Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

Before Cariadas could even gather her wits to ask what was going on, Dudod vanished into the forest. Both Elstar and Elidyr were frowning in puzzlement at Anieron.

  Say nothing, Anieron spoke to their minds. Act naturally.

  “What did you find for dinner?” Elstar asked her father.

  “Cheese and bread. How about that?” Anieron replied casually.

  “Lazy,” Elidyr grinned. “Let’s take a look at those packs. I think a nice stew would go down very smoothly. Stew is my specialty.”

  A rustling in the bushes made them all jump. Anieron, moving very swiftly for an old man, darted toward the sound and was lost to sight. “What’s he doing?” Cariadas asked of no one in particular. “I don’t—”

  And then, as Dudod and Anieron between them led a small figure into the clearing, she did understand. The girl was disheveled and dirty as though she had been sleeping on the ground for many nights. Her reddish brown hair was dusty and tangled. Her gray eyes were red-rimmed as though she had been weeping continuously.

  “Sinend?” Cariadas asked, in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

  “Now that’s a good question,” Anieron said smoothly. “Just what is the daughter of the Archdruid’s heir doing here? You’ve been following us since we left Gwytheryn.”

  “Were you spying on us? For the Archdruid?” Elidyr asked roughly. Sinend’s head shot up. She shook her head, but did not reply.

  “Does he know where you are?” Elstar asked.

  “No,” Sinend replied, speaking for the first time. “Oh, no.”

  “You found out, didn’t you?” Cariadas guessed. “You found out what Cathbad and your Da were doing. You didn’t know before.”

  Sinend’s shoulders began to shake. Cariadas went to her friend and put her arms around her. “She didn’t know,” Cariadas said pleadingly, looking up at Anieron and Dudod. The two men said nothing but exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

  “Why don’t we let Sinend speak for herself?” Elstar suggested coldly.

  Sinend fought for control. Slowly the tremors died down. Grief and shame were written in the tired lines of her face. At last, she whispered, “I heard them talking. They didn’t know I was there.”

  “I knew Cathbad was planning something with the enemy, and that Aergol was fully aware of it,” Anieron said coolly. “But I don’t understand what they get by supporting the Warleader. The Coranians think that the Druids, like the Bards and the Dewin, are witches. How does Cathbad get protection for the Druids? What does he hope to gain?”

  “Cathbad wants the old days of Lyonesse back,” Sinend said tonelessly, “when the Druids were the only power. When there were no Bards, no Dewin. No Dreamers.”

  “So Cathbad wants to rid Kymru of all but his Druids. And the Warleader will gladly kill any witches he can get his hands on. But what does the warleader get for sparing the Druids after they have helped him win his battles?”

  “Kymric priests of the Coranian god.”

  “What?” Cariadas exclaimed.

  “The Druids will give their allegiance to Lytir, the Warleader’s god. They will help to convert all of Kymru. That’s what the Warleader wants.”

  “The Warleader wants to convert Kymru?” Anieron asked incredulously.

  Sinend nodded. Anieron and Dudod looked blankly at each other for a moment. Then Dudod began to grin. And Anieron grinned back. And then the two men were laughing in genuine delight.

  “Convert the Kymri,” Anieron managed to say through his laughter.

  Dudod sputtered. “Oh, this is really something. I can’t believe it.”

  “Cathbad’s mad,” Elstar said wonderingly. “Quite mad.”

  “They all are,” Sinend said quietly.

  Addiendydd, Lleihau Wythnos—early evening

  THE MAN STOOD silently in front of the doors of Caer Duir, the college of the Druids. The golden doors glimmered in the torchlight. The emeralds that marked out the runes for Modron, the Great Mother, winked balefully.

  The steps to the great, round building of black stone were lined with Druids in their cowled brown robes, silently watching Havgan and Sigerric mount the steps. To the west of the main structure, a slim tower rose up, piercing the night sky. Havgan had been told that this was the observation tower, which the Druids used to study the stars. To the east a grove of oak trees stood dark and silent.

  The man at the top of the steps bowed. “I am Aergol, heir to the Archdruid,” he said. His smooth saturnine features gave nothing away. His dark eyes were opaque as he glanced at Havgan’s army settling down to camp for the night in front of the college.

  “And the Archdruid? Where is he?” Sigerric asked.

  “He waits to greet you in his quarters. Please follow me.”

  Torches burned at regular intervals throughout the corridors. The stairs were worn smooth with generations of scurrying feet. The Druid led them down another corridor, then opened a plain door of sturdy oak.

  The room was bright with the light of hundreds of candles. A fire burned in the massive hearth. The floor was covered with fine, intricately woven carpets of green and brown. Tapestries covered the walls, worked in black and silver, each showing a different segment of the night sky. Massive tables of oak were covered with papers and books and strange instruments, the purpose of which Havgan did not know. Jeweled vessels of gold were strewn carelessly about the room, goblets and chalices chased with emeralds, platters and plates rimmed with precious stones.

  Before the hearth a gray-haired man sat in a massive chair of oak. He wore a fine robe of green, trimmed with bands of brown. A torque with two circles of gold-studded emeralds glittered around his thin neck. His eyes were dark and—this was something Havgan had already been prepared for—quite mad.

  Cathbad rose and lifted a thin hand, gesturing for Havgan to sit in the other chair in front of the fire. Havgan sat while Sigerric stood behind Havgan’s chair, and Aergol took up a similar position behind Cathbad’s.

  The Archdruid silently poured wine into a golden goblet and handed it to Havgan. “My lord Havgan, Bana of the Coranian Empire, I am Cathbad ap Goreu var Efa. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

  “The Dewin and the Bards have gone,” Havgan said abruptly. “Where?”

  Cathbad’s face hardened. “Anieron, the Master Bard. That fox. He found out. He must have, else he would have included the Druids in his plans for escape.”

  “You were clumsy.”

  “I was not clumsy,” Cathbad said sharply. “Anieron is wily. And clever. There is nothing that man cannot discover.”

  “Then you do not know where they have gone,” Havgan said flatly. “I am displeased.” The understatement was palpable. Cathbad stiffened.

  “I have done as we agreed. I have given you the support of my Druids in your battles. I have given you their services for your God. And you will rid Kymru of the Dewin and the Bards. And the Dreamer. That was our agreement.”

  “We of the Coranian Empire call Druids witches, too,” Sigerric said softly.

  “You would be unwise to turn on me now. There is far too much to be gained by working together. Now, to business,” Cath-bad went on briskly, anxious to turn the conversation. “Aergol here is my heir. His daughter, Sinend, will be Archdruid after him. Aergol, fetch Sinend so that she may greet the Warleader.”

  But Aergol did not move. Instead, he gazed into the fire as though he had never seen one before. “I cannot,” Aergol said softly. “She is gone.”

  “Gone! When? Where?” Cathbad asked in a shrill voice.

  Aergol shrugged. “I am not sure. It has been some days since she has been seen.”

  “You saw her go,” Havgan accused.

  “She is my daughter,” Aergol said defiantly. “If I let her go, it is no business of yours, Warleader.”

  “So, your daughter did not agree to your plans. How many more Druids will feel that way when you make them fully known?”

  “None,” Cathbad said sharply. “I have made sure of that.�
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  “As sure as you were about Sinend?”

  “She is young. And idealistic. The rest of my Druids are not.”

  “Where is Gwydion ap Awst?” Havgan asked suddenly. “I want that Dreamer.”

  Cathbad’s face was filmed over by a look of stony hatred. “I do not know.”

  “He told you about the invasion, I know. Did he say anything else?”

  “Nothing.” Cathbad’s eyes flickered. “Just that you were coming.”

  “You lie. I can see it.” Havgan reached forth and grasped the Archdruid by the neck of his robe. Swiftly he pulled the old man toward him. “Tell me. Now. Or I will snap your neck in two.”

  Aergol took a step forward, but Sigerric was there, his dagger pressed against the man’s neck.

  “Do not think to try your witch’s tricks on me,” Havgan said softly. “You will be dead before you do.”

  Cathbad swallowed hard. “He spoke of…of a High King. One who waits to take back Kymru from you.”

  Contemptuously, Havgan released the Archdruid. Cath-bad subsided back into his chair, his dark eyes wide. Havgan sat back, reaching for his goblet of wine. He sipped, never taking his amber eyes from Cathbad’s face.

  “Who?”

  Cathbad shook his head. “He would not say. And I do not know.”

  “There is much you do not know,” Havgan cut in.

  “I know enough to give you Kymru on a platter,” Cathbad said quickly. “Enough to turn this country over to your God.”

  “So you do,” Havgan said, smiling coldly. “I suggest that you pray to my God that this will be enough to keep you alive for a while yet.”

  Meriwdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night

  THE NEXT NIGHT Havgan and his army were camped around Cadair Idris, the hall of the High King. The mountain stood like a silent, unmoving sentinel under the waning midnight moon, waiting.

  It was not him that the mountain waited for, Havgan thought.

  No, he would not think that. He would enter here, at tomorrow’s first light. This place would be his. He would be High King of Kymru.

  In the moonlight he could just make out the outline of what they called Drwys Idris, the Doors. The jewels flashed gray and black under the silvery light. By day they would flash all colors of the rainbow. By day the Doors would shine and beckon him in.

  The mountain did wait for him. It did.

  A stirring by his side did not even make him jump. He knew who it was.

  “I’ve been around and around that mountain,” Sigerric said quietly, settling down on the lowest step next to Havgan. “It’s not made of anything I can understand.”

  “It’s rock. It’s stone.”

  “It’s something else. Something, I think, that will withstand you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get in.”

  “The old man, that Ardewin, said that you would not. Give it up, Havgan. Please. Like the old man said.”

  “Sigerric,” he sighed, “what is it that makes you try my patience at every turn?”

  “Do rescue attempts try the patience of a drowning man?”

  “If I am ever in danger of drowning, you have my permission to try my patience as much as you please. But for now—”

  “You are drowning. Can’t you see that?”

  Havgan turned to the man who had been his only friend when he was a boy, to the man who perhaps was still the only friend he had ever had, or would have. Havgan’s amber eyes gleamed in the moonlight. The rest of his face was in the shadow cast by the mountain that was not a mountain. “At last my dreams are coming true. And you say that I am drowning?”

  “Your dreams. Your diseased dreams,” Sigerric said bitterly. “You came all the way across the sea to find the Woman on the Rocks, the woman from your dreams. And when you do, what will happen? Will you kill her like all the others?”

  “Not like all the others. I have not harmed Aelfwyn,” Havgan reminded him.

  “Not killed her, you mean. As for harm …”

  Havgan shrugged. “When her father is dead and I am Emperor, when she bears me a son who I am sure is mine, then—and only then—you may have her.”

  Sigerric’s face became very still. But Havgan had known his friend for a long time. “Sigerric, I know you love her. And you can have her when I am done, for all that I care. But I tell you that she is poison. She’ll dine on your heart if it suits her, and wash it down with my blood. That’s the way she is. Twisted.”

  “Twisted? Coming from the man who strangles whores to see the look in their dying eyes, that’s laughable!”

  Swift as a snake, Havgan reached out and grasped Sigerric’s tunic. But Sigerric looked at him steadily, unafraid. Slowly, Havgan released his friend. “If you are so sure I am doomed, why do you try to save me?”

  “I hardly know anymore. Habit, I suppose,” Sigerric shrugged. “Like going to the graveyard to leave offerings for the dead. You know they can’t hear or see you, but you do it just the same.”

  Calan Llachar—early morning

  ONE, TWO … HE counted silently to himself as he began to mount the eight once-white and shining steps to the High King’s hall.

  Three, four. Red rockrose trailed the broken stairs like beads of blood.

  Five, six. White alyssum twisted over the cracked stones like skeletal fingers.

  Seven, eight.

  He was here. Now would the doors open to him. Now.

  But Drwys Idris remained closed.

  Yet something was happening. A humming sound came from the air around him, building in intensity. The jewels on the door began to glow. In the center, Arderydd, the High Eagle, came to life. The symbol of the High King shimmered and beckoned and glowed in the eerie light.

  The wind moaned softly. The Coranian soldiers surrounding the mountain tensed and gripped their weapons tighter. Sigerric, close to Havgan’s back, stiffened. Sledda, at the base of the mountain, heading a full contingent of black-robed wyrce-jaga began a chant designed to break this evil power of the witches of Kymru. Eadwig, the Archbyshop, led his yellow-robed cadre of Lytir’s preosts in prayers for the protection of the Warleader. Cathbad, standing next to Sigerric, smiled mockingly at the chants and prayers of the Coranians.

  And Havgan, glimmering like the jewels in the morning sun, golden from head to toe, stood unflinching. Now was his moment. Now would the mountain open to him.

  Then a voice spoke, light and musical, coming from nowhere, from everywhere, “Who comes here to Drwys Idris? Who demands entry to Cadair Idris, the hall of the High King?”

  “It is I, Havgan, son of Hengist. I demand that you open to me.”

  “The halls are silent. The throne is empty. We await the coming of the High King. He shall be proven by the signs he brings,” the voice went on. “Have you Y Pair, the Cauldron of Earth, Buarth Y Greu, the Circle of Blood?”

  “I am the Bana. The Slayer. None can withstand me.”

  “Have you Y Llech, the Stone of Water, Gwyr Yr Brenin, Seeker of the King?”

  “I demand—”

  “Have you Y Cleddyf, the Sword of Air, Meirig Yr Llech, Guardian of the Stone?”

  “—that you—”

  “Have you Y Honneit, the Spear of Fire, Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge?”

  “—open to me!”

  “You have not the signs. You may not enter here. Still must I wait in silence and sorrow for the coming of the King.”

  “I will be your King!” Havgan shouted. “I am here. Open to me!”

  But there was only implacable silence from the mountain.

  Without even turning his gaze from the jeweled doors, Havgan snarled to Sigerric, “Batter them down.”

  “Havgan, it won’t—”

  “Do it!” he screamed. He must get in, he must! “Do it!”

  Sigerric leapt down the steps and gave the necessary orders to the waiting army. The wyrce-jaga chanted louder, as though to be sure that the gods and goddesses of Kymru could hear their threats. The preosts of Lytir raised the
ir voices in prayer, to ensure that Lytir himself would turn to them and see their plight.

  Cathbad stepped up next to Havgan. “Let me try.”

  At Havgan’s furious gesture to proceed, the Archdruid called, “Bloudewedd! It is Cathbad ap Goreu. I have brought you the High King! Open to him.”

  “He has not the signs. He may not enter.”

  “Bloudewedd—”

  “I am not Bloudewedd. I am Drwys Idris, Archdruid. Call me that, traitor to Kymru. I hear you not.”

  “You will let me in,” Havgan broke in, his voice trembling with rage. “You will let me in, or I will break you. You will die.”

  “I am already dead. And you cannot break me,” the voice said in a tone of infinite calm.

  “We shall see,” Havgan threatened. He turned and marched down the steps, Cathbad scurrying after. The ram was ready, so huge it took more than twenty men to lift it, banded with iron and covered with pitch. The head was carved in the shape of a boar with mad, red eyes. Goltre-Bana, they called it. Boar-Slayer.

  And then, at Havgan’s signal, the ram began to pound the doors.

  LESS THAN TWENTY leagues away to the west, on the other side of the lake of Llyn Mwyngil, Gwydion and Rhiannon lay still in the patchy shelter of the reeds that surrounded the lake.

  They faced the east, though Havgan’s army was too far to be seen with the naked eye. They could just make out the point of Cadair Idris piercing the horizon. They could just make out a rhythmic booming, carried on the wind like a faint rumor of thunder.

  “It’s time,” Gwydion said, reaching for Rhiannon’s hand.

  She put her hand in his as they both closed their eyes and Rode the Wind.

  THE RAM WAS having no effect on the doors. None at all. Even the jewels remained whole and shining. The unscarred surface of the doors mocked him. Eluded him. Refused to acknowledge his might, his power.

  He would not be defeated. He would not. Again, he gave the signal. Again, Boar-Slayer hammered on the doors of the mountain.

  And then he saw a glimmer. No, two glimmers, one on either side of the doors. Two glowing fragments of light took shape. One was a swirl of black and red. The other a weave of green and silver. The shapes elongated, hemmed in, solidified.