by Holly Taylor
“I did not know. Nor did Havgan. Arianrod told us that this was so.”
“And my husband believed her.”
“It is, I think, the truth,” he said mildly and turned away from her again to look back across the darkening plain.
“Is Havgan really at Caer Duir?”
“He is. Arianrod told him to leave this to her. He chose now to remind the Archdruid that he is master, because there is nothing to hold him here in Eiodel for now.”
“Because she is not here.”
“Yes.”
“When will she return?”
“When she has done what she set out to do. Most probably a few days from now.”
“Bringing the Dreamer with her?”
“No. She will not bring him here, for they seek to use him as bait for Rhiannon. And she could never be lured here.”
“Then where?”
“I am not sure of that. I do not know if that has even been decided yet.”
“How can Arianrod imagine that she can fool Gwydion ap Awst? The way it has been told to me, she is the last person he would trust.”
“That is true. But he does not need to trust her for this to work. She has offered him bait in the form of a renegade Dewin. He will come so he can recapture Llwyd Cilcoed. It will not occur to him, in his arrogance, that he can be taken.”
“Surely he is not such a fool.”
“Arianrod will meet him and take him to Llwyd Cilcoed. She will have told him that the Dewin will appear to be bound but will not be. She will have told him that the plan is for Llwyd to collar Gwydion while Arianrod distracts him.”
“But?” she inquired.
“But there will be more than the two of them in that clearing. There will be twenty Coranian guards as well, well hidden.”
“That will never work! I have been told of the Dreamer’s powers. He would surely scout out that clearing before he ever went near it. He would see them!”
“They will be well hidden. He will never see them.”
“They cannot know when he will do what they call Wind-Riding. He could be leagues away and discover them there.”
“Which is why they will have lain in the underbrush for two days, waiting for him. Undetectable, invisible to his Wind-Ride.”
“They cannot possibly lay there for two days! They are men.”
“They are Coranian soldiers. They will do as they must.”
Aelfwyn turned her gaze to the cold sky. The stars glittered like carelessly strewn diamonds on a black coverlet. To the north Cadair Idris glowed softly. To the east the full moon rose, bathing even black Eiodel in silvery beams.
“They will do as they must, Sigerric,” Aelfwyn said softly as she fastened her eyes on the Doors of Cadair Idris. “And so will I.”
Meriwydd, Disglair Wythnos—early evening
“AGAIN,” MADRYN SAID implacably.
Gwen sighed. Every time the Druid told her this she was determined to say no. But, somehow, when Madryn’s brown eyes turned on her, she couldn’t refuse. So she tried again.
She touched the bracelet of oak that encircled her slim wrist. The dwyvach-breichled, the goddess-bracelet, shone in the soft golden light of the High King’s hall. The bracelet of oak, polished to a glowing sheen, was incised with dozens of circles and spirals, all flowing into each other in a manner that seemed impossible for the eye to follow, like a maze that folded into itself and opened out again. Gwen did not understand the patterns, and knew she did not. She wondered if she ever would.
It was galling to fail and fail and fail in these baby steps she was taking. She, who had once Shape-Moved Modron’s Cauldron itself from the bottom of the pit in Ogaf Greu now could not move the tiniest pebble. She who had once Shape-Moved the ring of the House of PenAlarch from the fat finger of the Master-wyrce-jaga into a convenient wine jar now could not even nudge the smallest leaf.
She opened her mouth to remind Madryn of the things she had once done, but stopped herself in time. After all, they hadn’t made a difference the one time she had mentioned them. Madryn had simply asked her coldly if she could do any of those things now. The silence that answered Madryn’s question was answer enough. Gwen had tried to say that if she hadn’t had to learn to control her powers she would still have access to them. She had begun to say that she did not need to be taught, she needed to be left alone. She had started to explain that she was a different kind of Druid, one that the Mother herself had blessed, and she did not need to learn lessons for babies.
But Madryn had not answered. Instead, she had simply risen and left the room. Gwen had run after her, frantic, begging her to stay and teach her. But Madryn had gone to her own chambers and shut the door, refusing to open it in spite of all Gwen’s pleading.
The next morning Madryn had, without comment, been sitting in the Druid’s Alcove off of the High King’s golden hall. Gwen had joined her and they had begun her lessons again. That had been weeks ago, just a day after Arthur and the others had left her here while they traveled to Caer Siddi to free the Master Smiths. She had argued with Arthur hard and long about that, for she had wanted to go. But Arthur had said no. He had said that Aergol had insisted that Gwen be taught, saying that it was dangerous to leave her in possession of unpredictable powers.
As her mother had told her so long ago, Aergol explained again. The power of the Druids could not be reached in the same way as the Dewin and the Bards grasped theirs. For them, they must be in a state of relaxation, of meditation, and the crystal triskale of the Dewin and the harp music of the Bards were tools to help put them in that state. Of course, after a time, neither the triskale nor the harp was needed and an experienced Dewin or Bard could simply drop into the necessary state without further thought.
But a Druid could not access the powers of the Mother through relaxation or meditation. It was only through intense concentration that these powers could be touched, held, and used responsibly. For druidic powers could be released in another way—in a highly emotional state, an unstable state of mind—and then the gods and goddesses help those that were in the way of an untrained Druid.
When a Druid was young, their teaching began. When they were little their powers were weak and easily controlled by their teachers. But Gwen was a young woman. And her powers were considerable, though raw and untrained. She was a danger and she knew it. So she tried, even though sometimes it made her angry.
And she had learned to control that anger. For whenever she did begin to get angry Madryn would end the lesson. And once Madryn decided to end it, there was no persuading her otherwise.
Once, and once only, Gwen had been angry enough to lash out at Madryn, hoping to frighten the Druid into continuing the lesson. But when she had pushed out with her powers with all her might, trying to shove Madryn from the alcove and spill her onto the floor she had received a ringing slap both across her face and inside her head. She had reeled from the blow and it had been Gwen who ended up sprawled across the floor.
“You hit me!” Gwen had said, more in astonishment than anger.
“You did it to yourself,” Madryn had said calmly as she rose and smoothed her brown and green robe over her hips. The Druid had begun to walk out of the High King’s hall.
“Wait!” Gwen had called as she ran after Madryn. “I won’t get angry again. I promise. Please.”
“No more for the next week,” Madryn had said implacably. “I will not try to teach a brat.”
“Please—”
“No.” Madryn had stopped then and turned back to Gwen. “What will you do now, Gwynhwyfar ap Rhoram var Rhiannon? Will you try to hurt me in your anger?”
“No,” Gwen had whispered, hanging her head. “No.”
“I will not change my mind,” Madryn had gone on. “You will have no lessons for the next week. You will not even try to use your powers. Is that understood?”
And Gwen, tamed at last, had nodded miserably. She did understand. After so long, she finally did. She was a menace if she could not
control herself. She was a liability to Kymru. More importantly, she was a liability to Arthur. And that thought had startled her, for she had not known that it was important to her. But it was.
Now, sitting in the Druids’ Alcove, with Madryn’s eye on her, she rubbed the tips of her fingers across the dwyvach-breichled. The spirals and whorls and circles seemed to move of themselves beneath her fingertips. She closed her eyes and saw the spirals and circles incised in glowing emerald green across the inner darkness. She concentrated, following the patterns, plunging into the maze and finding her way out again.
Her heart quickened as she felt dusty granules of earth brush across her fingers and golden stalks of grain brush across her open palm; she smelled the scent of honeysuckle and newly turned earth; she heard the scampering of a hare through underbrush and sweet birdsong in the whispering trees; she tasted heavy purple grapes and golden apples in the back of her throat.
And then, because she knew she could, because the Mother had come to her, she reached out with her mind and Shape-Moved.
“Open your eyes, Gwenhwyfar,” Madryn said softly.
She opened her eyes and looked at Madryn, a question on her face. Madryn stood and motioned for Gwen to stand. She took Gwen by the shoulders and gently turned her to face the golden room.
And she saw what she had done.
The heavy, golden eagle-shaped throne of the High King stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to the now-empty dais.
“I—” Gwen began.
“You did well. Now, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram, Princess of Prydyn, put it back.” Madryn said this last as though it would be easy.
And perhaps, Gwen thought, it truly was.
This time she did not close her eyes. She delicately touched her bracelet. The oak felt warm beneath her palm. She breathed in the scent of a spring morning, and concentrated. The golden throne rose in the air and steadily traveled above the jeweled steps, coming to rest gently back on the dais.
“You see?” Madryn asked quietly. “You see now?”
“Yes,” Gwen breathed. “Oh, yes. I do see now.”
Before Madryn could continue, a melodious voice, which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, sounded throughout the glowing hall.
“There is,” Bloudewedd’s disembodied voice said, “someone at the Door.”
Chapter
* * *
Six
Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn &
Cil, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru
Bedwen Mis, 500
Meiriwydd, Disglair Wythnos—early evening
It took her most of the next day to slip away from Eiodel unnoticed.
She had not expected it to take so long, not with Havgan away at Caer Duir. But, somehow, things had continued to get in the way. Situations that demanded her attention had continued to crop up all day, almost as though she was being subtly prevented from leaving the fortress. If that were so, she had certainly underestimated Sigerric. She had thought he would leave her a clear path to do what she had come to Kymru to do, but now she knew he had his own kind of honor she must contend with.
Within those confines—he would neither wholly prevent her nor help her, he would neither wholly desert Havgan nor support him—she could and would work toward her goal. She did not understand Sigerric and knew she did not. She had thought he would help her to free herself from her hated marriage. She had thought him completely disgusted with her husband. But Sigerric was more complex than she had imagined. Men, she had found, were usually relatively simple to understand. There were only two she had met that were not—her husband and his dearest friend.
She dismounted her horse in the gathering twilight. The Doors glowed softly, lighting the now-mended stairs. It was odd how the stairs, once broken and faded, had, one morning after Arthur and the rest of the Kymri returned to Cadair Idris, been made whole and shining. The Coranians in Eiodel had seen no one come out of the mountain, but the stairs had been repaired just the same. Arianrod had said it was the work of Druids, who could Shape-Move, and Havgan had held tightly to his rage while she had said it.
The Doors shimmered as she approached them. She repeated to herself what she had learned. There was dark onyx and bloodstone for Annwyn Lord of Chaos and his mate, Aertan the Weaver. There were emeralds for Modron the Mother and sapphires for her mate, Taran of the Winds. There were opals for Mabon of the Sun and pearls for his mate, Nantsovelta of the Waters. There were rubies for the Warriors Twins, Camulos and Agrona. There were diamonds for Sirona of the Stars and garnets for Grannos the Healer. There were amethysts for Cerridwen and topaz for Cerrunnos, leaders of the Wild Hunt, Protectors of Kymru.
As she came to a stop before the doors the symbol for Arderydd, the High Eagle, formed of all the jewels, blazed abruptly and from somewhere far away she heard the faint sound of hunting horns. She shivered briefly, then raised her hand to knock. But before she could, a voice, which seemed to come from everywhere, from nowhere, spoke softly.
“Not of mother and father,
When I was made
Did my creator create me.
To guard Cadair Idris
For my shame.
A traitoress to Kymru,
And to my lord and king.
The primroses and blossoms of the hill,
The flowers of trees and shrubs,
The flowers of nettles,
All these I have forgotten.
Cursed forever,
I was enchanted by Bran
And became prisoner
Until the end of days.”
Her heart was in her throat as she almost stepped back and fled.
“What do you do here, Aelfwyn of Corania?” the voice asked.
“You know my name?”
“I know your name. I know you.”
“How could you?”
“How could I not? Why wouldn’t one false wife know another?”
“I—I have heard of your tale. And it is not the same as mine.”
“Yes,” the voice said dryly. “We all think our own tales are different. But I can assure you, Princess of the House of Aelle, by virtue of my greater experience in this world, that we are not different from each other. Not at all.”
“I have been told that your dead husband, Lleu Silver-Hand, was a good man. But mine is not. I do not think to betray him because I have fallen in love with another.”
“No. I betrayed my husband because I loved another. You betray yours for plain hate. Does that make you better, Princess?”
Aelfwyn swallowed. “I did not come here to be judged by you.”
“Think of it,” the voice said softly, “as a bonus.”
Aelfwyn, determined to go on, ignored the barbed comment. “I came here to speak to the High King.”
“You may not enter.”
“I tell you, I must speak to him.”
“You may not enter,” the voice of the Doors went on, implacable, emotionless.
“Then send him out here to me!”
“I do not send the High King. The High King goes where he will.”
“I have news of a plot! A plot to capture the Dreamer!”
The voice fell silent. A rare evening breeze ruffled the grasses of the plain. The full moon was beginning to ride the sky, and its silvery beams flooded over the shining steps, bathing the glowing door, turning Aelfwyn’s white gown into glowing silver, as though she were sheathed in steel.
“You may not enter here,” the Doors repeated at last. “You fool!” Aelfwyn raged. “You would throw away this chance to save the Dreamer for—”
“For what, Princess?” a voice challenged from behind her. She whirled around to confront the owner of that voice. A man stood at the top of the steps. Around his neck gleamed a sapphire set within a triangle of silver. He was tall and lean, and his brown hair was streaked with gray. Even in the uncertain moonlight and the softly glowing golden light of the doors she could tell that his eyes were green.
“Who are you?” she demanded, an
d she held her head high to hide her surprise.
His expressive mouth quirked and his green eyes danced. He bowed briefly, then replied.
“I am the son of Poetry,
Poetry, son of Reflection,
Reflection, son of Meditation,
Meditation, son of Lore,
Lore, son of Research,
Research, son of Knowledge,
Knowledge, son of Intelligence,
Intelligence, son of Comprehension,
Comprehension, son of Wisdom,
Wisdom, son of the gods.”
“I see,” she said dryly. “Well, that answers that.” “My dear, it is as much an answer as you deserve. But I will tell you my name in spite of that, for all my life I have had a weakness for beautiful women.”
She almost smiled, for she felt the effects of his charm in spite of herself.
“I am Dudod ap Cyvarnion var Hunydd. And your husband had my brother, Anieron, killed,” the man said softly. But for all its softness the last sentence was said with a tone of such underlying rage and grief, that Aelfwyn was almost afraid.
“I am sorry for your loss,” she said formally, not knowing what else to say. “And if you wish revenge on him, you will listen to what I have to say.”
“You have news of a plot, the Doors tell us. A plot to capture the Dreamer.”
“Yes,” she said eagerly. “And I have been told that the Bards of Kymru can put words to wings. If that is so, you may yet save him.”
“Tell me of this plot,” Dudod said crisply. “And of your price.”
“I have no price.”
Dudod’s expressive brows quirked. “I find that very hard to believe.”
“Then I will rephrase. My price is simply that you use this information to keep the Dreamer free. For there is very little else that my husband desires beyond the capture of his false blood brother. And what my husband desires, he shall not have. That, if it can be said to be a price, is mine.”
Dudod took a step nearer to her. He looked down on her upturned face and said softly, “It is a pity that the Golden Man would waste the Star of Heaven. For she, diamond hard and diamond bright, might have been warmed at a gentler fire.”