by Holly Taylor
My heart goes out to you in the face of so many losses. But you must not give up. A great task awaits all of you. Gather the survivors, and make for the hiding place that Uthyr prepared for you. By stealth and by cunning you must gather a teulu that will become a thorn in the side of the enemy. From this seed will come a mighty army. For one day soon the High King will come again. And when he does, he will lead us to take back our own. I command you, in the name of the High King soon to be, that you take on this task. Though you may wish to die, you are commanded to live. This is your duty to Kymru.
Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon
Dreamer of Kymru
Cai bowed his head. Bedwyr walked over to his uncle, knelt down next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. After a few moments, Cai reached up and laid his hand on top of his nephew’s.
And Ygraine knew Cai would not go back to Tegeingl. He would do as Gwydion had commanded. In the name of the High King to be, Gwydion had written. The High King to be. Her own son. She remembered her promises. With a voice she could scarcely recognize as her own, she turned to Susanna. “His death song. Do you have it?”
Susanna nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Sing it, then,” Ygraine whispered. “Sing.” And in the dark forest, by the fitful light of the dying fire, Susanna sang.
“A billow of death over the land,
A wave in which the brave
Fell among his companions.
Preeminent is Uthyr
even before the grave.
“There is blood in the ground,
the fields run red.
Before the supremacy of terrors,
he was fierce, dauntless, irresistible.
“Long is the sun’s course
Longer still our memories for
Uthyr of the bright heart.
Truly valiant was he
All the days of his life.”
Somewhere far away, a wolf howled in loss.
“A thorn in the side of the enemy,” Cai said softly. He raised his head and looked at Ygraine. “I like the sound of that.”
Slowly, she nodded. She liked the sound of that, too.
Chapter 20
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Gwernan Mis, 497
Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—morning
When Havgan first caught sight of Y Ty Dewin, gleaming in the morning light like precious ivory from Carthage, he felt as though he had come home.
It was a feeling he rejected the moment he felt it. He had come to Kymru to conquer the witches, to kill them as his God had commanded. Not to become one with them. Not to feel anything for them but loathing and hatred and contempt. Not ever.
Y Ty Dewin, the college where the Dewin, the clairvoyant physicians, learned their skills, was a pentagonal-shaped building built of white stone. To the east of the building, a grove of ash trees stood, surrounding a stream of sparkling water that flowed in a five-sided shape around a central pool. It was early spring, and the trees had not yet put forth their leaves. Long, purple flowers hung in clusters from the branches. Many petals had already dropped from the trees, covering the ground like a violet carpet.
To the north, huge gardens were laid out where the Dewin had grown medicinal herbs for healing balms and concoctions. The gardens had been stripped. Bare branches of chamomile, of comfrey and fennel, of horehound, pennyroyal, and rosemary, drooped dispiritedly above the unwatered ground.
Behind him, his army spilled over the plain. The clear morning light gleamed off of the helmets, shields, and byrnies of his warriors; glistened off their spears and battle-axes; sparkled off the bright yellow robes of the preosts of Lytir; even set the black robes of the wyrce-jaga to shimmering darkly.
Havgan himself was a figure of shining gold. His metal byrnie was chased with gold. Beneath it he wore a golden tunic, and gold trousers were tucked into black boots. His honey-blond hair was covered with the golden helm of the Warleader. On top of the helm, the figure of a boar with ivory tusks and ruby eyes glowered. At his waist hung the Bana’s sword, with its hilt of gold and rubies.
At last, the Golden Man had come to Kymru.
After landing eleven days ago off the coast of Ystrad Marchell, Havgan had led his three thousand men directly to Gwytheryn by way of Sarn Ermyn, the great east/west road that bisected the island. And for the last eleven days, Kymru had slowly curled up and died. The invasion was almost complete.
Everything had gone as planned—in spite of the fact that Gwydion had obviously seen Havgan’s secret plans. That bit of spying had done the Dreamer no good, because Gwydion hadn’t known of the traitors within Kymru, whose actions had tipped the balance. At the time Gwydion had seen the plans, even Havgan hadn’t known of these traitors. It wasn’t until a man claiming to be from Kymru had come to him that Havgan knew anything about those who were willing to betray their country. That the chief of them had been the Archdruid himself had been quite a surprise, but one Havgan had instantly understood was to his advantage. He had taken the Archdruid’s offer.
For now.
In Ederynion, Queen Olwen had been killed on the second day of the invasion. Her daughter, Elen, had been captured. It would be easy to rule Ederynion through the captured princess. Prince Lludd, Olwen’s son, had somehow escaped the carnage, but the boy would be hunted down and killed soon enough.
In Prydyn, Penda’s forces had aided Erfin, King Rhoram’s brother-in-law, in taking Arberth. Erfin had sworn that he had killed the King, though Rhoram’s body had disappeared. Rhoram’s heir, Prince Geriant, had also escaped. Still, these were minor matters. All of Prydyn was now Havgan’s, and he would rule that land through Erfin.
In Rheged the final battle had been fought on the fifth day of the invasion. Baldred reported that King Urien, Queen Ellirri, and their heir, Prince Elphin, had all been killed. As ordered, Baldred had then set up that fool, Morcant Whledig, as the new King of Rheged. Havgan had agreed to let Bledri, the traitorous Dewin, live and share in Morcant’s newfound power. Through these two, Havgan would rule Rheged. Yet there were three children of the dead King and Queen still unaccounted for.
He had received word just this morning that, four days ago, King Uthyr had been killed by Catha. Now Gwynedd was in his hands, too. And Madoc was King of Gwynedd, as planned. Uthyr’s Queen had managed to escape the city. His heir, Princess Morrigan, had also not been found. But they would be.
Now there were only a few more places yet to subdue. Y Ty Dewin and Neuadd Gorsedd, the colleges of the Dewin and Bards, would be taken. The witches there would be killed, and their great colleges given to Havgan’s own preosts and his witch hunters. Then on to Caer Duir, to meet with his new ally, Cath-bad the Archdruid.
Then, and only then, would he journey to Cadair Idris. He would enter Cadair Idris in the name of his God and become the High King of all Kymru. Then the land would be truly his. In spite of Gwydion, Havgan’s false, traitorous friend, the man whom he had called brother, the man whom he had loved and whom he now hated in full measure. Gwydion, his enemy.
He would find the Dreamer. Find him and kill him.
But all that would be later. Today, they would deal with the Dewin.
The gleaming building was quiet. The great, silvery doors were firmly shut. The tinkling of the stream was the only sound about the place. He had hoped to spit the Dewin on spears before the doors. But it was not to be. They had all run. Not one had been left to face him.
But in that he was wrong.
As Havgan mounted the steps with Sigerric, now Over-General of Kymru, with Sledda, now the Arch-wyrce-jaga of this land, and with Eadwig, the new Archbyshop of Kymru, close behind, the doors opened.
From a pool of shadow between the doors, a man stepped out. He wore a formal robe of rich sea green trimmed with silver. The man’s gray hair gleamed. His eyes gazed gravely at Havgan and his army. The man’s face was lined with pain, and a faint sheen of sweat beaded his brow. But he stood proudly, as though he, not Havgan, was the one with an army at his back.
“Who are you?” Sledda inquired in his harsh voice.
But the man ignored the wyrce-jaga. Instead, his gaze was fastened on Havgan, and something within the stranger’s gray eyes flickered with recognition. “You are the Warleader?” the man asked, astonishment written over the lines of pain on his face.
“I am Havgan, son of Hengist, Bana of the Coranian Empire. I demand that you surrender this place to me.”
The man shrugged, still not taking his eyes from Havgan. “You may have it, for now. There is nothing here for you. All my people have gone to safety.”
“Where?” Sledda asked eagerly.
The man shrugged again. “Elsewhere.”
“You will tell us where the witches are hiding if you want to save your life, old man,” Sledda hissed.
“I have a sickness in my body that is killing me even as we stand here,” the man said, quite calmly. “I will be dead soon and beyond your threats. I am Cynan ap Einon var Darun, the Ardewin of Kymru, and I have chosen to stay here to warn you.”
Havgan’s brows raised. His amber eyes glinted. “Warn us? You will warn us? Kymru is mine, Ardewin. Mine. My generals have taken each of your kingdoms. And I have come to take Cadair Idris.”
“You cannot,” Cynan said calmly. “The Doors will not let you in.”
“You think any doors can hold against me and my army?” Havgan asked contemptuously.
“These will hold. You cannot get into that mountain, Warleader. You are foolish to try. Listen now to my warning. You must leave Kymru. And maybe you will live.”
Havgan’s amber eyes narrowed dangerously. “You dare to threaten me?” he inquired softly.
“You do not believe me,” Cynan went on calmly. “I did not expect that you would. Yet when I saw you, I knew I owed it to those I had loved long ago to try.”
Eadwig, the Archbyshop, asked curiously, “What do you mean?”
And then Cynan opened his mouth to tell them. Quicker than thought, Havgan buried the blade of his dagger deep into the man’s chest. Blood spilled over his hand as he twisted the blade, seeking to ensure that Cynan did not speak, though he did not know what it was he feared to hear.
Cynan’s dying gray eyes caught and held Havgan’s amber ones. With his last breath, Cynan mouthed a word that only Havgan heard—a word that would haunt his dreams, the only place where he would allow the memory to come to him. A word he would hide from himself, even as he heard it, from that moment until the day he died.
Nephew, the dying man had whispered. Nephew.
Gwyntdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late afternoon
THE SILENCE HUNG heavily over Neuadd Gorsedd, the college of the Bards. Just to the east of the building a grove of birch trees stood. The white trunks and drooping branches, covered with tiny, yellow flowers, sagged heavily in the stillness.
The huge, triangular-shaped building of shadowy blue stone loomed above them as Havgan, trailed by Sigerric and Sledda, slowly mounted the stone steps. He was half expecting a Bard to come out of the doors to greet them.
But there was no one. The Bards were gone. They had not even bothered to bar the doors, which opened smoothly at Havgan’s touch. His eyes, momentarily blinded by the morning sun, could make out only a shadowy corridor.
“Be careful,” Sledda warned, nervously licking his lips as his beady eyes darted over the corridor. “There may be traps.”
“I doubt it,” Sigerric replied contemptuously.
“It’s possible,” the wyrce-jaga flared. “Else why would they desert the place?”
“Maybe they just didn’t feel like being killed today,” Sigerric answered dryly.
Havgan did not even bother to comment. He walked down the corridor to another closed door and opened it. The great hall of the Bards of Kymru was filled with silent shadows. The two-storied chamber echoed hollowly with the sound of their footsteps. Rows of empty wooden benches lined the hall. On the far wall Havgan could just make out a huge banner of blue and white. He came closer and saw the outstretched wings of a nightingale with sapphire eyes, so lifelike that, for a moment, he wondered that it was not singing.
“They have gone,” Sledda said in disappointment. “There are no witches here.”
“And no traps,” Sigerric said, cocking a sardonic brow at the witch hunter.
“They had their escape planned, long before our arrival,” Havgan said.
“Gwydion,” Sigerric said.
“Yes. Gwydion’s warning has cheated us of getting our hands on these witches.”
“Yet Cathbad might know where they are,” Sledda volunteered.
“The Archdruid had better,” Havgan said grimly. He turned to Sledda. “Since I have given Y Ty Dewin to the preosts of Lytir for their headquarters, you and your wyrce-jaga may have Neuadd Gorsedd for your own.”
Sledda smiled and bowed slightly, satisfaction in every line of his thin body.
“Of course,” Havgan went on smoothly, “you will have many tasks to perform, so you won’t be here that often.”
Sigerric grinned as Sledda’s smile faded. “Won’t be here often?” Sledda faltered.
“Your job is to hunt witches, isn’t it?” Havgan said impatiently. “And this land is full of them. The Bards and the Dewin. They went somewhere. And you will find them.”
He strode from the room, through the shadowy, empty corridors and back out to the stone steps. No witches here. No witches at all. For a moment it seemed to him as though all Gwytheryn was empty, mocking him.
Where had they gone? Where had the Dewin and the Bards run to?
ANIERON, MASTER BARD of Kymru, sat on a convenient log and took off his boot with a sigh. He upended it, and a stone fell out onto the forest floor.
“I told you,” Anieron said to his brother. “And you said it was because I was old.”
“You are old,” Dudod replied equably.
“You are only two years younger than me,” Anieron pointed out. “If I am old, what does that make you?”
“Younger,” Dudod said with a grin, his green eyes laughing. “As always.”
Cariadas turned her head to hide a smile, but it died almost before it had begun.
“Leave my da alone, Dudod,” Elstar said as she tethered her horse to a tree at the edge of the clearing. “Here, gather firewood. Make yourself useful.”
Dudod, still grinning, made his way back into the forest.
“Da,” Elstar went on, “those horses could use some looking after. And then why don’t you scrounge around in the packs, see what we’ve got for dinner?”
Anieron cocked a brow at the daughter who was so carelessly ordering him about. But perhaps something he saw in Elstar’s face set him limping off to the horses without another word. He began to murmur softly to the tired horses as he unloaded their saddlebags.
“Come here, Cariadas,” Elstar said gently, taking Anieron’s place on the log.
Obediently, Cariadas came to sit next to the Ardewin’s heir. “Where did Elidyr go?” Cariadas asked.
“My husband is Wind-Riding, gathering news.” Gently, the woman put her arms around the girl’s taut shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
Cariadas sat quietly, fighting to hold back a rush of tears. Finally, she whispered, “Da. I’m scared something has happened to him.”
“Believe me, child,” Elstar said in an acerbic tone, “if there is anyone who can look out for himself, it’s Gwydion ap Awst.”
“But no one even knows where he is. There’s been no word at all.”
“He’s in hiding. The Warleader and his Coranian generals know him by sight.”
“And will kill him,” Cariadas whispered.
“If they can,” Elstar agreed. “But your Da is clever. And Rhiannon is with him. She can be trusted to keep him from doing anything too crazy.”
“No one can stop Da from doing anything he wants to do,” Cariadas said with an odd sort of pride.
“I think Rhiannon might very well be up to that job,” Elstar retorted cr
isply.
At that moment Dudod returned to the clearing, holding armfuls of dead wood. Dudod spotted Anieron rummaging through the packs. “You’re not cooking, are you?” Dudod asked nervously.
“What if I am?” Anieron demanded.
“Then I’ll eat bark tonight. It’s better than anything you can put together.”
Young as she was, Cariadas understood that the two men were trying to distract them from the cares and grief that weighed upon them in the twelfth day of their desperate flight through war-torn Rheged to reach the caves of Allt Llwyd.
Theirs had been the last group of Dewin and Bards to leave Gwytheryn—a group the Coranians would love to get their hands on: Anieron, the Master Bard, and his brother, Dudod; Elstar, Anieron’s daughter and the Ardewin’s heir; Elstar’s husband, Elidyr, Dudod’s son and heir to the Master Bard; and Cariadas herself, heir to the Dreamer.
Elidyr came back to the clearing. Elstar looked up from the tiny fire she was kindling. Her face tightened at the look in her husband’s eyes. “The children?”
“They are well. Their band is still four days ahead of us.” Very gently, he went on, “I have news of Cynan.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Elstar asked quietly. “The illness?”
“No. The Warleader,” Elidyr said, his voice clipped.
“The Ardewin dead. Oh, poor Cynan,” Elstar said, her voice full of tears.
Anieron pulled something from his tunic. He came to Elstar and held out a shimmering torque of silver and pearls. Without a word, he clasped the torque around his daughter’s neck. Elstar, her head still bowed, laid her hand hesitantly against her throat, fingering the necklace.
“You are Ardewin, now, daughter,” Anieron said. “There is no sacred grove of ash trees where The Lady of the Waters can come to you. But she is here nonetheless. Tonight you must go into the woods and hear her words to you.”
Dudod made a swift gesture of negation, then just as swiftly suppressed it as Anieron caught Dudod’s eye. “It would be best, brother, if you gathered more firewood,” Anieron said firmly.
“Ah, yes. Good idea.”