by Holly Taylor
And that was when she felt it—the pull, a tug at her consciousness. Someone, a Dewin, was trying to get her attention. For a moment she thought of not answering. She had, after all, given her word that she would not Wind-Ride. Only once had she broken that word—the night she had tried to kill herself, to throw her spirit into the stars and never return. Talorcan had stopped her that night. But he was no longer here to stop her. She could do it.
Do you really think, Regan ur Corfil, that death is the only answer for you?
So, the sender was not only Dewin, she was a Bard, one who could speak from mind to mind. Which meant it had to be someone of the house of Llyr. But Regan was only Dewin and could not answer except by using the Anoeth, the secret language of hand signals, used to communicate when sight only could be obtained.
Regan stared blankly out across the city. But instead of stone walls she saw a woman she knew. It was Rhiannon ur Hefeydd who Wind-Rode to her. Rhiannon was dressed in a tunic and trousers of black leather, her hair braided on the top of her head. She was solemn and intent, but her green eyes were kind.
Regan’s hands, shielded from the sight of the guard just a few feet away, moved in gestures small enough to escape his notice. What are you doing here?
We come to seek freedom for Kymru. The battle begins again. And the Shining Ones speak at last, demanding that their people be freed.
Regan shook her head, her fingers moving rapidly. Too late, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Too late, I think.
Do you?
The response was cool. Well, did she? She had, but now?
Listen well, Regan ur Corfil, to what I have to say. Nantsovelta herself has commanded that I find her Treasure. And to do that, I must have Elen’s ring.
Her pearl ring? The one given her by Olwen?
Yes. I must have it.
Elen would surely give it to you if she had it. But …
Who does have it, then?
Guthlac. The Master Wyrce-Jaga. He took it from her.
You and Elen, how closely are you guarded?
Too closely for us to be of any use.
Yet I understand that tomorrow there is a special service at the temple, to distract the Kymri from remembering Calan Llachar too fondly.
Yes, and a feast here at Caer Dwyr afterward.
General Talorcan …
Regan stiffened. What of him?
Rhiannon was silent. Her image stared at Regan, her green eyes veiled. At last she spoke again to Regan’s mind.
I knew him in Corania as a good man caught in something out of his control.
I care nothing for General Talorcan! Who says that I do?
We’ll talk of this later. But for now I must know—does he allow you any freedom at all? Knowing him, he gives you what he can.
And just how had Rhiannon meant that? Regan wondered, her hands still.
Regan, I must go. You begin to look suspicious just standing there. In a moment the guard will jog your elbow. Listen now. I will be in Dinmael by late morning. I must be able to get into Caer Dwyr. Can you do it?
Regan thought. A name, a name whispered to her once by an innocuous-looking stable boy, came to her. Somehow, in some way, she felt less hopeless than she had only a few moments ago. Her people were still alive, still fighting. And she had been ready to give up. And now she was ashamed.
Elen needs a new dress for the feast. She has ordered material from one of the dressmakers in town. Go to the stall of Anawen in the marketplace, the third stall on the southeast side. Tell her that I sent you and ask for the cloth. You can be her assistant and bring the dress for a final fitting. Come to the fortress and ask for me.
Very good, Regan. You—who’s that?
Who’s what? What do you mean? I—
Someone’s here. Listening to us. Another Dewin! One who may even hear Mind-Speech! Who?
Rhiannon, you must go! And don’t come here now. There is no telling what he has heard.
Who? Who?
I tell you, go!
And then Rhiannon’s image was gone, blown out like a candle. Regan turned to face the man she knew had been listening. But he did not come.
RHIANNON’S EYES FLUTTERED as she returned to her body. She shook her head slightly. Her gaze focused on Gwydion, who was crouched down before her, pressing a cup of ale into her hands. She opened her mouth to talk, but at Gwydion’s ferocious scowl, she drank the ale instead.
“May I speak now?” she asked acidly, after swallowing the contents of the cup. “I am, after all, skilled enough to be able to Wind-Ride without becoming incapacitated.”
“Charming as ever,” Gwydion murmured. “But something, I think, happened there at the end.”
“Someone. There was someone else in that fortress who sensed my presence. I felt it, at the last.”
“Who?”
She reached out her hands and warmed them before the crackling campfire. Arthur looked at her with concern. Gwen studiously ignored the entire proceedings, poking at the fire with a stick.
“I don’t know,” she lied. “Whoever it was, I’m not sure how much he heard or understood.”
“And Regan told you not to come.”
“Regan is scared of her own shadow by now,” Rhiannon said crisply. “She’s been a captive for too long.”
“But she may be right.”
“Then I’ll be careful.”
“Rhiannon—”
“She said that Elen has ordered a new dress for the feast tomorrow. I am to go to the booth of Anawen the dressmaker at the marketplace and take the cloth to the fortress. There I will help with the final fitting.”
“And then take the ring and leave?” Arthur asked.
“Unfortunately, the ring is no longer in Elen’s possession. Guthlac, the Master-wyrce-jaga, has it.”
“And so your plan is to ask him to just give it to you?” Gwydion scowled.
“I’ll think of something. Tell me, Gwen, what kind of progress have you made with Shape-Moving?”
“Shape-Moving?” Gwydion interrupted before Gwen could answer. “If it’s a Shape-Mover you want, I can do that. All Dreamers can, you know.”
“Yes,” Rhiannon said calmly. “I know. But you will stay here, safely outside of Dinmael with Arthur and the wagon.”
“I will not!” Gwydion’s gray eyes glinted dangerously. “And you will refrain from telling me what to do!”
“You tell me often enough!”
“You need telling,” Gwydion snorted. “I do not.”
“Think, Dreamer,” Rhiannon said with exaggerated patience. “Something might go wrong in there. I’d be very surprised if it didn’t. And if things do go wrong, you must be free to continue the quest. You are the Dreamer.” She gently laid a hand on his arm, forcing him to look at her. “You know I’m right,” she said softly.
He turned away from her, staring into the fire. Arthur’s gaze darted from Gwydion to Rhiannon, but he did not speak. It was Gwen who broke the silence.
“I can Shape-Move,” she said confidently.
“Indeed?” Rhiannon’s brow rose. “Who taught you?”
Gwen shrugged. “No one. I taught myself.”
“Interesting. Well, let’s see you Move something, my Druid-daughter.”
Gwen turned her gaze to a small rock resting at the end of the clearing, her eyes narrowed in concentration. At last the rock wobbled slightly, then was still.
“Oh, that’s great,” Arthur muttered.
“I’d like to see you try!” Gwen flared. “You can’t even do that much, can you?”
“Someday I will!”
“But it’s not someday. And you can’t,” she said flatly.
“Gwydion?” Rhiannon asked, willing him to understand, and to do what must be done. Willing him to help and then step back and wait.
Gwydion sighed. He stood and reached down a hand to haul Gwen to her feet. “Time for lessons,” he said.
Calan Llachar—late morning
“I LOOK LIKE a fool in these c
lothes,” Gwen said petulantly, as they passed through the southern gate of Dinmael.
Rhiannon glanced at Gwen. Her daughter wore a plain, woolen gown of light blue with a smock of unbleached linen beneath. Her hair was worn in a single braid that spilled down her back. Rhiannon was dressed much the same, but her gown was black and her long, dark hair was held back from her face with a band of forest-green cloth.
“You look,” Rhiannon said crisply, “like you are supposed to. Try to remember that you’re a humble serving girl.”
“But I can’t do anything in this dress—whoever heard of a warrior wearing one? Achren never does.”
“Achren is your father’s Captain, and her life can be a little more straightforward at the moment than ours. Tell me, is it possible for you to do anything without complaining? I’m just curious, because I—”
Oh, sweet Shining Ones. What had the Coranians done?
Rhiannon halted on the crowded roadway. She had heard of this. But it was different from actually seeing it. Nemed Aethnen, the sacred grove of aspen trees, the grove where the Kymri of Dinmael had once celebrated the Festivals, where they had paid homage to the Shining Ones, where they had laughed and sung and danced, where the Queens of Ederynion had gone to bear their children, was gone. In its place was a hideous temple to Lytir, the god of the Coranians. It was of plain wood, not yet adorned with the type of embellishments she had seen in the temples of Corania. The building was alien, abominable, a scar on the breast of Kymru. For a moment she wished with all her heart that she were a Fire-Weaver. She would set this building ablaze, and laugh while she did it.
“Mam?” Gwen said anxiously, nudging her. “Mam, you’re staring. Come on.”
Rhiannon turned away from the temple, tears in her eyes. Strange, after so much loss, so much pain, this sight should make her weep.
Gwen tugged at her sleeve, and Rhiannon walked on. Fool, she thought bitterly. If anyone had been watching, they would have known her to be someone who had not been in Dinmael in recent years. She must be more careful. Gwen was certain to say something about such foolishness. But Gwen said nothing. Her hand lightly brushed Rhiannon’s arm, and her touch was gentle.
A few moments later they reached the marketplace. Though it was filled with people, it was far too quiet. Gone were the laughter, the good-natured teasing, and the smiles, the spontaneous singing. Instead, people shopped quietly, mutely examining goods and giving a wide berth when possible to the numerous Coranian soldiers who patrolled the stalls endlessly.
Silently Rhiannon made her way to the dressmakers’ booths, Gwen following quietly behind. She stopped at the third stall on the southeast side. A young woman, dressed in a laced kirtle of sapphire blue, looked up from her sewing. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m here for the gown for Queen Elen.”
“I see.” The young woman eyed Rhiannon and Gwen for a moment. “I’m Anawen. And you are?”
“I am called Dwr,” Rhiannon said, using the word for water.
“Then the dress is for you.” Anawen reached beneath the counter and pulled out a pile of fine, white wool. “The seams are basted,” the woman said. “Elen needs a final fitting. She—she’s lost some weight in the past few weeks.” The woman’s gaze held Rhiannon’s.
“We will do our best to fit her,” Rhiannon said, taking the cloth. “And our best to see that she takes heart, and does not waste away.”
Anawen smiled. “We thank you, then, the people of Dinmael. Regan will be waiting for you at the gates of Caer Dwyr.”
Anawen was as good as her word. When Gwen and Rhiannon reached the gates of the Queen’s fortress, Regan was, indeed, waiting for them. She was escorted closely by two Coranian guards.
“At last,” Regan said sharply. “What took you so long? You know that the Queen’s gown must be ready in time for the service at the temple this afternoon.”
Rhiannon bent her head, surreptitiously nudging Gwen’s ankle for her to do the same. “Your pardon, Lady. But we will be sure to have her ready in time.”
“You had better. Come with me.” Regan turned away, leading them past the stables and into the Queen’s ystafell. Four guards were stationed in the front room, two on either side of the door and two more at the foot of the stairs. The Queen’s chair, with its canopy of white and silver, was empty. The fireplace contained nothing but ashes and the room was dim. Regan did not pause, but brushed past the guards at the foot of the stairs. At the top of the stairs, outside of Elen’s room, four more guards were posted. Again, Regan did not pay the slightest attention to these men, but walked past them as though they were not there. She opened the door and gestured them inside.
The room looked much as it had when Queen Olwen was alive. On the coverlet of the great canopied bed was a swan, stitched in silver thread, with luminescent pearls for eyes. Tall wardrobes, covered with mirrors, lined the walls. A table of white wood was covered with bottles of perfume and other delicate glass vessels spun by the famous glassworkers of Ederynion. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and white, woolen rugs were scattered on the polished floor.
Elen stood with her back to them, gazing out the window. She did not turn around when they entered the room. Quickly Regan closed the door.
“You should not have come, Rhiannon,” Regan said softly. “He sensed something last night, I am sure of it.”
“Perhaps. Has he said anything to you?” Rhiannon asked.
Regan shook her head. “I waited for him to come and kill me, but he never came. I haven’t even seen him yet today.”
“Then we must take our chances. Perhaps he didn’t really catch what we were saying. He is untrained, unskilled.”
“You know what he is—and who he is—then.”
“The question is, does he?” Queen Elen asked, turning from the window. She was pale, and her blue eyes were shadowed with weariness. Her braided auburn hair, strung with pearls, seemed muted. She grasped Rhiannon’s hands in hers.
“I sensed both gifts in him last night,” Rhiannon said.
“Then it is over, before it has even begun,” Regan said sadly.
“Not necessarily,” Rhiannon replied.
“This thing you do, for which you need my ring,” Elen began, her voice low.
Rhiannon drew a breath to speak, but Elen laid her hand over Rhiannon’s lips.
“No, do not tell me you can say nothing. I know that already. But you must know we cannot help you. You have come here for nothing.”
“What do you mean, you can’t help us?” Gwen demanded. Rhiannon said nothing.
“Talorcan knows something is going on. And Regan’s life will be forfeit. I cannot allow her to die.”
“Elen,” Regan said sharply, “we’ve been through this. My life is my own to risk. I will help them do this thing. Though I do not believe they will succeed.”
“I tell you, we cannot! For two years I have done what they wished so that you will live. Do you think I will throw it all away now?” Elen demanded. She turned to Rhiannon, her face set. “You must go. I will not help you.”
“Elen ur Olwen var Kilwch,” Rhiannon said, the words coming unbidden to her lips, as though someone, something else was using her to speak. “I am a Dewin of Kymru. And I say this to you. The High King commands you to surrender Bran’s gift.”
Elen went white to the lips. Abruptly she sat, as though her legs would no longer support her.
“Elen, what is it?” Regan asked, kneeling by the chair.
“My mam’s words. The night before she died. The very words she said would be used. Guard the ring, she said, for one day a Dewin will ask for it, using those exact words. And you did. Oh, Mam, Mam, you knew.” Elen rocked back and forth, her head bent, tears spilling from her eyes. At last she lifted her head. “Yes. I will help you. But I, too, do not think you will succeed.”
“I do not know if we will or not, Elen,” Rhiannon said. “But I tell you this. The one who will be High King is alive. One day he will lead us to victory. I b
elieve that.”
“Then I must believe it, too. If only to keep my sanity here.”
Rhiannon pulled Gwen forward. “This is my daughter, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram. She, too, has her part to play, called by the Hunt, to win back our land.”
“Then you are welcome here,” Elen said, inclining her head.
Gwen flushed and gave an awkward curtsy, overwhelmed by Elen’s dignity.
“Come now,” Regan said, taking the cloth from Gwen. “We must begin work on the dress. And you must tell us how we can help you.”
“First of all, you can start sewing,” Rhiannon said with a smile. “For I cannot.”
“Can’t sew?” Regan stared.
“Not very well. Give me something easy to do in case someone comes in, and I will tell you what I can.”
They set her to hemming the bottom of the gown—after they had pinned it up so that it would be even. Gwen was set to trimming the white, gossamer veil with silver piping. Regan set the sleeves, while Elen sewed pearls on the neck of the snowy smock.
“We will do it at the feast tonight after the service,” Rhiannon said. “Gwen and I must be allowed to help serve the meal at the high table. Regan, can you arrange that?”
“Easily,” Regan said, biting off the thread, then rethreading the needle for the second sleeve. “There are a number of people from the town who will be helping at the feast. I will tell the steward that I said for you to have the high table.”
“Fine. Now, what does the Master-wyrce-jaga like best to drink?”
“Wine from Prydyn, of course.”
“Good. You can be sure that I will keep him well supplied at the feast. I will have a special mixture just for him.”
“Will you kill him?” Elen asked eagerly.
“I think not. We shall just keep him off balance a little bit. It’s all we need.”
“I can assure you, Guthlac will never be so drunk that you can tug that ring off his fat finger without him noticing.”
Rhiannon smiled. “We’ll see about that. There is more than one way to—”
She broke off as the door abruptly opened. A quick glimpse of the man standing there was enough to make her bend her head industriously to her work, even though she knew it was useless. Talorcan would recognize her no matter what she did. She had, after all, spent more than a month in his company in Corania. As her eyes focused on her work, she felt his gaze on her. He had heard it all last night, and done nothing because he had been waiting—waiting to spring the trap she had walked into. Her guess about what he would or would not do had been wrong, then.