Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Sledda, correctly interpreting Havgan’s expression, spoke. “I am the Master-wyrce-jaga of Ivelas.”

  “A very recent promotion, or I would have heard of it.”

  “Very recent, indeed. Just this afternoon, in fact.”

  “Which would explain your presence in Athelin.”

  “Not entirely.”

  Sledda looked at the steward who waited in the doorway for Havgan’s orders. Havgan dismissed the man, saying that he would call if anything were needed.

  “I saw you in the tournament today,” Sledda said, as he again sat down at the table. “You and your men fought well.”

  “My men always fight well.”

  “Indeed. You are to fight the Eorl’s champion tomorrow. I have little doubt that you will win.”

  “Because you are sure of my prowess?” Havgan asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Because I am sure of our God,” Sledda answered. He gestured to the map of Kymru. “Because I know the task Lytir has given you. To complete that task, how could you not win tomorrow?”

  “There are many things,” Havgan said quietly, “that stand between me and my goal.”

  “But they do not matter, because our God is with you. You have sworn to cleanse Kymru. And I am here to offer you my aid.”

  “Your aid. The aid of a Master-wyrce-jaga is surely much. But not enough.”

  “Yet I bring you more than you think. I bring you the support of all the wyrce-jaga of the Empire.”

  Havgan’s breath caught in his throat. Such aid would be invaluable. “How can I be sure you speak the truth?” Havgan asked cautiously.

  “The Arch-wyrce-jaga of Corania himself sent me here tonight.”

  “And I am to believe that?”

  “Believe this, then. That Ethbrand could not come himself, for political reasons. Surely you know that the Eorl of Ivelas, whose champion you will fight tomorrow, is his brother. He could not take a public stand for you in such a contest. So he sends me.”

  Sledda reached into his robe and withdrew a ruby ring. The ring was large and glittered in the candlelight. Gold flashed in Sledda’s palm as he held the ring out to Havgan.

  “This is the ring that belonged to Custhorn, the first Masterwyrce-jaga of the Empire. It was he who wrote ‘The Secrets of the Heiden’ and first set down on paper their filthy rites, he who first proved that the Y Dawnus of Kymru and the Wiccan of Corania were demons, he who was surely a mouthpiece of God.”

  Slowly Havgan reached out and picked up the ring from Sledda’s cold hand. The massive golden setting was carved with tiny flames that seemed to flicker in the uncertain light. The ruby glittered like fresh blood as he put the ring on his finger.

  “The wryce-jaga are with you, Havgan son of Hengist. To that end I have been sent here. I will be in your inner circle. I will be the conduit for the wyrce-jaga to you. I will inform them of your needs and desires.”

  “My men will take long and long to accept you, I think,” Havgan warned.

  “No matter,” Sledda said. “I do not live to be liked.”

  “It is as well, wyrce-jaga,” Havgan said with a wolfish grin, “for you would surely be doomed to disappointment.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Sledda said casually, his eyes gleaming with malice at Havgan’s remark. “I do have another message for you.”

  “From whom?” Havgan asked sharply.

  “From the Lady of Apuldre.”

  “Sigerric’s mother?”

  “She begs that you and Sigerric will return to Angelesford as soon as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Your mother, Lord Havgan. Your mother is asking to see you. She will not, apparently, be gainsaid. She comes to Lady Elgiva every day, asking if you have come yet. She insists on seeing you. Lady Elgiva says that your mother cannot be put off any longer. She will likely come to Athelin to look for you unless you go to her.”

  “Then Sigerric and I will go to Angelesford after the tournament. I have some things to do first, you see.”

  “Yes,” Sledda said coolly. “I do, as you say, see.”

  AFTER SLEDDA LEFT, Havgan sat on the hearth for a long time, gazing into the dancing, golden flames. In his hands he fingered the kranzlein, the prayer wheel that he used in his prayers to Lytir. The string consisted of beads of seven colors—white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet—grouped together in seven groups. He spoke to the beads silently in his head as he had been taught by the preosts long ago: Praise to the Guardian of Heofen; praise to Lytir and his Mind-Plans; praise to him who fashioned every wonder; praise to him who made Heofen as a roof; praise to him who made Middle-Earth for man; praise to the Makar; praise to the Emperor of All.

  Over and over and over he said these words as he stared into the crackling, shining fire. He did not chant with these beads often. For some reason he only felt compelled to use them when wrestling with a specific problem. But when he did use the beads, speak the words over and over in his mind, concentrate on the problem—well, then sometimes things happened. He had come to the conclusion long ago that when he used the beads, Lytir heard his prayers better. He sometimes visualized them as arrows arcing into the roof of the sky, piercing Heofen itself, gaining Lytir’s approval and answer.

  Over and over he spoke to the beads as he stared at the fire, seeing only the flames, feeling only the heat, thinking only that he must be Warleader of Corania, he must, or else how could the witches of Kymru fall beneath his hand?

  Gewinnan Daeg

  HE ROSE EARLY, as was his custom. For some reason he felt very tired. He glanced outside, noting that it was going to be another fine day. A good day, he thought, to defeat the Eorl’s champion, a good day to once again be crowned Gewinnan Daeg King. A good day to fasten his hungry gaze on Princess Aelfwyn as she crowned him and watch her haughty face flush beneath the lust she would see in his eyes.

  He went to the basin and splashed cold water on his face, willing himself to fully wake, still conscious of a lingering sluggish feeling. It would wear off soon, he was sure. He dressed casually, donning only a robe of red velvet, for he would break his fast before arming.

  He opened his door, and as he stepped into the hallway, the guards on either side saluted, hand to heart. He nodded at them and made his way to the great hall as they followed.

  Though he had risen early, his men had risen earlier still, as was expected of them. The large trestle tables were filled with food—steaming porridge with mounds of butter melting over the top, platters of sausages and thick, smoky bacon, fresh bread and wheels of yellow cheese, and frothy ale. The fifty members of his warband filled the benches, eating hugely, calling out boisterous remarks to one another. At the head table set on the dais, his closest friends were all there: Catha, Baldred, Penda, Talorcan, and Sigerric. They were all dressed and armed, ready to assist him to don his own armor and weapons once he had eaten.

  “Havgan,” Sigerric asked as he took his seat, “are you well?”

  Havgan yawned and reached for a sausage. “I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

  “You could carry away treasure in the bags under your eyes,” Sigerric said.

  “So kind of you to point that out,” Havgan said with a grin.

  Before Havgan even had the chance to begin his meal, his steward came hurrying into the hall, followed closely by a man dressed in gold, the Emperor’s device sewn on his tunic. Havgan’s men fell silent as the steward and the messenger made their way to the head table. Havgan rose, nodding at the messenger.

  “You are welcome here, sir,” Havgan said formally, as custom demanded. “May I offer you food and drink?”

  The messenger shook his head. “Lord Havgan, I am commanded to summon you to the palace. At once.”

  “Only me?” Havgan asked, his amber eyes sharp.

  “You may bring with you one of your men.”

  “Lord Havgan can hardly go unattended,” the steward began.

  “Do not fear for your lord,” th
e messenger said quietly. “All the lords here in Athelin are summoned to the palace. And all are commanded to restrict their retinue to one.”

  Knowing further questions would be useless, Havgan merely nodded at the messenger. “I will dress and come at once.”

  “All arms are to be left here, my lord,” the messenger said.

  “Of course,” Havgan replied smoothly.

  AS HAVGAN AND Sigerric neared Cynerice Scima, they were all but swallowed up by the huge crowd that had converged on the palace at the same time. Havgan recognized all of the lords, a great many of whom had come to the capital to take part in the tournament.

  Besides the lords, he also recognized many other important citizens. Ethbrand, the Arch-wyrce-jaga of Coran was there in a black velvet robe and a taBard of deep blue, attended by Sledda. Sledda nodded at Havgan and Sigerric, but Ethbrand did not acknowledge them beyond a sharp glance to ensure that Havgan was wearing the ruby ring Sledda had given him the night before.

  They streamed across the bridge that spanned the River Saefern. The spires of the palace soared delicately, shimmering like fine crystal beneath the clear, blue sky.

  At last they came to Gulden Hul. As always, the room shimmered with golden light. But the jeweled birds in the Golden Tree were silent. Guards ringed the empty dais with the two golden thrones. Havgan noticed that the Archpreost himself, Whitgar, was standing at the foot of the dais, resplendent in violet robes. A huge amulet of gold and amethysts hung around his massive neck, representing the tree upon which Lytir had died. Whitgar’s massive white beard stopped just short of covering the amulet, and his gray hair was braided into hundreds of tiny braids, all tied off with gold beads.

  They all waited in the golden chamber, for the most part silent. The few who did speak did so in whispers, and only briefly. At last they heard the sound of trumpets and the Emperor and Empress entered, ascended the dais, then took their places on the two golden thrones. Princess Aelfwyn, in her customary white and with a spray of diamonds in her blond hair, entered next, flanked by her uncle, Prince Aesc, and her aunt, Princess Aesthryth. The three came to stand between the two thrones.

  The faces of the five royal family members were carefully expressionless. But Havgan thought he saw traces of grief in the set of Aesc’s mouth, in the tightening of Aesthryth’s chin, in the pale blue eyes of the Emperor. He saw no traces of emotion at all in either the Empress or Aelfwyn.

  At that moment Princess Aesthryth’s cornflower blue eyes scanned the room until she saw Havgan. As the Emperor’s sister registered his presence, she quickly looked away. But not before Havgan had seen something in her eyes. The merest whiff of suspicion, the vaguest hint of—could it have been?—fear. But why? Havgan thought, completely at a loss. He had done nothing. Nothing at all.

  In the now-silent hall the Emperor spoke. “I bring sorrowful news to you all. Let it be known that last night my brother, Prince Athelric, Warleader of our glorious Empire, died.”

  A shocked murmur ran through the room. Havgan started as though from an electric shock. Athelric was dead? How could that possibly be?

  The Emperor went on. “He was burned to death in his bed.”

  “But who?” the Eorl of Ivelas called out. “Who could have done such a thing?”

  “He was sharing his bed with a woman. A woman who, apparently, had much cause to hate him,” Prince Aesc answered.

  “It is obvious that she herself must have set fire to the bed after he fell asleep,” the Emperor said.

  “Must have? She did not confess?” Ethbrand, the Archwyrce-jaga asked.

  “She said only that she woke to flames surrounding the bed. Of course, that is not a story to be believed. However, it is not possible to question her further for my brother’s guards, in a frenzy of anger, killed her.”

  “They arrived too late,” Prince Aesc said flatly, “to save my brother.”

  “Why did they arrive so late?” Archpreost Whitgar asked. “Where were they?”

  “They were outside Athelric’s door, as they should have been,” the Emperor said. “But they were held up at the door when it refused to open. At last they had to take their axes to it.”

  “It was locked?” Whitgar asked.

  “It was not. It simply would not open.”

  Havgan, his thoughts awhirl, barely noticed that Princess Aesthryth had once again found him with her cornflower gaze. His prayer. His prayer from the night before had been answered. Oh, surely Lytir was with him. Surely he was God’s champion and God himself had proclaimed it by bringing about Athelric’s death.

  The Emperor rose then and took his daughter’s hand. Aelfwyn, her white skin as pale as marble, raised her head proudly and looked out over the assembly. Her expressionless face did not change as her father continued. “The death of my brother means that the post of Bana is vacant. By law, the post must be opened to all those who wish to enter the contest to win it. The victor will be proclaimed Warleader of the Empire and will marry my daughter, she who is known as Steorra Heofen, the Star of Heaven, beautiful and bright.” At this the Emperor’s voice broke. Aelfwyn’s hands trembled for a brief moment, and her mask seemed to slip slightly, showing the fear that lay beneath.

  But the Empress, after shooting a venomous look at her husband, rose and spoke coldly and clearly. “Formal challenges will be heard by the Witan four months from now, during Ermonath. One year from now, the winner of the Gewinnan Daeg tournament will marry Princess Aelfwyn.”

  At her mother’s words, Aelfwyn regained control, standing so still that she seemed like a statue—beautiful and cold, never to be warm again.

  Nardaeg, Sol 7—early afternoon

  OVER FIVE WEEKS later, Sigerric and Havgan at last arrived at Sigerric’s home in Angelesford. As they passed the cow house and the barn, their horses threading their way through the scurrying chickens, slaves and serfs looked up from their work and waved greetings to Sigerric. When they entered the gate into the courtyard, slaves took their horses as the two men dismounted.

  To their right, the door of the weaving room opened, and Lady Elgiva descended the steps, her distaff still in her hand. Sigerric shouted his greeting and then, upon reaching his mother, boisterously picked her up, swinging her around. Between her demands to be let down, she laughed, her silvery-blond hair shining beneath the sun, her dark eyes alight with welcome.

  At last Sigerric set her down and she turned to Havgan, her face flushed with joy. She gave him her hand and he kissed it gently. “You are both most welcome here,” she said in her rich voice.

  “My mother?” Havgan asked anxiously.

  “Was here again this morning,” Elgiva said gently. “I assured her that you would be along soon.”

  “Right as always,” Sigerric said. “Havgan, do you wish to see her alone?”

  “No,” Havgan said instantly, before he even thought. He flushed.

  “Of course, I’ll go with you,” Sigerric said swiftly.

  “Thank you,” Havgan said gratefully, all his arrogance gone.

  “Then let us go, for the sooner we go, the sooner we will return,” Sigerric said, in an effort to be cheerful. “Father?” he asked Elgiva.

  “Out surveying the sowing,” Elgiva said. “He will be back for dinner.”

  “Then I will greet him upon our return,” Sigerric said.

  “The soonest done, the soonest over,” Elgiva said, sympathy in her eyes as she gently laid her hand on Havgan’s arm.

  He tried to smile at her but could not. He swallowed hard, and without another word, turned and left to make his way through the town.

  Sigerric followed silently as they passed houses of wattle and thatch, recently harvested kitchen gardens, chickens scratching for food, small children playing and shouting, and denuded apple trees. Men and women hailed Sigerric, and the children stopped and stared in awe as the two warriors passed.

  At last they came to the last house on the outskirts of the town. The dwelling had walls that had once been whitew
ashed but were now a dirty gray. The thatch was bare in some places, giving the hovel a diseased look. The garden was straggly and unkempt. Two dispirited hens and one rooster rooted for food in the muddy yard. The door was closed, and no sound came from the silent house.

  Havgan marched to the door and opened it, Sigerric right behind him. The shutters were closed and the room was dim. A pallet lay against the far wall, covered with a dirty sheepskin. His mother’s spinning wheel was in the far corner, beneath a layer of dust. A fire burned feebly in the hearth, doing little to illuminate the room. A pile of rags huddled in the corner near the fire.

  Havgan saw his father first, sitting at the rough table in the center of the room, a wooden cup of ale in his large, callused hand. Hengist’s once-massive shoulders were bowed as though under some unseen weight. His golden hair had whitened with age. He raised his head at Havgan’s entrance, and his dark eyes did not register any pleasure at the sight of his son.

  “Why are you here?” Hengist demanded quietly. “Why have you come back?”

  “Maeder has been asking for me,” Havgan replied, just as quietly. “Where is she?”

  The pile of what Havgan had taken to be rags suddenly moved. Havgan’s mother rose, tottering toward him. She was thin almost to the point of emaciation. Her scant gray hair hung lank around her bony shoulders. Her pale, gray eyes in her strangely unlined face were alight as she reached out to him.

  “My gift from the sea,” she said in her lilting, singsong voice. “My son.”

  He gently took her in his arms and hugged her, careful not to squeeze too hard. “Maeder,” he said softly. “I have come.”

  “Why did you send for him?” Hengist asked his wife harshly.

  Hildegyth did not answer her husband. She looked up at Havgan and said, very simply, “Come home, my son.”

  “I cannot do that, Maeder,” he said as gently as he could. “God has called me.”