Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  Yet safe seemed like such an odd thing to feel right now. For events were rushing toward a culmination that was anything but safe, and Arthur prepared now for what would be his last throws of the dice in the gamble to free Kymru.

  The last gamble two weeks ago, turning the Druids back to Arthur’s side, had succeeded. The thought that Cathbad was at last dead continued to have the power to cheer her. For if there was ever a man who deserved the Death of the Mother, that man had been Cathbad. The only man who might deserve it more would be Havgan himself.

  Arthur strode in and took a seat at the table. He nodded to the five of them—the Great Ones and Rhiannon, and then, without preamble, began.

  “Aergol?” he asked.

  Aergol responded promptly. “All Druids are in position. The Druids at Prydyn are lead by Ellywen, and Madryn leads those at Dinmael. The Druids at Llywarth are lead by Sabrina, and those at Tegeingl by Yrth. Each of these has four seasoned Druids with them for you to draw on. Each remaining city throughout Kymru has at least two Druids ready to assist the Cerddorian as commanded. Here in Gwytheryn Aldur, Sinend, Menw, Gwen, and I are available to you for what other needs you may have. Their loyalty—”

  “Has been vouched for,” Arthur said smoothly.

  “No doubts?” Aergol challenged.

  “None. I have touched the minds of each one, and know them to be loyal and true.”

  Aergol inclined his head. “And ready to serve you. Now and forever.”

  Arthur nodded. “Excellent. Elstar?”

  “We have fewer resources, as you know, than the Druids, for many of the Dewin and Bards are still held captive at Afalon,” she began. Aergol stirred in his chair and Elstar turned to him. “Aergol, I do not say this to make you uncomfortable—”

  “But because it is the truth,” Aergol finished. He smiled bitterly. “I know. It’s just that—”

  “What’s done is done, Aergol,” Gwydion broke in. “And if your Druids were not on our side today our plans would be fruitless.”

  Aergol nodded and subsided. At Arthur’s gesture Elstar continued. “In each of the four capitals we have at least two Dewin available that Arthur can tap into for visuals of the battle. In addition, in Cadair Idris now we have Myrrdin, Rhiannon, Neuad, Regan, Talorcan, and Llywelyn to augment you as necessary. All Dewin that formed the informational chain around Kymru are moving into position in the cities closest to their respective areas.”

  “Good,” Arthur said. “Elidyr?”

  “Essentially the same report, Arthur,” Elidyr said. “The Bards are ready and in position throughout Kymru. And here in Cadair Idris are myself, Dudod, and Cynfar to bolster your efforts as necessary. We are ready.”

  “Although Cariadas and I are only two, we are also ready to help as needed in any capacity,” Gwydion said.

  “And the Cerddorian?” Elstar asked.

  “Are also ready,” Arthur said. He gestured at the map of Kymru carved into the table. “Gwydion?”

  “In Prydyn,” Gwydion began, “Rhoram’s Cerddorian are divided into three sections, each taking one cantref under its command. The Cerddorian led by Marared of Brycheiniog and Dadweir Heavy-Hand are taking the remaining four cantrefs. Although the Cerddorian are spread somewhat thin we believe it will be enough, as the common folk themselves are armed and ready.”

  “And in Ederynion?” Arthur prompted.

  “The Cerddorian led by Elen and Lludd are in position, divided into the three southern cantrefs. The four northern cantrefs are under the leadership of Drwys Iron-Fist. In Rheged, Owein’s Cerddorian have been divided between Amgoed and Ystrad Marchell. Hetwin Silver-Brow is taking Penrhyn and Gwinionydd. Breinol and Gwent are under the leadership of Tyrnon Twrf Liant. Atlantas is taking Malienydd.”

  “And Gwynedd?” Aergol asked.

  “The Cerddorian led by Morrigan have been divided into the four southern cantrefs. Isgowan, the Lady of Arfon, is taking Lleyn, Arfon, and Arllechwedd.”

  “Excellent,” Arthur said crisply. “I believe that we will have enough Y Dawnus to accomplish what we must. The hardest part will be the fog, but with a full compliment of Druids that can be done. We have enough Dewin to fully track the progress of each battle and enough Bards to communicate both between ourselves and with the animals as needed.”

  Although Arthur spoke with confidence there was a slight chill in the room. For none of them, including Arthur, were quite sure that there would be enough Bards and Dewin, considering that the majority of those still alive were held captive in Afalon.

  “Again, Arthur,” Elstar said. “I must question your wisdom in putting off the rescue of the Y Dawnus. If we only had them to help us—”

  “As he has said before, Elstar,” Rhiannon jumped in, “those we rescue on Afalon will not be fit to help with anything for some time. To rescue them now, before we begin the major battles, would only put Havgan on alert long before we need him to be.”

  “Four hundred Y Dawnus were taken in the death march across Kymru,” Arthur said in a hollow tone. “Of those only two hundred made it to Afalon. At least half of those have died, but others have been captured since and brought to that island. So now there are at least one hundred Bards and Dewin that suffer agony every single day. They are collared. And tortured. Starved. Beaten. Do you truly think,” he went on, his voice harsh, “that I have forgotten them? Do you think that I have forsaken them?”

  “No one thinks that for a moment, Arthur,” Gwydion said quietly.

  Arthur challenged each of them with his dark gaze, then sat back in his chair, gripping the armrests tightly. “They shall be rescued,” he said quietly. “At the proper time. And the proper time is coming soon. Suggestions?”

  “I have one,” Rhiannon said. “What we need most on Afalon is a diversion. So, how about entertainment for the troops?” she asked.

  Gwydion nodded. “Not bad. You and I could—”

  “Not you,” Rhiannon said.

  “Why not me?”

  “We need a real Coranian,” Rhiannon replied, with a triumphant smile, “to get me in.”

  “Talorcan,” Arthur said.

  “What do you mean ‘to get you in?'” Gwydion asked in a dangerously quite tone.

  “What do you think I mean?” Rhiannon asked, challenging him.

  Gwydion rose, his face red with rage. “Are you mad?”

  “I am an excellent dancer. You taught me yourself, remember?”

  “Of course I remember! And that is exactly why you aren’t going to do this!”

  “You have to admit that you have never seen anyone do the Dance of Freya as well as I do,” Rhiannon pointed out. “And if there was ever a dance guaranteed to create a distraction, it’s that one.”

  “I will not permit it!” Gwydion raged. “Not for one moment!”

  “Well, Gwydion, far be it from me to be rude—”

  “Ha!” he shouted.

  “But I believe it is not your decision to make,” Rhiannon finished.

  Gwydion whipped around to Arthur, his silvery eyes molten with rage. But Arthur forestalled him, holding up his hand to quiet the Dreamer. “Enough. She will go,” Arthur said. His tone brooked no argument. Even Gwydion recognized that tone and sank back into his seat, though it was clear that he was not finished with the subject.

  For a moment they were all silent. Then Aergol spoke. “It would seem, High King, that you plan for the final battle here in Gwytheryn to be near Calan Llachar.”

  “The battle will be on Calan Llachar,” Arthur corrected.

  “Then know that this. On Calan Llachar there will be a full eclipse of the sun, as there was eighteen years ago.”

  “On the day I was born,” Arthur finished. “Yes. I know.”

  ARIANROD CLIMBED THE stairs leading to the battlements. She climbed slowly, for her pregnancy was well advanced and her body was cumbersome and she tired easily. She placed her hand on her belly and the child within her leapt beneath her palm. It would be a boy, she knew. And she h
ad determined his name—Medrawd, which meant “skillful” in her tongue. Havgan said that, in Corania, the name would be Mordred, so that was what he had taken to calling the unborn child. But in her thoughts he was Medrawd, and she longed for the day when she would hold her son in her arms.

  Torches flickered in their brackets at intervals along the walls. Overhead the night sky was strewn with stars. The constellation of Brenin’s Torque, the cluster of stars strung out as if on a necklace, glowed brightly. Wiber, the Serpent, snaked across the sky.

  She halted for a moment on the stairs to catch her breath. Her eye caught the constellation of Dahut. Dahut was the woman who had caused the destruction of Lyonesse, the land that had sunk into the sea. Although Dahut had been beloved of Llyr she had cared nothing for the man who would be the first Dreamer. She had cared only for power and had, in reaching for it, reached too far, thus bringing terrible disaster to her people.

  Sometimes Arianrod wondered if she as any better than Dahut. For wasn’t Arianrod helping to bring disaster to her people? She helped Havgan in any way she could. She had even stood by while her lover killed her aunt, the woman who had fed and sheltered and—let it be said—loved her. Was she any different than Dahut?

  Ah, but one thing at least was different—so different. For Arianrod was in love, and not with power. True, for most of her life she had been. But when she met Havgan the Golden all that changed. For she had fallen in love with the Warleader of Corania. He owned her now—all that she was and all that she could be. She belonged to him completely and did not care that he knew it. Her pride had been the first thing to go, along with her heart.

  At last she reached the top of the battlements and made her way to the north side, knowing where he was and what he was doing. She was, of course, right. He was facing north, staring at Cadair Idris. The mountain glowed golden against the darkened sky. Torches glittered over the gold and rubies he wore. His honey-blond hair—so like her own—shimmered in the golden light. He heard her coming and turned to greet her. His amber eyes—so like her own—glowed at the sight of her.

  She went to him and laid her hand on his shoulder as he turned back around to the mountain. He did not turn around again, but he did place his hand over hers.

  “Cariad,” she murmured. “Won’t you come inside and eat? It is late.”

  “It is later, perhaps, than anyone thinks.”

  She knew what he meant, and knew what he needed her to say. And so she did say it, though she did not necessarily believe it. “The sailor will get to Corania with your message. Aesc will send the warriors to you that you ask for. They will come. And come in time.”

  He whirled to face her. “Do you believe that?” he asked, his hawk-like gaze sharp and gleaming. “Do you truly?”

  “I do truly,” she answered without hesitation.

  “The Druids are lost to us.”

  “That matters, but not enough. Arthur will use them to try to defeat you, but he will not succeed.”

  “And why not?” he asked.

  “Because you are Havgan the Golden, because you were meant to rule this land, because you belong here. You belong inside that mountain,” she nodded to Cadair Idris. “And inside that mountain you will be. It is meant to be. It is right. And it will happen.”

  Arianrod took his hand and placed it on her belly. “This is the reason why you will win,” she continued. “For our child. For our son. You will win so you may hand him Kymru when he is born. He is meant to have it, to take it as a gift from you. It is for this that he is to be born.”

  He gazed down at her for a long time, and as he did the expression in his eyes began to change. Fear changed to passion. And anger altered to desire. “I have told you, my love,” he said, “that in Corania I was promised that you would be here. Holda, she of the Wild Hunt, told me this. The cards of the wyrd-galdra told me this. They all said that the other half of my soul was here, in Kymru. And they were right.”

  For a moment she thought her heart would break as joy and fear in equal measure spilled from it. For she loved this man more than she had ever thought possible. And she was so close to losing him, for, if he failed here in Kymru, he would be forced to pay for it with his life. Never had she felt for a man the way she felt about this man. Never had she felt such a kinship, as though he was simply another part of her, two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same whole.

  Arianrod smiled slowly as Havgan knelt before her. He kissed her swollen belly through the thin material of her gown and reached up to touch her full breasts that strained against her tawny robe. He slowly loosened the ties of her dress then pulled it off her shoulders. His breath was hot as he teased her with his lips and tongue. She moaned and arched her back against the rough stone.

  He pulled her to him, kissing her mouth, her face, her neck, her breasts with such passion that she was dizzy. He yanked up her skirts and then he was inside her and she cried out with pleasure as he took her.

  She would not lose him. She would never let him go.

  PRINCESS Aelfwyn muttered curses beneath her breath as she reached the stairway leading up to the battlements. Always her husband ended up there, staring over at Cadair Idris, as though the strength of his gaze would accomplish what all other stratagems had not—entry into the hall of the High Kings of Kymru.

  He would never get in there, she was convinced. And if he should come close, she would be there to ensure that it did not happen. She cared nothing for the Kymri and their freedom, but she did care that her hated husband would not possess the thing he wanted most.

  Starlight and torchlight shimmered over her pristine white gown. Diamonds gleamed within the coils of her blond hair. Her green eyes glittered at the thought of her dearest wish fulfilled—Havgan lying dead at her feet.

  So far in her time here she had been able to do very little. She had done her best to keep Arianrod from capturing the Dreamer, but her warning had come too late. She had occasionally been able to get word to Cadair Idris of minor engagements, but nothing much had come of that.

  In fact, the most important thing she had done since coming to Kymru was to discover a tool she had never imagined she had—Sigerric of Apuldre. For Sigerric was Havgan’s staunchest friend. Loyal to a fault, he continued to serve Havgan, even though he was sickened by many of the things Havgan did.

  Even though he was in love with Havgan’s wife.

  Yes, Sigerric was in love with her—a fact she had discovered not along ago. She could say she had done nothing about that because she was still turning over in her mind how best to use him. And that would be true—within limits. Because the other part of the truth was that knowing Sigerric loved her sometimes had the power to make her heart beat faster, to make her skin flush, to make her shiver.

  But that was only sometimes. And, even so, it did not really matter. For Aelfwyn was the daughter of the Emperor and Empress of Corania, and she knew better than to be ruled by her heart.

  Once she had lost her heart to someone. She had loved her cousin, Aelbald. And Havgan had killed him in the fight for Bana of the Empire, in the fight for the right to wed her, bed her, and rule Corania through her.

  She closed her eyes briefly, for the events of her wedding night with Havgan still had the power to make her feel dizzy with hatred and shame. Never would she endure such treatment at anyone’s hands again. Never would she forgive the man who had humiliated her, and so obviously gloried in it.

  She shook her head, for these thoughts were useless, and began to climb the stairs. She had some business with her husband. She wanted to ensure that he fully understood that the game was almost up, that Kymru continued to slip through his hands, that it always would.

  For the Dreamer had been rescued. Queen Elen of Ederynion had been freed from her captivity, and Talorcan, one of Havgan’s most trusted generals had gone with her. Queen Enid of Rheged had been freed and General Baldred had been killed. General Penda in Prydyn had captured a Dewin and a Druid, and had, inexplicably, let
them both slip through his fingers. And King Madoc of Gwynedd had died at the hands of his own father.

  And just a few short weeks ago, the Druids had turned from him, giving their allegiance to High King Arthur. The Druids had put the Archdruid to death in a pitiless manner. She had heard that Cathbad had screamed from his barrow beneath the earth for three days and had lingered for some days more before finally dying.

  Arthur had been able to seal the island, ensuring that no word could come to Corania that Havgan needed additional troops. Arthur was nearing the endgame, nearing the time when the two men would face each other on the field of battle. And that was a day that Aelfwyn longed for, because surely, in such a contest, Arthur would win and Havgan would die.

  She neared the top of the stairs and rounded the last corner, and came to a sudden stop. For there, blocking her way, was Sigerric.

  Sigerric stood stolidly, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore tunic and trousers of dark brown, and gold glittered at his throat, his wrists, and his ears. He had a golden dagger at his belt and the hilts of two more daggers glittered from the turned-down cuffs of his high boots.

  “General,” she said, inclining her head as he bowed to her. He straightened, then again crossed his arms over his chest. She stepped forward, knowing he would step aside for her. But she sprang back at the last moment to avoid running into him, for he did not move out of her way.

  “Sigerric,” she said firmly. “Step aside.”

  “I regret to inform you that I cannot, Princess,” Sigerric replied.

  “I wish to speak to my husband.”

  “Then you must wait,” he said firmly.

  He had never taken this tone with her before, and she was at a loss on how to proceed. “He is my husband and I will speak to him when I please.”