Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  They made their way to the church, which stood in the center of the town. It was a tall, wooden structure, square in design with a series of roofs of varying heights, all grouped around the central square. The walkway that ran the length of the building was deserted, but a pile of weapons near the closed outer doors indicated that a service was in progress. From the closed doors drifted the sound of singing.

  “Blessed Lytir, One God,

  Smote his enemies with terror.

  He grew strong under the couds

  And grew in honor great.

  “Till each andevery peoples,

  Each and every tribe,

  Were forced to obey him

  And pay him tribute.

  “Blessed Lytir, One God,

  Was rich beyond compare.

  Golden plate and jeweled rings,

  Generous with gold was he.

  “He was a goodly King.

  Blessed Lytir, One God,

  He was a goodly King.”

  “The service is almost over, Havgan,” Sledda said in a gloomy tone. “I knew we were going to miss it.”

  “You’ll just have to stand it,” Sigerric said sharply. Sledda turned his pale, venomous gaze to Sigerric. “I wasn’t talking to you!”

  Havgan held up his hand. “Stop your squabbling. Now!”

  So, Havgan had also lost his habitual calm detachment. No doubt he was feeling the same thing that Gwydion and Rhiannon were feeling—the tension in the air that emanated from that pine-studded, jagged mountain, like a brooding storm just before it breaks.

  They all fell silent and dismounted, hitching their horses to the rail of the wooden arcade. Gwydion looked at Rhiannon and saw that she was pale. Knowing it was useless, that she would just shrug him off as she had done for the last two weeks, he nonetheless held out his arm for her to lean on. And, for a wonder, she did. Her green eyes fastened on the mountain and did not look at him at all, but still she took his arm. He walked her up the wooden steps of the church and sat down with her on a hard, wooden bench resting against the wall of the arcade.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  “That mountain …” she trailed off. “How can people live here? Don’t they feel it?”

  “Perhaps. Less, I think, than you and I—or Havgan. But I’m sure they feel something. I suspect there are more than a few Wiccan here in Beranburg.”

  Havgan, Sigerric, and Sledda had not followed them to the arcade, but stood with the horses, waiting for the service to finish. Sigerric and Sledda watched the doors, but Havgan never took his amber eyes from the mountain.

  Gwydion’s eyes caught a faint plume of smoke, about halfway up the slope, rising into the air from some sort of wooden structure. That would be Hearth Beranburg, the monastery. “Rhiannon,” Gwydion began, then stopped.

  “Yes?” she answered in an absent tone, which would have fooled him if he had not seen the sharp glint in her eyes as her gaze flickered to him then back to the mountain.

  “I must … I must explain what happened in Tamworth. Those men who died.”

  “Explain? And break the habit of a lifetime? The mountain must have turned your head,” she said bitterly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She tore her gaze from the mountain and looked him full in the face for the first time in weeks. Gwydion almost wished that she hadn’t. Her green eyes shone in the morning light like emeralds.

  “The habits of a lifetime,” he continued, “are hard to break.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “But you did, on the ship. And so I suppose I must, too, or at least I must try.”

  She said nothing, only waited.

  “Havgan … Havgan caught me in a trap. Caught us, I should say.” And then he told her what had happened, and why he had done what he had done. “So, you see,” he finished lamely, “I didn’t want you to have a part in it. I never wanted you to have to say to yourself, ‘I saved his life.’ Can you understand?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said harshly. “I understand. And Gwydion, if you ever try to protect me like that again, I’ll slice off your ears and feed them to the fish. Do you understand?”

  He gaped at her. This was the thanks he got for trying to spare her. Women were so disgustingly unfair. So monstrously selfish. He could have throttled her.

  “You listen to me,” she went on in a low, passionate tone. “I’ve had enough of your pigheaded, selfish ways. You dragged me here, and we’re stuck with each other for a least a few months longer. Now you get this through your head. We’re partners. You try to protect me again, and we’re through. I’ll go back to Kymru without you.”

  “Don’t try to threaten me, Rhiannon. Don’t even think about it. I said I was sorry, and I am. I will try not to do it again. But don’t ever try emotional blackmail with me. I had enough of that with my mother—and others. Do you understand?”

  She looked at him for a long time. Then she said, “You understand nothing. The moment we get back home, the instant, I wash my hands of you.”

  “I may not be so lucky,” he said, between tightly clenched teeth. “I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Oh, gods, they all said that. How could he have thought for one moment that Rhiannon was any different from other women? What a fool he was.

  “You idiot!” she went on, her green eyes blazing. “You could have been killed! All because you couldn’t bring yourself to trust anyone. You’ve got to be more careful! Can’t you understand that? You—” she broke off, as the doors of the church opened and the brightly clad townsfolk began to spill out of the building.

  A man with dark blond hair and brown eyes came out of the church. There was an older man with braided gray hair on one side of him and a young boy on the other. The man spotted Havgan standing at the bottom of the steps, and gave a shout. “Havgan, you made it!”

  Havgan grinned as the man bounded down the steps and caught him in a bear hug. “Penda, you dog!” Havgan said, still grinning.

  “Oh, ho. Dog, is it? And after all I’ve done for you?” Penda turned and raced back up the steps to help the older man down. He led the man to Havgan, then said, “Havgan, this is my father, Peada, Eorl of Lindisfarne.” The pride in Penda’s voice was unmistakable. The older man’s brown eyes, so like his son’s, were wary, but he smiled and clasped Havgan’s hand.

  “Welcome, Havgan, son of Hengist, generous and worthy lord of my son. You are welcome in Beranburg.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Lord Peada. Your son has been invaluable to me these many years.”

  “And this,” Penda went on, his hand resting on the shoulders of the boy, “is my son, Readwyth.”

  Havgan squatted down in front of the boy. “We met once, Readwyth, many years ago. You were just a baby, so I am sure you don’t remember me.”

  “But Faeder has told me all about you,” the boy said eagerly, his brown eyes shining.

  Havgan laughed. “Not everything, I hope.”

  “I wouldn’t be so foolish,” Penda said mildly. He turned away to greet Sigerric, then presented Sigerric to his son and his father. This time the old man’s smile was genuine, finally reaching his eyes.

  “Oh,” Penda said, “uh, this is Sledda. Wyrce-jaga of Ivelas.”

  Eorl Peada inclined his head a fraction, but did not offer his hand. His voice was slightly chill. “Welcome, Sledda, to Beranburg.” The boy stood silently, eyes wide, tightly grasping his grandfather’s hand.

  Sledda bowed as slightly as courtesy would allow when another man came down the steps. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair and light blue eyes. He was extremely handsome and obviously aware of it. “Havgan,” the man said as they embraced. “So glad you made it! And right on time, too. Sigerric—it’s good to see you again.”

  “We’ve been here for a while, Catha,” Sigerric said, smiling. “Where were you?”

  “Catha was inside chatting with the ladies,” Penda sa
id. “You know how he is.”

  “It’s a difficult job, but someone has to keep them happy!” Catha replied airily.

  “And who better?” Sigerric quipped.

  Havgan gestured to Gwydion and Rhiannon. “My minstrels,” Havgan said. “Guido Asti and Rhea Varins of Turin.”

  Gwydion bowed and Rhiannon curtsied. Catha instantly extended a hand to help Rhiannon up. “Why, Havgan, you never told me you had such a beautiful songbird.”

  “She is unavailable to you, Catha,” Havgan replied easily. “Unfortunately, it is part of the terms of their employment.”

  “A pity,” Catha said, still smiling and looking Rhiannon up and down.

  “Isn’t it?” Gwydion replied insolently.

  Catha’s smile faded. Havgan put a hand on his arm. “No,” he said quietly. “My minstrel is too important.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t tell you twice.”

  Penda stepped into the breach. “Come, Havgan, let’s all go to my father’s house. We have a feast prepared.”

  “Yes,” Sigerric said instantly. “By all means, let us go.”

  Havgan walked with the Eorl, while Penda and Sigerric, obviously close friends, walked behind them. Readwyth walked next to his father, holding his hand. Catha and Sledda came next, and Gwydion and Rhiannon followed at a respectful distance.

  “I suggest that, in public, from now on, we pretend that we like each other a great deal,” Gwydion said quietly.

  “Indeed,” Rhiannon agreed.

  SOME HOURS LATER Gwydion and Rhiannon sat on the hearth in the Eorl’s great hall, playing their harps softly. The hall was bright and cheerful, with many colorful hangings adorning the walls and large windows to let in the light of the afternoon sun.

  The hall was almost empty now that the Eorl had dismissed his warriors from the tables. Penda’s son had been taken away to the care of his nurse. The Eorl sat in a high-backed intricately carved chair at the middle of the table on the dais, with Havgan on his right and Penda on his left. Across from them sat Sledda, Catha, and Sigerric. A few platters of crumbled meats and crusts of bread were left on the table. Each man drank from goblets of gold studded with sapphires.

  Penda and Catha were telling Havgan that his support in Mierce was all but total, the thanes, alders, and eorls having all professed a deep interest in conquering Kymru. “Of course,” Penda was saying, “we need to be careful. No more than one hundred warriors from each Eorl, no more than fifty from each Alder. We don’t want to find ourselves in a power struggle against our own people over there.”

  “And when we position them to invade, we must be sure to have Penda and myself lead the Mierceans. They won’t follow Coranian leaders,” Catha added.

  “Talorcan and Baldred can lead the Dereans,” Penda said. “They’re both from Dere and can handle them.” The Eorl said nothing, but his gnarled hands were clenched tightly around his goblet.

  “What time do we leave tomorrow, Havgan?” Penda asked.

  “About mid-morning, I should say. That will give us time to get back here.”

  Penda looked at him blankly. “Get back here? Get back here from where?”

  “I intend to go to the monastery on the mountain. To Hearth Beranburg. We will spend the night there and return here in the morning.”

  Penda and his father exchanged a quick glance. Penda cleared his throat. “I don’t recommend it. Not tonight.”

  “Why not?” Havgan asked sharply.

  Again the quick look between father and son. The Eorl said, “We have entertainment planned for tonight. You must stay here or my folk will be grievously disappointed. Tomorrow will be time enough to visit the monastery, if that is your wish.”

  “It is not my wish,” Havgan said softly. “My wish is to go there today.”

  “Lord Havgan,” the Eorl said earnestly, “tonight the Heiden will celebrate Deore Necht, their festival. They will celebrate secretly on the slopes of Mount Badon. And they might very well raise something that—”

  “What my father means to say, Havgan, is that tonight there will be much activity on the mountain. The Heiden will be celebrating, and the wyrce-jaga will be looking for them. There will be too much confusion. It is best to wait until tomorrow if you are so determined to go to the mountain.”

  “Tell me, Eorl,” Havgan said in a friendly, confidential tone, “is it true that the Wild Hunt really rises from Mount Badon on festival nights?”

  “It is,” the Eorl said. “And so I really think—”

  “The Old Gods are powerless,” Sledda broke in confidently. “Powerless over those who believe in the One God. There is no danger for us on the mountain from the demons of Hel.”

  “I tell you, Havgan,” Penda pressed, “there is danger in the Hunt. Danger that you cannot count on Lytir to protect you from. Why do you wish to see it? For what purpose?”

  “Why, Penda, you know that new experiences always enrich the mind.”

  Penda’s brown eyes bored into Havgan’s amber ones. “You cannot think to speak to them.”

  “What harm can there be in that? The One God himself has given me the task to defeat Kymru. I am His Chosen. He will protect me.”

  “Lord Havgan,” the Eorl said, his face flushed. “You do not know what you are asking for. The Hunt stops for no man.”

  “They will stop for me,” Havgan said.

  THE SUN WAS almost setting by the time they reached Hearth Beranburg. A tonsured monk in a robe of deep red opened the gate for them and they rode through.

  Of the original party there were only Havgan, Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Sledda. The Eorl and Catha had refused to go, and Penda had insisted that Sigerric, too, should be left behind.

  The monk silently led them to the stable, and two novices in white robes took the horses. The monk bowed. “The Lord Abbot is in the refectory with the brothers. Who may I say has come to Hearth Beranburg?”

  “I am Havgan, son of Hengist. This is Sledda, Masterwyrce-jaga of Ivelas. These other two are my servants.”

  Again the monk bowed. “We have heard of you, Lord Havgan. You are most welcome here. Follow me, please.”

  The monastery, though small and clearly not rich, was neat and well-kept. A large, well-constructed barn stood to the left of the gate. The pigs, sheep, and cows, already in their pens for the night, looked well-fed and cared for. Beyond the sanctuary, Gwydion caught a glimpse of a small apple orchard, as well as neatly tended vegetable and herb gardens.

  The monk led them to a small, wooden building and opened the door. Inside were rough tables and benches filled now with red-robed monks, white-robed novices, and a sprinkling of traveling friars in orange robes. Plain fare was laid on the tables—bread, a few meats, apples, and nuts. The monks were observing the ritual mealtime silence, with one man reading aloud from the Book of Lytir.

  At the head of the far table, a middle-aged man with a commanding presence sat in a large, high-backed chair. He wore a yellow robe with green piping around the sleeves and hem. His gray eyes were alert in his deeply tanned face. At his signal the reader fell silent. The monk who had escorted them bowed. “Lord Havgan and Master-wyrce-jaga Sledda.”

  The Abbot rose and bowed slightly. “Have you eaten, my lords?”

  Havgan bowed in return. “We have, Faeder.”

  “Then come with me to my house. We shall talk a while.”

  They followed the Abbot out the door and across a courtyard to a small two-storied house. The Abbot led them inside then closed the door. “I am Abbot Oswald,” he said. “And I am at your service. Please, be seated.”

  Havgan and Sledda took seats in two chairs set before the fire that was burning cheerfully on the hearth. Gwydion and Rhiannon sat on a bench pushed next to one wall. The floor was covered with fresh, sweet-smelling rushes. A small table and chair stood against the other wall. There were no windows to let in the light, and the Abbot lit wax candles with a taper kindled from the crackling fire.

  The Abbot seated
himself in the chair behind the table, then asked, “How may I serve you, lord?”

  “We ask only for shelter for the night,” Havgan replied.

  The Abbot hesitated. “Perhaps, lord, you would be more comfortable in town. I am sure that the Eorl—”

  “You do have guest quarters, I trust?”

  “We do. But tonight the Hunt rides,” the Abbot said bluntly. “This night we spend in the church. All of us. Praying to Lytir to protect us. Everyone must be there.”

  Havgan nodded. “I understand, Lord Abbot. Sledda and my servants shall be there. But I have business on the mountain.”

  “That is not permitted, Lord Havgan. I must insist.”

  “You cannot prevent me.”

  The Abbot said nothing for a long time, then bowed his head. “It is the will of Lytir, then. I will pray for you.”

  THE CHURCH WAS crowded. Monks and novices lined the front benches, all of them on their knees. Hundreds of candles had been lit, chasing the shadows into the corners and up to the high ceiling. The stone altar was covered with a banner of white and gold, marked with the runes of Lytir. Four white candles burned in golden holders at each corner of the large stone. Whispered prayers caught in the still air and echoed off the walls.

  “Praise now to the Guardian of Heofen …”

  “Eternal Lord …”

  “Lytir, protect us …”

  Havgan and Sledda had taken places in the middle of the sanctuary. Sledda was on his knees, his pale head bowed. Havgan sat upright, gazing at the gleaming banners.

  Gwydion and Rhiannon sat at the rear of the church, with no one around them. Gwydion leaned forward and whispered to Rhiannon, “It’s dark out. The Deore Necht celebration must begin soon.”

  “And?” she asked, her brows raised.

  “I wish to see it. Guard me while I Wind-Ride.”

  “What about Havgan?”

  “He’s far too preoccupied to sense much of anything. And if he does, he will chalk it up to the Hunt.”

  “What do you hope to learn?”