by Holly Taylor
And he knew that the price of freedom for Kymru was only his happiness. And that did not matter. It never had, though he had not always known that.
For now Cadair Idris was alive again. The mountain, deserted for so long, was once again home to the High King of Kymru. It astonished him, this mountain. Built by High King Idris over four hundred years ago, it was a mystery. For the air was still clean and fresh, somehow circulating after all these years. More wondrous still, all over the mountain there were lights that mysteriously went on and off when one passed a hand over a kind of metal plate set in each chamber, except for Brenin Llys, the hall of the High King. The glowing, golden lights, which shone from some unknown source, never went off in that room.
Perhaps the most astonishing thing of all had been how the Stewards of Cadair Idris had simply entered the throne room that night. An old man had introduced himself as Rhufon ap Casnar, a descendent of Illtydd, the Steward of Lleu Silver-Hand. He had brought with him his entire family, some fifty or so men and women. Just how they had entered, Arthur was still not entirely sure. They had brought with them foodstuffs, as well as other supplies, and had set to work ensuring that the rooms throughout the mountain were habitable. It had been Rhufon who had given Arthur his first tour.
There were eight levels within the mountain, and each level was perfectly round, the level below always slightly larger than the level above it. The first level, the level of Cerrunnos, contained Brenin Llys and the corridor that led to it from the Doors.
The second level, the level of Cerridwen, was a huge banqueting hall, surrounded by kitchens and storerooms. The walls of the hall were hung with the banners of the four kingdoms—the white horse of Rheged, the black wolf of Prydyn, the silver swan of Ederynion, and the brown hawk of Gwynedd. There were banners, too, of the four Great Ones—a silver dragon for the Ardewin, a blue nightingale for the Master Bard, a brown bull for the Archdruid, and a black raven for the Dreamer. Over the main table hung the banner of the High King. It was an eagle outlined in dark onyx, with sapphire eyes, wings of pearl, a beak of fiery opals, and emerald wing tips. Just looking at the banner—his banner—as it had shimmered in the sudden, golden light had made him shiver.
The third level, the level of Aertan and Annwyn, was a garden, and this was truly a marvel, for the trees, the shrubs, the flowers that had been planted there had not died, but had remained as fresh as they day they had been planted. A bubbling fountain sprang in the middle of the chamber. Seven small chapels outlined the indoor garden, each chapel marked with the sign for the god or goddess to which it was dedicated—Mabon of the Sun; Taran of the Winds; Y Rhyfelwyr, the Warrior Twins; Aertan, the Weaver, and Annwyn, Lord of Chaos; Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, the Protectors of Kymru; Modron, the Great Mother; and Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters.
In the garden were small tables set with musical instruments and board games. A particularly fine chess set had caught his eye there. The pieces were made of gold and silver. And he was quite sure that the face carved for the High King was his own. And the face of the High Queen? Arthur had thought he had recognized her. But he had said nothing to the others, and, if any one of them thought the features familiar, they did not say.
The fourth level, belonging to Y Rhyfelwyr, the Warrior Twins, contained apartments for the High King’s warriors, his teulu, as well as training rooms and an armory. The armory had, indeed, yielded some fine swords, daggers, and spears that he had given to the rulers of the four kingdoms before they left.
The fifth level, the level of Modron, was made up of the High King and High Queen’s apartments. A formal reception room stood in the middle of this level, and, once again, the eagle banner that stood above a high-backed chair canopied in purple and gold had confronted him. A huge, round table stood in the center of the room.
The sixth level, the level of Mabon, contained apartments for important visitors, each apartment decorated with the colors of those for whom it was reserved—the rulers of the four kingdoms, as well as the Ardewin, the Dreamer, the Master Bard, and the Archdruid.
The seventh level, the level of Nantsovelta, was made up of further apartments for the High King’s officials, servants, and other guests. A glorious fountain stood in the center room, and the iridescent walls were sheathed in mother-of-pearl.
The chamber where he now stood, the eighth level, the level of Taran, was small in comparison to the other levels. It stood at the peak of the mountain, and the smooth walls, covered in silver, were incised with the constellations that wheeled over Kymru. One section showed the spring sky, and another the summer sky. One was for the autumn sky, and the last for winter. The constellations were perfectly executed, and the stars that belonged to each one were represented by twinkling jewels.
But that was not the wonder of Taran’s chamber. For the roof was made of a glasslike substance, and the starry night sky streamed in. Gwydion said that there was a roof just like it at Caer Dathyl, set in the ceiling of Ystafell Yr Arymes, the Chamber of Dreams. And as Gwydion had said that, Arthur caught the longing in his uncle’s voice for the Dreamer’s home. Once he might have taunted Gwydion with that loss. But such things were past. He had no time for them now.
He was grateful to be alone with his thoughts. The others were in the garden room, resting for a few moments, waiting for the next move in this game. There were not many here now; it was nothing like it had no doubt been in the days of the High Kings. Not including the Stewards, only eleven people were still here. There were Gwydion and Rhiannon and Gwen, of course. There were Cariadas, Gwydion’s daughter, and Dinaswyn, Gwydion’s aunt.
The two Druids, Sinend and Sabrina, had also stayed. Sabrina had not wanted to stay, had wanted to follow Trystan back to Coed Coch. But Arthur had insisted that she stay because he needed the Druids. He needed Sinend and Sabrina and even Gwen’s raw and untrained talent. He needed to learn to harness the High King’s power, and he could not master it without Druids to help him.
Rhodri, the one-time King of Gwynedd, along with Dudod the Bard, had also stayed. Arthur knew that soon Rhodri would be on his way to Gwynedd to deal with his traitorous son. But Arthur had told the old man that the time was not yet. He wanted nothing to upset the precarious balance until he had learned his new powers. And Rhodri, too, had obeyed without protest.
The Ardewin, Elstar, and her husband, Elidyr, Master Bard, had also stayed at Arthur’s orders. With Rhiannon and Elstar for the Dewin, and Elidyr and Dudod for the Bards, he could practice mastering that part of the powers. So the Ardewin and the Master Bard had stayed, making Cadair Idris their headquarters. The web of Bards and Dewin that spanned Kymru was back into place, and there was little information that Arthur did not know.
The four rulers had begun their journey to return to their headquarters—Rhoram to Haford Bryn in Prydyn, Owein to Coed Coch in Rheged, Lludd to Coed Ddu in Ederynion, and Morrigan to the new place at Cemais in Gwynedd. He had not wanted to say goodbye to Morrigan, or to his mother. But he had understood, and so had they, that they needed to return to Gwynedd with their warriors and prepare for the final battle.
He knew there would be one. And he even thought he knew, now, when it would be—almost six months from now, on Calan Llachar. It was his name day, and he would be eighteen years old. But the fact it was the day of his birth was not the reason he knew that would be the day when Kymru made its bid for freedom. It was because, this year, on Calan Llachar, there would be a total eclipse of the sun, as there was on the day of his birth. The eighteen-year cycle would come to a close then, and he felt deep inside, that this would, indeed, be the day.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of Taran’s chamber, the High King’s sword, Caladfwlch, resting on his thighs. He gazed above him at the night sky. He saw the five constellations that always rode the sky—Math, named after the first Master Bard, and Llyr, named after the first Dreamer. He saw Draig, the Dragon. He saw Beli, named for the doomed husband of Don. He saw Llys Don, the Court of Don, named after the woman wh
o had been creator of Llyr and mother of Penduran, the one who had made the four Treasures.
And then he gazed at the constellations that appeared at this time of year. Mabon, for the God of the Sun. Cerrunnos, for the Master of the Hunt. March, the Horse. Cerridwen, the Lady of the Wood. Nantsovelta of the Waters. Y Honneit, the Spear of Fire. Abwyd, the Worm. And Aertan, the Weaver of Fate.
And what, he wondered, was Aertan weaving for him this night? What would his fate be? Would he succeed in freeing Kymru, or would he die? The answer to this, no one knew. Not even the Dreamer. For Gwydion had seen nothing in his dreams beyond Arthur coming to Cadair Idris for the Tynged Mawr.
As if thoughts of Gwydion had aroused the Dreamer, Arthur’s uncle suddenly stood at the open door of the chamber.
“Come in, uncle,” Arthur said.
Gwydion sat cross-legged on the floor by Arthur, but did not speak. For a time the two men sat there, gazing up at the sky. At last, Gwydion spoke. “You hold Caladfwlch well.”
“The sword you paid so dearly to find. The sword for which you lost your brother.”
“Amatheon would be so pleased, if he were here,” Gwydion said quietly.
“I wish I had known him.”
“You would have liked him. Few did not. If you are rested now from the test,” Gwydion went on, “you must begin.”
“I have begun, uncle,” Arthur said quietly, as he laid a hand to his chest. “It is in here, and it is ready.”
“Good. The Dewin, the Bards, the Druids are ready to begin to work with you.”
“And the Dreamers?”
Gwydion’s brow rose. “What could you hope to get from the Dreamers? The others, I understand. With the augmented power of the others, you could do mighty things. But the Dreamers?”
“The Dreamers are the Walkers-Between-the-Worlds, uncle,” Arthur pointed out. “And that is a path I may need to take.”
“Be careful,” Gwydion warned. “It is dangerous even for born Dreamers to walk near to the Otherworld. It would, perhaps, be even more dangerous for you to be with us when we do.”
“But I shall. When the time is ripe. And we will call for those who can help us.”
“What, then, are your plans, my King?” Gwydion asked quietly, his gray eyes steady.
“They are these,” Arthur said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “To kill Sledda, the Arch-wyrce-jaga, for his part in Anieron’s death. To rescue the Master Smiths from Caer Siddi and bring them here to Cadair Idris to forge weapons of war. To rescue Queen Elen of Ederynion and Queen Enid of Rheged. To bring down the Archdruid and take his Druids back into the fold. To rescue the captive Y Dawnus from Afalon. And, finally, to throw the Coranians back into the sea.”
Gwydion’s mouth twitched, but his eyes remained grave. “Those are a great many tasks to accomplish, Arthur.”
“What else is a High King for?”
A LEAGUE AWAY, Havgan gazed at the stars from the heights of Eiodel. At home, in Corania, they would have different names than here, but they were the same. There was Wuotan, the God of Magic. And Fal, the god of Light. Holda, the goddess of Water, and Nerthus, the Mother. Draen, the Dragon, and Mearth, the Horse. Donar, the god of Thunder, and Sif, the goddess of Plenty. Flan, the Arrow, and Skeggox, the Axe.
Suddenly, for the first time since he had come to Kymru, Havgan longed for his country, for Corania. Longed to be away from this strange land where he somehow felt more at home.
Most of all, he longed to see the last of Cadair Idris, the mountain that had defied him still. It shone now across the dark meadow, glowing with a faint, golden light, a light, which, Arianrod said, meant that the High King had returned.
Things that had once been under his control were under his control no longer. The broken network of Y Dawnus had been repaired—the latest reports of caravans attacked, temples burned, and wyrce-jaga slain were enough to tell him that. Three days ago, a third of his troops had been killed at the crossroads. The testing tool they had captured many months ago had found no fresh Y Dawnus. The ones he had captured suffered terribly on the nearby island of Afalon, but there were not enough of them to satisfy him. His cold, beautiful wife was plotting against him, and his General, once his friend, always looked at him with pity in his brown eyes. The Treasures, so eagerly sought for and followed across Kymru, had eluded him and Cadair Idris had refused to open for him.
And yet, in spite of those things, Havgan would not give up. He would not go home—because he no longer knew where home was. Was it Corania, the land in which he had grown up, the land that had always been strange to him? Or was it Kymru, the land of the witches, the land he had come to conquer and that had somehow, perhaps, conquered him?
The faint scent of honeysuckle came to his nostrils. She had come to him, as he had known she would. She came to stand by him on the battlements, and, for a while, did not speak. When at last she did, her words rocked him.
“I carry your child, cariad,” Arianrod said softly.
Cariad. He knew that Kymric word. It meant beloved. That she should use that word to him told him much of her. Told him, too, much of himself. For he had longed for that word from her. Though he had not known it until now. He reached for her, enfolding her in his strong arms. She rested her head on his heart.
“Cariad,” he said to her, at last breaking the silence. “Wife of my heart.”
She was quiet for a time, and he felt a dampness on his breast. She was crying. He let her go and framed her face with his hands, gently forcing her to look up at him. Her amber eyes—so very, very like his own—were swimming in tears. But she was smiling.
“It will be a boy, Havgan. A son,” she said.
“You know this?”
“I am Dewin,” she said simply. “I know.”
“We will call him Sigefrith, after Sigerric’s father, my first Lord.”
She shook her head. Her honey-blond hair—so like his own—stirred beneath his strong hands. “In Kymru, the task of naming is given to the mother.”
He smiled. Once her opposition—anyone’s opposition—would have enraged him. But no more. For she was the woman he loved as he had never loved any other woman before. She was the Woman-on-the-Rocks, come to him at last, facing him, gifting him with her heart. She would never leave him. And he would cling to her for the rest of his life.
“What will be his name, then?” he asked smiling.
“We will call him Medrawd. It means ‘skillful.’“
“And in my tongue, what will that be?”
“Mordred,” she replied.
Glossary
Addiendydd: sixth day of the week aderyn: birds
aethnen: aspen tree; sacred to Ederynion
alarch: swan; the symbol of the royal house of Ederynion
alban: light; any one of the four solar festivals
Alban Awyr: festival honoring Taran; Spring Equinox
Alban Haf: festival honoring Modron; Summer Solstice
Alban Nerth: festival honoring Agrona and Camulos; Autumnal Equinox
Alban Nos: festival honoring Sirona and Grannos; the Winter Solstice
ap: son of
ar: high
Archdruid: leader of the Druids, must be a descendent of Llyr
Arderydd: high eagle; symbol of the High Kings
Ardewin: leader of the Dewin, must be a descendent of Llyr
aryme:. prophecy
Awenyddion: dreamer (see Dreamer)
awyr: air
bach: boy
Bard: a telepath; they are musicians, poets, and arbiters of the law in matters of
inheritance, marriage, and divorce; Bards can Far-Sense and Wind-Speak; they
revere the god Taran, King of the Winds
bedwen: birch tree; sacred to the Bards
Bedwen Mis: birch month; roughly corresponds to March
blaid: wolf; the symbol of the royal house of Prydyn
bran: raven; the symbol of the Dreamers
Brenin: high or noble one; the
High King; acts as an amplifier for the Y Dawnus buarth: circle cad: battle
cadair: chair (of state)
caer: fortress
calan: first day; any one of the four fire festivals
Calan Gaef: festival honoring Annwyn and Aertan
Calan Llachar: festival honoring Cerridwen and Cerrunnos
Calan Morynion: festival honoring Nantsovelta
Calan Olau: festival honoring Mabon
cantref: a large division of land for administrative purposes; two to three commotes make up a cantref; a
cantref is ruled by a Lord or Lady
canu: song
cariad: beloved
celynnen: holly
Celynnen Mis: holly month; roughly corresponds to late May/early June
cenedl: clan
cerdinen: rowan tree; sacred to the Dreamers
Cerdinen Mis: rowan month; roughly corresponds to July
Cerdorrian: sons of Cerridwen; the hidden organization of warriors and Y Dawnus working to drive the
Coranians out of Kymru
cleddyf: sword
collen: hazel tree; sacred to Prydyn
Collen Mis: hazel month; roughly corresponds to October
commote: a small division of land for administrative purposes; two or three commotes make up a cantref; a commote is ruled by a Gwarda
coed: forest, wood
cynyddu: increase; the time when the moon is waxing
da: father
dan: fire
derwen: oak tree; sacred to the Druids
Derwen Mis: oak month; roughly corresponds to December
Dewin: a clairvoyant; they are physicians; they can Life-Read and Wind-Ride; they revere
the goddess Nantsovelta, Lady of the Moon
disglair: bright; the time when the moon is full
draig: dragon; the symbol of the Dewin
draenenwen: hawthorn tree; sacred to Rheged
Draenenwen Mis: hawthorn month; roughly corresponds to late June/early July
Dreamer: a descendent of Llyr who has precognitive abilities; the Dreamer can Dream-