by Holly Taylor
Behind Gwydion, Rhiannon stood, looking tired and careworn. There were dark circles under her eyes. “Rhiannon, my dear,” he said gently, taking her cold hands in his. “Come in. Sit by the fire.”
She embraced him, and he felt her body quiver, as though a sob was working its way up from her wounded heart. But with a mighty effort, she stilled and pulled away, smiling wanly. He settled them both before the fire. Without a word, Arthur poured ale for them, then pulled the sheepskin off his bed, tucking it carefully around Rhiannon.
Myrrdin let them sip their ale and take the chill off their bones. Finally he said, “When do they come?”
Taking a deep breath, Gwydion answered, “Soon. We do not know exactly when. But Gorwys will ride and give us warning. You are to stay here in the village and do nothing.”
“All right,” he agreed equably. “We do nothing.” He knew there was more, and he waited quietly for it to come.
“Uthyr …” Gwydion’s voice cracked. He swallowed and began again. “Uthyr is planning to create a refuge for his people in these mountains. But you must not go there.”
“Why?” Arthur’s eyes flashed. “Would it be so terrible for you if I saw my father? Would that ruin all your plans?”
Gwydion ignored him, speaking to Myrrdin. “The gods only know who might find their way into that secret haven. We can’t risk anyone knowing that Arthur is alive. Not yet.”
“I asked you a question, Gwydion ap Awst,” Arthur said belligerently. “I want an answer. Why won’t you let me go there and see my father?”
“Oh,” Gwydion said wearily, his head drooping. “Your father won’t be there.”
Myrrdin understood and said nothing. He closed his eyes briefly with the pain.
“Then where …” The color drained from Arthur’s face. “He’s going to die? And you are going to let that happen?”
Gwydion’s head shot up, his eyes glittering. He rose to his feet, shaking with rage as he grasped the front of Arthur’s tunic. “Let him die?” he shouted into the boy’s startled face. “Don’t you think I’d do anything to stop it?”
“Gwydion!” Rhiannon grasped his hands, pulling him away from the shaken boy. “Gwydion,” she repeated quietly. “Sit down.”
Gwydion sat down heavily, covering his face with his hands. Myrrdin waited. This was not his time to speak. This was her time. He hoped she would choose her words well. There were tears shimmering in Arthur’s dark eyes.
“We saw your da, Arthur, on our way here,” she said quietly. “He said to tell you that he loves you. He said to tell you that he knows you will make the choice you need to make to save our people.”
In the now-silent room, her soothing voice went on, as she tried to explain—to Arthur, to Gwydion, to herself. “Choices … choices are hard, Arthur. Sometimes we can’t choose what we want. Instead, we choose what must be. Sometimes, what must be is terrible. But we cannot turn away from it. Your father has made a choice for himself. Gwydion cannot choose for your father. No one can.”
Tears spilled down Arthur’s cheeks, which he clumsily tried to wipe away. Gwydion, his head still bowed, did not move.
“So he chooses to die?” Arthur whispered.
“It is a choice he must make to be true to himself. Uthyr is doing what he must do. But you mustn’t think he wants to leave you. You mustn’t think he doesn’t care enough to stay. He said to tell you that his last thoughts will be of you.”
“But, but I never…I never said good-bye,” Arthur whispered. “I always thought, I always hoped, I would see him again.”
“You can,” Myrrdin said, breaking his long silence. “Look inside yourself, and you will see him. He has left that to you, now and forever. And no one can take that away. As long as you remember those you love, they can never truly die.”
Caer Dathyl, Gwynedd
ARIANROD GRABBED HOLD of the sheer, rose-colored silk hangings around the four-poster bed, and yanked. The curtains tore from their moorings and floated to the polished oak floor. She trampled on them, then snatched the rose silk bedcover from the huge feather bed. She flung the spread to the floor and trampled on that, too. She glanced at the large mirror that hung over her bed and thought for a moment. No, the mirror would be less easily replaced. Best leave it alone.
Nothing had ever gone right for her. As a child, her parents had disappeared into the maw of the Coranian Empire. Aunt Dinaswyn had looked after her out of guilt. Gwydion had used her body for years, then tired of her. Women hated her because they envied her. Men used her body because she was beautiful. She was mistrusted, misused by everyone, because they did not understand her.
And now, now that she had found a lover who actually satisfied her, she had been dragged back home by Dinaswyn, on Gwydion’s orders. It wasn’t fair. One minute she had been at Caer Duir enjoying herself with Aergol, Dinaswyn’s son, and the next Dinaswyn herself had abruptly appeared, given Aergol a message about an important meeting, and then dragged Arianrod back to Caer Dathyl, muttering of invasion.
Worse still, when Gwydion came back to Caer Dathyl, he wouldn’t be alone. That bitch, that whining, cowardly, skinny, revolting Rhiannon would be with him. She remembered her cousin Rhiannon very well from the time they had been at Y Ty Dewin together. Rhiannon had been so clever, so intelligent, sailed through all the lessons with hideous ease.
They’d be here soon. She had gone Wind-Riding just a few moments ago and had seen them riding up the mountain. Well, when they came, she’d refused to see them. She’d tell Gwydion just what she thought of him. And she’d tell Rhiannon, that fool, who had at last come out of hiding for Gwydion of all people, who had gone with him to the gods knew where …
Oh. Surely Rhiannon hadn’t done Gwydion’s bidding for that reason. Surely Rhiannon wasn’t such a fool as to have fallen in love with the Dreamer. But the more she thought about it, the less far-fetched the idea seemed to be. If Rhiannon, her old enemy, thought that she could succeed with Gwydion where Arianrod had failed …
She whirled to her wardrobe, flinging open the doors. She donned an elegant, cream-colored undershift, then chose an elaborate, low-cut gown of amber, a color that matched her eyes to perfection. She combed out her long, honey-blond hair, weaving it through with thin, golden chains from which hung tiny amber gems. She painted her lips and eyes, and perfumed her body. Yes, very good. Now she would go to meet them.
She wafted down the halls of Caer Dathyl, out the huge doors, and down the outer steps. Dinaswyn was already there. Her aunt gave her a cool look, but said nothing.
They were coming. They crossed the stream that ran on the eastern side of the fortress, then dismounted, leading their horses up to the front steps.
“Dinaswyn,” Gwydion said, nodding briefly. “Arianrod.”
His voice was cool and detached, but Arianrod had seen a spark in his silvery eyes as he looked her up and down. Just as she had intended, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd’s green eyes sparkled, but with an entirely different emotion. Arianrod almost smiled.
“You remember Rhiannon, don’t you?” Gwydion went on.
“I do.” She smiled. “My, Rhiannon, how you have changed.”
“Whereas you, Arianrod, are still the same, I see,” Rhiannon answered with a smile as false as Arianrod’s own.
She opened her mouth to reply in kind, when movement down by the stream caught her eye. The others, following her stricken gaze, turned to the stream to look.
A woman, shrouded in black, knelt by the water. Her long, golden hair was tangled and dirty, splattered with blood and gore. On her shoulder a black raven was perched, ruffling through her bloody hair. Tears streamed down the woman’s dirt-streaked face as she lifted her head to the sky and uttered a shriek of such sorrow, such misery, such utter despair that Arianrod’s soul shrank back before it.
A heap of bloody garments were piled around the woman. She held up a bloodstained leather tunic with the white horse badge of Rheged sewn on its breast. The woman dipped the tunic into the st
ream and the water ran scarlet. She held the tunic up, the water streaming from it like bloody tears. Then she lifted another garment, this one adorned with the brown hawk of Gwynedd. She dipped it into the water, shrieking and sobbing. Garment after garment she picked up and dipped into the bloody water. They saw the black wolf of Prydyn and the white swan of Ederynion; the bull of the Druids, the nightingale of the Bards, the dragon of the Dewin. All running red with blood.
“Who is it?” Arianrod whispered, nearly paralyzed with terror. “Who is it?”
“Gwrach Y Rhibyn. The Washer-at-the-Ford,” Gwydion answered, never taking his eyes from the apparition. “It is death. Coming for us all.”
Rhufin, Northern Ederynion
THE MAN WALKED up the gangplank to the waiting ship bound for Andalusia. Once on the continent, it would be a fairly easy matter for him to catch another ship bound for Athelin. His master had impressed on him the need for speed, and he would obey to the best of his considerable ability. The Dreamer had told his master that the Coranians would come to Kymru soon, and the man knew he needed to get to the force before it sailed. He was under orders to go straight to Havgan, the Warleader, and offer not only the aid of his master, but also the aid of a few key disaffected lords throughout Kymru—men who thought they would rule better than those who currently had that right. With the aid of those lords and the aid of his master, the Coranians would surely triumph.
The man was dressed in a tunic and trousers of nondescript brown, for it would never do to wear his robes. Too many people might wonder what one of the Y Dawnus was doing boarding a ship. He had, of course, left his torque behind.
Just as his master, one of the Great Ones of Kymru, had ordered.
Chapter 15
Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 497
Meriwdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos
He waited in the darkness, trapped, immobile, helpless, as he had done for so many years. He had lost count of those years long, long ago. The darkness was complete, but he could feel that the space was small, enclosing his prone body. He had lain there, unmoving, for so long that he was shocked to suddenly feel his arm move upward of its own volition and encounter the close-packed earth just above his head.
After all this time, the words of Bran the Dreamer still echoed in his trapped mind. The Dreamer had said to him, “You will pay for what you have done. I will make you pay. Lleu was my friend.” And the Dreamer had wept. And the Dreamer had said, “Yours will be a punishment to last for hundreds of years. Your soul will not journey to Gwlad Yr Haf, to await rebirth. Your soul will be bound to the land. And when the enemy nears our shores, you will give warning. To every cantref, to every commote, to every city, to every village you will ride and warn our people of their danger. Until then, you will wait. And only when that task is complete will your soul be released.”
Cautiously, he stretched forth both his arms and again encountered nothing more than dirt and rock beneath his questing fingers. He blinked again, convinced that the darkness was lifting. From somewhere a glow began to emanate. He tried to sit up, but the chamber was too small. He craned his neck to look down at his body and found that the building light was coming from himself. He was glowing.
He shifted his neck to look up, expecting to see a roof of sod. And he did, at first. But then, with a tearing, rending sound, the sod split in two, pulling up and away. Above him, he saw stars.
Slowly, strength was returning to his dead body. He sat up and pulled himself from the earth, until he stood upright beneath the starry sky. Again, he looked down at himself. He was shining brighter now with a pale, white light. He bent over his grave, reached down into it, and pulled out a silver spear. As he grasped it, the spear began to shine with the same pale light. Now he was armed and ready to ride. He heard the sound of a horse’s whinny and knew that his mount had come. The horse neighed fiercely and reared up, ready for battle. Like himself and his spear, the horse glowed white in the darkness. Its eyes were blood red.
He mounted the horse and looked again up at the sky. The starry constellations told him it was springtime. And his dead soul told him it was time to ride.
Dinmael, Ederynion
OLWEN SAT UP in bed, jerked from her sleep by…by something. She listened, unsure what had startled her. From far off, she heard the pounding of hooves. She left the bed and went to the window, peering out into the dark night. She could see no movement, but something was coming.
Behind her, still in bed, Llwyd sat up, grumbling. “What are you doing? What’s happening?”
Olwen didn’t bother to answer. She flung open the door and rushed to the landing. Before she could take the stairs, her children came running from their rooms. Elen was pale and trembling. Lludd’s skin was ashen, but he did not shake.
Olwen, barely pausing, pulled Elen along behind her and down the stairs, Lludd following closely. She flung open the door of the ystafell and stepped into the courtyard. It was filled with people. The sound of hooves came on, growing louder and louder. Without pausing, she ran to the closed gates of the fortress and grasped the heavy bar. Other hands helped to lift it, and she pushed at the doors. In the streets of the city, her people were pouring out of their homes, babbling questions.
And then she saw it. They all did. On the wall of the city, a horse and rider had suddenly appeared. The figure of a man stood up in the ghostly stirrups. He glowed brightly in the dark night, and lifted a glowing spear. “People of Dinmael,” the phantom shouted, his voice hollow and doom-laden. “The enemy comes to our shores! Prepare yourselves to fight. The time is come!” The horse danced on the top of the wall, then leapt away, leaving only a bright afterimage before their horrified eyes.
Beside her Angharad said quietly, “My Queen. We are ready. Command us.” Angharad’s face was pale, her red hair in disarray. But her voice was steady.
So it had come at last. There was much to be done. “Angharad, time to tear up the docks. And ready the rowboats for the archers. Send out the contingent under Emrys to the cliffs. Have them work out the final trajectory of the catapults. Send Talhearn the Bard with them to keep the lines of communication open.”
What else? There was so much to do. “Begin evacuation of the city. We won’t be able hold the enemy for long. And there is a change in plan—send Lludd and Elen away with the city folk. Tell them it is their duty to lead their people to safety.”
“It won’t matter what I tell them. They won’t go.”
“Then I’ll tell them.”
“That won’t matter, either,” Angharad pointed out calmly.
“They will do as I say. Where’s Llwyd Cilcoed? He goes, too.”
But Llwyd could not be found.
Llwynarth, Rheged
URIEN WOKE AND leapt from his bed, his warrior instincts humming. Ellirri stirred and opened eyes heavy with sleep. They had gotten to sleep late, though they had gone to bed early. Distracted though he was, Urien had time to grin in remembrance. It had been a wonderful evening.
But now something was coming. They did not speak, but dressed hastily. So quick were they that they were ready when the door burst open and their son Elphin, the only one of their children still left in the city, ran into the room. They had already sent the others away, dispatching Owein south just a week before in the company of Trystan and sending Enid and Rhiwallon to nearby Coed Addien in the care of their steward.
Taking Ellirri’s hand, Urien clattered down the stairs, Elphin following as they rushed into the crowded courtyard. Teleri, commanding in Trystan’s absence, had gathered all the soldiers. She walked up to Urien calmly, and crisply reported that his warband was ready.
Before he could frame a reply, a glowing horse appeared on the top of the fortress wall. The figure of a man stood up in the stirrups. His pale face glowed, and his blood-red eyes shone brightly in the dark night. He lifted a glowing spear above his head. “People of Llwynarth,” the apparition shouted. “The enemy is coming! Prepare to fight. Prepare to die!” The horse reared u
p and neighed fiercely. Then it sprang from the wall and was lost to their sight.
“Teleri,” Urien said swiftly, “it will be as we planned. The enemy will not reach the city for another six days. Take your contingents and position yourselves just off the Sarn Ermyn road. Harass them as you can. I will gather the levies that are coming from Amgoed and Gwinionydd, and march out to meet them before they reach Llwynarth. We’ll probably engage them around Peris.”
A cry rose up from outside the gates. Urien bolted to the closed doors, lifted the heavy bar, and flung it aside. He pushed the doors open as a stream of people came running. They carried the body of a man and gently laid him down at Urien’s feet.
The man’s arm was hanging at an awkward angle. Blood poured down his face. “Fetch Bledri,” Urien said to Elphin. His son took off at a dead run.
The man reached out a feeble hand and clutched his tunic. “King Urien?”
“Don’t try to talk. The doctor’s coming.”
“No time,” the man whispered.
“Da!” Elphin panted, “Mam says Bledri is gone!”
With a supreme effort, the dying man spoke again. “Morcant. Morcant Whledig. On the road. To the south.”
Urien’s brows raised. Morcant was the Lord of Penrhyn. Urien had already prepared for the defense of Rheged and had ordered Morcant to, when the time came, take his warriors and defend the south coast. What was he doing here near Llwynarth? He must have decided that defending the city would be more fun. Urien would have Morcant’s ears for that. “Yes, he’s on the road,” Urien replied in a soothing tone. “He brings his men to me to fight the enemy.”
“No,” the man whispered. “He brings his men to fight you.”
Gwent, Rheged
OWEIN’S EYES POPPED open. High above him the uncaring stars gleamed bright and cold. He frowned. Something had woken him. He sat up next to the dying campfire. All around him, men and women were stirring, coming awake. Beside him, Trystan sprang up, reaching for his sword.