Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “To kill witches,” Hengist rasped with a ghastly smile on his face.

  “Yes,” Havgan said evenly. “To kill the witches of Kymru.”

  “I know a witch who needs killing,” Hengist said, the grin still on his lined face.

  Havgan’s mother stiffened, but still did not address her husband. “My son, I beg you. Come home. Do not pursue the witches of Kymru. Do not go over the sea.”

  “Why not?” Havgan asked.

  “The sea gave you to me. It may take you back again.”

  “I don’t understand—” Havgan began.

  “Really?” Hengist broke in. “Oh, I think you do.”

  The room fell silent as Havgan and Hengist confronted each other. Hengist rose to his feet to face Havgan, his face set and bitter. Havgan stood silently, his red cloak glowing like blood, his golden armbands shimmering like fire, his amber eyes bright.

  “Faeder,” Havgan began.

  “Do not call me that, boy,” Hengist said bitterly. “Never call me that.”

  Suddenly Havgan could not stand another moment in that house. He turned blindly and Sigerric was there, Sigerric who was always there when Havgan needed him. “Get me away from here,” Havgan whispered, pleading.

  And Sigerric did. He quietly told Hengist and Hildegyth that they would return the next day, saying that the journey had been long and they were tired. He swept Havgan from the house without waiting for any response.

  They did not speak as they made their way back to Sigerric’s father’s house. But the sky began to darken. A storm was brewing in the west, in the direction of the sea. The merest whiff of tangy salt air reached their nostrils as they at last returned to the courtyard. Overhead, clouds were piling up swiftly, purple and swollen. Lightning laced the western horizon, reaching for the earth with bony fingers.

  Soon after they reached Sigerric’s family home, his father and his men returned from supervising the sowing of wheat and rye. Havgan watched enviously as the Alder greeted his son, as he had watched enviously earlier when Lady Elgiva had welcomed them. He wished bitterly, as he always had, that Lord Sigefrith and Lady Elgiva had been his own mother and father. But his mother was a madwoman. And his father hated him, though he had never known why. And that would not change, ever.

  LATE THAT NIGHT he sat before the hearth in the room he shared with Sigerric. Sigerric was asleep on his pallet, his face serene and peaceful.

  How he envied Sigerric that peace. He always would. He stared thoughtfully into the flames, fingering the kranzlein in his hands.

  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.

  What had his father meant today? Who was the witch Hengist had been talking about?

  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.

  Why had his father never loved him? Why did his father hate him so? Why had he taken his hatred, so bright and hard, formed a blade of it this afternoon, and thrust it deep into Havgan’s heart?

  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.

  His father would surely be better off dead. What good was a life that was so bitter? And, again, what had his father meant about the witches?

  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.

  The flames began to fade before his eyes, the walls of the room dissolving.

  His father would be better off dead.

  Much better.

  Soldaeg, Sol 8—morning

  THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and clear. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and the clouds had dissipated. Havgan woke to find Sigerric gone and the sun shining through the window. He dressed hurriedly despite his fatigue and sluggishness.

  He entered the hall, threading his way around the full tables to the dais. He bowed to Lord Sigefrith and Lady Elgiva. With a rueful smile, he told them he had overslept and would take any punishment they cared to give him.

  But neither of them laughed. Sigerric rose and came around the table to him, his eyes dark and sad.

  “What?” Havgan began, knowing now that something was horribly wrong. “What’s the matter?”

  Sigerric looked to his mother. Very gently she spoke. “Havgan, I am sorry to say this, but there has been an accident.”

  “An accident?” he repeated, his throat dry.

  “Lightning struck your house last night,” she said softly.

  “My maeder?” he asked fearfully.

  “Is safe.”

  “Faeder?”

  “Was not so lucky. I am sorry, Havgan. He is dead.”

  Havgan said nothing at first. He stared in front of him, but saw nothing. His father. His father was dead. Again God had answered his prayers. His way was clear again to move forward, unencumbered by old hatreds.

  “Maeder needs to be taken care of. I will pay well for her keep,” Havgan said to Lady Elgiva.

  “She will be well treated.”

  “And watched closely,” Havgan said haltingly, not liking even now to refer to his mother’s strangeness, even though he must.

  “Of course,” Lady Elgiva replied softly.

  “Tell her,” Havgan rasped, “tell her that I will send for her—soon.”

  “I will,” Lady Elgiva replied, knowing that he would not.

  For he would not. It would be impossible. It was better to have her here, well-looked-after and kept in close confinement. What might she do or say if she were let out? She would ruin everything if she could. But she was his mother. And she had survived the fire last night. He would bow to the will of Lytir and leave her alive.

  For now.

  Chapter 5

  Caer Dathyl

  Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru

  Ysgawen Mis, 495

  Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late afternoon

  Gwydion returned to Caer Dathyl as the shadows were taking hold, creeping over the lonely mountain of Mynydd Addien like dark talons searching for a fresh grip on its prey. The stones of the Dreamer’s fortress glistened in the light of the setting sun, slowly turning from fiery orange to shadowy gray as he made his final ascent.

  He dismounted at the bottom of the steps that led to the massive doors. The doors glittered golden in the sudden firelight as the torches that lined the walls burst into flame. On the left door, the sign for the rowan tree shimmered, outlined in fiery opals. On the right door, the opals that outlined the constellation of Mabon of the Sun flickered slyly, as though they had a secret they refused to tell.

  The doors opened, and one of the servants hurried to take his horse. Gwydion nodded at the man and handed him the reins, silently thanking the horse for the smooth journey. He ascended the steps and entered the silent fortress.

  His footsteps echoed on the flagstone floor as he made his way down the central hall and out into the courtyard. To his right, the grove of rowan trees blazed in autumnal splendor, with clusters of red berries hanging brightly among the crimson leaves. He crossed the courtyard swiftly, refusing to even glance past the grove to the place where the tomb of the Dreamers rested.

  Which was foolish. Because whether or not he could see the tomb, he was always thinking of the one whom they had laid in it not long ago. Indeed, he thought about Amatheon so much that his heart was sick with it. He thought about how much he missed his little brother, he thought about his bro
ther’s blue eyes and ready smile, he thought about his brother’s laughter, and he thought about how he would never hear that sound again on this earth.

  But most of all, he thought about his brother’s killer. Not the man who had done the actual deed—for that man was long dead. No, Gwydion thought instead about the unknown person ultimately responsible for Amatheon’s death. About how one day he would find out who had ordered this terrible thing, and he would see to it that the person—man or woman—died horribly, in the greatest agony Gwydion could devise. And he could devise a great deal of it. He certainly thought about it enough.

  Dinaswyn stood in the archway that led from the courtyard to the Dreamer’s Tower. She wore a plain gown of black, and her long, silvery hair was tightly braided away from her hawk-like face. Her keen gray eyes were hooded as she silently handed him a goblet of gold chased with rubies.

  Gwydion drank the rich, red wine, then handed the cup back to his aunt and waited for her to say what she wanted to say.

  “The celebrations?” she asked.

  “Were fine,” he replied.

  “And who put the arrow through the apple?”

  “Uthyr, of course,” Gwydion said coolly, but with a hint of satisfaction.

  “You are sorry you went,” Dinaswyn said.

  “I went because Uthyr begged me. I was not sorry to see him.”

  “Nonetheless.”

  “You should have come with me,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have spent the festival alone.”

  “You went. And yet you still felt alone. What does it matter where I go? Better to stay away than to burden others with my grief.” Before he could answer, she looked at him closely. “You have the look,” she said.

  “Yes. It came on me today. I can feel it coming.”

  “A dream. And an important one, if I read the signs right.”

  “You do.”

  “Then go to your chambers. Wash off the dust of your journey, and I will send some hot food up to you. Then, you sleep.”

  “Yes,” he replied. He knew better than to say thank you.

  GWYDION FINISHED THE last of his meal and pushed the tray away. It was time to sleep, time to dream. He didn’t know exactly what awaited him, but he knew it was important. All day he had felt distracted, and a headache had been settled above his eyes since he had awakened that morning.

  It had been there when he rode through Dinas Emrys, the tiny village where Myrrdin guarded young Arthur. He had not seen Arthur; undoubtedly the boy was up on the mountain tending the sheep. But he had seen Myrrdin. He had not dared to speak a word, not even to Wind-Speak. But he had seen Myrrdin’s keen glance, and he had turned from it, wishing with all his heart that he could speak to his uncle, wishing suddenly that he could ask for the comfort he so desperately needed.

  But he could not, even for a moment, forget that secrecy was paramount to Arthur’s safety. He could not, even for an instant, forget that even the smallest contact could lead to disaster. So he had kept going, noting only that Myrrdin seemed hale and hearty and taking what comfort he could from that.

  Now in his study, sitting before the shifting firelight on the hearth, he sighed. His thoughts seemed to run in circles these days. If he was not thinking about Amatheon, he was thinking of the task the gods had given him long ago—to guard Arthur’s life against the day when a High King would be needed by Kymru. For something was coming, some threat for which a Warleader who could wield the combined strength of the Y Dawnus would be necessary. What that threat was, he still did not know.

  If he was not thinking of Amatheon, he was thinking of Arthur. And if he was not thinking about either of them, he was thinking of Rhiannon ur Heyfeydd and of how much he longed to see her. Which was why he did not even dare to seriously think of doing so. Sometimes the desire to go to her, to tell her he was sorry for his accusations, to explain that he had been speaking from his own pain, and that his despair was so great he could barely stand against it.

  But he always resisted, for he knew better than to see her again. She was dangerous. Dangerous because he did care for her, much as he wished he did not. Dangerous because she was a woman, and women always stood between a man and his duty. It was their nature. How quickly he could lose himself in her emerald eyes and never find his way out again. And then what would happen to Kymru? What would happen if Gwydion wasn’t free to do whatever necessary to ensure that Arthur ascended the throne of the High King?

  It was not to be thought of. Not to be seriously contemplated. Not to be. Not ever. He must accept that.

  He mounted the stairs to his sleeping chamber. As he entered the round, darkened room, he gestured and tongues of fire sprang up in the brazier. The waning crescent moon had not yet risen, and only pale starlight shone through the clear, glass roof. Starlight and firelight fitfully illuminated the jewels set around the four, round windows: sapphires for Taran of the Winds and emeralds for Modron the Mother; pearls for Nantsovelta of the Waters and opals for Mabon of the Sun. The floor glittered with onyx and bloodstone for Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, and his mate, Aertan the Weaver.

  He shed his robe and lay down on the pallet, staring up at the starry sky. He said the Dreamer’s Prayer out loud, carefully, sure that tonight a dream was at hand.

  “Annwyn with me laying down, Aertan with me sleeping.

  The white flame of Nantsovelta in my soul,

  The mantle of Modron about my shoulders,

  The protection of Taran over me, taking my hand,

  And in my heart, the fire of Mabon.

  If malice should threaten my life,

  Then the Shining Ones between me and evil.

  From tonight till a year from tonight,

  And this very night,

  And forever,

  And for eternity.

  Awen.”

  He slept. And, after at time, he dreamed.

  IT BEGAN AT sunrise. He was a raven, black as night, with ruby eyes. He stretched his wings and shot up into the sky, leaving Caer Dathyl far behind. He flew over Kymru, the wind rushing beneath his black wings, drinking in the beauty of his beloved land.

  He flew over Gwynedd in the north, the air crisp and cool beneath his dark wings. The dusky spires of the jagged mountains rose up, piercing the sky, as dark sapphire gave way to pale rose-gold, night giving way to the dawn. The wind blew fresh and clear, rushing by him as he parted it with his wings, diving and cavorting, twisting and whirling in the rosy morning sky.

  HE SAILED ACROSS the sky to the east, to Ederynion. The silvery-blue glitter of the lakes and streams that crisscrossed the land in swirling, tangling ribbons delighted him. Clean, white sand shimmered like tiny pearls, swirling and eddying beneath the rise and fall of the sea.

  He soared over Rheged in the south. Here the endless fields of wheat shimmered like flaxen fire in the morning sun. Rubyred roses climbed the hillsides, twining around the beehives that dotted the land like tiny fortresses in whose fastness the bees held their rich, golden treasure.

  Then he circled west to Prydyn, the land of dark green forests, of gently rolling hills, of rich, dark soil. Here the vineyards grew in profusion, and the rich, purple grapes glistened, hanging heavily on the emerald vines, swaying as though impatient to be changed into delicate, fine wine.

  Then he flew to Gwytheryn, the jewel in the center of the island, the land that housed the Druids, the Bards, and the Dewin of Kymru. The vast meadows were dotted with wildflowers. The cool sapphire-blue of light and airy delphiniums and cornflowers, the glistening pearl-white of alyssum and daisies, the red ruby of twining rockrose and fiery yellow globe flowers, the emerald green of the rich meadow grass, hurled a riot of colors up to his wondering gaze.

  The dusky walls of Caer Duir, where the Druids lived, the white gleam of Y Ty Dewin, and the cool blue of Neuadd Gorsedd, where the Bards spun their melodies, all glowed richly in the golden light of day. He rode the wind to Cadair Idris, the mountain fortress of the High King, standing alone and deserted on th
e plains. The closed, bejeweled doors flashed a medley of colors in the bright morning.

  He laughed soundlessly, joyously with the freedom of flight, with the timeless beauty of his home.

  And then he saw it.

  There, to the east in Ederynion was a dark stain, spreading over the shores just outside of the Queen’s city of Dinmael. Swifter than the wind, faster than thought, he flew closer. The stain was a herd of hideous boars. Their wicked tusks gleamed, and their pig-like eyes shone blood red. There were thousands of them, and they swarmed up the cliffs and in through the city gates, making for Caer Dwfr, the shining crystal palace in the heart of Dinmael. Gwydion cried his raven’s cry, but there was no answer from the silent city.

  Then, suddenly, a flight of white swans descended, arrowing down from the clear sky, viciously attacking the boars. But they were too few. Valiantly hurling themselves to their deaths, the swans were impaled on cruel tusks, their broken bodies trampled into the dirt, and the streets of Dinmael began to fill with a river of blood.

  But the largest, the proudest, the most beautiful swan, gleaming in the morning light like the full, silver moon, flew low over the herd, hissing, darting in and out, wounding boar after boar until her head and long, slender neck was covered with dark boar’s blood. And with the sudden, earth-shattering terror of a dream, two arms covered with boars’ bristles shot out of the herd, up into the air, plucking the swan from the sky and dragging her down to be trampled in the maelstrom of blood and death. A triumphant squeal from the hideous herd informed Gwydion that the swan was no more.

  In loathing, Gwydion tore himself from the scene of battle and raced south to Rheged. Perhaps there was time to rouse help for beleaguered Ederynion. But as he neared the King’s city of Llwynarth, he saw he was already too late. The cancerous stain of boars had already blotted out the shining wheat fields, the stalks trampled and broken.

  Then, streaming out from the city, he saw flame-colored horses, challenging the boars to what Gwydion knew was a hopeless fight. Boars rushed to the proud, desperate animals, knocking them to the ground, tearing them apart, until so much blood flowed it seemed to Gwydion that the land was weeping red fire.