Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  Of course, for who else would guard the resting place of the Lady Don but the gods themselves? Birch for Taran of the Winds. Rowan for Mabon of the Sun. Ash for Nantsovelta of the Waters. Oak for Modron, the Great Mother. And, finally, yew, for Annwyn, the Lord of Chaos.

  Llyr, the First Dreamer, would have planted these trees here, long ago, when his people had first come to Kymru, fleeing the destruction of Lyonesse, that proud island that had sunk beneath the sea twelve generations ago. The Lady Don had died in that terrible time, her body lost in the vast ocean. But Llyr had raised this stone in memory of her.

  The mirrored obsidian of the stone seemed to wink at him in the fading light. The ring on his finger pulsed brightly, bathing the glade in an azure glow. Slowly, Arthur approached the rock, and he sank to his knees beside it. He reached out and touched the stone. It was so cold. He thought for a moment of the Lady Don, and her fight against the Druids who had killed her husband. He thought of the legend that her youngest child, Llyr, had been created a whole man outside of her body, in a fashion that no one now understood, aided by the magic of the Danaans who had sheltered her.

  The Sword of Taran was in this glade for Arthur to find. The ring on his finger told him that. It was here, but where?

  There was not a breath of wind. Nothing to guide him. Nothing except the glow of the ring on his finger. He rose to his feet, and reached out to the yew tree. But the ring’s glow faded slightly when he did so. Ah, the stone itself, then. Once again, he touched the cool stone, and the ring glowed so brightly that he had to squint through the glare to see.

  He braced his feet, pushed his fingers beneath the stone, and pulled. But the stone did not move. The Sword was there, beneath the stone. He knew it. But how could he get to it if the stone would not move?

  And then the winds came.

  They hurled down the rocky cliffs, and the branches on the trees began to dance. The air filled with the tiny flowers that flew from the branches in the violent wind. Arthur was pushed to his knees, gasping. The wind seemed to cut his skin from his bones. And he cried out, then.

  “Taran!” he shouted. “Taran of the Winds, help me!”

  The winds pushed at him, flattening him to the ground. And then he saw it. The winds had made their way beneath the stone, lifting one end of it. A few inches from his face, he saw a bright glitter. His hand shot out beneath the stone, and he grabbed for the bright twinkle of metal. With the rasp of metal on rock, he pulled out the object and the winds died. The stone sank back into its place.

  In the silence, Arthur rose to his feet, the Sword of Air in his hands. He held the blade upright before his eyes. He had it. Y Cleddyf, the Sword. Meirig Yr Llech, Guardian of the Stone. The handgrip was made of silver mesh, chased with gold. The hilt of silver was fashioned like a hawk with widespread wings and sapphire eyes. The hawk’s claws held the knob at the end, on which was the figure eight, the symbol of infinity, studded with onyx. The scabbard was gold, etched with a dizzying array of silver circles and chased with sapphires. Slowly, he pulled the Sword from the scabbard. The blade itself shown brightly, images of a serpent etched on either side of the blade.

  He lifted the Sword to the sky, and whirled it over his head. Once, twice, three times. “Taran,” he called, laughing. “I have found it!”

  “So you have, boyo.” The voice was rich and musical. “You have at last.”

  “Who—?” Arthur began. And then he knew as a shimmer of light condensed beside the Stone and he saw the shade of a man long dead.

  The man wore a robe of blue trimmed in white. Around his neck was the ghost of shimmering sapphires.

  “Taliesin,” Arthur breathed. “Fifth Master Bard of Kymru.”

  “Yes,” the ghost said gently. “I am Taliesin ap Arthen var Diadwa. And I greet you in the name of Lleu Lawrient, my High King.”

  “But why are you here? Have you come from Gwlad Yr Haf just to greet me?”

  The ghost’s green eyes, full of joy and sorrow, glinted, and his white-blond hair gleamed. “No, for my spirit has never journeyed to the Land of Summer. I have waited here for you for over two hundred years. Glad I am you have come, so that I may, at last, go home.”

  “How could you have done this thing?” Arthur asked, awed.

  “Bran the Dreamer asked it of me in the name of Lleu. He asked all of us to hide and guard the Treasures until the time they would be needed again. He asked this in the name of Kymru. How, then, could we refuse?”

  And Arthur was ashamed then, for he had, in one way or another, refused in his heart to do the one thing for Kymru that he knew she needed.

  “Yes,” Taliesin said gently, reading his thoughts, “but you will do it nonetheless. And that is all that is asked of you. Is it too much?”

  “No,” Arthur whispered. “No.” He sank to his knees, the sword held upright before him. “I pledge to you that I will carry this Sword for Kymru.”

  And Taliesin sang, his rich voice a balm to Arthur’s shame.

  “SHALL THERE NOT be a song of freedom

  Before the dawn of the fair day?

  Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?”

  “Anieron’s song,” Arthur whispered. “The one he sang before he died. Taran’s last gift to him.”

  “Mourn not Anieron, Master Bard. He dwells with those he loves in the Land of Summer, where I will soon end my journey. He waits, and watches for the fair day of freedom, which is at hand. You will avenge his death,” Taliesin said, his voice stern.

  “I will,” Arthur replied, his head bowed.

  “Then go from this place. Your friends need you.” Then Taliesin was gone.

  ARTHUR MADE HIS way through the narrow gap in the rocks, turning one last time to look at the peaceful glade. The clover was studded with the flowers that had blown from the trees. As he looked, the wind stirred the trees gently, as though the branches themselves were bowing to him.

  As he wriggled through the gap, and his feet touched the Dark Path, he heard a voice in his head, urgent but controlled. Gwydion.

  Arthur, I know you can hear me, but can’t answer.

  He stood stock-still, his heart beating uncomfortably. He had never heard the undertone of terror in his uncle’s voice before.

  When you find the sword, you must return to Mynydd Tawel with it immediately. Take the other Treasures and go to Myrrdin in Coed Aderyn. He will help you.

  What was he saying? What had gone wrong?

  We were captured as we waited for you. They come at us now with enaid-dals. Somehow they knew we would be here. You must go. Now.

  How could he? How could he leave them?

  I know you will not want to. But you must remember that you, alone, are the important one. Rhiannon, Gwen, and I have done what we set out to do, and the Treasures are yours now. Return to Mynydd Tawel and reclaim them from Dinaswyn. Go now and—

  Gwydion’s Mind-Speech was cut off. For a panicked moment, Arthur thought the Dreamer was dead. Strange how, after so many years of wishing for just that, his heart was filled with sorrow and dread. No, Gwydion was not dead. He had been collared, along with Rhiannon, and Gwen. They were to be taken, no doubt, to the island of Afalon to die.

  Then he realized that, no, they would not be so lucky as all that. Instead they would be taken to Havgan, the Golden Man. Havgan would kill them, but he would take his time. Again and again Havgan had announced that Gwydion and Rhiannon would be found and would die. And Gwen would not be spared.

  Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. Gwydion would die in as great an agony as Havgan could devise. Rhiannon, with her flashing green eyes and lovely smile, would be gone. And Gwen, she who argued with him and exasperated him, whose golden hair he thought so beautiful, would be dead.

  He had not known, until now, that he found Gwen beautiful.

  He would not let that happen. No matter what Gwydion said, he could not leave them in the hands of the enemy.

  And as he made his way down the Dark Path, down the Seeker Mou
ntain, to the place where they had waited for him, he remembered one thing—he did not know how to use a sword.

  But that did not matter. Because Taran did.

  Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—Alban Nerth, dusk

  DINASWYN UR MORVYN, the former Dreamer of Kymru, walked calmly into the now-silent glade within the hidden camp in Mynydd Tawel. The Cerddorian of Gwynedd gathered here, waiting to celebrate Alban Nerth, the festival in honor of Y Rhyfelwr, Camulos and Agrona, the Warrior Twins.

  The warriors that lined the perimeter of the alder grove held lit torches. The stone altar in the north quadrant of the grove was heaped with vines—grapevines, barberry vines, blackberry vines, elderberry vines. Scattered throughout the vines were juicy, red apples. Eight unlit torches were set in brackets around the stone.

  Dinaswyn surveyed the men and women gathered there. Morrigan, dressed in a fine gown of dark blue, with a kirtle of light blue beneath, stood quietly, for once. Her auburn hair was bound in a single braid and wrapped around her head and scattered with sapphires. Around her neck she wore the sapphire and silver torque of the House of PenHebog. Beside her, Ygraine stood in her customary white, her expression unreadable, her eyes cool. Yet Ygraine could not fool Dinaswyn, for she saw the slight tightening around her eyes that spoke of fear for her son.

  Cai and Susanna stood together, not quite touching. Always Cai was close to Susanna, but never did he reach for her. Dinaswyn almost sighed in irritation. Men were such fools. Cai’s face spoke of his fears, too. For his Lieutenant and nephew, Bedwyr, had not yet returned from Tegeingl. He had been due back yesterday, and there had been no message to explain the delay. Neuad, Morrigan’s Dewin, stood with Jonas, the Bard who had been sent to them by Anieron before he died.

  She lifted her hands, and pointing at the eight torches, lit them with Druid’s Fire, one by one. “This is the Wheel of the year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones: Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Awyr, Calan Llachar, Alban Haf, Calan Olau, and Alban Nerth, which we celebrate tonight.

  “We gather here,” she went on, “to honor Camulos and Agrona, Y Rhyfelwr, the Warrior Twins.”

  “We honor you,” the crowd responded.

  “Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the contest. Taran, King of the Winds. Modron, Great Mother of All. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”

  “We honor the Shining Ones,” the warriors intoned.

  Cai stepped forward, and began. “Why do we gather here?”

  “We gather,” Dinaswyn answered, “to honor Camulos and Agrona, the Warrior Twins, son and daughter of Aertan, Weaver of Fate, and Annwyn, Lord of Chaos.”

  “Why do we honor them?” Cai went on.

  “Behold, they have braved the depths of Bro Yr Hud, Land of Mystery, and the monsters that guard it, and have returned victorious, laden with gifts.”

  “What gifts do they bring?”

  “They have returned with the vine harvest, the gift of wine do they bring. And, most wondrous, do they bring the apple tree to us.” So saying, Dinaswyn held up an apple and cut it in half. She raised both halves above her head, turning the inside of the fruit to the crowd. “See, then, the seeds of the apple. Within this fruit is the sign of the Wheel.”

  “Today,” Cai said, “we celebrated the strength of our warriors. The strongest and bravest stand before us now.” Cai gestured, and those who had won the archery contests throughout the day stepped forward. There was Morrigan and Cai himself, as well as Duach ap Seithfed, Cynwas Cwryfager, and Dywel ap Gwyn.

  “How can we choose Y Rhyfelwr from these fine warriors?” Cai asked.

  “The warrior blessed by Camulos and Agrona will be the one who impales the apple. Warriors, stand forth!” Dinaswyn called. The five of them stood apart from the crowd in front of the altar. Each carried a bow and an arrow, fletched in their own colors.

  “The one whose arrow pierces the apple first in the air will be honored as the greatest warrior on this Alban Nerth,” Dinaswyn said.

  The men and women in the grove fell completely silent. In the stillness only the sound of the fire that wavered from the torches could be heard.

  Dinaswyn threw the apple into the night sky. Higher and higher it arched, controlled by Dinaswyn’s Shape-Moving ability, until it reached its apex over the grove and began its descent. Moving swiftly now, it fell toward the earth. As one, the five winners of the contests shot their arrows, which sped toward the moving target overhead.

  But the apple jerked sideways, impelled by another force, sidestepping the five arrows. The crowd gasped. Before anyone could even put another arrow to bow, the apple arced over the heads of the crowd, toward the fringes of the grove. Suddenly, from the trees, a shining blade appeared in a brown hand, and cut the apple cleanly in half.

  Morrigan threw down her bow and cried out with joy. “Arthur!” For the hand that held the sword did indeed belong to Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine. Arthur stood quietly at the edge of the grove, the point of the sword pressed to the earth, his hands clasped on the hilt. The sapphire eyes of the hawk at the sword’s hilt seemed to glow. The scar on Arthur’s face whitened as he put out a hand to stop Morrigan from launching herself at him. And Morrigan stopped where she was, and, taking in Arthur’s sword, Arthur’s stance, Arthur’s gaze, she sank to her knees and bowed her head.

  “Behold,” Gwydion said, walking out of the shadows of the grove followed by Rhiannon and Gwen. “Behold, Taran’s Warrior. He who carries the Sword of Air. He who saved us from our enemies, and brought us out of bondage.”

  Dinaswyn looked closely at Gwydion, Rhiannon, and Gwen. Their necks were blistered and red. “You have been wearing enaid-dals,” Dinaswyn said flatly.

  “We have,” Gwydion agreed. “For we were captured by the Coranians while Arthur walked Seeker Mountain. But Arthur came for us, and not one enemy soldier now remains alive.”

  “He cut the collars from our necks with the Sword of Taran,” Rhiannon said, solemnly. “And the Wind itself carried them away, far up to the sky, to do no one further harm.”

  “He saved our lives with the Sword of Taran,” Gwen said, her blue eyes shining. “And called the Wind itself to confound his enemies.”

  By now, the entire crowd was on their knees, bowing to Arthur. Dinaswyn, after a moment’s hesitation, having only to do with the nature of her astonishment rather than any false pride, at last sank to her knees also.

  Arthur’s dark eyes scanned the crowd, resting for a few moments on the bowed heads of his mother and sister.

  “Where is Arianrod?” Gwydion asked quietly.

  “Arianrod is not here,” Dinaswyn answered. “She has gone to Carnavon to take the place of the Dewin there who was captured.”

  “She has not,” Gwydion said. “She has gone to him.”

  Dinaswyn’s breath caught in her throat. “To Havgan?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry with fear.

  “To the Golden Man,” Gwydion agreed.

  “You know this to be true?” Dinaswyn asked.

  “From my dream last night,” Gwydion said. “You must all go south, to Cemais. Begin to leave at first light in groups of no more than five or six. The camp must be cleared within ten days.”

  “So long?” Cai asked in astonishment. “Arianrod is Dewin, and could send a message to the soldiers in a matter of moments.”

  “But she will not. She will carry her message to Havgan himself, and will entrust her information to no other. She will bargain with him before she reveals where we are,” Gwydion said with calm certainty.

  Dinaswyn nodded. Yes, they would have that time, for Gwydion was right. Arianrod would never give the information to any but Havgan himself. And would not give it even to him, until she was sure she would receive what she wished for. They would not be
undone by Arianrod’s greed. Instead, her greed would save them.

  A rustle in the trees caught their ears. And from the alders burst Bedwyr, Cai’s nephew. He was travel-stained and unshaven. His brown eyes were wild and fierce, and his brown hair was tangled and wet with sweat. His chest heaved, as though he had run all the way from Tegeingl. And perhaps he had, Dinaswyn thought. Perhaps he had.

  Without a word he dove through the crowd and with a cry of rage, he launched himself at the throat of Jonas. The two men went down, rolling over and over on the ground, with Bedwyr’s hands locked on the Bard’s throat. At Arthur’s quick gesture, six warriors pulled the two men apart and held them. Bedwyr was gasping in fury at being held back from his prey. And Jonas was clutching at his throat, trying to get air into his heaving lungs, his head hanging down as he was held upright between two warriors.

  Arthur strode through the grove, and the crowd parted for him like water. He came to stand before both men, and planted his sword on the ground, crossing both hands on the hilt. His dark eyes bore down on Bedwyr, demanding answers without a word.

  “Who are you who carries such a sword?” Bedwyr gasped out.

  “I am Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, High King to be of Kymru. This is the Sword of Air. And you are Bedwyr ap Bedrawd, returned from a mission to Tegeingl. Where, I think, you have learned something of great value.”

  “I have,” Bedwyr said shortly. “In Tegeingl we have a spy, very highly placed in King Madoc’s confidence, his daughter, Princess Tangwen.”