May Earth Rise (2 page)

Cadair Idris & Eiodel
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Helygen Mis, 500

Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night

A
rthur ap Uthyr, High King of Kymru, Penerydd of Gwytheryn, stood quietly in the center of the Taran’s chamber on the eighth level of Cadair Idris. He craned his neck to gaze up through the clear roof at the stars wheeling overhead. His eyes focused on the constellation of Eos, the nightingale. For the nightingale was the symbol for the Bards, and his revenge for the death of Anieron Master Bard, just two days ago, was still fresh in his mind.

The wyrce-jaga, Sledda, was dead at last, and Arthur had been the instrument of that death. Through him the power of all the Bards of Kymru had been focused and brought to bear on the man who killed Anieron. They had sung the Master Bard’s death song to his murderer, and justice had been served.

It was this, after all, this for which a High King was born. To bring justice, using the ability to focus the power of the Y Dawnus into a weapon to be used against the enemy. And this was a power he had come to accept. This was the reason for which he had been born.

He had once thought that he would do anything—anything at all—to turn away from this destiny. He had once twisted and raged against the turning of the Wheel. But he would run no more. Because Kymru needed him, and that reason alone was, at last, enough.

With a steely hiss, he drew his sword, Caladfwlch, from the jeweled scabbard at his side. With both hands on the eagle-shaped hilt he rested the point of the huge sword on the stone floor. The eagle’s bloodstone eyes glittered in the starry light and its onyx studded wings shimmered coldly.

It was time now. Time for the next step in this deadly end game. Although he knew what the result of this night’s work would be, he was, nonetheless, compelled to try to turn the Warlord from the path Havgan had chosen. Something, he didn’t really know what, demanded it.

Still staring up at the stars, he calmly reached out and gathered to him the very essences of those that waited in the throne room, seven stories below him.

He took the Bards to him first—Elidyr Master Bard and Dudod, Elidyr’s father, as well as Cynfar, Elidyr’s son and heir. Sapphire blue shimmered before his eyes as he drew in their power, and he felt Taran’s Wind rush cleanly and sharply through his soul.

Then he reached for the Dewin—Rhiannon, Elstar the Ardewin, and Elstar’s son and heir, Llywelyn. They glowed softly like pearls, as Nantsovelta’s Water flowed through him, cool and clear.

He gathered the Druids—Gwenhwyfar’s raw, untrained talent, Sinend, heir to the Archdruid’s heir, and Sabrina of Rheged. He felt the roots of the fruitful earth claim him, twining through his body, lacing him in the emerald green glow of Modron the Mother.

Last, he gathered the Dreamers—Gwydion, whom he had once hated, Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer, and Cariadas, Gwydion’s daughter and heir. The heat of Mabon’s Fire burst deep within him, bathing him in an opal-like shimmer as the flames burst through him.

And then he was ready.

Wind-Ride,
he called, to the Dewin in his mind. And then he was there, in Havgan’s fortress. In Eiodel.

H
AVGAN SAT IN
the Great Hall at Eiodel, his brooding black fortress just a league away from Cadair Idris—just a league away from the mountain that now glowed in the night, its golden light proclaiming that a High King had once again returned to its halls.

Havgan knew that light well. Every night in the past three months, he had gone out to the battlements and stared at that mountain that continued to defy him. He would focus his hate-filled amber eyes on the glowing doors that had refused to open to him for so very long, the same doors that had opened for Arthur ap Uthyr just three months ago.

Later, after the meal was over, he would again go to the heights of Eiodel and take in the sight of that glowing mountain. And his hatred for the Kymri would burn even brighter.

His warriors feasted and drank noisily, filling the hall with their coarse jests and loud boasts. The fire in the pit in the middle of the hall cackled and danced. The dark walls were stark, relieved only by the torches set in their brackets and by a few banners whose rich jewels glittered darkly. The banner of the Warleader of Corania, a golden boar on a field of blood red, shimmered in the light of the fire. The boar’s ruby eyes seemed to gleam maliciously in the uncertain light of the smoky hall.

He took a deep drink from the golden goblet in his hands. He had, of late, begun to drink heavily. Because things were slipping away from him, and he knew it.

His victory over the Kymri two and a half years ago was turning sour. The Dreamer, his false blood brother, had snatched the Treasures Havgan had sought. The mountain had not opened for him, in spite of all his efforts. He had captured hundreds of Dewin and Bards and imprisoned them on the island of Afalon, but the victory was hollow, for the leaders had escaped. He had captured one of the Kymri’s testing tools, that strange device which demonstrated who of the Kymri were Y Dawnus, the witches of this land—yet the device had not identified a witch in many months.

And Sledda, Havgan’s wyrce-jaga, had been killed just a few days ago. Sledda had thrown himself off the highest tower at Neuadd Gorsedd, seeking to escape something. Exactly what, he did not know. But that it was something sent by the witches, he had no doubt. That the witches had been led by Arthur ap Uthyr, the self-styled High King, he also knew.

For Arianrod, Havgan’s Kymric mistress, had explained to him the purpose of a High King in this land. And what a High King could do with the power of the Y Dawnus in his mind.

And worst of all, the thing hardest to bear, Gwydion ap Awst was still alive and free. And that angered most of all. For Gwydion’s death was Havgan’s dearest wish.

But the game was not over yet. One day, one day soon, he would have Gwydion’s life in his hands. And it would take Gwydion so very, very long to die.

A soft, light touch on his arm roused him from his reverie. “You are pensive, my Lord,” his mistress said.

He turned to her as she sat by his side. Her honey-blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, held back from her face by a band of topaz. Her amber eyes were soft and beautiful and her sultry mouth invited his kiss. Her gently rounded belly strained slightly against her shift of tawny silk. The child would be born near Calan Llachar, she had told him, one of the eight festivals of the Kymri, the time when they honored Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, the Protectors of Kymru. It would be a boy, she had said. For she was a Dewin and had a way of knowing these things.

His mistress was a Kymric witch. One of the Y Dawnus, one of those that he had come to Kymru to kill. And he loved her as he had never loved a woman before, as he had never loved anyone on this earth before. She was what he had been looking for all his life. She was the other part of him, just as the wyrd-galdra cards had foretold back in Corania. Just as Holda, the Goddess of the Waters, had said. No matter what she was, no matter what happened, no matter who stood in his way, he would never give her up. Never, witch or no.

He took her hand and kissed her palm and he felt her shiver with passion. He smiled at her, but did not answer.

His eyes cut to his wife, sitting on his other side. Aelfwyn had said no word to him this entire evening, a fact for which he was grateful. Exchanges with Aelfwyn wearied him. But it was through her, the daughter of the Emperor of Corania, that he had gained the power to subdue Kymru. He could, and did, ignore her and occasionally taunt her, but he could not send her back to Corania—not if he wished to keep the warriors of the Empire at his side. And so she stayed, though he did not fully understand why. That she had come to plot against him was obvious. But just exactly what her game was, was not. She intended to bring him down, he knew. But how was not clear. Perhaps she did not know herself, and stayed in Kymru knowing an opportunity would, sooner or later, present itself.

Since she had come to Kymru, some months ago, she had not even attempted to interfere with his plans. She stayed in Eiodel, riding out to Cadair Idris occasionally to gaze at the mountain. Sometimes she visited Neuadd Gorsedd, where the wyrce-jaga were lodged, and more often she went to Y Ty Dewin, where the preosts of Lytir had made their headquarters. Occasionally she would visit Caer Duir and talk with Cathbad and Aergol. She had briefly visited his generals in the four kingdoms, but not one of them had anything suspicious to report. She wrote no letters to Corania. He saw her only at the evening meal. She did not demand his company. She did not demand that he send Arianrod away. In fact, she did nothing. And it was that which made him most wary.

She sat now quietly, her green eyes cold in her flawless face. She wore a silken shift of white beneath a kirtle of the same color. Diamonds sparkled in her light blond hair. Steorra Heofen, they called her, Star of Heaven, and he had always agreed that was so. For she was as beautiful, as cold, as distant as the brightest star in the sky.

Sigerric sat on Aelfwyn’s right. Havgan and his Over-general rarely spoke of anything but the business of Kymru these days. Once, Sigerric had been his dearest friend. Through all of Havgan’s years of struggle to obtain the warleadership, Sigerric had been there, supporting him, helping him, loving him. But since they had come to Kymru all that had changed. For Sigerric had no stomach for the killing of witches. And, too, Sigerric knew Havgan. Knew him very well, and approved of nothing Havgan had done in the past few years.

Once, Sigerric would have tried to turn Havgan from his course. Once, he would have urged Havgan to give up and go home. But Sigerric did not even try to do that anymore. His brown eyes had long ago lost their sparkle and luster. Even the hunger with which he always gazed at Aelfwyn seemed to be merely a ghost of the love Sigerric was once capable of.

Havgan lifted his goblet of gold and rubies, and raised it again to his lips to drink. These dark thoughts were no matter. For he would defeat the Kymri, one way or another. And his son would rule this land after him.

And it was then, just as he began to drink, that Arthur came.

A
RTHUR’S IMAGE MATERIALIZED
within the hall and the sight of him caused the warriors there to cry out. The men scrambled for their weapons and some leapt toward Arthur. But at Havgan’s stern gesture they halted their advance, their spears at the ready as they formed a half circle behind Arthur.

Arthur stood before the high table. His sword was pointed at the stone floor of the hall, and he rested his hands on the hilt. The golden eagle’s head flickered in the uncertain light of the fire. He wore a tunic and trousers of black, and around his neck was the High King’s torque—an opal, a sapphire, a pearl, and an emerald, clustered around a figure eight studded with shadowy onyx.

Havgan was dressed in gold and rubies and, unlike the people around him, he did not leap to his feet at Arthur’s appearance. Instead, he sat in his high-backed chair, his strong hand gripping his goblet so tightly that the gold began to bend slightly beneath the pressure. He stared at Arthur with his amber hawk’s gaze, but did not speak.

For a moment, just for a moment, Arthur felt something familiar about the Warleader of Corania. And for a moment, just for a moment, a similar, bewildered recognition flashed in Havgan’s eyes. And then the moment passed.

The others at the table were on their feet. Arianrod rose, gripping the edges of the table to steady herself. Her sensual mouth was widened in surprise and fear showed in her amber eyes as Arthur gravely returned her terrified gaze.

Sigerric had risen slowly at the sight of Arthur. He had drawn no weapon, unlike the other warriors. He merely stood, staring from Arthur to Havgan, then back again. His brown eyes glittered feverishly and the grooves at the sides of his mouth deepened.

Princess Aelfwyn had leapt to her feet, and her hands were clasped in front of her mouth to hold back the scream that hovered there. It was the first real emotion—besides hate—Havgan had ever seen from her.

Arthur waited, standing inviolate before Havgan, until the people in the hall quieted. Havgan slowly rose to his feet and faced Arthur. The flickering light of the torches played over the Warleader’s golden tunic, his honey-blond hair, his amber eyes.

Arthur drew the power of the Bards to him, and Wind-Spoke. “Havgan, son of Hengist,” he intoned solemnly, “I am Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, High King of Kymru, Penerydd of Gwytheryn, heir of Idris, heir of Macsen, heir of Lleu Silver-Hand. I call on you to leave this land.”

“Your land is mine, Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, heir of nothing,” Havgan replied harshly. “And always will be.”

“It has never been yours,” Arthur said, shaking his head. And he called to him the power of the Druids and the hall shook, spilling flagons of wine from the tables. The fire in the pit leapt up behind him and the flames licked hungrily at the ceiling. The torches flared. The boar banner shivered as a cold wind rippled through the hall.

Havgan’s warriors cried out in fear as the hall shook and wavered. But Havgan did not move. And he did not take his eyes from Arthur.

“Even your hall will do my bidding, because it rests on the earth of Kymru,” Arthur continued, as he allowed the hall to stop shaking and the fire to die down. Havgan’s banner gave one last shiver, then subsided. “Even Eiodel belongs to me.”

“Come and take it, then,” Havgan challenged. “Come and take it from me.”

“All in good time, Havgan,” Arthur replied. “For I have already taken your Master-wyrce-jaga, and will take you when I am ready. Sledda died by the power of the Bards of Kymru, in revenge for Anieron’s death. See, now, how it was. Watch the Time-Walk, and see his last moments.”

And with that, Arthur called the Dreamers to him. With the powers of the Walkers-Between-the-Worlds, the events leading up to Sledda’s death were superimposed on the now-roaring flames of the fire. Havgan’s warriors cried out as the flames grew and images formed in the dancing light: images of Sledda clutching his head, running to the uppermost tower of Neuadd Gorsedd, and falling to his death. Then the fire sank down again.