by Holly Taylor
“Thank you, uncle,” Arthur spat, “for your great faith in me.”
“I will have faith in you when you are a man.”
“I am a man now!”
“No, you are a boy, one who thinks of yourself first. When you begin to think of Kymru instead, then you will be a man.”
“You—” Arthur began.
But at that moment, Rhiannon stirred by Gwydion’s side. Her lids flickered rapidly over her green eyes, and then her gaze came into focus.
“What is it?” Gwydion asked, one hand still holding the reins, the other on Rhiannon’s arm.
“A wyrce-jaga,” she said quietly. “And some soldiers. And—and some prisoners.”
“Prisoners? Who?” Gwydion asked.
“Dewin,” she whispered. “And Bards. I know them, and so must you. And they are coming this way, down the road. They are wearing enaid-dals. Even if they wanted to Wind-Speak with us, even if we wanted to offer some word of comfort, we could not. We can give them nothing.”
“They wear collars,” Gwydion said flatly. “Collars that the Smiths are making.”
“So they do, and will, until the Smiths can be found and freed,” Rhiannon said.
“The Smiths should never, ever be doing such a thing,” Gwen said fiercely. “They should have died first.”
“The Coranians have the Smith’s families, Gwen.” Rhiannon pointed out. “Their wives and husbands, their children and grandchildren. And so they make the collars.”
“They are cowards!” Gwen insisted.
“And you know all about cowardice, don’t you, Gwen?” Arthur said coldly.
Gwen’s face turned bright red. “You would throw that up to me.”
“Hush,” Gwydion said. “Enough of that. The Smiths know that one day we will find them and rescue them. Until then, they wait. As all Kymru waits.”
“Here they come,” Rhiannon said tightly. “Just around the bend.”
“Will any of them say anything to us?” Arthur asked. “Give us away?”
Rhiannon turned her green eyes on Arthur, then turned away. “No,” she said coldly.
“I was just asking—”
“It was a foolish question. Now hush, boy,” Gwydion said.
The wagon rounded the bend, then halted, as Gwydion pulled the horses to the side of the road to allow the other party to pass. There were ten Coranian soldiers, five in the front and five in the back, surrounding the prisoners. They carried spears and shields carved with the boar’s head, symbol of the Warleader. They wore shirts of woven mail that reached to their thighs. Behind the first five soldiers walked a wyrce-jaga. He was dressed in the customary robe of black, moving like a shadow in the sunlight. Following him were two men, two women, and a young girl, their hands bound behind them, collars of dull, gray metal clasped around their throats. The skin on their necks that bordered the collars was red and blistered.
“Clear the way,” one of the soldiers barked as they neared the wagon.
“We have,” Gwydion said shortly. “There is plenty of room to get by.”
Arthur saw Rhiannon rest her hand on Gwydion’s arm, as though restraining him. A muscle worked in Gwydion’s jaw as he looked at the prisoners.
Slowly, the prisoners raised their heads and gazed back at them. None of them made a sign, but Arthur thought he saw the glint of recognition in the eyes of the four adults. Then, as though they might have feared someone else would see it, too, they lowered their gazes back to the ground.
The wyrce-jaga strode up to them. “You are rude, peasant,” the man sneered. “We will have to teach you manners.”
Arthur tensed, then urged his horse a little closer to the wyrce-jaga. Next to him, Gwen did the same. For a few moments, everyone was quiet as they waited for the next act that would set everything in motion. Arthur’s hand crept closer to his knife.
But just then, one of the women moaned low in her throat, then fainted, dropping heavily to the ground. The other woman and the girl knelt down next to her, but could not help her as their hands were bound.
“You see?” the woman cried as she knelt, “I told you that we were trying to go too far today. Now she’s fainted. I told you that would happen. But, no, you wouldn’t listen to me. We need more water, I said, more food.”
“Coranians always think they know best,” one of the male prisoners agreed. “You can’t convince them of anything they don’t want to hear. Why, just this morning I was trying to explain to that wyrce-jaga what a pig he was, and he didn’t believe me.”
“They never do,” the other man said in a confidential tone. “The more obvious a thing is, the harder time they have understanding it.”
The wyrce-jaga turned from Gwydion, his face red with rage. “The prisoners will be quiet!” he shrieked. “Captain, I insist that you shut them up.”
“You want them killed, wyrce-jaga?” the Captain inquired contemptuously. “Is that what you want?”
The woman who had fainted moaned again, then struggled to sit up. One of the soldiers knelt beside her, then helped her to her feet.
“I—I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “The heat, the collar, it was too much.” For someone who had fainted, the woman’s color was surprisingly good.
“Of course, it was too much!” the other woman exclaimed. “Captain, how much farther until the next town?”
“You know that as well as I do,” the Captain said shortly. “It’s your country.”
“It is our country now!” the wyrce-jaga exclaimed.
One of the male prisoners gave a short laugh. “Enjoy it while you can, pig.”
The Captain stepped between the prisoners and the wyrce-jaga, as the wyrce-jaga raised his hand to strike. The Captain did not speak, but the witch-hunter lowered his hand. The Captain turned away, and, ignoring the wyrce-jaga, shouted the order to march. The witch-hunter fell in behind the Captain, and the party moved on. The prisoners did not look up as they passed.
Arthur sat on his horse, unmoving, looking after them. No one spoke. Finally, Arthur turned to Gwydion and Rhiannon.
“Who was the one who fainted?” he asked quietly.
“Morwen,” Rhiannon said. “She was one of the teachers at Y Ty Dewin. And one of the least likely women in the world to really faint.”
“And the other woman?” Arthur asked again.
“Elivri. One of the most accomplished harpists at Neuadd Gorsedd,” Gwydion replied.
“And the others?”
“Maredudd,” Rhiannon said, “is a Bard. A friend of my Uncle Dudod’s for many years. When I was a little girl, he taught me how to play the pipe.”
“Trephin,” Gwydion said, “is Dewin. And the finest doctor I ever met. I do not know the girl.”
“Where were they being taken?” Gwen asked.
“To Afalon, the island in Llyn Mwyngil in Gwytheryn.”
“To die there.”
“If they are not rescued soon, yes.”
Arthur was quiet again, still gazing at the place where the prisoners had been. “Someone should help them.”
“Someone will,” Gwydion said. “They shall be rescued.”
“How?” Gwen asked.
“The High King will see to it,” Gwydion said, holding Arthur’s gaze.
For a long time, uncle and nephew stared at one another. At the last it was Arthur who looked away.
Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—afternoon
THE AIR WAS clean and cold near the peak of Mynydd Tawel. Beneath Arthur’s feet, clover sprang, green and fresh. As he moved steadily up the mountain, he heard the sounds of rushing water, coming from the myriad of tiny brooks that laced the hillside. Overhead hawks wheeled and soared, crying out as they rode the wind.
Ahead of him Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Gwen halted. Rhiannon, dressed in a tunic and breeches of dark green, adjusted the pack on her back that held the Stone of Nantsovelta. Gwen, wearing riding leathers of dark brown, also had a pack, in which she carried the Cauldron of Modron. And Gwydion, in a t
unic and breeches of black, had the Spear of Mabon wrapped in a blanket, and slung over his shoulder with a leather strap.
They had their Treasures. But Arthur did not. The only thing left to gather now, the Sword of Taran, had not been found. And that would be his task. And to do that, he needed his father’s ring. And so they were here, in Mynydd Tawel. Today, at last, Arthur would meet his mother and his sister.
“Why are we stopping?” Gwen asked.
“For Arthur,” Gwydion replied. “He should lead us now, not I.”
Arthur gazed up at Gwydion, who stood ahead of him on the mountain. Without a word, Arthur passed by Gwen, then Rhiannon, then Gwydion, until he stood in the front. And then he led them up the mountain.
They had almost reached the top, and had still seen no one, when a faint whistle was heard. Arthur halted, and looked over in the direction the whistle had come from. Just slightly to the east of them was a narrow fissure. Arthur turned toward it, and the other three followed.
Before they reached it, a man appeared from the gap in the rocks. His hair was brown, sprinkled lightly with gray. His brown eyes were steady and fearless, even as they shimmered with unshed tears. And as Arthur halted before him, the man’s firm mouth widened in a smile. The man knelt on the rocks, his head bowed, and reached for Arthur’s hand.
“Son of my king,” the man murmured, “you are welcome here. The Cerddorian of Gwynedd, who work to take back your father’s land from the enemy, are honored that you return to us.”
“Arthur,” Gwydion said, “this is Cai ap Cynyr. Your father’s Captain, now the Captain to your sister, Morrigan.”
“Cai ap Cynyr,” Arthur said, as he raised the man to his feet. “I thank you for your welcome. But you must not kneel to me. Not you, who was one of my father’s dearest friends.”
“The Captain who outlived his King,” Cai said bitterly, his face shadowed.
“The Captain whom my father trusted with the lives of those he loved,” Arthur said gently. “Is there any greater trust than that? Or any other man worthy of such a trust?”
Cai cleared his throat but did not answer, though he squared his shoulders as though a weight had fallen from him. Then two more men came through the fissure and bowed to Arthur. One had golden hair and light brown eyes, and his wide mouth was quirked in a grin. The other had sandy brown hair and fierce eyes of piercing gray. The man with the golden hair spoke.
“Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, you are most welcome here to the mountain home of the PenHebogs, the true rulers of Gwynedd. Long have we awaited your coming. Long have we awaited the sight of you. Long have we—”
“That’s enough, Duach,” Gwydion said dryly. “I see you haven’t changed a bit. Arthur, this is Duach ap Seithfed, once your father’s doorkeeper. Now a Cerddorian and the Lord of Dunoding.”
Arthur bowed briefly to Duach. “I thank you for your kind words, Duach.”
“Don’t encourage him, my Lord,” Cai said with a smile. “He will only go on.” Cai gestured to the other man. “This is Dywel ap Gwyn, the Gwarda of Ardudwy.”
Dywel dropped to his knees and bowed his head. Before Arthur could even ask the man to stand, Dywel spoke. “My Lord, it is only right that you know who I really am before you greet me. My brother is Bledri, the Dewin in Rheged who betrayed King Urien and Queen Ellirri, he who now sits at the right hand of the false King, Morcant. I am sworn to kill him if I can.”
Suddenly the knowledge came on Arthur. From where, and how, he did not know. “It is not for you to kill your brother,” he said, his words sure and firm. “Instead he shall be exiled Beyond the Ninth Wave to pay for his crimes.”
Before any of them could reply, a young woman darted from the gap in the rocks. She hurled herself into Arthur’s arms. Startled, he could only put his arms around her to keep their balance.
“Arthur, it’s you. It’s really you, isn’t it?” she asked as she released her hold at last and gazed up at him, her hands grasping his arms tightly.
She had auburn hair that glowed in the sunlight and dark eyes that sparkled with the sheen of tears. She had high cheekbones and a pointed, determined chin. She wore a woolen tunic and trousers of blue and a sapphire ring around her finger. Something about the auburn hair, the eyes, the face, something he seemed to remember from long, long ago, held him.
“Morrigan?” he whispered.
“Yes! You knew me. You did! See, Cai, I told you he would, even though we have never met.”
“So he did, my Queen,” Cai agreed with a laugh.
“I remember you, a little,” Morrigan went on, her eyes shining.
“And then Gwydion took me away,” Arthur said, bitterness in his tone.
“For a reason.” The woman who spoke slipped through the rocks like a ghost. Her auburn hair was touched with frost. Her dark eyes were cool and watchful. She stood proudly, dressed in a plain kirtle of gray with a linen undertunic of white. Her smooth hands were clasped by her side as she moved to stand before him.
“Yes,” Arthur agreed gravely, “for a reason.” He moved forward, past Morrigan, to stand in front of the woman. “Mam,” he said softly. “Mam, I am home.”
“You look like your da,” she said, as they faced each other, unmoving.
“Your son is returned to you, Ygraine ur Custennin var Elwen,” Gwydion said solemnly. “As I promised would happen one day.”
“So you did, Dreamer,” Ygraine replied, still not taking her eyes from her son. She reached up and touched his face. “So like your father,” she murmured. “So like.”
Arthur reached out and gently gathered Ygraine to him. “Mam,” he said softly. “Mam.” They stood there, holding each other gently, saying nothing for some time.
At last, Ygraine withdrew from him. “You are welcome here, my son. Your father charged me to do all I could to see to it that you became what you were born to be. Ask, now, then, what we can do for you.”
“Before my father died, he gave away his ring, the ring of the House of PenHebog.” Arthur turned to Morrigan. “He gave this ring to you, his daughter, the day he sent you from Tegeingl.”
Morrigan nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
“And so I ask for it now, in the words that were foretold by Bran the Dreamer, the words I know my father said you must wait for. These, then, are the words: In the name of the High King to be, surrender Bran’s gift to me.”
“Those are the words,” Morrigan agreed, her voice shaking. “The very words he said to me the day he sent me away.” Slowly, Morrigan pulled the sapphire ring from her finger. The sunlight glinted off the stone in a flash of blue as though a piece of the sky itself had fallen to her palm as she passed the ring to him.
Arthur kissed Morrigan, then put the ring on his finger. The sapphire glowed as he stared down at it, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart.
“Which way?” Rhiannon asked gently. “Which way to the Sword of Taran?”
“North,” Arthur said. “North.”
GWYDION SAT BY the fire that night, listening to Cai and Susanna tell Arthur of Uthyr’s last days. He tried not to listen. But he had to, because they were all listening to Cai. No one else spoke to divert him from Cai’s words.
Arthur listened eagerly, his dark eyes flashing. Morrigan sat beside Arthur, holding his hand, listening just as avidly. Ygraine sat a little apart from them, with a countenance carved of stone. But Gwydion knew that she was hanging on every word.
Susanna sat next to Cai, her hand resting on the shoulder of her son, Gwyhar. She, too, was listening closely. And every time Cai mentioned Griffi, the man who had been Uthyr’s Druid, Susanna’s lover, and the father of her child, her mouth curved in a reminiscent smile. There was sadness, still, but she had moved beyond the grief. How she had done it, Gwydion did not know. He himself could not seem to be able to. Thoughts of both his brothers could still pierce his heart and tighten his throat, could still bring the grief, fresh and raw, rising relentlessly to flood his mind with memories.
> Gwyhar listened with shining eyes when anyone spoke of his father. For Griffi had bravely stood fast against the Archdruid’s order and had stayed by his King.
Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, her golden hair flowing down her shoulders, also listened intently. Next to Neuad sat Jonas, the Bard whom Anieron had sent to Gwynedd.
Dinaswyn sat next to Gwydion. The firelight played over the frosty hair of the former Dreamer. Her gray eyes seemed far away. Whatever she was contemplating, it was not pleasant. She had greeted Gwydion as warmly as she ever greeted anyone, which was to say not at all. But she had kept him by her side since they had arrived. Yet she had barely spoken. Gwydion knew her well enough to know she had something on her mind.
Finally, Arianrod sat on the other side of Dinaswyn. His greeting to her had been awkward at best. She had emerged from the gap in the rocks as though she were a Queen deigning to greet a servant. She had elaborately braided her beautiful, honey-colored hair. She wore a shift of amber, barely covered by a low-cut kirtle of topaz. Amber earrings dangled from her delicate ears, and an amber necklace nestled in the curve of her firm bosom. Every breath she took set the amber dancing, drawing the eye to where it rested. She had not greeted anyone with warmth, but the degree of coldness with which she had greeted Rhiannon defied description.
But Rhiannon, now sitting across the circle with Gwen, had not seemed to notice, or to be affected by the cool greeting. Instead, she had smiled, and complimented Arianrod on her pretty dress, then mentioned how chest colds were so difficult to get rid of. Gwydion had almost smiled but had managed to keep his face impassive.
Bedwyr, Morrigan’s Lieutenant, was not here, having been sent on a mission to Tegeingl a week before. Apparently Tangwen, King Madoc’s daughter, was now a trusted contact for the Cerddorian, and Bedwyr had been sent to meet with her.
“He spat, over the wall, directly into Madoc’s face,” Cai was saying.
“And Madoc nearly fainted with rage,” Susanna put in.
“‘Pit your seven hundred against my warriors, brother,’ Uthyr said that day. ‘And you shall see how true warriors of Gwynedd fight. Come against me, then. We are ready for you.’ And we were. We fought Madoc’s armies that day, and by the time the day was over, the city was still ours,” Cai went on.