Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Why did they have to do this? Gwydion wondered. Why did they have to talk of Uthyr? He remembered begging Uthyr to leave Tegeingl, long before the enemy came. He had known that Uthyr would die if he fought the enemy. Uthyr had known it, too. And he had stayed in Tegeingl just the same.

  “Griffi was horrified to get that letter from the Archdruid,” Susanna said. “He could scarcely believe that he was being ordered to fight for Madoc, not against him.”

  “What did he do?” Arthur asked eagerly.

  Susanna smiled. “Uthyr crushed the letter into a ball and threw it in the air. Griffi set it on fire and burned it to ashes. The ashes dropped on Madoc’s head.”

  Arthur, Morrigan, and Gwyhar laughed, delighted with the tale of Madoc’s discomfiture.

  “Tell them,” Ygraine said harshly, breaking through the laughter. “Tell them, Neuad, of what you saw on your Wind-Ride on that last day of Uthyr’s life.”

  Susanna fell silent. Cai’s smile faded, and his eyes became dull and lifeless.

  “Ygraine,” Neuad began hesitantly.

  “No. Tell them. Tell Arthur of that last day. And what you saw.”

  Neuad bowed her golden head and was silent for a time. At last, she raised her face to Arthur. “I was Wind-Riding toward Tegeingl. I knew that this would be the final battle. The enemy, over a thousand strong, marched over the hill. Uthyr, with Griffi and all his warriors behind him, sat on his horse just outside the city, and waited. Madoc was in the forefront of the Coranian army, next to General Catha. When Uthyr saw him, he raised the horn of Gwynedd, and blew the charge.”

  No one spoke. No one moved. The crackling of the fire seemed very loud in the now-still night.

  “The battle began. Our warriors fought bravely, but they were outnumbered. They knew that they rode to their deaths. But they sang as they rode to meet the enemy. I could see the fear on Madoc’s face as Uthyr came straight for him. General Catha made a signal, and the Coranians let Uthyr ride through, with Griffi behind him.

  “Griffi rose in his saddle, pointing to the Coranian commander, preparing to Fire-Weave. But the General threw his ax into Griffi’s chest, and he fell from his horse. His lips moved, once, shaped Susanna’s name. And then he died.”

  Gwyhar’s blue eyes filled with tears, and he swallowed hard. Susanna bowed her head. She closed her eyes, and so did not see Cai’s swift, abortive movement toward her.

  “Catha spoke to Uthyr, demanding his surrender, no doubt. And Uthyr laughed as he dismounted his horse. He took a dagger from his boot, and the two of them spoke. I could not tell what they said, but in the end, Uthyr gestured to Madoc, and Catha stepped back. Madoc was frightened. He knew he was no match for his brother. They fought with daggers, for a time. Then Madoc stumbled, and Uthyr raised his knife to finish it. But then Catha threw his ax again, and it buried itself in Uthyr’s back. He fell, and Catha wrenched the ax from Uthyr’s body, and turned him over with his foot, so the King lay faceup on the ground.”

  Morrigan had bowed her head, and tears streamed from her eyes and dropped to the ground. Arthur put his arm around her, and she leaned into his shoulder. His own eyes were filled with tears, but they did not fall. He stared at his mother, as Neuad continued to speak. And Ygraine continued to listen with no expression on her face.

  “Catha said something to him, but Uthyr did not answer. He closed his eyes, then he smiled. Then he died.”

  They were silent as Neuad finished. Tears streamed down the Dewin’s face, but her recitation had been steady.

  “Why, Ygraine?” Gwydion rasped, breaking the silence at last. “Why?”

  “Arthur needs to know,” Ygraine said steadily. “He needs to remember this story for those nights when it seems his task is too hard. For those times when he thinks he has reason to not perform it. For those times when he looks at you, and thinks to spite you by not becoming what he was born to be.”

  Arthur looked at his mother with astonishment, then bowed his head over Morrigan’s. Ygraine brushed her hand over his hair lightly, then clasped her hands in her lap again.

  Gwydion stood. He stared down at Ygraine, but could not speak. She had known. And she had done what she could. Never, in all his life, had Ygraine given him anything but her hatred. Until tonight, when she gave him the way to be sure that Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine would do what he must do to take Kymru back from the enemy.

  A gift like that, of such value, given at such a high cost was something he had never expected from one who hated him so. Because she still did. He could see it. But she put Kymru first tonight. As he had always done.

  He turned, and walked into the night.

  IN THE DARKNESS, Gwydion scaled the sides of the hidden valley, making for the peak of Mynydd Tawel. Halfway up, he stopped, out of breath and weeping. He turned and sat down on the clover-studded ground, gazing back at the valley. Campfires dotted the valley floor. There were over five hundred Cerddorian here. They lived in rough huts built on the valley sides. So well hidden was the valley, however, that the presence of hundreds of campfires would make no difference. No one who did not know the way in would ever find it.

  Uthyr had chosen well.

  Gwydion dashed his sleeve across his eyes, pulling his black cloak closer around him. It was quiet up here, away from the others. He glanced up at the night sky. Overhead, the constellation of Arderydd wheeled above him. Arderydd, the High Eagle, was bright and cold, the stars piercing in their brilliance. The High Eagle, the sign of the High King. And there would be a High King. There would. Uthyr’s son. But Uthyr was dead.

  Gwydion.

  For a moment, Gwydion considered not answering Dinaswyn’s Mind-Call. But he could not. Yes, aunt?

  There are many of us, Gwydion, who loved Uthyr. And who miss him now, and will miss him until the day we die. You are not alone in this.

  He was my brother. I loved him.

  Yes.

  For a moment, she was quiet. Gwydion hoped that she would not speak again. But she did.

  When do you leave?

  At first light.

  Do you know where you are to go?

  Yes.

  But you will, of course, not tell me.

  Dinaswyn—

  It does not matter. It used to, but not anymore. Listen to me. I speak to you now to remind you of your promise to me.

  My promise?

  That, when the fires of testing are upon us, you will use me. You have not forgotten that promise, even though you pretend to. And I have not forgotten that promise. Your word has been given. See to it that you keep it.

  At that, Dinaswyn’s Mind-Touch was gone. Gwydion sighed. He had, on occasion, thought his aunt had forgotten that promise. But deep down, he had always known better. And he had promised. But he did not want to use her. No matter what she might think, he loved her dearly, and did not want to see her hurt.

  He heard the sounds of someone coming up the mountain after him. The scent of perfume wafted up to him. Ah, of course. Arianrod. Who else? Just when he most wanted to be alone. It would not be the first time she knew that and came to him anyway. He hoped this would be the last. But he did not count on it.

  “Gwydion,” she purred, as she came to him and sat next to him on the cold ground. “You have not spoken to me but a handful of words all day.”

  “True.”

  “So, you have the Treasures. All but one.”

  “All but one.”

  “And tomorrow you leave again. Where will you go?”

  “To another place.”

  She laughed. “Sometimes, cariad, I think you do not trust me.”

  “Arianrod, I have never trusted you. And I have known you all my life. Why would I start now?”

  “Tell me, Gwydion, does Rhiannon make love as well as I?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Never bothered to find out? Well, who could blame you? Why waste your time on someone like her?”

  “I think her beautiful.”

  She stiffened
. “You do?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “You disgust me, Gwydion ap Awst. You really do.” She stood and looked down at him. “When next we meet, you will treat me with more respect.”

  “Arianrod, I have also never respected you. Why would I ever start?”

  “Because when I see you again, you will do so, or you will die.”

  “Another empty promise, like all of your promises, cariad.”

  Without another word, she left him.

  ARIANROD STORMED DOWN the mountain, back to the hovel where she lived with Dinaswyn. Fools. They were all fools. Huddled here in cold and near starvation. No comforts of life. Fighting an enemy they could never defeat. Never.

  Well, she had tried. She had tried to live this way for years. But no more. She had tried, one last time, to seduce and hold the Dreamer. But no more. Never again. Now she would do what she should have done long ago.

  Meirigdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early morning

  EARLY-MORNING FOG touched the peak of Mynydd Tawel as the party slipped out of the valley and through the narrow gap in the rocks. Rhiannon halted just outside the fissure, waiting for the others to come through. Poor Arthur was pale and silent. Gwen, for once, was quiet herself, taking none of her usual opportunities to bait the boy.

  Gwydion was his usual impassive self. Rhiannon had seen Arianrod leave the fire last night, and had known exactly where the woman had gone. Rhiannon and Gwen had spent the night with Ygraine and Morrigan, and so she had not known when Gwydion or Arianrod had come back down the mountain. She could have Wind-Rode after him, but she disdained that kind of subterfuge. And, besides, he might have sensed her. He did not look tired, but that meant nothing. Viciously she hoped that Arianrod had caught the world’s worst cold.

  Morrigan and Ygraine followed Arthur through the gap, then halted. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again.

  Morrigan stepped forward and hugged him. “Take care, brother,” she said softly. “Come back to us as soon as you can.”

  Arthur smiled down at her, and smoothed her hair with a trembling hand. “I will.” He turned to Ygraine.

  She took his face in both her hands and kissed his brow. “Go, now, my son. Go and do what you were born to do. We shall wait for you.”

  “Good-bye,” Arthur said, then turned and led the way down the mountain. The sapphire ring on his hand pulsed in the light. For a time, no one spoke. The morning was slightly chill, but the sky was clear. It would be hot by midday. As they crossed one of the brooks that cut through the slopes of Mynydd Tawel, Gwydion called a halt. He stood over a small bush, about one foot tall. The leathery leaves were bright green, and tiny yellow flowers clustered around them.

  “Penduran’s Rose,” Rhiannon said as Gwydion pulled off some of the leaves. “Why are you harvesting it?”

  “Because we will need it,” Gwydion replied, as he stowed the leaves in the pouch at his belt.

  “That’s you,” she said sourly. “Forthcoming with information, as always.”

  “Are you sure it was wise to leave the Treasures back there?” Gwen asked. That was as close to a criticism as Gwen ever got of Gwydion’s plans.

  “Dinaswyn will see to it that they are safe. There are few I would trust with such a task. Do not underestimate her.”

  “Where are we going?” Gwen asked. “Besides north, I mean?”

  “Do you know, Rhiannon?” Gwydion asked, a smile lurking in his eyes.

  “Of course, I do.”

  Gwydion waited for her to be more specific. If he thought, after all this time, she was a fool, he would know better.

  “The song says, ‘Down the dark path/In the land of mountains the black stone looms. / Beneath the seeker lies the guardian.’ The dark path is Tywyll Llwybr. And the Path is said to lead through Mynydd Gwyr, Seeker Mountain.”

  “And the black stone?”

  “Is obviously Ddu Llech, the Stone that Llyr himself raised in the memory of his mother, Lady Don of Lyonesse.”

  “Then, Arthur ap Uthyr,” Gwydion said, turning to the boy. “You must take us there.”

  “Yes,” Arthur said quietly. “I will.”

  Chapter 22

  Mynydd Gwyr and Mynydd Tawel

  Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru

  Ysgawen Mis, 499

  Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—dawn

  Four days later Arthur raised his eyes to the heights of Mynydd Gwyr, Seeker Mountain, highest mountain in Gwynedd. It would take him half a day, at least, to reach the peak, had that been his destination. But he didn’t think he would need to go that far.

  The azure depths of his sapphire ring pulsed on his finger as he looked down at the path at his feet. He carried no pack, no food, and no water. He would go to the mountain, with the ring as his guide, with the path at his feet. And with an aching in his heart. For the last person to wear this ring besides Morrigan had been his father.

  He fingered the ring, remembering when he had last seen his father, so many years ago, on the day when Gwydion had brought Uthyr to see him. A single day was all they had. And he remembered his father’s parting words—that an eagle cannot fly with broken wings, that Arthur must be what he was born to be.

  Oh, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t. Sometimes, when he saw what the Coranians were doing to his country; when he saw Y Dawnus with enaid-dals around their necks; when he saw his mother and sister in hiding; when he heard the dying song of the Master Bard; then he wanted to take his country back and see to it that his people lived in peace. But when he looked at the uncle whom he hated, when he thought of the peaceful days he had spent herding his flock, then he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

  Even now, with the ring on his finger and his feet on the path, he wanted to turn and run. Run, far away, back to Dinas Emrys, back to the life he had led. But he could not. He never could. All that was ended the day Gwydion had returned to take Arthur back into the world.

  The wind rippled through the dawn, stirring the hair on the back of his neck with light fingers. He shivered.

  “It’s Taran’s Wind,” Gwydion said softly. “He seeks to know you.”

  Arthur turned to glance at Gwydion, who stood just behind him. His uncle’s gray eyes were alight as he stared up at Mynydd Gwyr.

  “You are to seek the Black Stone of Don, Ddu Llech, raised by Llyr, the First Dreamer, in memory of his mother. Legend has it that it rests in a hidden valley. And the only way to the valley is Tywyll Llwybr, the Dark Path, that which lies at your feet.”

  “Why has no one else ever found that valley, if all they have to do is follow the path?” Gwen asked, as she stood by Arthur’s side.

  “Because the Winds of Taran prevent it. There have been some who have tried to follow the path. But the winds defeat them, blowing as soon as they set foot on the road,” Rhiannon said softly. She laid a gentle hand on the back of Arthur’s neck, stilling the hairs that had been raised by the wind. “Do not fight the winds,” she said quietly. “Let them take you where you must go.”

  Oh, he didn’t want this. Didn’t want any of it. He wanted to be left in peace. Yet, in spite of that, somehow, he was putting his foot forward. He was taking the Dark Path. And in spite of that, the wind was not blowing. Not for him. He had the feeling that when he returned, if he returned, he would be a different man than he was now.

  “Tell me, uncle,” he said, looking over his shoulder to Gwydion. “Could I die up there? Dashed against the rocks by the winds?”

  “It has happened to the others, Arthur,” Gwydion said impassively. “It could happen to you.”

  “But your dreams. Have you seen us come to Cadair Idris with the Treasures in our hands in your dreams?”

  “I have seen nothing. I have had no dream since the one at the beginning of this year, the one that said it was time to seek the Treasures.”

  “Why no dreams, uncle? Are you not the Dreamer?”

  “I have been given no dreams, because everything hangs in the balance. The gods h
ave nothing to say. They only wait. As we all do.”

  “Then, uncle, if I should not return, what will you do?”

  “We will hide the Treasures again, and wait for another.”

  “And another will come.”

  “I think not, boyo. I think not.”

  Arthur turned away and gazed up at the mountain again. And began to climb.

  HE ONLY LOOKED BACK once. Many hours later, as he was halfway up the mountain, and the path curved to the west, he looked back. Far below, he saw the tiny figures of the three whom he had traveled with for so many months. He halted, out of breath, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. The three raised their hands, and the rings flashed light from their fingers—the opal on Gwydion’s hand blazed fire, the pearl on Rhiannon’s hand glimmered whitely, the emerald on Gwen’s finger flickered. He raised his own hand, and the sapphire gave out an azure glow. Then he turned away, and followed the path, out of their sight, around the mountain.

  THE SOUND OF trickling water caught his ear. It would be good to drink; he was hot and dusty from his climb. He stepped off the path, to follow the sound to the stream, and the winds drove at him fiercely, tumbling him to his knees. Crawling, the wind roaring in his ears, he regained the path and the winds died down.

  “I just wanted a drink of water,” he croaked, his throat dry and dusty. He rose to his feet. “That’s all I wanted,” he muttered, as he continued up the path. The day was hot and the air was thin. His breath labored in his chest. But he stumbled on, keeping his eyes on his feet as they dragged him up the path.

  The path led to a narrow fissure. He slipped between the rocks, through an opening so narrow that he left much of the skin on his arms behind him. He wriggled through as best he could, and the path continued. He glanced up at the sky. It was late afternoon now. Soon it would be dark. He had a torch thrust into his belt, and flint and tinder in his pouch. That would help, providing, of course, that the winds would let him light a fire. Somehow, he didn’t think they would. Water had been denied him. Fire would probably be denied him, too.