by Holly Taylor
He slipped into the constricted opening of an alleyway. The alley was narrow and dark, nestled between the two houses on either side. As he pressed himself against the wall, he drew his knife from the top of his boot and waited quietly, barely breathing.
The slight light that drifted past the opening was blocked off as the hooded man halted in the narrow passageway. The man’s hands were empty of weapons, but that meant nothing. Silently, the man slipped into the alley, and faced Dudod from just inches away.
“If you kill me, old friend, I hope you will do a quick, clean job. I am sick of long, drawn-out deaths.”
That voice! Something about it was familiar, but even Dudod, who had perfect pitch and a memory that had never before failed, could not place it. Someone he had known, he thought, from the time he had been Bard to the court of Gwynedd, long ago, when Queen Rathtyen was alive.
The man removed the hood of his cloak. In the dim light, Dudod could make out gray hair, which still held a glint of reddish-gold, like a treasured memory. He had an aquiline, commanding nose, and his skin stretched tightly over a face that was little more than a skull. And blue eyes, eyes that Dudod now remembered had often been cold and distant, but which now sparkled with life and purpose.
“You are a hard man to find, Dudod,” the man said softly. “I have been looking for you for many, many months.”
“Rhodri! Rhodri ap Erddufyl! By the gods, man, I thought you were dead!”
“I was, Dudod,” Rhodri agreed softly. “I was, when I left Tegeingl after Rathtyen died, and left Gwynedd in the hands of her son, Uthyr. I was when I left my own son, Madoc, and hid myself away.”
“And in the years since?”
“Living a half life on the island of Caer Siddi. Dead, really, for all those years.”
“Until?” Dudod prompted.
“Until now, since the enemy has come. I have heard, Dudod, of the death of my daughter, Ellirri, once Queen of Rheged, and the death of her husband and oldest son in battle with the enemy. I have heard of my son, how Madoc betrayed Uthyr and threw in his lot with the Coranians. And I have seen—”
“What?” Dudod asked as Rhodri paused. “What have you seen?”
“I have seen the Smiths of Kymru in bondage. I have seen them make those collars meant for our own Y Dawnus. I have seen them die inside as they do this.”
“You know where they are being held?”
“I do. And it is for that which I have found you. I will give this information to the man who desires it most. You must take me to him.”
“And that is?”
“To the Dreamer.”
“To Awst’s son,” Dudod pointed out.
“That he is the son of my one-time rival means nothing to me anymore. If it did, I would still be residing in Caer Siddi, empty inside.”
“Then I will take you to him, Rhodri. As you wish.”
“Good,” Rhodri said. “And then I must go, for I have another task.”
“And that is?”
“Madoc.” Rhodri spoke the name of his son as though he had ashes in his mouth.
“And what will you do, Rhodri ap Erddufyl, once-time King of Gwynedd, when you see your son?”
“What must be done, Dudod ap Cyvarnion. What must be done.”
Chapter 24
Coed Aderyn, Kingdom of Prydyn,
and Eiodel, Gwytheryn, Kymru
Colleen Mis, 499
Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—late afternoon
They were all assembled and waiting when Gwydion entered the enormous cavern. Rock crystal, set in the rough walls of the huge cave, shimmered in the light of the hundreds of torches set in brackets around the chamber.
As he entered he paused for a moment, scanning the faces of the folk who stood around the walls.
The party from Rheged was led by King Owein, who stood unmoving, his cool blue eyes surveying Gwydion as intently as he himself was being surveyed. Around his neck he wore the opal-studded torque of Rheged. His red trousers were tucked into calf-length boots of brown leather, the cuffs studded with opals. Opals shimmered from the brooch that fastened his red cloak over his left shoulder.
Trystan, Owein’s Captain and Teleri, his Lieutenant, stood closely on either side of the King, both dressed in red breeches and white tunics. The badge of Rheged, a white horse rearing on a field of red, glittered on the front of their tunics. Trystan’s green eyes were steady as he returned Gwydion’s gaze. Teleri fingered the dagger tucked into the belt at her waist and nodded briefly to Gwydion.
Owein’s younger brother, Rhiwallon, stood just behind and to the right of Owein, his reddish-gold hair glinting in the light of the torches, his stance wary, as though even here, danger might threaten his brother. Next to Rhiwallon stood Esyllt, Owein’s Bard, dressed in a robe of bardic blue fastened at the waist with a fine chain of silver. Around her neck she wore a torque of silver with a triangle in which a sapphire dangled. Sabrina, one of the few Druids who had not followed the Archdruid down the road of betrayal, wore the Druid’s robe of brown with green trim at the sleeves and hem. Around her neck she wore the Druid’s torque of gold, from which flashed an emerald set inside a circle and a square. The two women stood as far apart from each other, yet as close to Trystan, as they could.
Gwydion’s eyes lighted on the rest of the band from Coed Coch. There was Cariadas, his daughter, the next Dreamer. She wore a gown of black with an undershift of red, and her red-gold hair was braided and bound to the crown of her head with ribbons of red and black. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Her smile was less sunny than it had been some months ago, but it was even more beautiful for all of that, for she always seemed now to be touched with just a hint of sadness, ever since the death of Anieron, Master Bard. Sinend, she who would one day be Archdruid, stood quietly, with her eyes downcast, as she always did. She wore the customary Druid’s robe of green and brown and the Druid’s torque set with an emerald.
Elstar, the Ardewin, and Elidyr, her husband, the new Master Bard, stood closely together. Elstar wore a robe of silver-gray, the pentagonal badge of the Dewin, a silver dragon on a field of green, over her heart. Around her neck she wore the Ardewin’s torque, a collar of silver set with pearls. Elidyr wore his robe of white trimmed in blue. The badge of the Bards, a white nightingale on a field of blue, was fastened to a belt of silver around his waist. Around his neck he wore the torque of the Master Bard, which shimmered with sapphires. The fine lines around Elstar’s eyes, the tired droop of Elidyr’s mouth, told their tale of long nights and days as they struggled to reconnect the broken chain of Y Dawnus. Yet they gazed triumphantly at Gwydion, for this task was now complete, as Gwydion had told them it must be by this time.
The couple’s sons, Llewelyn, who would be the next Ardewin, and Cynfar, who would one day be the Master Bard, stood on either side of their parents. Cynfar, the younger, possessed the green eyes of his granda, Anieron. Llewelyn had the sandy hair and brown eyes of his father. The faces of the two young men were fierce and eager.
The folk from Ederynion clustered around Prince Lludd. Lludd stood stolidly, his thumbs tucked into the belt around his waist. He wore a tunic and trousers of sea green. His boots were of white leather, studded with pearls. He did not wear the torque of Ederynion, for that was around his sister’s neck. He was, every moment of every day, Gwydion knew, anxious to rescue Queen Elen from the hands of the Coranians. But the boy was now a man, and had learned to wait, and his impatience could be seen only in the tight set of his jaw, and in the flicker of fire in his brown eyes.
Angharad, his Captain, her flaming red hair braided tightly to her head, surveyed Gwydion with her keen, green eyes. She wore white breeches and a tunic of sea green. The badge of Ederynion, a white swan on a field of sea green, glittered on her shoulder. The gaze of Emrys, her Lieutenant, danced over to Angharad, then quickly away. Angharad did not seem to notice. Talhearn, Lludd’s Bard, stood to one side of the Prince in his robe of bardic blue, his wise blue eyes calm and patien
t.
Queen Morrigan stood at the front of her party from Gwynedd. She wore a gown of brown with an undertunic of blue. The slight, mulish set of her mouth indicated that getting her into a dress had been a struggle. But, apparently, in the end, the solemnity of the occasion had won out. Around her neck she wore the silver torque of Gwynedd, studded with sapphires. The girl’s auburn hair and dark eyes were echoes of her mother, Ygraine, who stood behind her daughter, stiff and cool in white trimmed with pearls. Yet Gwydion saw much of his dead brother, Uthyr, in Morrigan, too, in the way she tilted her head, in the set of her fine mouth.
Cai, Morrigan’s Captain, and Bedwyr, her Lieutenant, stood on either side of the Queen, their identical brown gazes steady. Both wore blue tunics with brown breeches, and the badge of Gwynedd, a brown hawk on a field of blue, was buckled around their waists.
Susanna, Morrigan’s Bard, and Neuad, her Dewin, stood, each on either side of Cai and Bedwyr. Susanna’s red-gold hair glinted in the torchlight, and her generous mouth was curved into a smile as she waited. She wore the Bard’s torque of sapphire around her neck. Gwyhar, Susanna’s son, stood next to his mother, garbed in a robe of bardic blue. His freckled face was eager. Neuad, breathtakingly beautiful, stood as still as a statue, her robe of sea green barely moving with her breath, her eyes never leaving Myrrdin, who stood just at the entrance of the cave.
Just a little apart from them stood Gwydion’s aunt, Dinaswyn. She wore a gown of black and an undertunic of red. Her frosty hair spilled down her back, and her gray eyes gazed back at Gwydion without expression.
King Rhoram stood at the forefront of the party from Prydyn. The torchlight played over his golden hair and shifted over the deep lines of pain that cut clefts around his mouth. He wore a tunic and trousers of dark green. His boots were black, and the cuffs were studded with emeralds. Around his neck he wore the gold and emerald torque of Prydyn. In spite of the lines of pain in his face, he was smiling, his blue eyes glowing.
Achren, Rhoram’s Captain, and Aidan, his Lieutenant, stood on either side of Rhoram. Achren’s dark eyes danced, and Aidan’s easy grin came to his face as Gwydion surveyed them. They both wore the badge of Prydyn, a black wolf on a green field, stitched over their hearts on their green tunics.
Geriant and Sanon, Rhoram’s son and daughter, stood just behind their father, their golden hair glowing. Sanon was pale, as she always was; yet she stood proudly in her gown of black and undertunic of dark green. She was not looking at Gwydion, but at Owein, who seemed to be unaware of her gaze. Geriant was dressed like his father and bore a great resemblance to him, for he, too, had lines on his face—but his were lines of sorrow, put there, Gwydion knew, by Owein’s sister, Enid, now the captive wife of Morcant, the traitorous King of Rheged. Cadell, Rhoram’s Dewin, wore the Dewin’s robe of sea green trimmed with silver and the Dewin’s torque of silver and pearl. He gazed at Gwydion steadily. Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s counselor and Gwydion’s old friend, stood quietly, his dark eyes watchful.
Near the entrance to the cavern, Myrrdin stood, his dark eyes calm. He wore the sea-green robe of the Dewin and a simple Dewin’s torque around his neck. If he regretted that he was not wearing the Ardewin’s torque, which glittered around Elstar’s neck, he gave no sign. And Gwydion, knowing his uncle, knowing that Myrrdin, in his wisdom, did nothing that he would later regret, knew he had come to terms with his sacrifice of long ago.
Next to Myrrdin stood Arthur. He wore a tunic and trousers of black, tucked into plain, black boots. He wore no badge, no torque. The Sword of Taran rested in its scabbard around his waist. His left hand was clasped on the hilt, and his gaze was steady as he calmly waited for Gwydion to begin.
Gwen wore the brown and green robe of the Druids. She wore no torque around her neck, for she had never gone to Caer Duir to receive one. Her golden hair was braided and wound around her head like a crown. In her hands she held the golden Cauldron of Modron, and she looked at Gwydion with infatuation in her blue eyes.
And then, saving the best for last, his gaze met Rhiannon’s. Rhiannon, her dark hair falling down her shoulders like a shadow, was dressed in the Dewin’s robe of sea green. Around her neck she wore the Dewin’s torque of silver and a single pearl. At her feet rested the pearl-studded Stone of Nantsovelta.
For a long moment, he simply gazed at her and she returned his gaze with her emerald green eyes. He said nothing, not because there were things he could not say, but because he did not think he needed to. He could read in her eyes that she knew how much this moment meant to him. She knew that he had been working toward it for so many years. She knew how he had struggled and fought and even, sometimes, wept, waiting and working and dreaming toward it.
And yet, perhaps he was wrong about not needing to say any words to her now. For she had been a part of the struggle for years, and had never given up. She had never left his side in those dark years, no matter how much she might have wished to. And she might have, for he had not been easy to live with and he knew it. Perhaps, then, he did need to say something to her before he began. The torchlight played over the shadows of his black robe trimmed in red. The opal torque around his throat glittered as he left the center of the chamber to stand before her.
“Many times I would have given up,” he said quietly, for her ears alone, “had you not been there.”
“Not you, Gwydion,” she said. “Never.”
“You are wrong, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Had you not been there, this would not be happening now.”
A smile, beautiful as the dawn, came to her lovely face. Her green eyes glowed. He clasped her hand and lifted it to his lips, and kissed her palm, never taking his eyes from her.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, just as simply.
He let go of her hand and again strode to the center of the chamber. His eyes sought and found King Rhoram’s. And Rhoram was smiling, without the faintest shadow in his eyes.
“We begin our gathering here,” Gwydion intoned, “with the Oath of our people.”
As one, they recited the oath.
“If I break faith with you,
May the skies fad upon me,
May the seas drown me,
May the earth rise and swallow me.”
“You are here today,” Gwydion began, in a solemn, powerful voice, “to play your part in freeing our land from the enemy. We welcome King Owein; his heir and brother, Prince Rhiwallon; and his people from Rheged. We welcome King Rhoram; his heir and son, Prince Geriant; and his folk from Prydyn. We welcome Prince Lludd, heir to Queen Elen, and his people from Ederynion. We welcome Queen Morrigan and her folk from Gwynedd.” As he said this, Gwydion bowed to each ruler, and Owein, Rhoram, Lludd, and Morrigan gravely bowed back to the Dreamer.
“We welcome the Dewin—Elstar, Ardewin; Myrrdin of Gwynedd; Neuad of Gwynedd; and Cadell of Prydyn. We welcome the Bards—Elidyr, Master Bard; Talhearn of Ederynion; Esyllt of Rheged; Susanna and Gwyhar of Gwynedd. We welcome the Druids—Sabrina of Rheged and Sinend of Gwytheryn. We welcome the Dreamers—Dinaswyn and Cariadas of Gwynedd.” Again, Gwydion bowed in turn as he named them, and each one returned his bow.
“And we welcome those who have returned to Coed Aderyn bearing the Four Treasures, hidden away in the days of the last High King, Lleu Lawrient. We welcome Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon, who bears the Cauldron of Earth.” At this, Gwen stepped forward, holding the Cauldron high. She placed it gently on the floor of the cavern in front of Gwydion. The golden Cauldron glowed, and the emeralds set within its rim gleamed. From those watching came an intake of breath, a murmur, for the beauty of the bowl, and reverence for Modron, the Great Mother.
“We welcome Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg, who brings the Stone of Water.” Rhiannon stepped forward, carrying the Stone, and set it next to the Cauldron. Streaks of silver shot through the Stone. At each silvery junction the pearls that rested there glowed softly. Elstar, the Ardewin, whispered the name of Nantsovelta in awe.<
br />
“I beg you to welcome my humble self,” Gwydion began with a grin as he bowed.
“Humble!” snorted Myrrdin. “I beg to differ.”
The people laughed, just as Gwydion had intended. “I, Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon, have come bearing the Spear of Fire.” Gwydion flourished the Spear, and laid it on the floor, next to the Cauldron and the Stone. The twined silver and gold of the shaft of the Spear glowed in the torchlight. The opals at the base and top flickered with fire.
“And now, I most earnestly beg your welcome to the one who bears the Sword of Taran. Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine. The next High King of Kymru!”
Arthur strode up to Gwydion, removed the Sword from his belt, and held it over his head. The sapphires on the scabbard of gold and silver shimmered as Arthur stood, holding the Sword. With a belllike ring that reverberated throughout the cavern, he drew the Sword from its scabbard. The hawk’s hilt seemed to writhe for a moment, its sapphire eyes glowing. Arthur raised the Sword high, then plunged it, point down, into the earth.
The people gathered there began to cheer. Arthur bowed to them and nodded, acknowledging their welcome. But they would not quiet. The heartfelt relief, the hope they now felt, could not be suppressed. The cheering grew louder. Some of the people had tears spilling down their faces. They hugged one another in joy and hope.
Gwydion held up his arms and, at last, they quieted. “You have all been called here to take up your various tasks—tasks necessary to our freedom. Bands of Cerddorian from Prydyn and Rheged, from Ederynion and Gwynedd, are now secreted throughout Coed Aderyn. These warriors have been brought here to create a diversion. The purpose of this diversion is to draw Havgan and his warriors from his fortress of Eiodel, leaving the way open for us to approach the Doors of Cadair Idris. The Doors will open for us, for we have the Treasures in our hands. Once inside, we will make for the throne room, and Arthur will undergo the Tynged Mawr. And, if he passes the test, he will be our High King. With the powers of the High King, Arthur will lead us and take back our land!”