Alwen looked to Glain and beckoned her closer. Glain stood beside Alwen and watched as she drew a bone-handled dagger from the velvet pouch at her waist. Alwen drew the blade across the palm of each hand in a single, sure swipe and waited for the blood to run. Alwen then placed her hands, palms down, upon the glossy black crust that capped the Well of Tears.
Madoc. Glain heard the beckoning whisper in her mind.
Again the chamber floor trembled. Glain watched, transfixed, as the solid surface of the well wavered. Madoc’s visage appeared beside Alwen’s reflection, and Glain gasped aloud. The vision held for a moment and then faded.
The earth beneath them pitched and rolled, and a thick, snowy mist formed above the tarn. Frigid air turned humid, and with a hiss the frozen crust dissolved. The waters turned a limpid, fluid blue. And then they began to roil.
Glain’s heart stopped and her breath stalled in her throat. Something seemed to float to the top and settle just below the surface. Alwen reached into the well with both hands, and when she withdrew them, she was holding the staff that had been lost with Madoc when the well had swallowed him.
“Your hand,” Glain whispered, noticing the lightening skin on the fingers of Alwen’s afflicted hand.
“Yes,” Alwen said. “I can feel the darkness leaving me.”
Then Alwen stood and handed over Madoc’s staff. Next, she removed his signet ring and held it out to Glain. “These belong to you.”
Glain was elated and grief-stricken all at once. Her legs went numb, and every inch of her erupted with gooseflesh. As she took the staff and ring into her hands, Glain finally felt that Madoc was gone. The difference between knowing it and feeling it was immeasurably vast, like a chasm separating the place you need to be from the place you are. Though there was no comfort in the feeling, there was resolution. She was Sovereign now.
Alwen reached for her amulet. “Nerys, Ffion, and Raven—once you reclaim the pendant before you and place it back around your neck, it become yours to honor, to protect, and to wield. The amulets are separate, but they are also one. You will come to understand this, but so long as the circle remains unbroken, the amulets bind us together. Never, ever let it leave your person.”
Alwen rehung her pendant, waited while the other sorceresses followed her lead, and then reached for Glain’s hand. “Now for you, dear child. You must drink the waters.”
Still clutching the staff, Glain knelt beside Alwen. Panic crept up from within. “What will happen when I do?”
“I felt nothing at all,” Alwen said. “But whatever blessing I might have received was tarnished when the well was fouled. I have no idea what will happen to you.”
Glain had been sure before, but now she was uncertain. The waters had the power to change her in ways she had only imagined. The dream-speak—the language of the subconscious through which the generations of Sovereigns before her would bestow their wisdom—was an awesome and terrifying privilege.
“Madoc would say this is a test of faith,” Alwen said. “Faith in what is for you to decide.”
Glain set the staff aside. This had been her dilemma all along. In what did she believe? The more she had tried to answer this question for herself, the more confused she had become.
Perhaps the trouble lay in the attempt to define her faith, as if it were a finite thing. Perhaps faith was not a fixed point on a moral compass or a precise measurement on a scale of intent. Perhaps it was an eye toward what could be as much as what was. In this moment, all she really needed was the courage to take a risk on the unknown.
Glain cupped her hands together, gathered well water into the bowl of her palms, and brought the ice-cold liquid to her lips. She sipped at it cautiously, not knowing what to expect. The water tasted of nothing. The water tasted of everything. All at once she decided that this test, if it were a test, was to find her faith in herself. With a whispered prayer for grace and luck, Glain swallowed the rest in a single, daring gulp.
“You are stronger than you know.”
Glain awoke uncertain. The room was dark and quiet except for the warm glow and soft crackle of alder wood burning in the hearth. She was alone on the divan in her own rooms. But she was sure she had heard a voice.
She spied Alwen’s aleberry pot, resting in the coals. Alwen had left it behind as a remembrance and given her the recipe along with a gift of parting wisdom. Glain smiled as she recalled Alwen’s “wisdom”: one draught, medicinal; two draughts, sedative; and three, a very bad idea.
The quiet reminded her how empty the Fane was now. Hywel had taken with him Alwen and the Circle of Sages, and with them had gone Bledig and Finn and Goram. Bledig would not be parted from Alwen. And though Glain had officially disbanded the Crwn Cawr Protectorate, in recognition of a duty fulfilled, Finn and Goram had insisted on continuing to serve the Guardians of the Realms.
Though their numbers had dwindled further, the Fane was still a functioning refuge. Glain intended to continue the traditions of the Stewardry as long as there were still Stewards in residence. Machreth had been right about one thing—their way of life was dying.
In the meantime, Aslak had happily retaken command of the Cad Nawdd militia, pledged Glain his support, and made Pedr and Odwain his first officers. Pedr was glad to be able to stay as long as he liked in one place, and Odwain would never leave the Fane for long, not as long as he could still find some essence of Eirlys in the faerie meadow.
But whose voice had awakened her? Glain poured herself a cupful of aleberry and returned to the divan to contemplate the fire. She remembered a dream, a familiar dream. A regal stag, preening atop a hill, master of all he surveyed. This time the vision had ended where it had begun. Glain took this as a sign that Hywel’s course was well set, at least for now. The whispering voice, however, had not been a part of her dream.
It had come from somewhere else in her subconscious. Glain laughed aloud as the realization came to her. The whisper was a message from the beyond. This was the first stirrings of the dream-speak. It was Madoc’s voice she had heard.
Glain heard a gentle rapping on the outer door. “Come.”
Pedr entered, carrying a meal tray. “You slept through the supper.”
“Thank you,” she said, setting her skirts to rights and hoping her hair wasn’t wildly out of place. “Someone should have come for me.”
“I’m sure at least one of your attendants meant to, but I discouraged it.” Pedr was not the least bit apologetic. “You never take enough rest.”
Glain couldn’t help but smile. “So you’ve come out of your way just to bring a tray any one of a dozen novices could have managed with less than half the effort?”
“Not exactly,” he admitted, setting the tray within her reach. “Aslak asked that I let you know that his inquiry has been concluded. Emrys has been banished.”
Glain acknowledged the judgment with a sorrowful nod. She had expected this. “I suppose he is still pressing for me to make some decision about Euday.”
“He didn’t mention it just now,” Pedr said, “but yes, he is. And he is concerned about your plans to visit Elder Keep.”
Glain gave a dismissive wave. “I need to understand what has become of Machreth and what danger he still poses to us. I also need to understand who the prioress is and what it is she has sacrificed so much to protect, and that means I must see Elder Keep for myself.”
“His concerns are well-founded,” Pedr insisted. “Your safety is uncertain outside the Fane.”
Glain understood the risks, but this was a journey she knew she was meant to undertake. After the Well of Tears had been freed of its hex, she had begun to experience powerful dreaming visions of a temple she knew could only be Elder Keep. The temple itself seemed to beckon her. Even Alwen had instructed that she go. In the last several days the compulsion had become more insistent and filled with such foreboding that she dared wait no longer
.
“Tell Aslak to take whatever precautions he thinks are wise,” she ordered. “But we will make the pilgrimage as planned. I want no more discussion on this matter, Pedr.”
“As you wish.” Pedr let one sensitive matter drop, but only in favor of another. “And what about Euday? Shall I tell Aslak you’re still not ready to decide?”
“What if I can’t decide,” she mused, more to herself than to Pedr. Glain had been avoiding the issue for days. She did not want the first act of her Sovereignty to be an order of execution. “What if I don’t want to decide?”
“Wouldn’t that, in and of itself, be a decision?” Pedr asked. “Deciding not to decide?”
An odd truth, she thought, but truth nonetheless. “I don’t like your point, Pedr, but I can’t disagree with it.”
Pedr fussed with the fire as if he felt the need to make himself useful. “Seems to me, either way Euday is left in the dungeon. No better, no worse.”
“Neither better nor worse is not good enough,” Glain said. “I have kept him alive this long only to interrogate him. There are still so many unanswered questions. But the membership deserves satisfaction, and Euday has earned his sentence. The decision is made; it is now just a matter of carrying it out.”
She sighed, frustrated with her own reluctance. “If a leader hasn’t the courage to carry out the laws she has sworn to uphold, what good is she?”
Pedr frowned and folded his arms over his chest, peering at her as though he were surprised she hadn’t figured out the answer for herself. “A thoughtful, well-considered ruler who does not rush to action is not necessarily lacking courage.”
Glain felt silly, but reassured. “How is it you always know just what to say and just when to say it?”
Pedr prepared to take his leave. He was ever careful not to overstay. “Sometimes it’s easier for others to see us more clearly than we see ourselves. You’ll do what must be done.” Pedr paused as he passed through the door. “You are stronger than you know.”
LEXICON OF THE STEWARDRY
Castell Banraven (“Raven’s Peak”)
The home of the Ruagaire Brotherhood.
Cad Nawdd (“Army of Protectors”)
The castle guard at Fane Gramarye.
Crwn Cawr (“Circle of Champions”)
The protectorate created to accompany the Guardians of the Realms into hiding.
Circle of Sages
Also known as the Stewards’ Council, a circle of knowledge and power forged by the joining of the four Guardians of the Realms.
Coedwig Gwyn (The White Woods)
The magical forest near the ancient Welsh village of Pwll that shelters Fane Gramarye.
Cymru
The lands known today as the Kingdom of Wales.
Cwm Brith (“Gray Hollow”)
A fortified hunting lodge built by King Cadell of Seisyllwg.
Dream-Speak
The language of the dreamer, the timeless tongue with which the Ancients pass their wisdom to the Sovereign in the shroud of a dream. The power can only be gained by drinking the waters of the Well of Tears.
Elder Keep
Also known as the “wizard’s crypt” or “bastion of souls,” the Keep contains a portal to the Otherworld through which the Sovereigns pass at the end of their earthly days.
Fane Gramarye
The magic temple and last stronghold of the Stewards, hidden in the enchanted forest of Coedwig Gwyn near the village of Pwll, located in the province of Ystrad Tywi in the land of Cymru.
Guardians of the Realms
Each born only once a generation, the four Guardians of the Realms are descended of a magical bloodline that carries a unique affinity to one of the elemental dominions. The four realms and their lineages are the Spiritual Realm from the House of Eniad, the Celestial Realm from the House of Caelestis, the Physical Realm from the House of Morthwyl, and the Natural Realm from the House of Uir.
Hywel Dda (“Hywel the Good”)
First son of Cadell of Seisyllwg, heralded as the only ruler to unite all of Cymru under one hand and credited with the codification of the first written, binding law of the land.
Keys to the Realms
Four talismans that channel and amplify the elemental forces of the universe:
Lapis Lazuli—key to the Spiritual Realm
Moss Agate—key to the Natural Realm
Moonstone—key to the Celestial Realm
Bloodstone—key to the Physical Realm
Mystical Realms
The four earthly dominions: Spiritual, Celestial, Natural, and Physical; their elemental forces: water, air, earth, and fire; and their corresponding magical arts: empathy, augury, metamorphosis, and regeneration.
Norvik
A tiny fishing village located on the Frisian islets near the Danish borderlands, south of the River Eider; homeland of Aslak, great captain of the Cad Nawdd and leader of the Crwn Cawr.
Obotrites
Nomadic Slavic tribes, also known as the Wend.
Ruagaire Brotherhood
A centuries-old peacekeeping force originally commissioned to enforce the laws of the mageborn societies. The Ruagaire are defenders of the old ways and mercenary hunters of rogue magic. They are born with a natural resistance to magic and live by a strict code governed by four virtues: veracity, loyalty, righteousness, and forbearance.
Stewardry
A sorcerer’s guild devoted to the stewardship and teaching of the old ways.
Well of Tears
The enchanted pool whose waters hold the ancient secrets of the Stewards. By drinking of the sacred waters, the knowledge and experience of all who have come before is passed from one generation to the next.
HIERARCHY OF THE STEWARDRY
The Principals of the Ninth Order
The Levels of Mastery
THE LEGACIES
The Mageborn Dynasties (The Ancients)
House Aslaksson
House of Dinefwyr
Clan MacDonagh
Tribe of the Wolf King
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Authors owe eternal debts of gratitude to so many wonderful, supportive people—friends and family, who buoy us with words of encouragement (and the occasional meal or libation) to keep us from steeping too long in self-doubt, and fellow writers and colleagues, who tirelessly lend their hard-earned expertise so that we produce the best work we are capable of creating. I thank you all, but there are a couple of folks whose contributions to this book deserve special note.
That this series ever came into being at all is due in no small part to the kind and well-studied Lynn Lewis, a historical writer pursuing her own dreams of publication. Lynn studied history and art at the University of London, and recently completed a novel based on the life and career of Hans Holbein, court painter to King Henry VIII, entitled Dance of Death. Lynn’s generous sharing of her knowledge of the history, folklore, and culture of the Cornish and Welsh peoples provided me with the factual fodder I needed for my grand fantasies. Lynn, I cannot thank you enough, and hope one day to find a way to return the favor.
The other people I can never thank enough are my editors—Alex Car, who brought me into the fold at 47North and made all of this possible; Jennifer McCord, who taught me the publishing industry from the inside out; and Betsy Mitchell, who knows just how to help me shape my amorphous creative pulp into something infinitely more artful and meaningful than I ever envisioned. Betsy, you are the Empress of Editorial Awesomeness, and I bow to your greatness.
And finally, to the ladies who guide my professional journey and keep me on course, I offer my most heartfelt thanks—my agents, Jennifer Schober (who started me off on this incredible ride) and Nalini Akolekar (who picked up the reins and continues to spur me on).
HIS
TORICAL NOTE
First, let me just state straight out that this book should not be considered a work of historical fiction. It might loosely pass for historical fantasy, but it is in fact more myth than anything else. Although the Dream Stewards series is indeed set in a real-world historical context, the novels themselves are in no way intended as an academic interpretation of the political machinations of tenth-century Wales (Cymru). I am, at best, an armchair historian with a penchant for mythology and folklore—particularly Cornish and Welsh.
This is not to say that there is no actual history in this fantasy series. The world of the Dream Stewards is built in and around the life of a real king, Hywel Dda (Hywel the Good), whose significance is not widely recognized. This is largely due to the exceedingly few primary sources or official records from which to reconstruct the social landscape of this period. Even if it had been my intent to shed light on the military strategies and political maneuverings of the time, it would be extraordinarily difficult to do so. The historical documentation of the post-Roman era in the lands of the Britons (essentially Cymru and Kernow, which are known today as Wales and Cornwall) is scant. There is more unknown than known, and the surviving accounts are constantly being reinterpreted.
The ninth century was a transformational era for the Britons (as the original peoples of this region were known). Following a particularly tumultuous half-century in which the northern kingdoms of Powys and Gwynedd fought to maintain their independence against both the conquering forces of Mercia and Wessex, which were under Danish occupation, a new era begins to emerge. By mid-century, Hywel’s paternal grandfather, Rhodri Mawr (Rhodri the Great) had established himself as the first High King of the Britons, having now claimed both Gwynedd and Powys under his reign. Rhodri’s far-reaching control established a foundation for relative stability between the smaller principalities and created a defensive alliance that all but repelled the Mercian threat and contained the Viking incursions in the east. Both Mercia and Northumbria continued to struggle against the Norse, whereas the kingdoms of the Britons were relatively unscathed. It bears noting that what is now known as southern Wales was never overrun by either Norse or Saxon raiders, due in large part to Rhodri’s success in defending his borders. However, Rhodri’s stronghold would be divided by his death.
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