by Holly Taylor
And they were there, standing before him, yet beyond his reach still.
Gwydion was clothed in a formal black robe lined with red. Around his neck he wore a torque of gold, opals studding the dangling two interlocking circles. Rhiannon wore a robe of sparkling sea green, trimmed with silver. Around her neck she wore a slender torque of silver with a single pearl dangling from a pentagon.
The warriors bearing the ram leapt back. The ram slipped through their now-uncertain hold and clattered down the broken stairs. As one, the warriors drew their axes.
Sledda came panting up the stairs, the Archbyshop just behind him, to join Havgan, Sigerric, and Cathbad.
“Kill them!” Sledda shouted to the warriors. “Kill the witches!”
The warriors gave a cry, then leapt forward, their axes raised for the kill. But the axes bit deep into the two figures, passed through the flickering shapes, and rang against the mountainside. And still the figures stood, unflinching.
“It is called Wind-Riding,” Cathbad murmured. “They project a picture of themselves to this place. But their bodies could be leagues and leagues away.”
“How many?” Sigerric said sharply.
“Up to thirty leagues.”
Sigerric signaled to the warriors, giving them the task of finding those living bodies. Soon the entire army would be beating the plain, moving west, east, north, and south. Havgan did not countermand Sigerric’s orders, though he knew it was useless. They would be gone long before his warriors could find their bodies.
Havgan stepped forward until he could almost touch the figures of the man and woman in front of the doors. Without turning away from them, Havgan asked over his shoulder, “Can they hear me? Will I be able to hear them?”
“They are both telepathic. They will be able to project their thoughts to us in such a way that they will seem to be speaking,” Cathbad replied.
For a moment, no one spoke. Havgan stared at the man who had betrayed him, at the man he had sworn to kill. “I loved you as a brother,” Havgan whispered. “And you betrayed me.”
“No. I was never your brother,” Gwydion replied, his voice clear and cold. “I was your enemy. From the beginning.”
“Yet you saved my life. Twice. Why did you do that?” It was a question that Havgan had wanted to ask for a very long time.
“I … I no longer remember.”
“Then perhaps Rhiannon does. Well, Rhiannon? Do you remember?”
“He saved you because he loved you,” Rhiannon replied gently. “He felt a kinship with you. A bond that, for a moment in time, was stronger than his resolve.”
“And that moment is over.”
“No. That moment lasts forever,” Gwydion rasped. “But the resolve will never falter again. I have come to tell you to leave Kymru. Cadair Idris will never let you in.”
“Unless I bear the signs. The Treasures.”
Gwydion shot a look at Cathbad that actually made the Archdruid momentarily cringe. “You have been well schooled, I see. But that is of no matter. You will never find the Treasures. You do not know how to seek them.”
“Nor do you, or they would be in your hands by now,” Cathbad spat.
“I do not have them because it is not time. When the time comes, I will.”
“Words, Gwydion. Only words,” Havgan spoke. “I will find those Treasures. And I will seek you out, both of you, and kill you. I will find that High King of yours. And kill him, too. Kymru is mine. I have taken your land.”
“Kymru is not yours. She will never be yours,” Rhiannon replied. “Never. As long as this mountain is closed to you. As long as the Dewin and the Bards live. As long as there is one man or woman of Kymru with breath in their body, this land is not yours.”
Havgan laughed. “Your rulers are dead. Their kingdoms belong to me. King Urien and his wife and son, Queen Olwen, King Rhoram—they are dead.”
“I would not count someone as dead unless I saw their body, Havgan,” Gwydion said, a note of amusement in his voice.
So, King Rhoram did live, after all. Well, that would soon be remedied. “And King Uthyr, your beloved brother, Dreamer, lies cold and lifeless in Tegeingl.” Havgan smiled. “Catha, cut him down.”
“And Catha will die for it,” Gwydion said steadily, but the agony in his silver eyes flared and burned.
“Just a few days ago,” Havgan went on in silken tones, “I killed your Ardewin.”
“But another has already taken his place,” Rhiannon said coldly. “Kymru is not without an Ardewin. You cannot take us, Havgan. Go back to your Empire.”
“Do you remember what you wrote of me once, Gwydion? The song you wrote for my triumph as the tournament? I remember very well.
“From poet’s breast These words took wing
Which all the rest Must learn to sing.”
“I remember,” Gwydion said tonelessly.
“You will sing my tune,” Havgan promised. “All of Kymru will do my bidding. I rule here now.”
“You do not. Kymru slips through your fingers even as you grasp to hold it. Even as you reach for it, it disappears.”
“No! No, and no! It is mine! MINE!”
“Even now the High King lives and thrives in secret. Even now he waits for his time! Even now he prepares!” Gwydion proclaimed in ringing tones. “Look!”
Havgan followed Gwydion’s pointing hand and looked up. An eagle, its proud wings spanning the sky in solitary splendor, was circling the mountain. “It is Arderydd. The sign of the High King! Come to take your challenge!” Gwydion cried.
“Witch!” Sledda screamed up into sky. “You cannot withstand the power of our God! Go from this place before he destroys you utterly!”
The eagle shrieked, then plummeted. With a rustling of mighty wings, the proud bird swooped among them. And with a swipe of its claws, Sledda’s face was torn and bloodied. The eagle ascended, clutching something in its talons.
Sledda was screaming, his hands covering his face. Sigerric pulled the wyrce-jaga’s hands away, trying to determine the extent of the damage. “By the God!” Sigerric whispered in horror. “His eye. It took his eye.”
Still shrieking, the eagle soared upward and again orbited the mountain, Sledda’s eye held firmly in its grasp. The shrieks of the eagle mingled with the screams of pain from Sledda, sounding hugely in the shocked silence.
Then, from the west, a fierce wind gusted across the plain, flattening the grass in wild patterns. Coranian warriors struggled to keep to their feet in the face of the sudden gale. Havgan’s banner of the golden boar snapped from its moorings and was flung, spinning, into the sky. The wind carried with it the faint sound of exultant hunting horns, the exuberant baying of dogs, the pounding of sure-footed hooves, and an echo of the triumphant cries hunters sing when they have sighted their prey.
The eagle screamed triumphantly in answer to the wind. It circled the mountain once, twice, three times, then shot to the west, its huge wings beating, leaving behind a mocking cry.
“Arderydd, the High Eagle, flies to join the Wild Hunt!” Gwydion cried. “Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood, and Cerrun-nos, Master of the Hunt, call to him! The Protectors have come to challenge you! They will hunt you all, and harry you to your deaths. Sledda is the first of you to suffer their revenge. Who will be the next?”
“You will be the next, Dreamer! You! You are a dead man!” Havgan cried.
“You threaten much for one who is left standing on the mountain’s doorstep like a beggar,” Gwydion said softly. “For the love I have for you, in spite of myself, I do not demand that you leave Kymru. I beg you.”
“I will see you beg,” Havgan cried, freshly enraged by the pity in Gwydion’s eyes. “I will find the Treasures, and the mountain will open to me. I will find your High King and kill him. I will crush you all beneath my heel.”
“And so become a man of worth,” Rhiannon said softly. “If you wish to be a man, Warleader, look to the inner, and not the outer world. Look to yourself, not to Kymru.”
Havgan’s amber eyes burned in his white face as he turned to face Rhiannon. “You will die for that. I promise you.”
“Go from this land, Havgan, son of Hengist,” Gwydion said again. “Go from here before Kymru swallows you utterly.”
“So speaks the brother of my heart,” Havgan replied bitterly. “My friend.”
“Yes. So speaks your brother and friend,” Gwydion agreed with a sigh.
“And my enemy.”
“Yes, and your enemy. I am all those things. And always will be.”
Before Havgan could say another word, the figures of Gwydion and Rhiannon were gone. He stared at the now-empty place where they had stood, where they had defied him, thwarted his will, betrayed him yet again, and had dared—had dared—to pity him. He stared at the still-closed Doors, the Doors that glowed with the light of the shining jewels, the Doors that could not be broken, the Doors that he could not open.
And then Havgan, glowing golden in the light of the morning sun, threw his head back, and cried out in rage to the uncaring sky.
Go, they had told him. Go.
But he would not. He could not.
He would build a fortress here, facing the mountain that had defeated him. He would find and kill the witches of Kymru. He would find the Treasures and kill the High King in waiting. Then he would enter the mountain in triumph.
And maybe, just maybe, if he did all these things, he would find peace, the peace that had eluded him all his life.
And maybe, just maybe, the Woman on the Rocks from his dream would come to him. Maybe it would be here that he would find her, and she would turn to him, and he would at last see her face and know her.
She would be his.
All of it would be his.
Epilogue
Kymru
Celynnen Mis, 497
Coed Ddu, kingdom of Ederynion
Angharad, Captain of Ederynion, sat crosslegged on the forest floor, still as a statue. The fading afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, splashing on her unbound hair, making her red tresses glow like fiery embers.
She closed her green eyes and breathed deeply, groping for the peaceful center she needed, the center that had continued to elude her ever since Olwen had died, since Elen had been taken prisoner, since the Coranians had come just a month ago. Her sorrow stabbed her, the way Amatheon’s death had done two years before. Though her heart still ached for her dead lover, the searing pain was gone. So she knew that this pain would also pass.
Two weeks ago, Angharad and her lieutenant, Emrys, along with Prince Lludd, Talhearn, and twenty warriors had arrived in the dark forest of Coed Ddu after their escape from the fallen city of Dinmael. And here they had found others who had survived the first slaughter, a handful of lords and Gwardas who had brought with them their surviving warriors. But they were few, pitifully few. How they could ever become the seed of a mighty army, as Gwydion had written, she did not know.
And if she had ever believed it might be so, now she no longer did.
How strange it was to be alive when her Queen was dead. How strange to break her oath to her ruler and live beyond the last beat of her Queen’s heart. She wondered again, as she always did, if she had done right to run from the fallen city, done right to believe in the Dreamer’s words. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe …
A sound from the trees startled her, and she opened her eyes, leapt to her feet, and drew her dagger in one smooth motion. A flicker of movement, more sensed than seen, caused her to glance up.
There, perched toward the end of a branch, sat the most enormous eagle she had ever seen. The eagle’s fierce, gray eyes transfixed her. And then, her heart in her throat, she realized what this was.
Arderydd, the High Eagle. Sign of the High King.
The eagle cawed once, the fierceness of the sound making her jump. Then it took to the sky, making its way upward effortlessly through the dense trees.
It was gone. But she had understood its message. No more regrets. No more questions. The High King would come again, as the Dreamer had said.
And when he did, Angharad and the warriors of Ederynion would be ready.
Ogaf Greu, kingdom of Prydyn
ACHREN SHOOK HER black hair from its braid and idly combed out the snarls with her long, slim fingers. Her black eyes narrowed as the afternoon light bounded off the surface of the sea, flashing brilliant sparks across the water.
They had reached the caves of Ogaf Greu, hidden within the cliffs off the coast of Aeron, less than two weeks ago. Over and over during that desperate journey from Arberth, she had feared that Rhoram would not survive his wound. But day after day and night after night as they struggled to get him to the caves, he had continued to breathe.
At last, just a few moments ago, after weeks of anxiety, Cadell said that the King had turned the corner. He would live. They had gone wild with joy.
It seemed that only Queen Efa was not pleased at the news. Achren did not think that Efa had any use for a husband who had lost his country. At first they had suspected Efa of being in league with her traitorous brother, Erfin. But the Queen had been just as shocked, just as angry as the rest of them. And Achren understood what Efa was truly angry about—that her brother had dared to displace her, for she was now no longer the Queen of Prydyn. In a way, it was funny.
What wasn’t funny was the way that Rhoram’s daughter, Sanon, drifted about the caves like a ghost. Word had reached them just a few days ago that her betrothed, Elphin of Rheged, was dead. When she heard this, something in Sanon had died also. For Achren, the paleness of Sanon’s face, the listlessness in her movements, the pain in her dark eyes, were all reason enough to destroy the Coranians. If it could be done.
And suddenly, so suddenly it almost took her breath away, her buoyancy was gone, her hopes shriveled in the light of the enormity of the task. There were barely a handful of warriors left alive. How, in the name of all the gods, could they do anything against the might of the Empire? Kymru was crushed and bleeding, never to rise again.
Above her, she heard the rustle of wings. A seagull, she thought. But she looked up anyway and was startled to see the largest eagle she had ever seen. It hovered over the cliffs, not even beating its wings, riding the drafts of the wind, wild and free. She heard the bird’s proud cry. A cry not of sorrow or despair or loss, but a cry of courage in the face of them.
She knew what it was. Arderydd, the High Eagle. Sign of the High King.
As Gwydion had foretold, the High King would come again.
And when he did, Achren and the warriors of Prydyn would be ready.
Coed Addien, kingdom of Rheged
TRYSTAN, CAPTAIN OF the once mighty warband of King Urien, made his way through the forest. His green eyes glinted like emeralds in the fitful light that sifted through the trees.
He found a tiny clearing and sank down onto the forest floor, his legs tucked beneath him. He wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow and drew his dagger.
If only Queen Ellirri had not sent him away with Prince Owein, he would have been in Llwynarth, would have defended his King and Queen with his last breath, would have died with them. And though he knew Ellirri had done it so that he would live and aid her son, it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered, except that, in just a few moments, he could join his King and Queen in Gwlad Yr Haf and be done with his shame.
OWEIN DIDN’T MATTER. The boy was strong; he would find another Captain to help him take back Rheged—if it could be done. Even Esyllt, his beloved, didn’t matter. She had never really loved him. Always she had clung to her mockery of a marriage and refused to end it, while enticing Trystan with her fine, blue eyes, her lovely, throaty voice, her beautiful smile, her eager, white body, giving him everything but her elusive heart.
Trystan, along with Owein, Teleri, and Esyllt had come to the forest of Coed Addien just two weeks ago. Here they had found Enid and Rhiwallon, Owein’s younger sister and brother, under the watchful care of Isgowen Whledig, King Urien’s
steward. Isgowen had been horrified to discover the part her brother had played in betraying Rheged. She had even begged Owein to kill her, to spill out her blood in payment.
But Owein had refused. He had taken Isgowen’s hand and made her rise. And he had said that there was one way only to expiate her shame. That way was to live and to serve his family, to do what she could to further the task of taking Rheged back.
Oh, no. No. He didn’t want to remember Owein’s words now. They stung him. Made him hesitate. Made him unsure. He gripped the knife and slowly brought it up to his throat. Let it all end. A Captain should not outlive his King.
A rustle in the branches above him made him look up. The largest eagle he had ever seen perched in the boughs above him. And he knew what he was seeing.
Arderydd, the High Eagle. Sign of the High King.
The proud bird fixed him with its eyes, and Trystan could not look away. Then the eagle cawed fiercely and launched itself from the tree, flying off through the forest.
Had it been contempt that he had seen in the creature’s eyes? Slowly, and with shaking hands, he sheathed his dagger.
He knew, he knew, now, that the Dreamer had written truly. The High King would come again.
And when he did, Trystan and the warriors of Rheged would be ready.
Allt Llwyd, kingdom of Rheged
ANIERON MADE HIS way cautiously to the mouth of the cave. Cautious, not because he expected danger, but because his joints ached in the damp, sea air, and a fall on the spray-slicked rocks wouldn’t help his old bones any. He wished he had thought of this before he had picked the caves as the best hideout for the Bards and the Dewin.
He and his party had arrived here only two weeks ago, on the day he had heard of the confrontation with Havgan at Cadair Idris. Gwydion and Rhiannon had challenged the Warleader, and that vile wyrce-jaga, Sledda, had lost an eye. He smiled, remembering the fierce joy he had felt when he heard that. Remembering, too, how relieved he had been to know that Gwydion and Rhiannon were alive and well. He had taken great pleasure in informing Cariadas of that fact.