Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  And then they all began to sing:

  “In Gwlad yr Haf are fruit and fish and pools.

  In Gwlad yr Haf sweet are the cries of dapped deer.

  In Gwlad yr Haf are blue-eyed hawks, woods and flowers.

  There await graceful, pearl-like women,

  There await strong, diamond-hard men.

  There the dead await

  Aertan’s nod,

  Annwyn’s touch,

  To be born again.”

  Had this been another time, they would have begun the dancing and singing that the festival required. But Gwydion called for silence.

  “Arthur,” Gwydion said gravely. “It is time.”

  “I DON’T LIKE it,” Havgan said. “One moment they’re fighting us tooth and nail, and the next they vanish.”

  From the sky overhead thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. In the murky light, only Coranian warriors, nursing their wounds, could be seen at the crossroads.

  “We heard them sound the retreat,” Sigerric agreed. “But why?”

  “And where was the Dreamer?” Havgan demanded. “He should have been here. It was his challenge.”

  “Perhaps,” Sigerric said slowly, pulling the boar’s helmet from his sweat-soaked head, “Gwydion was busy elsewhere. And this battle—”

  “Was simply a distraction. To get us away from—”

  “Cadair Idris,” Sigerric finished.

  “The Treasures,” Havgan breathed, fire and hate in his amber eyes. “They have found them. And gone to Cadair Idris. And the Doors will let them in.” Havgan shouted for his horse, and as he mounted, he called out to Sigerric. “I will see them die this day. I swear it!”

  “How?” Sigerric called as he mounted his own horse. “The mountain will never let you in!” But Havgan was already gone.

  “It will never let you in,” Sigerric whispered, as he followed Havgan from the field of battle. “Never.”

  GWYDION REACHED FOR the cup that stood on the rim of the fountain. It was a large, four-sided cup, fashioned of gold. Each side contained the sign etched in jewels for the four gods and goddesses of the elements. One side was covered in pearls, for Nantsovelta of the Waters; one in sapphires, for Taran of the Air. One side glittered with emeralds, for Modron of the Earth; and the last with opals, for Mabon of Fire. Gwydion dipped the cup into the fountain, filling it with the sweet, clear water. He opened the pouch on his belt and drew out the leaves of Penduran’s Rose that he had collected months ago in Gwynedd. He crushed the leaves between his palms and put them in the cup.

  And then he handed the cup to Arthur. “When you are ready, drink. Penduran’s Rose will prepare your mind to receive the power from the Treasures.”

  Arthur took the cup and stared into its depths for a moment. He glanced at the others who waited—the rulers and the Y Dawnus in their alcoves, here to witness this event. He looked at Gwen, and she smiled tremulously at him. He looked at Rhiannon, and her green eyes were calm. He looked at his mother and sister as they stood in the alcove and saw their love for him in their faces. He looked at Myrrdin, and he saw the rightness, the sureness of it all in his teacher’s eyes.

  Lastly, he looked at Gwydion, into the gray eyes of the man he had hated for most of his life, at the man whose plans and schemes had brought him here, ready to risk his life on this throw. And Arthur did not, at this last, resent it. He was neither angry nor afraid. He was beyond all that now. Instead, he accepted what must be, what had been marked for him since the day of his birth.

  And so he drank.

  He set the cup down on the rim of the fountain. At first, he felt no different. But then something began to happen. He felt his senses sharpening. His sight became unnaturally clear, his hearing sharper. His sense of smell heightened, and he could taste the Rose as it lingered at the back of his throat. He ran his fingers over his tunic, and marveled at the feel of it.

  Gwydion nodded toward the Treasures gathered before the throne. “You know what to do, Arthur,” Gwydion said.

  “You have not told me,” Arthur replied dreamily.

  “You do not need to be told. It is in you, this knowledge. Do as Idris did, as Macsen did, as Lleu Lawrient did. Do as you were born to do.”

  Gwydion was right. He did know what to do. As if in a dream, Arthur picked up the Sword of Taran and guided its tip into an almost invisible slit within one of the silvery junctions on the Stone. The Sword slipped into the Stone with an audible click, and both Stone and Sword began to hum. The sound was low pitched, and then it began to build. The Sword and the Stone began to glow. Arthur reached for the Cauldron and held it in his left hand. He placed his right hand into the bowl, and felt a tiny prick on his finger, as he had somehow known he would. The bowl shimmered, and began to dance in his hand. When the Cauldron stopped spinning, he picked up the Spear. With the Cauldron in his left hand, and the Spear of Fire in his right, he mounted the Stone, standing to the right of the upright Sword.

  The Treasures pulsed and glittered. The humming grew louder. Those watching were bathed in the strange light of the sapphires, the emeralds, the pearls, and the opals. The figure eight, sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, etched in onyx on all four Treasures, glowed darkly, a glittering shadow.

  IN HIS MIND’S eye, Arthur saw the pure white stag bound ahead of him, shooting across the plain of Gwytheryn.

  Cadair Idris rose at Arthur’s back as he leapt after the stag. He skimmed through the long, green grass. Wildflowers dotted the plain, shimmering in the golden light.

  Arthur ran, the earth firm and fruitful beneath his feet. The wind whistled past his ears. The golden sun warmed him as, laughing, he jumped across a sparkling stream.

  He followed the stag as it neared the lake of Llyn Mwygil. The stag leapt high, impossibly high, in the air and sailed across the water, landing lightly on the island of Afalon, the holy place of Annwyn and Aertan.

  Determined to follow the stag, Arthur leapt through the clean, cool air, soaring across Llyn Mwygil and landing lightly on the island.

  The isle was quiet. The stag had disappeared. Emerald green trees flashed in the golden light. The waters sparkled.

  He could no longer hear the stag. Indeed, the golden afternoon was now completely silent.

  And then the agony took him.

  IN CADAIR IDRIS, Arthur stood unmoving, his dark eyes wide, his face without expression. Ygraine took a step toward him, then stopped. Gwen stood stiffly, her hands clenched into fists with the effort not to reach out for him. Gwydion reached out and took Rhiannon’s hand.

  The strange light intensified. The Treasures throbbed with a rhythm that spoke of another time and place far beyond Cadair Idris, in another world.

  Just at the edge of vision, four figures suddenly appeared.

  “Oh, Gwydion, they have come,” Rhiannon whispered as she saw them.

  The Guardians of the Treasures had, indeed, come to Cadair Idris to witness the Tynged Mawr.

  Mannawyddan, the Ardewin, watched calmly with his mild blue eyes. Arywen, the Archdruid, watched with hazel cat eyes, her long black hair like a shadow. Taliesin, the Master Bard, his green eyes sad and wise, watched unmoving. And Bran, the Dreamer, the man who had set these events in motion with the death of his High King so long ago, watched with his gray eyes blazing.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, from everywhere, a bright, white light cut through the air, pinning Arthur where he stood. Within that light, Arthur’s body began to shake, and he cried out in agony.

  WHEN THE PAIN came, Arthur stiffened and cried out. His cry cut through the still air over the island, startling a flock of crows that suddenly took wing. They wheeled overhead, echoing Arthur’s cry.

  The pain twisted through his guts, and he fell to his knees, clutching his belly. He threw his head back to scream again, and it was then that he saw them.

  The Shining Ones had come, bringing darkness with them.

  IN CADAIR IDRIS, Gwydion said softly, with tears in his silvery eyes, “Oh, gods, I did not
know it would be like this.”

  Sweat and tears poured down Arthur’s face. His features were twisted in pain. Again, he cried out.

  “No!” screamed Ygraine. “Stop! It’s killing him!” She took a few running steps toward her son, but Morrigan held her mother back.

  “Leave him be!” Morrigan cried. “Let him finish!”

  “Get him out of there!” Gwen called out. “Gwydion, get him out!”

  And Gwydion took a step forward, but Rhiannon held him back.

  “Wait!” she called. “Don’t touch him. Wait!”

  ANNWYN, LORD OF Chaos, was cloaked in writhing black, as though the shadows themselves had come to veil him. His hands were stained with blood. His dead-white face was patterned with spirals and circles of tiny onyx beads. His dark eyes sparkled wildly. He held a yew branch in his red hands.

  Aertan, Weaver of Fate, was clothed in misty white. Her eyes were bloodstone—green chalcedony flecked with red jasper. Her thin hands were crisscrossed with a dizzying array of threads. Her fingers flashed in and out among the threads so quickly he could not follow her movements. But from her hands a tapestry was taking shape, trailing from her fingers and spilling to the ground behind her. Arthur caught a glimpse of horsemen and battles, of sweet lovers and long summer days, of bloodstains and grinning skulls.

  “Child of Idris, child of Macsen, child of Lleu Silver-Hand,” Aertan called. “You have come to us at last.”

  “What is happening?” Arthur gasped, clutching his head as a spike of hot pain shot through his skull.

  “It is the Tynged Mawr,” the Lord of Chaos said, his voice like the screams of the dying. “It is the magic of the High Kings. It is unleashed inside you. It courses through your veins. It seeks to know you, to test you. To see if you are worthy.”

  “The pain,” Arthur gasped. “I cannot—”

  “You must.”

  “Lord of Chaos,” Arthur whispered through his agony, “why do you seek to torment me?”

  “Ah. Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, how little you have listened to your teachers. Do you think me evil?”

  “There is blood on your hands.”

  “And that matters? Ah, but you are young. How but by dying do men reach the Land of Summer? How but by suffering is wisdom gained?”

  “You have not understood, Arthur ap Uthyr,” Aertan said, bright threads flowing through her fingers and flashing in the sun. “My Lord’s mark is on the Treasures. It is he who grants you the gifts of the High Kings. It is he who stands with you to rid Kymru of the enemy.”

  “Your torments, Arthur, are of your own making,” Annwyn said softly. “It is made of those times you thought to run. It is fashioned of those times you have turned away. It is shaped by those times you had thought to be less than you were meant to be.”

  “Your pain, Penerydd, is of your own making,” Aertan said gently.

  Arthur gasped, again clutching his belly. “Please make it stop. Make an end to it.”

  “Ah, young one, that we will not do,” Aertan said. “For a destiny must be allowed to unfold. As yours does now.”

  “Please,” Arthur begged, tears streaming from his eyes, sweat pouring from him. “Please.”

  And then he saw the truth in their strange, glittering eyes as they stood before him, silent and still. They would not help him because they could not. The pain was his. He alone had fashioned it in his refusals to embrace his destiny, in his insistence on his own rights, his own freedom.

  And so, at last, he relinquished his own desires and instead embraced his place on the Wheel. He rose, ignoring the pain, and faced Annwyn and Aertan. He bowed to them and raised his face to the sky, spreading his arms in surrender.

  “The struggle is finished,” he whispered through his pain. “It is done. I will be what I was born to be.”

  IN THE HALL of the High Kings, the white light began to dim, and the throbbing began to fade. Slowly the light died; the hum quieted. And Arthur still stood on the Stone, the Spear and the Cauldron in his hands, the Sword by his side. His shaking had stopped, and he made no sound.

  Slowly he stepped down from the Stone. Slowly he set the Cauldron and the Spear on the floor. Slowly he grasped the Sword and pulled it from the Stone, then set the Sword down.

  Arthur turned to Rhiannon, Gwydion, and Gwen, his face still wet with sweat and tears, his dark eyes filled with pain and wonder. “Give me the rings,” he said, his voice hollow.

  Without comment, the three took the rings off their fingers and handed them over. Arthur took the rings, and stripped off his own ring. He turned to the throne, then stopped, facing the shades of the Great Ones of Lleu Silver-Hand who still watched. “So now will I return to the High King’s Torque the jewels taken from it by you four long ago.”

  Arthur strode to the throne and lifted the Torque. One by one, he plucked the jewels from the rings, setting them within the Torque. Then he laid the Torque down, and went back to the fountain. He plunged his hands into the clear water, and grasped the sword that lay at the bottom. When he pulled the sword out, it was dry and gleaming in the golden light. The hilt, made of silver and gold, was an eagle’s head with eyes of bloodstone and wings studded with onyx. The scabbard was etched with the sign for each of the four gods and goddess of the elements—the sign for Modron, the Great Mother, in emerald; for Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters, in pearl; the sign for Taran of the Winds in sapphire; and the sign for Mabon of the Sun in opal.

  Arthur hooked the scabbard to his belt, then returned to stand before the throne. He held the Torque in his hands, and said to the people gathered there, “I have survived the Tynged Mawr, and the powers of a High King are now mine. That which was once closed in me is now opened. I can harness the power of the Druids, and call fire and fog to confound the enemy. I can direct the power of the Dewin, scouting out the enemy across all of Kymru at a moment. I can bring together the power of the Bards, and speak mind to mind on the wind. I am your High King. And I stand in Cadair Idris, my home, at the heart of my country. I will lead you in this fight to free our country from the enemy that crushes us beneath their heel.

  “My first command is for the Great Ones to depart,” Arthur went on, turning to face the four men and women from the past, who had guarded the Treasures for so long, for love of the last High King of Kymru. “Go now,” he said softly, “to your rest. You have served your High King well. May I have friends as loyal as you.”

  And the shade of Bran, his gray eyes at rest and calm at last, answered, “You have, Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine.”

  “So I have,” Arthur agreed with a smile. “Go now.”

  And the four shades, smiling and at peace at last, faded away.

  Then Gwydion began to sing the song of Anieron. And the others took up the song, until they were all singing, as Arthur stood before the throne, the High King’s Torque in his hands.

  “Shall there not be a song of freedom

  Before the dawn of the fair day?

  Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?”

  ARTHUR RAISED HIS Torque, and clasped it around his neck. And as he did, from some unknown source, all the lights within the mountain of Cadair Idris began to glow.

  HAVGAN AND SIGERRIC, weary from battle, neared Cadair Idris. Overhead, the storm had begun to abate. A full moon rode the sky. The mountain was in their sight, when they heard the fierce, undaunted cry of an eagle, and the faint shimmering of hunting horns in the sky.

  “Their Wild Hunt,” Sigerric said quietly. “It rides.”

  “It is nothing,” Havgan replied shortly. “Their gods cannot stand against our God.”

  As they neared the silent mountain, they saw, by the light of the moon, the dead guards, scattered on the broken steps.

  “They have, indeed, been here,” Sigerric said. “And gone into the mountain. Drwys Idris has opened for them.”

  Havgan did not answer. He was staring up at the Doors, which stood closed and implacable, as they had always been for him. Again, th
ey heard an eagle’s cry and the faint sound of hunting horns from overhead.

  Then suddenly, shockingly, the Doors lit up. The jewels scattered there began to glow and shimmer. A low hum filled the night sky, and the once dark and silent mountain shimmered in the night, empty and forsaken no longer.

  And at the sight, Havgan threw back his head and cried out in rage to the uncaring sky.

  Epilogue

  Cadair Idris and Eiodel

  Gwytheryn, Kymru

  Ywen Mis, 500

  Gwaithdydd, Disglair Wythnos—night

  Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine sat in Taran’s Tower, the topmost level of Cadair Idris. In the past three nights since he had survived the Tynged Mawr, Arthur had come to this chamber to be alone, to plan for the freedom of his country, to come to terms with his own imprisonment.

  For never again would he be simply Arthur, a shepherd of Dinas Emrys. Never again would he spend his days in the clean, clear air of the mountains of Gwynedd, guarding his sheep against danger, eating his simple meals perched on a rock, watching hawks wheel high overhead on the wings of the wind.

  Never again. For he was High King of Kymru now, and any freedom he had once had was gone, never to return. But he thought that he could live with that. If that were the price of freedom for the Kymri, then he would pay it. He had not always been able to say that. But now he thought he could.

  He remembered what Gwydion had told him of the dream his uncle had the day before Arthur was born. How Cerrunnos and Cerridwen, the Horned God and the White Lady, who led the Wild Hunt across the skies, had taken from Gwydion a young eagle, and had chained him with links of silver and gold. How they had said that it was not for the eagle to be free, but rather for him to take his place on the Wheel.

  He remembered the look in his mother’s eyes when she had made Neuad tell Arthur of his father’s last battle. He remembered the pinched look on his sister’s face when Morrigan spoke of Uthyr. He remembered Dudod’s despair when he had whispered farewell to his brother the night Anieron, Master Bard, had died. He remembered Anieron’s song, heard the length and breadth of Kymru that night, and the call to freedom.