Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Then he saw her. She wore riding leathers of dark green. A green headband held her dark hair from her face. She was thinner than he remembered, and her skin was stretched too tightly over her high cheekbones. She had changed—in more ways than he expected—in more ways than she, perhaps, even knew.

  “King Rhoram,” Gwydion said, as the crowd parted to let them through.

  “Gwydion,” Rhoram clasped his hand, but he had eyes only for Rhiannon. He gave her his most charming smile, but she did not seem to really see him at all. “Rhiannon,” Rhoram said, reaching for her hand and kissing it.

  “Rhoram,” she said absently, looking around. “Is … is Gwen here?”

  “She’ll be right back,” Rhoram temporized.

  “Rhoram, we must speak to you. Alone,” Gwydion said.

  His brows raised in surprise. “We will be undisturbed in my chambers.”

  “Achren, please join us,” Rhiannon said.

  Rhoram led the way through the crowd to his chambers. As they filed in after him, Geriant and Sanon stopped Rhiannon at the door. “Rhiannon? Won’t you even greet us?” Geriant asked.

  Rhiannon hugged them both fiercely. “I’ve missed you two,” she said, tears standing in her eyes. “Is Gwen—”

  “She is well,” Geriant said hastily. “And in her room, I think. Upstairs. Why don’t I just go fetch her?”

  “Oh, would you? Thank you. Bring her here as soon as you can. Please.”

  Geriant nodded, exchanging a look with his father. Rhoram nodded back, giving his son permission to try. Well, maybe Geriant could do it. Gwen adored him.

  He ushered them into the audience chamber and they sat down. Without preamble, he asked, “Where have you been?”

  “In Corania,” Gwydion answered. “Very soon they will invade Kymru.”

  Rhoram’s breath caught in his throat. This was worse, much, much worse than he had expected. Achren, suddenly attentive, went still.

  “I have seen the plans and will leave a copy of the details with you. They will land off your shores, bringing with them over two thousand men for each cantref. The largest force will land here at Arberth. Gorwys of Penllyn will rise and give warning one day before.”

  Achren shot him a sharp glance. “Not much time.”

  “As much as we need, though,” Rhoram answered absently. “We take up positions on the cliffs. Have Aidan take command of the defense of the city. Or maybe Geriant.”

  “No!” Rhiannon said harshly. “You must not be here.”

  “You will not—you cannot—win,” Gwydion said evenly. “You must not try.”

  Rhoram smiled sadly. It was a shame, really. He did so much enjoy living. “Ah, Gwydion. I have no choice.”

  “At least,” Rhiannon pleaded, “send the children away. All of them.”

  “I can’t send Geriant away. But the Queen, the girls…what do you think, Achren?”

  “The caves,” Achren said succinctly. “Ogaf Greu. Send them there.”

  A clatter on the stairs halted the conversation. Geriant entered the room slowly. “I’m sorry. She … she won’t come down.”

  Rhiannon drew in a sharp breath and turned deathly pale. Before Rhoram had even taken a step toward her, Gwydion had grasped her hands tightly in his.

  “Rhiannon …” Gwydion said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  She turned toward him, her face tight with pain. “She still hasn’t forgiven me for deserting her.”

  “You didn’t desert her,” Rhoram said sharply.

  Rhiannon laughed harshly. “Tell that to Gwen. Oh, the Wheel turns round. My father. My turn to pay.” She stood up, turning away from them.

  “Rhiannon,” Geriant whispered. “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “There is. Look after her. See that she comes to no harm. Promise me.”

  Rhoram looked at Gwydion, sitting so quietly now, his face a calm mask. But there were things behind that mask. Maybe Gwydion ap Awst wouldn’t be brokenhearted if something happened to the King of Prydyn. Ah, what a fool he had been all those years ago, when he had let her go. He supposed that Gwydion owed him thanks for that. But maybe the man didn’t know that yet. And maybe he did, but wouldn’t admit it.

  Poor Rhiannon. She always did have a way of attracting fools.

  Llyn Mwyngil, Gwytheryn

  RHUFON, DESCENDENT OF the Stewards of Cadair Idris, smiled briefly as he sighted the two figures on horseback. He knew them instantly, though they were still over a league away, for he had expected them. He knew something was coming, had known of something for over a year now. Exactly what it was, he was unsure, but now there was someone come to tell him, and he waited patiently for his answer.

  At last they neared him enough for him to read their faces. The news, then, was bad, indeed, from the look in the silvery eyes of the Dreamer, from the tightness in the beautiful countenance of the Dewin of Coed Aderyn.

  He lifted his arm in greeting and hailed them as they halted their horses. “Gwydion ap Awst and Rhiannon ur Hefeyedd,” he said quietly as he gently grasped the bridles of their mounts. “You and the news you bring are welcome.”

  “Welcome news?” Gwydion asked, his brow raised sardonically. “And how is my news welcome?”

  “It is always best to know the truth of what must be faced. Turning away from it will surely gain us nothing.”

  “The Coranians will invade Kymru and defeat us,” Gwydion said bluntly. “Is that the truth you wished to hear?”

  Rhufon looked up at the Dreamer. “It is not the truth I wished. But it is the truth I needed. The Stewards will be ready.”

  “Ready to what? You cannot fight them.”

  “Ready to greet you when we see you again. Ready to fulfill our task of caring for Cadair Idris and the High King who will once again live there.”

  “Be warned, Rhufon. For the Coranian leader, Havgan, will try to enter Cadair Idris,” Rhiannon said quietly.

  “And gain nothing for his pains,” Rhufon said serenely. “The Doors will open for no one who does not possess the Treasures. And the Doors cannot be forced.”

  “Yet you and yours can enter Cadair Idris,” Gwydion pointed out. “Can you be so sure that Havgan will not find the way in?”

  “We can be so sure, Dreamer,” Rhufon said. “Fear not, for that way cannot take any but those guided by the Stewards. Cadair Idris will remain inviolate. Caladfwlch awaits inside, resting in the golden fountain that stands in the center of Brenin Llys. No one’s hand but the High King’s will take hold of that hilt.”

  “You are sure?” Gwydion pressed.

  “I am sure, Dreamer. Very sure.”

  Neuadd Gorsedd, Gwytheryn

  CARIADAS UR GWYDION var Isalyn waited impatiently for the meeting to be over. She had known from the first that the news her father brought was terrible. She had caught just a glimpse of his face as he had come striding up the stairs, and she had seen the tortured lines beneath the surface of his stern countenance. He had not stopped for a moment to even look for her, but had swept into the Master Bard’s chambers accompanied by a woman with dark hair and glittering, emerald eyes.

  Now, after almost an hour, he was still in there talking to the Master Bard, the Ardewin, the Archdruid, and their heirs.

  She sighed. It seemed as though she had been waiting to talk to him for so very long. She remembered when she was just a little girl—a long time ago, for she was all of twelve years old now—when her father had nothing but time for her. From dawn to dusk he had played with her, taken her for walks, carried her when she was tired, helped her to make daisy chains with which she crowned them both.

  But then she had been tested and had gone away to school to begin the long, arduous task of learning to be the Thirteenth Dreamer of Kymru. After she completed her studies here at Neuadd Gorsedd, she would go to Caer Duir to learn from the Druids. She could hardly wait, for now she had met Sinend, who, in the space of the last three days, had become her very best friend in all the world. Sinend
lived at Caer Duir. Her father was Dinaswyn’s son, Aergol, the Archdruid’s heir.

  She turned to look at her friend, waiting so patiently with her. Sinend was thirteen years old. She had her grandmother Dinaswyn’s gray eyes, and the reddish brown hair of her mother, a princess of Rheged. Like Cariadas, Sinend had never known her mother, for the Princess had died in childbirth.

  “How much longer?” Cariadas asked, twirling her red-gold hair around her finger.

  “Stop that,” Sinend chided. “Your hair looks like a rat’s nest.”

  Cariadas laughed. “If it was smooth, my father wouldn’t recognize me!” She thought for a moment, then said in a small voice, “Maybe he won’t recognize me anyway.”

  “He will,” Sinend said firmly, taking her hand. “You know he will.”

  They sat together huddled in a corner, just down the hall from Anieron’s chambers. They weren’t supposed to be there, of course. But there was no one to disturb them, for Elidyr, Anieron’s heir; his wife, Elstar, the Ardewin’s heir; and Aergol, Sinend’s father, were all in Anieron’s chambers with the rest of them.

  They could just make out the murmur of voices from behind the door. Anieron’s mellow tones predominated for a moment. Once she heard the Ardewin’s startled exclamation. Great-Uncle Cynan was a good man, she knew, but not a very good Ardewin. At least, that’s what Elidyr had said one time when he didn’t know Cariadas was listening. Cathbad’s rich voice murmured something. Then Cariadas heard her father’s anguished tone.

  And though she had known the news her father brought was bad, the sound of his sorrow chilled her heart. At last the door opened and her father came out, his eyes searching for her. Finally.

  “Daughter!” Gwydion called to her and held out his arms, crouching down to hold her.

  In a flash, Cariadas hurled herself at her father. “Da. Oh, Da. I missed you.”

  “And I missed you, dear heart. You know I did.”

  She studied his face and was startled to see the tracks of tears. “Da,” she began in a small voice.

  “Don’t be afraid, little one,” he said, his voice soft.

  “But, Da, you’ve been crying.”

  The others spilled out into the corridor. Anieron Master Bard’s face was impassive. Cynan Ardewin’s face was white and drawn. Cathbad Archdruid’s dark eyes were awash with pity. Elstar and Elidyr stood closely together, clasping each other’s hands tightly. Aergol held out his arms and Sinend came running to him. The woman with dark hair who had come with her father stood alone, her back to the wall, her green eyes sorrowful.

  At last Gwydion released Cariadas and rose to his feet. He laid a hand on her head. “I charge you, all of you, to care for my daughter. When the Coranians come, I will be far away from her. Promise me.” His voice broke.

  “We promise, Gwydion,” Elstar said softly. “We will see that she comes to no harm.”

  “No harm,” Gwydion murmured, stroking Cariadas’s hair. “Can any of us come out of this unharmed?”

  But to this, they had no answer.

  Coed Dulas, Tegeingl, Gwynedd

  UTHYR STALKED THROUGH the undergrowth. Closer and closer he crept to the clearing. So silently did he move that not even the slightest stir marked his progress.

  The stag had just dipped its head to drink and straightened up, unalarmed. It was a magnificent animal, its hide light brown with a massive chest of pure white. Uthyr lifted his bow and took aim. If he released the arrow, it would bury itself deep into the snow-white breast. Blood would spill, staining the pure, shining hide, making a mockery of such proud beauty.

  He shook his head. This would not do. He was the King, and he was expected to bring back a trophy from the hunt. Sometimes—many times, kings had to do things they did not want to do. Like give up their sons and never see them again. Like watch their wives miscarry and draw farther and farther into themselves. Like carry on each day as though nothing was wrong, while feeling such soul-killing loneliness with no one to talk to of his misery. No one.

  He sighed silently. Then he slowly released the tension in the bow string, letting the arrow fall to the ground, unused. The stag bolted at the noise. He smiled sadly to himself. Because, sometimes, kings could do what they wanted to do.

  “I almost frightened him off myself, until I realized you weren’t going to shoot him after all,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the clearing.

  “Gwydion!” He bounded across the clearing, enveloping his half-brother in a massive bear hug. “Gwydion, oh, thank the gods, you’re still alive!”

  Gwydion grinned up at him. “Well, I was before you broke all my ribs! Oh, I must introduce you to Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.”

  A woman stepped out into the clearing. She wore a tunic and trousers of forest green. Her black hair was tightly braided to form a crown at the top of her head, and she wore a Dewin’s torque around her long, slender neck. Her green eyes smiled at him.

  “So, you are Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. My brother looked long and long for you.”

  “And found me, much to his dismay,” she smiled.

  “Ah, so you take him down a peg or two. A woman after my own heart.”

  “Thanks, Uthyr. As always, your support and unstinting loyalty mean a great deal to me,” Gwydion said dryly.

  “Come, you must return to Caer Gwynt with me. We will feast tonight, and celebrate your return!”

  “Uthyr …” Gwydion began, then fell silent.

  Uthyr let the silence lengthen. So it had come at last. “It’s all right, Gwydion. Say what you need to say.”

  But it was Rhiannon who answered. “The Coranians will invade. Soon, though we do not know exactly when. The spirit of Gorwys of Penllyn will rise to give warning one day before they land. They will land off your coasts, two thousand to each cantref. The details are in this document, which we leave with you. The main contingent will put to shore off the coast of Arllechwedd and come straight to Tegeingl by river. It will take them eight days to get there. We suggest small contingents to harass them on their way, but no pitched battle.”

  “No pitched battle?” Uthyr asked quietly. “Why not?”

  “Because we will lose. The Coranians will defeat us—for a time.”

  “I see. And when will the time end?”

  “When the Treasures are found and your son gains entry with them into Cadair Idris. Then he will become High King and take back the land from our enemy.”

  “Ah. You know about my son? Have you seen him?” he asked hungrily. He couldn’t help himself.

  “I saw him before I left for Corania. A fine boy. You would be proud.”

  “I am proud.” Uthyr walked apart a little way and stood with his back to them, leaning for support against a tree. For some reason his legs felt a little weak. Over his shoulder, he said quietly, “I will prepare a place in the mountains for my people to retreat to. I will try to persuade as many people as possible to go. But I cannot lose Gwynedd without a fight. I cannot.”

  “Uthyr, O gods, Uthyr, don’t,” Gwydion said hoarsely. “Please, if you have any regard for me at all, I beg you—”

  “Regard for you?” Uthyr turned to his brother. “Gwydion, I gave my son to you because I trusted you. I believed in your dreams and asked no questions, because I loved you. I ask no questions now. But I am King of this land. I must fight for her. Say no more, brother. Believe me, I understand.”

  Tears spilled down Gwydion’s face. “No, no, you don’t understand. You can’t possibly—”

  “Gwydion, Gwydion,” Uthyr said sorrowfully, “do you really think that I don’t see my death in your eyes? And did you really think I would run?”

  “No,” Gwydion whispered.

  “When you see my son, tell him that I love him. Tell him I know he will make the choice he needs to make to save his people. Will you tell him that?”

  Gwydion could not seem to speak. Rhiannon nodded.

  “Tell him that my last thoughts will be of him.”

  “Yes,”
Rhiannon replied steadily, though tears stood in her eyes. “I will tell him.”

  “You will keep him safe.” It was not a question.

  “We will,” she replied firmly.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “It is enough.”

  Dinas Emrys, Gwynedd

  HE DIPPED THE ladle into the simmering pot of stew and took a cautious sip. Ah, almost perfect. A little dash of rosemary and it would be a meal fit for a king. Or, in this case, a former Ardewin and a High King in the making. Or so he kept hoping.

  “Chaos is not to be feared,” Myrrdin said, continuing the evening lesson. “It is to be welcomed, as a necessary part of the turning of the Wheel. The soul that does not face challenges is one that is unfulfilled. Cut the bread, will you?”

  Arthur took the knife and began to hack at the loaf. “So, chaos is good?”

  “Chaos is neither good nor bad. Just as order is neither good nor bad. They are just parts of the Wheel, and the Wheel turns. Pour the ale, please.”

  “So we are just at the mercy of the Wheel?”

  “Not at all,” he said equably. “The Wheel offers choices to us. We take or leave those choices.” He took a hunk of cheese from the larder and set it on the table. “And we do this knowing that there is a price both for grasping those choices and for walking away from them. There is always a price.”

  “What’s the price for walking away?” Arthur asked eagerly.

  “The price is death. Death of a part of you that was meant to be. But some people pay that, and think it a bargain. These are the people who try to stop the Turning Wheel. They kill something inside. It happens sometimes.”

  He ladled the stew into trenchers of bread, and they sat down to eat in silence, Myrrdin unwilling to intrude on Arthur’s thoughts. Why bother? He knew what they were.

  There was a rattle at the door. Myrrdin looked up in surprise. “Who in the world? Oh. Oh, gods. They’re back.” He leapt up and flung the door open. “Gwydion! Gwydion, my boy, come in, come in!” He embraced his nephew, noting as he did so that Gwydion’s perpetual mask had slipped. The Dreamer now wore the face of a man living with soul-shattering pain.