Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  “If you know me for who I really am,” Sigerric said, gently laying his hand on hers, “then you know I cannot stay.” Regretfully Sigerric pulled away from Rhiannon. He turned to face Gwydion. “You should know that I cannot change what I am.”

  “And that is?” Gwydion asked.

  “Friend to Havgan the Golden until the day I die.” Sigerric turned away and joined Havgan at the edge of the clearing. Then the two men were gone.

  Aergol turned to the Druids gathered in the clearing. “Cathbad ap Goreau is no longer the Archdruid of Kymru. Now must Arthur ap Uthyr declare who shall lead the Druids.” He turned to Arthur, waiting for the High King to do as they had agreed.

  But Arthur confounded him. “I declare that Aergol ap Custennin var Dinaswyn is the new Archdruid of Kymru!” Arthur called. At his words the eagle spread its wings, and called out in triumph.

  Aergol gasped as the cry went up from the assembled Druids. “High King!” Aergol cried. “This is not what we agreed. You cannot—”

  “I can,” Arthur replied firmly. “This is my will.”

  “I cannot accept. You know that I have something I must do instead.”

  “Do not be so sure, Aergol, that you know what the Mother wills for you,” Arthur said.

  Aergol shook his head. “I have explained more than once,” he insisted. Arthur must understand, he thought. If the High King thought that he could turn Aergol back from his purpose, well, Arthur was sadly mistaken. The Mother would not be mocked.

  “Yes, you have explained,” Arthur replied. “More than once. But I do not accept it. You are the Archdruid of Kymru. Now do your duty.”

  Aergol opened his mouth to argue further, but changed his mind. There was more than one way to accomplish what must be done. If Arthur would not allow him to sacrifice himself to the Mother in private, then he would do so in public.

  “Then,” Aergol called, “I declare that my heir is my eldest child—my daughter, Sinend ur Aergol var Eurgain.”

  At his gesture Sinend came forward and knelt before him. He placed a gentle hand on her rich, reddish-brown hair. “High King, will you acknowledge my heir?”

  “I will,” Arthur replied. He too laid a hand on Sinend’s head. “I declare that Sinend ur Aergol var Eurgain is the Archdruid’s heir.”

  Sinend rose, her normally pale face suffused with pink. Aergol waited until the acclamations had died down and then he began.

  “Know, my fellow Druids, that it is not enough to repent of what we have done. It is not enough to fight now on the side of the Kymri against our true enemy. It is not enough to put the former Archdruid to death. For is there anyone here who still doubts that the Mother is angry with her children for what they have done?”

  The Druids fell silent, many of them casting their eyes to the ground. Aergol knew his fellow Druids. He knew that many of them had had doubts for some time. He knew that these doubts and the accompanying guilt were the reason they had been willing to listen when Aergol and his Druids had slipped into Caer Duir a few days ago and begun to talk. He knew that the Druids themselves were fully aware that more was needed, even if Arthur himself did not understand.

  “The Mother requires another sacrifice,” Aergol declared. “For someone must go to her, and beg for her forgiveness. Someone’s soul must journey to her and offer itself up. That someone will be me.”

  A groan went up from the Druids but as Aergol had known would happen, none of them protested outright. For they all knew too well that he was right. Sinend’s face again paled and tears stood in her gray eyes. Menw clenched his fists, but did not move. His dearest friends—Yrth, Aldur, and Madryn—bowed their heads to him.

  But the one he expected to protest the most did not. Arthur stood quietly, his hands resting on Caladfwlch’s hilt, the point of the sword on the ground between his feet, the eagle on his shoulder. The High King’s dark eyes gazed at Aergol, but he said nothing.

  “The mistletoe,” Aergol said, and Madryn nodded. She went to the Druid who now held the golden sickle, and the Druid gently laid the blade in Madryn’s hand. Madryn leapt to the lowest branch of one of the oak trees and swiftly climbed to the top, using the golden sickle to cut off a clump of mistletoe. Below her Aldur caught the plant in the white cloth and carried it to the still-boiling pot over the fire. Aldur plucked the leaves and berries and put them into the water while Yrth stirred the brew.

  At Arthur’s nod Menw picked up the discarded golden cup and took it to Yrth. After a few moments Yrth poured the concoction into the goblet. It was Sinend who took the cup from the old teacher and brought it to Aergol.

  Aergol took the cup, lightly touching his daughter’s fingers as he did so, in a brief farewell. He leaned forward and gently kissed his daughter’s forehead. Then he lifted the cup over his head. “Modron,” he cried, “I am coming to you! Accept my sacrifice! In so doing cleanse the Druids of any taint in your sight. For they are again your loyal sons and daughters. Once again, they are yours!”

  He quaffed the drink, pouring the bitter brew down his throat. It burned as it went, spreading through his body. He felt a coldness begin to creep through him. His feet and his hands, then his legs and his arms went cold, then numb. He fell to the bull skin, trembling. He rolled onto his back so that his face would be toward the sky, so that his last sight would be of his son and daughter. Menw and Sinend stood side by side, holding hands, tears streaming down their faces as they watched Aergol’s shivering, dying body.

  Then Arthur came to stand beside them. Aergol could not read the expression in Arthur dark eyes, for a mist seemed to be coming over his sight. But he heard the High King very well as Arthur crouched down and murmured in Aergol’s ear, “Do not be so sure, Archdruid, of what the Mother wants from you. For what man is ever sure of what goes on in the mind of a woman?”

  And then the darkness took Aergol far, far away.

  HE OPENED HIS eyes to darkness so thick that he was surprised he could move. Though he could see nothing he could hear, and from the sound his robe made as he rose to his feet he thought he was in a large chamber of some kind.

  In the darkness he felt for the smooth oak bracelet on his right arm, running his fingers over the wooden circle. “Great Mother,” he whispered. His words reverberated off the unseen walls of the chamber and the echoes of his prayer seemed to mock him. “Great Modron,” he murmured again. “Though I am unworthy, I beg for your gift of light, that I might better see the place to which you have brought me.”

  And, to his wonder and secret delight, when he stretched out his hand and called fire, the fire came. A fountain of flame rose up from what he now saw was the floor of an immense cave. The walls sparkled with milky-white crystal, with veins of gold and silver, with the rough angles of precious gems buried in the surface. In the glow of the fire he carefully examined the walls around him and understood what the Mother wanted. For the cave had no way out. He bowed his head to her will. He had hoped that he might see her, that he might fall to his knees before her, might, with his repentance, secure her forgiveness for his fellow Druids.

  But it was not to be. He bowed his head in despair. He had no right to see Modron’s face, and ought never to have expected it.

  “Not so.”

  The voice, low and musical, with a hint of light, a hint of laughter, a hint of warmth, flowed over him. His head whipped up and his eyes met the green, cat-like eyes of a woman dressed in the robe of an Archdruid. On her head was the ghost of a golden tiara and on her throat was the specter of the Archdruid’s emerald and golden torque. He knew her, though he did not understand how.

  “Arywen ur Cadwy var Isabyr,” Aergol whispered in awe. “Fifth Archdruid of Kymru. One of the Great Ones of High King Lleu Silver-Hand.”

  “Well met, Archdruid Aergol,” Arywen said, smiling. “Very well met, indeed.”

  Aergol froze. “I fear, Archdruid Arywen, that we are ill-met.”

  “How so?”

  “Can it be that you do not know what I have
done? Surely you do. For some years, I supported Cathbad ap Goreau in his mad scheme to rid Kymru of all other Y Dawnus. When the enemy came, I helped them. I was in the highest of enemy councils. I helped lead my fellow Druids into their destruction.”

  “And did you not repent of that?” Arywen asked softly.

  “Can that change what has happened?”

  “Does it need to?”

  Aergol fell silent, for that was a question he had not thought to ask himself.

  “Archdruid Aergol, your wish to see the Mother is granted. It is for that that I am here.”

  Arywen stretched out her hand to Aergol. Trembling, Aergol took it. Her hand was smooth and cool, and her fingers were strong as she gripped his hand.

  “Lift up your face, Aergol ap Custennin var Dinaswyn,” Arywen commanded her voice huge and powerful. “Lift up your face and behold your goddess.”

  And as Aergol lifted his face and opened his eyes light flooded over him. He was standing in the middle of a sun-warmed apple orchard. The tangy scent of apple skins wafted through the air. Some trees were covered with thousands of pinkish apple blossoms, while others bore the ripe, red fruit itself. Branches, heavy with fruit, bent invitingly before him. Arywen reached out and held her hand beneath a branch. At that moment an apple fell squarely into her palm. She held out the apple to Aergol and he took it, without hesitation. At Arywen’s nod he bit into the red fruit. The apple juice, both sweet and tart, spurted into his mouth and down his chin. He ate the apple to its core, reveling in the sweet, firm fruit.

  Birds flocked throughout the trees, singing sweetly. Overhead the sky was bright blue, tufted here and there with clouds of fluffy white. At his feet herbs grew in profusion—rosemary and thyme, wild mint, sage and chamomile, vervain, feverfew and valerian. Vines twined throughout the orchard, heavy with rich, purple grapes. Other bushes dotted the orchard—hedges of blackthorn, barberry, and honeysuckle. Golden honeybees hummed as they flew from blossom to blossom.

  “Behold, Archdruid, the Mother,” Arywen said, gesturing to the place where his back was turned.

  Aergol whirled around, appalled. His eyes first took in the cluster of eight men and one woman gathered around a huge throne of oak, flanked by two massive, green-eyed wolves. The nine all wore the green robe, golden tiara, and emerald torque of the Archdruids and Aergol knew that he was seeing the Archdruids of Kymru from Govannon, son of Math, the first Archdruid, to Morvryn, the Tenth. They looked back at him gravely and Arywen crossed to join them, leaving Aergol standing alone.

  Silence descended on the grove as Aergol fought for the courage to raise his eyes to the Mother who sat still as a statue on the oaken throne. The birds fell silent. The bees ceased their humming. The dead Archdruids of Kymru did not move. At last Aergol gathered all of his considerable courage and raised his eyes.

  Her mass of thick, silky hair was the color of ripened wheat, strewn with flowers of red and purple, blue and yellow. Her glorious golden mane of hair rippled down her shoulders and spilled to the ground in glowing waves. Her beautiful face glittered with precious stones—emerald and ruby and sapphire. She was clothed in a misty gown of green that undulated and shimmered over her lush body.

  Yet he could not meet her eyes, for he was too afraid. He fell to the ground at her feet, weeping. “Great Mother of All,” Aergol sobbed, “I offer you my life. Take it, I beg—I, who have no right to ask anything at all. Take it in payment for the debt that the Druids owe to you. Forgive them, I beg.”

  “And you—do you not ask to be forgiven?” Modron inquired. “Think you that you have done nothing to be forgiven for?” Her voice contained something of the howl of the wolf, something of the song of the nightingale, something of the hardness of the oak, something of the softness of lush, green grasses.

  “I do not ask forgiveness for myself, because I do not deserve it,” Aergol answered through the tightness in his throat, still not daring to raise his eyes. “I knew even more than the others of Cathbad’s plans, and still I went along with them.”

  “Aergol ap Custennin var Dinaswyn, look at me,” Modron commanded. “Look into my eyes.” And though Aergol was more afraid of doing so than of anything else—even of dying—he did as he was told. And what he saw there in the depths of her eyes shook him to his very core.

  For her eyes—one moment the color of freshly turned earth, another moment the color of green fields, another moment the blue of cornflowers, another the gray of a wolf’s pelt—held a warmth that he had not expected, a kindness that he had not prepared for, an understanding he had never before seen in anyone’s eyes before.

  “Arthur ap Uthyr was right, Aergol,” Modron murmured. “For what man would presume to know the mind of a woman? Your sacrifice is unacceptable to me.”

  Aergol bowed his head again in despair. The Druids were lost, for Modron would not forgive them. I have failed, he thought in misery. Failed.

  Modron went on. “I will not take your life, Aergol, for I have work for you to do in Kymru.”

  Aergol’s head shot up in disbelief and Modron smiled. Her smiled warmed him, filled his heart to bursting with joy.

  “I will send you back to Kymru. Your task is to give to High King Arthur all that he needs to be victorious over the enemy. Your task is to lead the Druids back to their proper place in Kymru—beside the other Y Dawnus, neither above them nor below them. Your task is to be the Twelfth Archdruid of Kymru and to cleanse the Druids of taint. Will you accept this task?”

  “With all my heart,” Aergol cried as he sprang to his feet.

  “Then go, Aergol ap Custennin, and do as I have bid you. Go.”

  ARTHUR STOOD SILENTLY in the grove, Caladfwlch again sheathed by his side. Sinend crouched beside Aergol’s cold body, stroking her father’s hair back from his face. Menw, tears streaming down his face, rose and stood before Arthur.

  “I ask that you will stay for the ceremony, High King,” Menw choked out.

  “Ceremony?” Arthur asked.

  “His burial,” Menw clarified. “We must bury him.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Arthur said, gesturing to Aergol’s body.

  Aergol stirred on the bull’s hide. His eyelids fluttered opened and Sinend cried out. Menw stood stock-still, his eyes wide in disbelief, his tears turned to tears of joy. Yrth gave a great shout and the other Druids clustered around Aergol’s prone but very much alive body.

  “How long?” Aergol rasped, looking up at Arthur.

  “Only a few moments,” Arthur said.

  With his children’s help Aergol regained his feet. “How did you know?” Aergol asked Arthur.

  Arthur grinned. “I didn’t. But I hoped.”

  “She sent me back. She said that I had work to do for her. She said that the Druids must give you all that you need from us to defeat the enemy.”

  Arthur nodded. “Then this is what I need. I need your Druids to divide into four groups. Each group will journey to one of the four kingdoms. There they will, at my direction, fight in the final battles to regain our land.”

  “Then that is what you shall have,” Aergol answered. “For we are yours.”

  Arthur signaled to Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Gwen. “We will return to Cadair Idris. Your Druids must be long gone before Havgan even thinks to return with his warriors at his back. Join us at Cadair Idris as soon as you can.”

  “It shall be as you say, High King,” Aergol answered, bowing.

  As Arthur walked from the clearing, followed by Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Gwen, the Druids bowed low. Even the oak trees seemed to bend slightly as he walked by.

  He exited the grove and took up the reins of his horse. He mounted and turned to the shadowy stones of Aelwyd Derwen, the burial mounds of the Archdruids. He nodded once, in satisfaction, then turned to go. Cathbad’s muffled screams followed them across the sunlit plain, until they went far enough to leave the screams behind.

  Chapter

  * * *

  Fourteen

>   Cadair Idris & Eiodel

  Gwytheryn, Kymru &

  Athelin, Marc of Ivelas, Coranian Empire

  Eiddew Mis & Nemonath, 500

  Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—midmorning

  Rhiannon sat in the High King’s reception room at Cadair Idris, patiently waiting for Arthur to begin the council meeting. The walls of the oval room, positioned in the center of the fifth level, the Level of Modron, were decorated with sheets of beaten gold and silver. Bright banners depicting the High Kings of Kymru hung on the wall.

  One showed High King Idris during the Battle of Coed Llachar, facing the forces of his rebellious son, Pryderi. The second showed High King Macsen in his final battle against the Coranian oath-breakers that would murder him. The third showed High King Lleu returning in triumph from freeing his cousin, Branwen, from a Coranian prison.

  A round, oak table, capable of seating twenty, stood in the center of the room. The honey-colored oak was polished to a high sheen and its surface was carved with a map of Kymru, drawn to scale, showing all four kingdoms and Gwytheryn, with the capitals and other main cities represented.

  Here Arthur had gathered his four Great Ones—Gwydion the Dreamer, Elstar Ardewin, Elidyr Master Bard, and Aergol, the Archdruid. Within a few years these four would give place to their heirs, and Arthur would have around him those four Great Ones that had been destined to be wholly his—Cariadas as the Dreamer, Llywelyn for the Dewin, Cynfar for the Bards, and Sinend for the Druids.

  But for now the war was still not won, and Arthur continued to work with the Great Ones given him by circumstance. Not that these four did not support Arthur—far from it. But they were fully aware that they were a generation older than the High King, and that they must soon give place to their children. Gwydion, Rhiannon knew, was looking forward to it.

  Gwydion caught her eye and smiled at her, his gray eyes alight. That was something few would believe also—Gwydion ap Awst in love. But he was. And she knew it with every fiber of her being. He had left her with no doubts about that. When Gwydion did make up his mind he didn’t do things by halves. Never in all her life, even in the first flush of love with Rhoram, had she felt so loved, so cared for, and—above all—so safe.