stones. Since the time of Velada’s execution, the ruins of Ealh Galdra had been deserted and no one willingly came here—even in the daytime. No, Havgan had not been at all surprised that Talorcan and Penda had tried to prevent his coming here.
Talorcan’s family came from the marc of Bernice in Dere, the marc that contained Wodnesbeorg, a place most revered by the Heiden. Havgan even had some suspicions that Talorcan was related to the old ruling family of Dere, a family long steeped in magic.
Penda came from the shire of Lindisfarne, in Mierce, and had lived at the foot of Mount Badon, that mountain from where the Wild Hunt itself was said to ride. Though Penda’s father professed the new religion, Havgan was not so sure that his worship of Lytir descended beyond lip service. And Penda was promised to the daughter of the Alder of Minting, a man once accused of being one of the Heiden. The Alder had successfully defended himself against the allegation, but
there were many who still believed it.
Havgan was aware that Sigerric, too, was uneasy, but for different reasons from the rest. Sigerric knew Havgan best of all. They all knew that something very important had happened to Havgan during the Gewinnan Daeg celebration almost two years ago. They all knew that he had heard the voice of God, telling him to exterminate the witches of Kymru.
But only Sigerric seemed to suspect that Havgan had recently set in motion a train of events that would carry him to the notice of those who ruled the Empire, an essential step in his plan. Not that Sigerric knew details—Havgan had been very careful for, though he trusted Sigerric, he did not want to burden his friend. Some details involved cold-blooded murder, something Sigerric would surely frown upon.
He walked back across the ruins toward his men, eyeing the huge, blackened, T-shaped stone that rested in what had once been the central courtyard. Around the stone, fire-blackened urns rested. Hundreds of runes were incised into the granite rock, their stiff, angular shapes menacing beneath the gray sky.
Havgan nodded toward the rock and turned to Penda, his brows raised.
“It was carved in the shape of Donar’s hammer,” Penda said reluctantly. “It was here that the bodies of the Maeder-Godias were laid to rest.”
“Then they burned them,” Talorcan went on, “and gathered their ashes into urns.”
“Why are the urns still here?” Catha asked curiously. “I would think that destroying them would have been paramount when the temple was burned.”
“They tried to take them,” Penda said softly. “But those who even so much as touched them sickened and died. And so Asbru Hlaew, the Rainbow Mound, stays inviolate.”
“Why is it called the Rainbow Mound?” Baldred asked.
“Because it is said that this is the place where the Asbru Bridge, the rainbow of the gods, touches the earth,” Talorcan answered. “It is said that on Ragnorak, the Twilight of the Gods, the gods themselves will ride over that bridge and onto Middle-Earth to begin their destruction.”
“It is further said that only one will hold them back—and that one is not even a Coranian. One of the Kymri will save the world that day, here at the Battle of Camlan,” Penda said solemnly.
“A most unlikely tale,” Havgan said. “For why would a Kymri save Corania?”
“Even more unlikely that one of Kymru would be alive to save us,” Sigerric said harshly. “For do you not plan to kill them all?”
Havgan whipped around to face his friend. For a moment the two stood there, facing each other, unmoving. Sigerric’s brown eyes held both disdain and a hint of sorrow. Havgan’s amber eyes flashed, but subsided. Sigerric was his dearest friend, and Havgan knew that, no matter what, Sigerric would not desert him. Not ever.
“These are old tales,” Havgan said softly, “from before the time Lytir came to us and showed us that the Old Gods had no power. Now Lytir reigns supreme. He will send someone to hold back that destruction—if, indeed, the Old Gods are even capable of it.”
“You think they are not?” Penda asked.
“Their power is long since faded,” Havgan replied.
“Do you truly think so?” Talorcan asked softly. “You do not know, I think, of what you speak.”
“I know that Lytir himself commanded me,” Havgan said. “I know that his power is within me. I know that I cannot be stopped. Penda, Talorcan,” Havgan went on, “tell me of the signs on the wall of the temple itself.” He turned and led them to the crumbling inner walls that brooded silently beneath the cloudy sky.
Penda spoke first. “These are the signs of the chief gods, those that are honored in the six festivals.” He pointed first to three concentric circles within a triangle, painted in black and silver. “This is for Narve, the father of all, the God of Death. He is also called Yffr, the Terrible One, and the One that Binds.”
“The next symbol is for Nerthus,” Talorcan said, pointing to a symbol on the wall of two half circles, one brown and one green, joined at their arcs. “She is the Goddess of the Earth, the daughter of Narve and Ostara, the Warrior Goddess. She is said to live on an island in the ocean, and boars are sacred to her.”
“The next is for Donar, the God of Thunder. When he throws his hammer, Molnir, lightning plays across the sky. He has red hair, and both the oak and the bull are sacred to him. He is much to be feared.” Penda pointed to a T-shaped symbol painted in dark blue and silver.
Talorcan continued. “The next sign is for Tiw, the God of War,” he said, pointing at a large arrow painted in red and gold pointing upward. “His sword, called Tyrfing, could only be sheathed if human blood was on it. He is the son of Wuotan and Nerthus.”
“The next two symbols are for Fro and Freya, the Lord and the Lady,” Penda said, pointing to two intertwined symbols in white and gold. One was two triangles lying on their side, and the other was a line with two jagged perpendicular lines jutting from it. “They are the twin children of Narve and Erce, the Goddess of Peace. They are the givers of peace and plenty. Freya is the goddess of fertility, and Fro is the one who bestows dreams and visions.”
Talorcan gestured to the last symbol, a circle cut into quarters, painted in gray and purple. “This is the sign of Wuotan, the God of Magic, the son of Narve. His secrets of magic are called seidr. He hung on Irminsul, the World Tree, for nine days to gain the knowledge and mastery of the seidr. He is called the Wanderer and also One-Eye, for he gave one of his eyes to the Wyrd to drink from the well of knowledge. The eagle is sacred to him. Along with the goddess, Holda, he leads the Wild Hunt.”
Havgan lifted his hand to silence the rest as he stared at the symbol for Wuotan, not taking his eyes from the circle. He had felt something, something he could not name, as Talorcan had spoken of Wuotan. It almost seemed to him that the air grew thicker, the wind perhaps a little sharper, even the leaden sky above them seemed to have darkened. He was not afraid, for he knew Lytir would defend him against Wuotan. But he knew, somehow, that the God of Magic had power still. And he knew, for he had felt it many times in his life, that Wuotan had long fought Lytir for the possession of Havgan’s soul. But One-Eye had lost, for Havgan belonged wholly to Lytir. He would do Lytir’s bidding, for he knew what happened to the Heiden when they died. He knew that they were sent to Hel, where all those who did not worship Lytir were sentenced.
He would not, he would never be, one of them.
Without speaking, he turned away from the painted walls and began to make his way slowly through the ruins, away from the others. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He had come here because he had thought that it might be useful, that he might gain some insight into the witches of Kymru by coming to a place once sacred to the witches of Corania. They were different from each other only in that they lived in different parts of the world. They were both evil.
He had been commanded to destroy the witches of Kymru, the Y Dawnus, and he would not be distracted from that purpose. The wyrce-jaga had already made it their life’s work to destroy the witches of Corania. While he would not actively aid them, for it would distract him from his purpose, he would not even think to hinder them. Yet it had occurred to him that the Wiccan themselves might be useful to him. It might be that he could tap into some of their power. He would use anyone and everyone to do what was necessary. He would even use Wuotan himself if it came to that.
“That might be a problem, for he is not trustworthy, you know.”
Havgan whirled around to face an old man. The man had a patch over his right eye, but his left eye was a bright and sparkling silvery gray. His long, gray hair was tangled and dusty, and he wore a nondescript cloak of gray.
“Who are you?” Havgan asked, his hand going to his dagger.
“I am sorry, lord,” the man said, cringing away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Who are you? Do not make me ask again.”
“I am called Grim, lord,” the old man said, making a clumsy bow.
“What are you doing here?”<
br />
“I am just passing through, young lord. Just passing through.”
“On your way to where?”
“To nowhere, young sir. I am just a wanderer. I seek new places and new things. I tell stories and sing songs. I harm no one.”
Havgan hesitated. The man did, indeed, seem harmless, but he was still wary. “What was it you said at first?”
“Why, nothing. Merely a greeting.”
“That is not how I remember it,” Havgan said softly, his tone dangerous. “You spoke of Wuotan.”
“Oh, I would never speak of him in a place such as this. I would be afraid to.”
“The Old Gods do not have power anymore,” Havgan said sharply.
“As you say sir,” the old man said, with a half bow. “As you say.” The man turned away, then turned back again. “Oh, by the way, I wouldn’t be too sure that the Old Gods are powerless. Why, just look behind you.”
Havgan whirled, for he had felt a prickling at the nape of his neck, as though someone—or something—was sneaking up behind him. But there was no one there. The wind picked up and began to howl for a moment, then subsided. He turned around to speak sharply to the old man, but he was gone. Havgan glanced around wildly, but he could see no one except his five friends, who still stood some distance from him.
He called out to them even as he strode toward them. “Where did he go?”
Sigerric looked at him blankly. “Where did who go?”
“The old man!”
“What old man?”
“Didn’t you see him? He was right there, talking to me.”
“We didn’t see anyone,” Sigerric said. “Just you, wandering through the ruins.”
Havgan opened his mouth to argue, but abruptly shut it. For at that moment an eagle wheeled high overhead, calling with the voice of the wind. And from far, far away, the sound of hunting horns drifted across the plain.
Tiwdaeg, Sol 24—late morning