Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “I will. But—”

  “Bedwyr told me you did very well at practice today,” Susanna said as she came to the fire and sat down next to Ygraine. “It reminded me of your da.”

  “Really?” Morrigan asked, delighted. “As good as him?”

  “No, Morrigan,” Ygraine said coldly. “No one is as good as Uthyr was.”

  Morrigan’s face fell. Almost as if it was against her will, Ygraine relented, and smiled. “But you come close, daughter. Very close, indeed.”

  “Soon I’ll be good enough to go with the rest of you,” Morrigan said eagerly, turning to Cai and Bedwyr.

  “No!” Ygraine said harshly. “You are not to go with them.”

  “But, am—”

  Cai took a deep breath. In his heart he, too, did not want Morrigan to be exposed to danger. But he knew it was inevitable. Morrigan was Queen. Ygraine would have to remember that. “You may go with us, Morrigan. On our next raid.”

  “And I say no!” Ygraine replied swiftly, her dark eyes flashing fire.

  “Morrigan is Queen now, Ygraine,” Susanna said gently. “She has a duty to her people.”

  “She has a duty to stay alive!”

  The arrival of Dinaswyn and Arianrod stopped the argument. Somehow no one, not even Ygraine, argued in front of Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer of Kymru. Dinaswyn’s dark hair, frosted with gray, was twisted into a loose braid, cascading down her stiff back. She wore a tunic and trousers of black leather. Her cool gray eyes surveyed them all.

  “I have news,” Dinaswyn said crisply.

  But before she could speak, Arianrod started in. “I tell you, Cai, I won’t stand for one more minute of it!”

  “One more minute of what?” Cai asked blankly.

  “I told you before! I want to go to Tegeingl. My clothes are in rags.”

  Come to think of it, Cai realized, she had told him that already. But he rarely paid attention to anything she said. There seemed to be nothing she would not complain about, and nothing she didn’t think a man would do to fix it. Her honey-blond hair was loose and flowing down to her slender waist. The bodice of her red gown was tight against her smooth, white skin. Her almond-shaped amber eyes and high cheekbones gave her the look of a hungry cat. Elaborate golden earrings dripped from her ears.

  For the hundredth time, Cai wondered how Gwydion had put up with this woman for all those years. Even her magnificent body would not be payment enough for having to listen to her constant complaints. Cai should know—he had sampled that body. Though not for quite some time now.

  “Arianrod,” Cai began wearily. “I told you—”

  “Oh, stop whining, Arianrod,” Susanna said sharply, reaching up and yanking on the Dewin’s arm, forcing her to sit down abruptly. “Hush,” Susanna went on as Arianrod opened her mouth to argue. “Go on, Dinaswyn. What news?”

  “Neuad is alive.”

  Morrigan yelled out in glee. Ygraine actually smiled. Susanna jumped up, threw herself into Cai’s arms, and hugged him tightly. Before he could say a word, Susanna let him go. “What happened?” she asked Dinaswyn breathlessly.

  “She and Edwy were captured,” Dinaswyn answered. “On the way to Tegeingl, they stopped in Dinas Emrys. The people of the village distracted the warriors, and Neuad escaped with the help of one of the village boys.”

  “And Edwy?” Bedwyr asked.

  “She killed him,” Dinaswyn said briskly.

  “He talked?”

  “She thought he was going to. She will return to us in a few days.”

  “Excellent,” Cai said, smiling. “Our next raid will be to Dolbadarn, assuming the news Neuad brings is good.”

  “And you, Susanna,” Ygraine said, “had best make ready to travel. It’s time for the Plentyn Prawf.”

  Susanna nodded. “I thought I should leave in a few days.”

  Cai’s heart began to pound. She would leave. Go out into the world where the Coranians waited. Unless—”What does the Master Bard say about this?” he demanded. “In light of the meeting at Eiodel, and the fact that we don’t know what they are planning, I don’t think—”

  “The Master Bard says I must use my judgment. And my judgment is, I will go.”

  “Not alone,” Cai said quickly. “I won’t allow that.”

  “Maybe you should go with her,” Gwrhyr said, his freckled face innocent.

  Yes, Cai thought. He had made up his mind. He must go with her. She must be protected at all costs. Yet, even as he opened his mouth to say so, something else came out—something that showed him quite clearly just how frightened he truly was. “Bedwyr will go with you.”

  And as Gwrhyr’s face fell and Susanna’s face tightened, as Arianrod smiled and Bedwyr looked at the fire, Cai silently cursed himself for a fool.

  THAT NIGHT THE message sent by the Shining Ones reached into Gwydion’s sleep.

  At last he had found Y Cleddyf, the Sword, one of the lost Treasures of Kymru. He had found Meirig Yr Llech, Guardian of the Stone. He could see it as it floated majestically in the air at the edge of a cliff, borne up by the cool, clear wind.

  The long, shining blade flashed silver in the harsh light of the sun. A twisting serpent was carved into either side of the glowing blade. The handgrip was of silver mesh, chased with gold. The hilt was in the shape of a spread-winged hawk with sapphire eyes. The round pommel at the end of the hilt was carved with a figure eight, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, studded with shining, black onyx.

  He reached out for it then, but it bobbed away from him, and he almost fell. The sword hung in the air, just out of his reach. He could not reach any farther, for he knew that the air would never bear his weight. He would fall, dash himself on the rocks far below.

  And he cried out in frustration and anger, for he was so close but could not obtain what he so desperately sought.

  Then, suddenly, a pure, white eagle shot down from the sky to land next to him. A collar of sapphires encircled its fierce, proud neck, and its white feathers glowed.

  In its talons it held a blue, woolen scarf. The eagle tossed the scarf into the air, and it settled gently onto the proud hilt of the flaming sword.

  Ask. The eagle’s thought echoed through the deepest chambers of his mind. You are to ask.

  For a moment his pride forbade him to speak, but his need was great. “I beg you, then. I beg you to help me,” he rasped.

  Reach, the eagle answered.

  And he stretched out his hands, but they were not his. Instead, he saw the slim, unlined hands of a boy stretched toward the Sword, and the Sword floated serenely into his outstretched hands. And the hands turned into an eagle’s claws, then back into a boy’s hands, flickering unsteadily from one to the other.

  And the Sword came to him as the boy/eagle hands reached out and took it, plucking it from the air. The eagle screamed in triumph and shot up into the sky. And the blue scarf glowed with the light of the sapphires around the hilt of the blade that shone bright and deadly, as his hands, the boys’ hands, held the Sword aloft under the blazing sky.

  Chapter 6

  Allt Llwyd and Peris

  Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru

  Bedwen Mis, 499

  Gwyntdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—afternoon

  Anieron ap Cyvarnion, Master Bard of Kymru, was walking down the rocky beach when the call came. He liked to walk by the sea this time of day, listening to the Wind-Spoken messages that came to him, passed from mind to mind, along the length and breadth of the intricate chain he and his daughter, the Ardewin, had set around Kymru.

  He frowned as he listened to the messages that poured in, for once again there was no word on the whereabouts of the Master Smiths. In all four kingdoms, the Smiths and their families had been taken away under heavy guard. More than just taken, they had disappeared. Not one Dewin had seen them, although the Wind-Search for them had been extensive. Not one Bard had heard the slightest rumor of them. Which did not surprise Anieron that much. He simply did not have enough Y Dawnus to cover th
e entire span of Kymru. The Smiths had obviously been moved by stealth, probably traveling only at night, avoiding towns and cities, taking hidden trails. But trails to where? For what purpose?

  Surely this was a vital part of Havgan’s plans to defeat the Kymri once and for all. No doubt it was something that had been cooked up at the meeting in Eiodel. But what the plan was, what the purpose was, what other plans had been made, no one knew.

  The gray cliffs of Allt Llwyd, which masked the extensive network of caves where those Y Dawnus who had escaped from Y Ty Dewin and Neuadd Gorsedd hid from the enemy, glistened in the afternoon sun. The sea-green water hissed onto the shore, retreated momentarily, then reached out again. The sun was just beginning its descent to meet the water, for it was early spring and the days had just begun to lengthen. The salt air whistled past his ears, ruffling his shoulder-length silvery hair. The lonely cries of the gulls added a sense of pleasant melancholy.

  He grimaced slightly. He was truthful to himself—if not always truthful with others. He knew that the work the Bards, the Dewin, and the Cerddorian were doing was almost useless. It was not enough. But there was no need to say it. Certainly not to these two girls who followed him down the shore, their parchments and quills at the ready, taking down the words he dictated.

  Cariadas, the daughter of Gwydion the Dreamer, followed him closely, her small face serious and intent on not missing a word. As always, her red-gold hair was tangled, for she often wrapped it around her fingers when deep in thought and went for days on end without brushing it at all. He glanced back at her and her gray eyes—so like her father’s, but without Gwydion’s coldness—glanced up at him.

  “What?” she inquired anxiously. She had begged for the job of assistant, and took her duties very seriously. “I got the last message. ‘Owein’s band has killed the entire force of wyrce-jaga coming up-river. There were six of them, along with four guards. When Sledda heard about it, he bit his tongue in a rage.’“

  “I know you have it perfectly, my dear,” Anieron said mildly. “I was only looking at you.”

  She grinned up at him. “You’re not going to say that I need to fix my hair, are you? Elstar says that all the time.”

  Anieron smiled back at her. His green eyes were sharp and keen. “No, Cariadas, I won’t tell you to fix your hair. But, as the heir to the Dreamer, you might consider following the advice of the Ardewin. Elstar very much dislikes it when you ignore her suggestions.”

  “They’re not suggestions. They’re orders. And I don’t ignore them,” she protested. “I just forget.”

  “Sinend will have to remind you, then,” he said, glancing over at his other assistant, Sinend ur Aergol, the daughter of the Archdruid’s heir.

  Sinend was thin and pale. The sun coaxed the red highlights from her brown hair as she cast her gray eyes down and smiled shyly. She did not reply, for Sinend rarely spoke. If there was one thing Anieron would like to do, it would be to make Aergol and Cathbad pay for what they had done to this sweet girl. Over two years since the invasion, and still Sinend could barely seem to raise her head for shame that her father and the Archdruid were aiding the enemy.

  “She does remind me,” Cariadas said, smiling at her friend. “But I still forget.”

  “Well, now. That seems to me—” Anieron began, then stopped, as the last call of the day came in. He halted so abruptly that the two girls almost ran into him.

  “What?” Cariadas began, but Sinend laid a gentle hand on her arm and Cariadas subsided.

  Master Bard. We are coming.

  It is time, then, at last? It begins again?

  It begins again, Anieron. We will be there within three days. Just before Alban Awyr.

  You and she will be most welcome.

  They were on the way here. The time had come to reclaim Kymru at last. Anieron rejoiced that he was still alive to see it begin again, though he had his doubts that he would live to see the ending.

  He turned back to the girls, who were watching him with wide eyes. “I didn’t hear a thing,” Cariadas said in wonder. “Not even an echo. The person who Wind-Spoke to you was very skilled.”

  “Very. Child, your father is coming.”

  The joy on her face made him smile, even as his heart ached for her. For he knew Gywdion ap Awst very well, indeed.

  LATER THAT EVENING, Anieron retired early to his quarters deep in the caves of Allt Llwyd. After two years, the caves were still beautiful to him, still fascinating, still more than worthy of songs. The torches set in brackets at intervals along the passages made the walls glisten, picking out the shimmer of crystal, veins of silver and gold, onyx, and other stones.

  He walked slowly, deep in thought, nodding absentmindedly at the Y Dawnus he passed. He almost had not needed Gwydion to tell him the time had come. He felt it in his bones. Events were moving again, and the die was being cast. Only the gods knew—if even they did—how the game would come out. Not that Anieron minded that; he was good at games. Now, if he could just figure out the latest one, the one that bothered him more than he was willing to admit, he might be able to sleep through the nights again. What was Havgan up to now? What had happened at the meeting in Eiodel a few weeks ago?

  In the four kingdoms, events were moving again, moving far beyond the usual raids and pinpricks the Cerddorian managed to give to the enemy.

  In Rheged, Princess Enid had left Coed Addien and gone to Llwynarth in a mad scheme to persuade Bledri, Morcant’s traitorous Dewin, to return with her. But the scheme had backfired, as anyone with sense would have guessed, and Enid was now a prisoner of King Morcant.

  The question to be answered now was, what were Morcant’s plans for Enid? Anieron had sent his brother, Dudod, to Llwynarth to find some answers, and Dudod was due back within a few days. Owein had so far refused to move the Cerddorian from Coed Addien, even though Anieron and others were putting pressure on him to do so. Enid had been a prisoner now for two weeks, and though she had, apparently, not yet betrayed her brother, she couldn’t hold out forever.

  In Prydyn, Queen Efa had finally made good her desertion of her husband, and King Rhoram’s entire band had moved east to Haford Bryn before Efa could betray their location. The new location was secure, and the Cerddorian were now settled there. Prince Geriant and Princess Gwenhwyfar had pulled off a successful raid on the caravan General Penda had used as bait and had gotten clean away with the loot. Soon after Queen Efa’s return to Arberth, the Druid Ellywen had left the city, traveling north. Anieron did not know why, but it surely had something to do with the letter from Havgan that General Penda had received.

  In Ederynion, Prince Lludd and Angharad had completed a successful raid on the temple in Ymris, returning to discover that Llwyd Cilcoed, Queen Olwen’s cowardly lover, had returned. Lludd had not killed the man, and Anieron’s estimation of the Prince of Ederynion had risen even higher with that news.

  In Dinmael, Elen and Regan were still captive. General Talorcan was still taking pains to see that they were well treated. Iago had left the city, traveling east. So there was another Druid on the road now. Why?

  In Gwynedd, young Tangwen, Madoc’s daughter, was clearly on the side of those who despised the enemy, but there was little she could do. And yet, she would be a very good tool for the Cerddorian. His agent in Caer Gwynt was doing well, but another set of ears and eyes never hurt. He would think on the best way to approach her.

  But the best news out of Gwynedd was that the people of Dinas Emrys had rescued Neuad from her captivity. The message made mention that the greatest help had come from an old man and his grandnephew. Anieron had a pretty good idea of just whom that really was, but he had declined to speak of it. He would say nothing even to Elstar, his own daughter. He trusted her, but there were some things that must be guarded so closely they remained locked in the heart, in the place where hopes are born.

  He reached his quarters, pulling aside the woven curtain of bardic blue trimmed with silver that hung over the cave mouth. There
was a fire burning in the brazier—Cariadas’s work, no doubt. The girl did her best to take care of him. He smiled to himself, thinking of her impulsive generosity, her bright spirit. One day she would be the Dreamer of Kymru. His smile faded, leaving his face lined and sad. Would her brightness become tarnished by what she saw in her dreams? Would she become as her father—cold and hard? Yet it was not the dreams that had made Gwydion that way. It was something inside of those who refused to face their wounds, and so built walls to stay safe. Dinaswyn, Gwydion’s teacher, had done the same.

  With a sigh, he sat down on the piled cushions of his pallet. His bones ached, living this close to the sea. But he would not trade it for anything. It was so beautiful. He reached out and picked up his harp, plucking out a new tune, another song of the beauty he found here.

  “You should be asleep.”

  He didn’t even look up, but said gently, “Elstar, my dear, so should you.”

  Elstar, the Ardewin of Kymru, sat down at the edge of the pallet. Her light brown hair was loosened from its customary braid and fell in shimmering waves to her waist. She wore a plain robe of sea green, and her blue eyes were dimmed and tired.

  “I was on my way to bed when a message came. Jonas ap Morgan has arrived.”

  “Ah, poor Jonas. Perhaps I should see him now, if he’s not too tired.”

  “He doesn’t look at all well, da.”

  “I would think not. The deaths of his wife and baby daughter have no doubt torn his heart to shreds. May the wyrce-jaga’s black souls live long and long under the hand of the Lord of Chaos,” Anieron replied, somewhat more forcefully than he had intended.

  “You are tired, too.”

  “So I am,” he agreed, for there was no use arguing the point.

  “Perhaps you should see him tomorrow,” Elstar began.