Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Talorcan gathered the reins, looking out over the field. Already there were fallen bodies littering it, some of them very, very small. “Would that I had known what I was swearing to that day,” he said. “I would have kept my blood in my veins.” Then they were gone, harrying the Heiden across the field.

  Rhiannon watched the hunt, though she did not want to. She watched so that she would remember what happened that day. Watched so that, in the years to come, if she grew weary of fighting the Golden Man, she could close her eyes and summon up what had happened that day. Watched so that she would never forget.

  Twisted, bleeding bodies were strewn across the field. Sledda lifted his spear and gutted a running woman and her child. The spear passed right through the woman’s back and into the baby at her breast. “Two in one!” Sledda shouted in delight.

  A man ran across the field, pushing his wife and daughter before him. A warrior rode closely behind them, his spear leveled. With a despairing cry, the running man turned and yanked at the spear that was aimed at his wife’s back, tipping the warrior off his horse. Instantly, three spears thudded into the man. He jerked and cried out for his family to run and sank to his knees. The last sight the man had, before he closed his dying eyes, was that of a spear through his daughter’s belly. And the last sound he heard in his dying ears was that of his wife’s screams.

  Catha rode down a fleeing man who was clutching a little girl to his chest. The man stumbled, and the child flew into the air, to be spitted on Catha’s spear. Catha’s handsome face lit up, thrilled at the accuracy of this aim, and he grinned madly.

  Rhiannon turned away. She could bear no more. Tears blinded her, scalding her skin as they ran helplessly down her face. O gods, O gods, she thought, over and over. Please, please, make them stop. Make them stop.

  Then Gwydion was there, holding her tightly in his arms, crooning to her. “Shh, shh. It’s all right. It will be all right. We’ll get them all, one day. You and I. You and I, together. One day.”

  RHIANNON FOLLOWED GWYDION down the dark, slimy steps. The stone walls were unpleasantly greasy to the touch, and she shied away from them. Torchlight glowed fitfully as Hensa led them down to the dungeons of the wyrce-jaga. At last they stopped in front of a closed door of solid oak. Hensa turned to Havgan, who was just behind him.

  “She is in here, lord. I beg you, be careful.”

  “The witch cannot harm me, Hensa. I have told you this before.”

  “Then let me stay and be sure of it,” Hensa begged.

  Havgan shook his head. “No. Sledda will be here with me, and my minstrels. We will come to no harm. Now, open that door.”

  Hensa hesitated, then did as he was bid. He unbarred the door and slowly pushed it open. He held the torch up high as they all crowded in after him.

  The floor of the cell was covered with straw, slimy and rank. Lingyth, huddled on the floor in a corner, blinked her eyes in the sudden light. Slowly, she stood, staring at Havgan. Her eyes flickered to Rhiannon, then skittered away.

  “Has she eaten?” Rhiannon asked sharply.

  Hensa turned to her with a frown. “That is not your business. Who are you to question—”

  Havgan turned to Hensa, cutting him off. “She is my trusted servant, Hensa. And when she asks you a question, I expect you to answer it.”

  Hensa swallowed. “The witch was given bread—”

  “With maggots in it,” Lingyth spat.

  “Feed her,” Rhiannon said, her eyes blazing.

  “Do as she says, Hensa. Now.” Havgan did not take his eyes off Lingyth. “And bring more torches.”

  Again, Hensa hesitated. Havgan slowly turned to the wyrce-jaga. Hensa was no match for Havgan’s stare. Muttering, he handed the torch to Gwydion, then left.

  No one spoke. Havgan studied Lingyth again, and she returned his gaze, stare for stare. Sledda moved back toward the door, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the squalor. Gwydion held the torch steadily, his expression set and stern. And Rhiannon looked down at the straw and wished that every last wyrce-jaga was lying dead at her feet.

  Finally, Hensa returned, followed by two black-robed wyrce-jaga, one carrying two extra torches, the other a wooden tray on which a hunk of bread and a honeycomb rested on a clean, white cloth. The wyrce-jaga bowed, set the tray down, and backed away. Havgan nodded to Lingyth, and she grabbed the bread, tearing off chunks and stuffing them in her mouth.

  The other wyrce-jaga placed the additional torches within the wall brackets. Havgan gestured for Hensa and his men to leave. They left reluctantly, shutting the door behind them.

  “Stand by the door, Sledda,” Havgan ordered.

  They waited in silence as Lingyth ate. When she was done, Havgan gestured to Gwydion. Gwydion put the torch in another wall bracket and reached into a leather bag at his waist. He pulled out something wrapped in a red scrap of cloth. As he unwrapped it, the brightly colored cards of the wyrd-galdra caught the light, glittering balefully.

  Lingyth gasped in shock and looked quickly at Havgan.

  “You will read the cards for me,” Havgan commanded.

  “And if I do not?” she asked.

  “Then you will die at the stake. The flames will eat your flesh.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Then I cut your throat. Quietly. Painlessly.”

  Lingyth looked at Rhiannon. “My husband. Is he dead?”

  Rhiannon nodded. She had seen a warrior cut Egild down. The poor man had barely started across the field when he was killed.

  Lindgyth fell silent for a moment, looking down at the straw. Then she raised her head tiredly. “Very well. I will read them.”

  “Make it a true reading,” Havgan warned. “Hold nothing back.”

  She nodded, holding her hand out for the cards. “Ask your question,” Lingyth commanded, looking at Havgan.

  “Will I defeat the Kymri?”

  She fanned out the cards, her hands steady, presenting the blank sides to Havgan. “Choose a card.”

  Havgan chose and laid the card face up on the empty platter.

  “The Fool. A good choice for you,” she smiled maliciously.

  Havgan stared at the card, the same card that had appeared at the last reading that doomed Gytha had given in Athelin.

  “The card that you have chosen is a symbol of the mystic who seeks to find his way. A symbol of one who has certain gifts—” Lingyth began.

  “I know what it means,” Havgan grated.

  She cocked her head at him. “Do you? This is not your first reading, then.”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Then you know what you are.”

  “I am the tool of the One God. That is what I am.”

  Lingyth laughed, the sound shocking in the dank cell. “You carry the gifts from the Old Gods.”

  He reached out and grabbed her long, tangled brown hair, pulling her to him, her face inches from his own. “I am the champion of Lytir, and that is all,” he hissed. “You had best remember it.” He shoved her back, knocking her head against the stone wall. Gwydion started forward, then halted. Sledda smiled.

  Lingyth shook her head to clear it. She looked at Havgan for a long time, then slowly laid out nine cards facedown on the platter. One she laid crosswise over The Fool. She placed four around the two center cards making a square, and four more in a vertical line to the right of the square. Then she tapped the back of the card that lay on top of The Fool. “This Crosses Him,” she murmured. “This is the card that represents the force that opposes your will.” She turned the card over slowly.

  And just as before, it was The Magician. “This is the opposing force. The one who seeks to stop you,” she said.

  “A symbol of the Kymri,” Havgan said tonelessly.

  “Yes. And this you have seen before, also.”

  “I have. How do the Kymri seek to stop me?”

  Lingyth’s eyes flickered to Rhiannon. “I do not know. It is enough for me that they try,” she hissed.

&n
bsp; “But they will fail.”

  “We shall see,” Lingyth replied, her voice cool. “This Is Beneath Him,” she said, pointing to the card just below the crossed Fool and Magician cards. “This card stands for your past, for that which is a part of you.” She flipped over the card. “The High Priestess. This is Holda, the Goddess of Water.”

  Again, just the same as it had been before in Athelin. Rhiannon felt a cold tingling at the base of her spine. The Goddess’s painted smile seemed to mock Havgan as he stared down at the card.

  “She is a symbol for the hidden influences at work within you,” Lingyth went on. “She is the keeper of hidden truths. And we know what those are, don’t we?” she mocked.

  “Continue,” Havgan said firmly, his face pale and set.

  She tapped the card to the left of the Fool and Magician cards. “This Is Behind Him. It is the card for the influences in your life that are just passing away.” She turned the card over. Wuotan. Again.

  “The God of Magic. It is he who has made you a great lord. Without him you would be nothing more than a fisherman. Like the man you call your father.”

  Havgan started. “What do you know of my father?”

  Lingyth smiled maliciously. “Did the Wild Hunt not tell you?”

  “What do you know of the Hunt?”

  “Holda and Wuotan have marked you. They may have let you go for now, but no one escapes them. No one.”

  Sledda rasped, “You will confine your remarks to the reading before you, witch.”

  Lingyth smiled again, then tapped the card at the top of the square. “This Crowns Him,” she said. “This card shows your future.” She turned it over. “The Chariot,” she said, disappointed. “Tiw, the great God of War. Victory and success for you, then, in Kymru. But remember,” she went on, “this is just one card. The final card, the tenth card, will tell you truly.”

  She tapped the card to the right of the crossed Fool and Magician cards. “This Is Before Him. This card will tell you something important that will happen in the near future, or that is already happening, though you may not be aware of it.”

  She turned the card over and laughed. It was the Moon card, the card of deception, glowing silver in the torchlight. “Peril and deception. Someone close to you will betray you in some way. Sometime soon, very soon.”

  “Do you know who?” Havgan asked urgently.

  “I do not,” she replied swiftly. But Rhiannon saw a gleam in her gray eyes. “Shall I continue? Or have you seen enough?”

  “Go on.”

  She tapped the back of the seventh card, the lowest on the row to the right of the square. “This Is to Come to Him. It is the card to show of a great happening in your life that awaits you.” She turned over the card. “The Lovers. A symbol for unity and harmony of the inner and outer aspects.”

  “Someone once told me that this is what I would find in Kymru.”

  “Oh, yes. So you will. Someone waits for you in Kymru, indeed.”

  Rhiannon frowned, remembering that Holda herself had intimated that she would be there, waiting for him. Who was it who waited in Kymru to join with Havgan?

  “Go on.”

  Lingyth tapped the eighth card. “This Is What He Fears,” she intoned. She turned the card over. “Fal, the God of Light. Here he means the guide for one who seeks what is deep inside. Yet you fear him, and you will not look. But we all know why, don’t we?”

  Havgan said softly, “Just read the cards, Lingyth, if you wish to die quickly.”

  She bent her head back to the cards, then pointed to the ninth card. “This Can Change All. This is the card that symbolizes another path you could take, one that in your deepest self you desire, but do not know it.” She turned the card over. “Narve. The God of Death.”

  Havgan laughed bitterly. “Again! Again, the card of Death for me. As something I truly desire.”

  “Yes,” Lingyth said quietly. “Deep inside, you desire transformation into something new. Into something you despise.”

  “I think not, witch.”

  “You understand nothing.”

  That was exactly what the Wild Hunt had said. And they had laughed while they said it.

  “Finish it,” Havgan said, his teeth clenched.

  Lingyth shrugged and pointed to the last card. “This shows the final outcome, the ultimate answer to your question. You will defeat the Kymru. Now we see what happens after. If you are ready to learn.”

  In answer, Havgan flipped the last card over himself.

  “The Final Outcome,” she said. “The Tower. The card for Donar, wielder of the mighty hammer that destroys evil.” She smiled. “This card means catastrophe for you. An overthrow of all your notions of life.” She laughed again, and sat back. “Everything you built will crumble. You will go to Kymru and defeat them, as you wish. Then they will, in turn, destroy you. The only pity is that I will not be alive to see it.”

  Havgan pulled out his knife and grabbed her, spinning her around so that the knife was at her throat. He stood behind her, holding her against him with arms of iron.

  “The card of deception,” he whispered in her ear. “You know. You know who seeks to deceive me. And you will tell me.”

  “I know nothing,” she spat.

  “You do.”

  “I tell you that I do not.” She swallowed hard, eyeing the knife at her throat. “Kill me now. I am longing to die.”

  “You will tell me first. Or you will burn.”

  “Kill me, you promised!” she screamed.

  “I need keep no promise that I make to a witch.”

  “I tell you again, I do not know!”

  “Sledda,” Havgan said between clenched teeth, “go call Hensa. Tell him that the witch wishes to burn.”

  Sledda turned, pushing at the door. But it held fast. He turned back to Havgan, his face a sickly white. “It will not open.”

  “Stop it, witch. Stop it now,” Havgan cried, his arms tightening around Lingyth. Lingyth screamed, but the door held fast. Rhiannon looked at Gwydion, who was standing stock still, his eyes narrowed in concentration. She nearly screamed herself. It was Gwydion who was holding the door fast shut with his mind. And he must stop. He must stop now, or Havgan would discover his mistake and kill them all.

  But before she could do anything, a new sound wafted through the air. The sound of a hunting horn. Far off, thunder rumbled.

  “The Hunt!” Lingyth gasped. “I will not die at your hand! They come for me!” She wrenched herself away out of Havgan’s stunned grasp and huddled against the wall. She lifted her hands high. “Wuotan! Holda! I am here! Take me. Take me now!”

  A wild wind began to blow in the underground cell. Straw lifted and swirled in the air. “I am here!” Lingyth shrieked again. A corner of the cell began to glow, and the figure of a man appeared, a figure very much like Egild, Lingyth’s husband, who had died that day. Behind the man stood two other figures. One was an old man, with one eye. The other was a woman, with eyes like a stormy sea.

  Lingyth reached out her hands to the glow, and the rushing of the wind pounded into the cell. Thunder cracked again, and the cell shook. Egild reached for Lingyth, and as their hands touched, her body fell. Something sprang up from her then, something that glowed too brightly to be truly seen. Wild laughter rebounded off the walls.

  And then they were gone. The cell was quiet. Lingyth’s lifeless body lay facedown on the floor. Slowly, Havgan stooped and turned her over.

  Her dead face was smiling.

  Chapter 12

  Athelin, Marc of Ivelas

  Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire

  Sifmonath, 496

  Mandaeg, Sol 30—early afternoon

  Gwydion rode alone at the rear of the party as they made their way down the crowded streets of Athelin to Cynerice Scima. Havgan lead the party, flanked by Sigerric and Sledda. Behind them rode Talorcan, Penda, Baldred, and Catha, all dressed magnificently in Havgan’s customary red and gold.

  Rhiannon had rem
ained back at Havgan’s house, claiming she was unwell. She had been pale and listless ever since the hunt of the Heiden in Elmete, and far, far too quiet these days. Gwydion had given her strict instructions to remain in her room. For a wonder, she might even obey. Which worried him. It wasn’t like her at all. He had never thought that he would be glad to have her fighting with him. But he wished she would. It would mean that she was herself again, which would relieve him more than he cared to admit.

  It had taken them little more than a month to return to the chief city of the Coranian Empire, and the trip back had not been a merry one. Talorcan, Sigerric, and Penda had been subdued. Havgan had been somewhat subdued himself, ever since his second meeting with the Wild Hunt that had cheated him of Lingyth’s death.

  They halted their horses at the eastern bridge to Cynerice Scima. The towers gleamed, impossibly beautiful in the afternoon sun. The guards at the bridge let their party through, and they reached the outer courtyard, dismounted, and made their way to Gulden Hul, where the Emperor and Empress sat in state.

  As before, the hall seemed suffused with soft golden light. Gold gleamed from the tapestry-covered walls, the pillars, and the cloth on the floor. The spreading branches of the golden tree in the center of the hall shimmered.

  The Emperor, still insignificant in spite of his rich trappings, sat stiffly on his throne, dressed in black trimmed with gold. The jeweled diadem that he wore, the famous Cyst Ercanstan, only served to make him look more insignificant. The jewels in the golden crown glowed softly—the large center chunk of amber, for Coran; the emerald, for Mierce; and the sapphire, for Dere. At the top of the helm was a huge amethyst, symbolizing the church.

  Next to the Emperor sat the Empress, cold and stern, radiating the power her husband so signally lacked. She wore a robe of gold with delicate chains of amber and gold woven though her rich, light brown hair.

  Between them, Princess Aelfwyn stood, dressed in a gown of flowing white, brilliant diamonds threaded through her long, golden hair. Gwydion glanced now at Sigerric, hearing the man’s quick intake of breath as he drank in the sight.

  Behind Havgan, Catha murmured, “There she waits for you, my lord. Warm, willing, eager. What a lucky man. It’s not everyone who gets the chance to bed a viper.”