by Holly Taylor
Madoc recognized them both effortlessly. Bedwyr, lieutenant to Uthyr’s daughter, Morrigan, clasped a drawn sword in his capable hands. His brown eyes were fearless as he faced the guards. Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, stood glowing beneath the starlight, her beautiful face cold and implacable, a blade in her hands. The pearl torque of Nantsovelta glittered whitely around her slender neck.
The guards halted, for both Rhodri and Bedwyr stood confident and unyielding. And they knew what a Dewin was capable of.
“Tangwen,” Rhodri said to his granddaughter. “Release Myrrdin.”
TANGWEN, HER DAGGER drawn, stepped forward to do her grandfather’s bidding. She kept her face carefully calm, but inside she was exalting. At last. The day had come when she renounced her father and all his terrible works. The day had finally come when honor was once again restored to her family.
She knew the price of restoring honor. She had always known it. When she had first faced this it had broken her heart. How many nights had she wept for what she knew must be done?
Until tonight, when she had come face to face with her grandfather, she had always thought that she must be the one to punish her father. But Rhodri had claimed that honor for himself, and Tangwen had been glad to let him, glad to be spared the final act she had dreaded.
Briefly she remembered the moment earlier this evening that Bedwyr had come to her, telling her that she must gather her things and come with him. She had stared at him, unable to believe that freedom had come for her at last, and Bedwyr had taken his first kiss from her and it had been sweet, so sweet. She had followed Bedwyr as he spirited them to the stables, saddled her horse, and lead her from Caer Gwynt.
Bedwyr had brought her to a small house not far from the fortress. Neuad had been waiting for her. Morrigan’s Dewin had greeted her warmly and Tangwen had eagerly asked about her friend. Neuad had told her that Morrigan was well and that Tangwen would see her soon.
“You are getting me out of Tegeingl?” Tangwen had asked. “Why now?”
“Because someone has come for you, to take the honor of your family back, to take you with him.”
And she knew, then, that what Arday had told her days before was true. She knew him the instant she saw him. His hair was fading to silver but strands of reddish-gold still shone through. His blue eyes warmed at the sight of her. He had spread his arms and she had, without a moment’s hesitation, launched herself into them. Her granda had come for her. At last.
Now she walked forward confidently, knowing that Rhodri, Bedwyr, and Neuad were behind her. She had almost reached Myrrdin when one of the guards sprang into her path. Quick as thought she thrust her dagger beneath his shining spear, burying it into the guard’s belly. Hot, coppery blood spilled over her hand. She pulled the blade from the guard’s guts as the man went down.
There was a moment—a brief span of time before the others went into action, when everything seemed to stand still. Her father’s eyes were wide with fear. Myrrdin’s dark eyes shone with pity. The guard’s dying moan rattled in his throat.
And she, Tangwen ur Madoc var Bri, shamed daughter of a traitor, soon to be orphaned this night, exalted in the blood that stained her hands. Exalted in the blow she had finally struck for her country. Exalted as she lifted her face to the starry sky, and heard, from far off, the call of hunting horns blowing as the Wild Hunt rode the night.
MADOC GASPED AS his daughter killed the captain of the guard with a smile on her lovely face. Rhodri, Neuad, and Bedwyr leapt forward, making short work of the remaining three guards. It all seemed to happen so fast, too fast for Madoc to run.
Tangwen cut Myrrdin’s bounds with her bloody dagger and the old man turned to Madoc. Quickly Bedwyr, Tangwen, Neuad, and Myrrdin surrounded Madoc, preventing him from fleeing.
In the sudden silence, the sound of Rhodri’s boots on the cobblestones as he made his way to stand before his son echoed like the sound of doom. Madoc knew that surely, irrevocably, death stood in front of him. And there would be no reprieve.
Far, far above him he thought he heard a faint sound of hunting horns riding the back of Taran’s winds. The cry of a hawk that has sighted its prey rang in his ears. He raised his eyes to the blade that his father lifted high overhead. And though he was a coward, he could not close his eyes, could not look away, as his death descended toward him, glittering silver steel and black blood.
The blade buried itself in his chest. And still he could not take his eyes from his father’s face. He sank to his knees, the hilt of his father’s sword moving in time to the beat of his dying heart. A night breeze lightly touched his face as if in farewell. He tried to speak, tried to say something of his regret, but it was too late.
Darkness filled his eyes and he blindly fell forward onto the street, his life’s blood pooling on the cobblestones.
MYRRDIN KNELT BY Madoc’s body, his hand searching for a pulse. He sighed and rose to his feet. “He is dead.”
“May Taran’s Wind take your soul to Gwlad Yr Haf, my son,” Rhodri whispered. “And may it be long and long before you are returned to Kymru.”
Tangwen took her grandfather’s hand in hers. Rhodri laid his other hand on her bright hair and stroked it.
“What now?” Tangwen asked. “Where do we go?” “You and your grandfather will go to Queen Morrigan in Cemais. Accompanied by Bedwyr and Neuad,” Myrrdin answered.
“Accompanied by Bedwyr,” Neuad said firmly to Myrrdin. “For I am accompanying you.”
Myrrdin stared at Neuad, his mouth agape. “What do you mean?” he asked weakly.
“I mean, I am not letting you out of my sight. I will go where you go.”
Myrrdin noticed that Bedwyr was struggling not to laugh. And that even Rhodri, his old friend, appeared to be grinning.
“By the way,” Neuad went on, “exactly where are we going?” “I am going to Cadair Idris to await Arthur’s orders. But you—”
“I,” Neuad said, raising her voice slightly, “am going there, too.” “You are not!”
“I am. Do you really think that I am going to let you get away from me again?”
Myrrdin opened his mouth to argue with her, to insist that she stay away from him, to deny that he wished her to do otherwise. But Neuad’s blue eyes were on his and what he saw in them made his heart skip a beat.
“Neuad,” he said quietly. “You are half my age.” “So what?” she asked.
He wanted to answer her. Wanted to tell her why that was important, but for some reason he was having trouble breathing. And a great deal of difficulty remembering just where the problem lay.
Neuad, her golden hair flowing over her shoulder, stepped forward and took Myrrdin’s face in her slender hands. “Kiss me, Myrrdin,” she demanded.
His breath caught in his throat. All thoughts of how this was foolish flew from his head as he breathed in the scent of her.
“Don’t argue with me, Myrrdin. And don’t make me beg,” she murmured. “For I am done waiting for you.”
And Myrrdin was done waiting, too. He bent his head and fastened his lips on hers. He drank in her sweetness, her beauty, her freshness, and her love. And when he at last lifted his head it was Neuad that was breathless.
“Oh, my,” Neuad breathed as she clung to him. “Oh, my, my,my.”
Myrrdin smiled down at her. “You told me to have done with waiting. And so I have.”
“You have indeed,” she said, her eyes bright.
Myrrdin lifted his face to the night sky and cast his thought south. Too far away for another mere Dewin to hear him, he knew that Arthur, he who had the strength of all the Dewin of Kymru, would be able to.
It is done, High King. Madoc is dead at the hand of his father. Princess Tangwen is safe and will go to your sister in Cemais.
And Arthur answered, clear and strong. Well done, my teacher. Return to Cadair Idris as soon as you can.
I bring with me another. Myrrdin’s Mind-Voice was almost hesitant.
She is welcome.
I knew she would not wait for you forever. Give my best to Neuad ur Hetwin, who has caught her quarry at last.
Arthur’s bright laughter echoed in Myrrdin’s head, mingling with the fading sound of hunting horns overhead in the jeweled night sky.
Chapter
* * *
Eleven
Sycharth, Kingdom of Ederynion &
Eiodel, Gwytheryn, Kymru
Bedwen Mis, 500
Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening
The thin crescent of the waxing moon wavered overhead, obscured by the twisted branches that laced Rhiannon’s view of the darkened sky as she made her way through the forest.
Somewhere deep in these woods just outside of Sycharth an owl hooted. Here and there she heard things scurrying in the thick underbrush, although she herself made very little sound as she homed in on the clearing where the man who held her heart waited.
She had seen him on the Wind-Ride, slumped next to a tiny campfire. She had not been able to see his face, for it was sunk on his breast as though far too heavy for him to hold up. But she had known that it was he. Would she not know him anywhere, at any time? Not by her eyes alone, or her Dewin-Sight, but by her spirit, by the leap in her heat she would know him—now and always.
As she swiftly made her way through the woods she thought on all that had happened in Kymru in just the last seven days. For events were moving quickly, now that Arthur had chosen to set them in motion.
Queen Elen of Ederynion had been rescued and, along with Regan, her Dewin, had been safely brought out of Dinmael. Elen and her brother, Prince Lludd, were together again and making the necessary preparations as directed by Arthur. Prince Rhiwallon of Rheged had also been a member of the party to rescue Elen, and he remained with them. Rhiannon guessed that the Prince had fallen victim to Elen’s unpredictable charm. General Talorcan had chosen to go with the fleeing queen, for love of Regan. And Rhiannon was glad, for she had known Talorcan since she had met him in Corania, and knew him for what he was. For he was what the Kymri called Dewin, what the Coranians called a witch, and his gifts would never have come to full fruition in Corania. Even now Regan and Talorcan were on their way to Cadair Idris, at Arthur’s orders.
In the ensuing melee the two Druids, Ceindrech and Iago, had died, perishing so that the others could escape. Aergol, Ceindrech’s lover, had been devastated at the news, as had the couple’s son, Menw.
In Prydyn, General Penda had secretly allowed Cadell, King Rhoram’s Dewin, to escape Arberth. When Penda discovered that Ellywen, King Rhoram’s Druid had been aiding the Cerddorian, he had her collared and sent to Afalon. But he had carefully ensured that only two guards would accompany her. Thus Rhoram and his captain, Achren, had easily rescued Ellywen soon after she had been escorted out of Arberth.
Penda was another man whom Rhiannon had met while in Corania, and she was glad to see evidence that Penda’s soul had not yet died under his bondage to the Golden Man. She knew that Penda would, perhaps, pay—and pay dearly—for his actions. Although on the surface nothing could be proven against Penda, Havgan would probably guess the truth.
In Rheged, poor Queen Enid had been rescued from her captivity by her brother, Owein, and her former betrothed, Prince Geriant of Prydyn. The party had escaped the city and made their way to Maenor Deilo, where they waited with the rest of Owein’s Cerddorian for Arthur’s next orders. In the process of freeing Elen, General Baldred had been killed by Queen Sanon. Rhiannon still marveled that Sanon had done such a thing, for the young girl she had known before the war would never have done so. And the young woman she had been after the war would not have done so either— for Sanon had been incapacitated by grief for her dead betrothed, and Rhiannon had not thought Sanon would ever recover.
But recover she had, and joined her life with Owein, the man who had loved her for so long.
It remained to be seen what would happen to Enid. For Owein’s sister had been through torture almost unimaginable at the hands of her husband, Morcant Whledig, the false King of Rheged. It was obvious to everyone that Prince Geriant still loved Enid, but it was anyone’s guess what there might be left of the girl he loved.
In Gwynedd, King Madoc was at last dead—at the hands of Rhodri, his own father. Princess Tangwen and Rhodri were even now joining Queen Morrigan in Cemais, accompanied by Bedwyr, Morrigan’s lieutenant. And, in a surprise move, Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, had refused to return to Cemais, insisting on accompanying Myrrdin to Cadair Idris. For Neuad, although half Myrrdin’s age, had been in love with the former Ardewin of Kymru for many years and had simply decided that she would no longer be ignored. Myrrdin had been shocked and upset at first, but was, apparently, quickly getting over the embarrassment he had always professed to feel at Neuad’s obvious feelings for him.
Soon, very soon, Rhiannon thought, as she neared the clearing she sought, Kymru would once again belong to the Kymri. The Y Dawnus held captive on Afalon would be freed. The Archdruid would be brought down and the Druids would again swear their allegiance to Kymru. Havgan would face Arthur in the final battle. And that was a battle Arthur would win, for Havgan would have only the Coranians he had here in Kymru to help him fight. For Arthur had ensured that no word of the need for reinforcements would be sent to Corania. The coasts of Kymru were watched, and all of Havgan’s ships were burned. Arthur would defeat Havgan’s Coranians and send any survivors packing.
Again, but from closer this time, an owl hooted in the dark wood. She saw the glow of a tiny campfire and, still moving silently, made her way toward it. From the fringes of the underbrush she surveyed the clearing.
Gwydion lay on the ground next to the fire, his face hidden as it rested on his outstretched arms. The fire cackled and sang, darting this way and that, illuminating him one moment and cloaking him in shadow the next. Gwydion’s dark cloak was torn and dirty. His tunic and trousers of black were dusty and stained with old blood.
With tears in her eyes, she entered the clearing and knelt by Gwydion’s prone body. She reached out and touched his shoulder, pulling him towards her. He muttered something, then laid still on the cold ground. She put her arms around him and settled his head in her lap, stroking his thick, dark hair. His upturned face, illuminated by the fire, was almost skeletal. Dark circles surrounded his closed, bruised eyelids. Shallow cuts and purple bruises covered his sweat-soaked face. Blisters and reddened, peeling skin surrounded his neck, showing where an enaid-dal had rested. His lips were cracked and blistered. He muttered again, and she cradled his head in her arms, stooping down to kiss his brow.
His eyes opened. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes seemed dark and full of shadows instead of the silvery gaze that she knew so well. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to focus on her face above him.
“Rhiannon,” he whispered. “Rhiannon.”
“Yes, Gwydion. Yes, I am here,” she said softly.
“No,” he rasped. “No. Run, Rhiannon. Run. It’s a trap.”
“Hush,” she murmured. “Hush.”
“No,” he sobbed. “Run. Oh, please, run.”
GWYDION HAD BEEN wondering in and out of his dreams for so long, he was no longer sure what was real and what was not. But when he saw Rhiannon’s face hovering above him he understood with horrifying clarity what was about to happen.
He had called her. He had not dreamed that, he now knew. In a drugged haze, in his weakness and confusion, he had Mind-Called to her, had begged her to come to him. Worse yet, he had begged her to come alone.
And she had. Oh, she had. He had thought that the worst had already happened to him. But when he knew that she would be captured, and thought of what they would do to her, he knew that the worst was yet to come.
She must go. She must. But he could not make her understand.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please run.”
“Hush,” she murmured again, stroking his dark, sweat soaked hair. “Hush.”
And then
he saw it, though he was almost blinded by the bright light of the fire, by his sickness and grief, by his terror for her. He saw movement behind her, and knew that it was far, far too late.
“Run!” he tried to scream. But it came out only in a despairing whisper.
The sound of an axe rasping as it was drawn from its holder seemed very loud in the silent forest. At the sound Rhiannon half-turned to look behind her.
There stood a Coranian warrior, his axe in his hands. The warrior raised the weapon high in the air. In the moment before the axe began its descent, Gwydion tried to push Rhiannon out of the way. But he was too weak, and too slow. Inexplicably she did not move, waiting unflinching for the axe to strike. He did not understand why she simply sat there, looking up as her death suddenly began to speed toward her.
Her green eyes did not even blink as the sound of steel clashing on steel rang throughout the clearing, as the axe that had been coming for her life was deflected by another bright blade that seemed to appear from nowhere. Yet Rhiannon did not appear to be surprised at all.
The sword shimmered in the light of the fire as though made of fire itself. The hilt was an eagle with eyes of bloodstone and wings of onyx. Emerald, pearl, sapphire, and opal flashed and shone. The hand that gripped the hilt was sinewy and brown, with long, tapering fingers.
Gwydion knew that blade—Caladfwlch, Hard Gash, the sword of the High King. And he knew whose hand gripped that blade, and he sobbed in relief.
For Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine had come. High King Arthur was here and Rhiannon was saved.
Caladfwlch, which had stopped the Coranian warrior’s axe in midair, glittered as Arthur pushed the axe aside and sent the warrior staggering back. At that moment twenty Coranian warriors stepped out from the forest, their axes drawn. And Llwyd Cilcoed, the Dewin who had so enjoyed torturing Gwydion, stepped from the trees, his robe of silver and sea green shimmering, with a smile of anticipation on his face.