May Earth Rise (27 page)

Again Gwen nodded, her blue eyes wide.

“But how much worse still it would be if we ourselves intended to also profane that ceremony by spilling the blood of our enemy.

For that would not Modron turn her face from us forever? For that would we not lose the gifts she has given us? For that would we not lose our souls, as Cathbad has lost his?”

Aergol gently laid one hand on Gwen’s head and stroked her bright hair. “Daughter of Modron, do you now understand how we cannot even think of such a thing? Do you understand how it is that Havgan must walk out of Caer Duir unharmed?”

Gwen nodded solemnly and bowed her head. She then rose and turned to face all the folk gathered there. She looked at each Druid—at Yrth and Aldur, at Madryn and Menw, at Ellywen and Sabrina and Sinend. She looked at Rhiannon and at Gwydion. Lastly she gazed at Arthur. “I humbly beg pardon of each person here. I did not understand, but now I do. I was blinded by my wish for vengeance, and forgot my allegiance to Modron. I ask for the forgiveness of each one of you.”

“You are forgiven, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon,” Arthur said formally. “Most heartily and readily.” As Gwen again took her seat Arthur turned to Gwydion. “Uncle, have you anything to add to our plan?”

“Only one thing,” Gwydion said. “I would not be so sure, Aergol, that the Mother requires your death in atonement.”

“What do you mean, Dreamer?” Aergol asked in feigned surprise.

But Gwydion was not fooled. He knew what Aergol was secretly planning. And Aergol knew that Gwydion knew. That Arthur was now aware of it was enough for now. “Just keep that thought in mind and do not be too surprised if things turn out differently than you think. For the Mother has a way of surprising us all.” Gwydion smiled. “She is, after all, a woman.”

At Arthur’s gesture of dismissal they all rose, making their way out of the garden room to their own chambers. Gwydion took Rhiannon’s arm and they made their way up the stairs. He did not speak, for he was uncertain how to begin. At last they reached the door of his chamber. Rhiannon released his arm and turned to go, but Gwydion put his hand out and stopped her.

“Would you—would you care for a cup of wine?” he asked.

Her brow rose in surprise, but she nodded. “But just for a few moments,” she said as she followed him into the chamber. “You should rest.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “Except that I am not in the least bit tired.” And that was true. He was far too keyed up to be tired.

He poured wine into two golden goblets chased with opals and handed her a cup. She took it and sat at the edge of the hearth. The firelight cast a glow over her smooth features, and her green eyes sparkled in the light of the dancing flames. He took a seat next to her on the hearth. He took a sip of wine, then set the cup down. With a deep breath, he turned to her and began.

“When you heard me Wind-Speak to you, from my captivity, you said you knew I had not escaped,” he said abruptly.

She nodded. “Yes, I knew.”

“You knew that I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“I did indeed.”

“How did you know?” he pressed. For he thought that she would say that she knew him too well to be fooled. And that would be his opening to tell her the truth. But she surprised him.

“Because you called me
cariad,”
she said with a shrug. “You called me beloved throughout your communication with me. That’s how I knew that someone was telling you what to say, that you were still a prisoner. You would never have called me that on your own.”

“Oh,” he said, for he had not expected that answer. “Oh. Well, as to that—” He broke off for he was unsure how to proceed, and so very afraid.

“Don’t be concerned about it, Gwydion,” she said, putting the cup down. “There is nothing to explain. I didn’t misunderstand for a moment.” She rose. “Goodnight.”

She turned to go but Gwydion rose and stopped her. “Rhiannon.
Cariad,”,
he said softly. He reached out and framed her beautiful face with his hands.

Her eyes widened. “What?” she whispered. “What are you—”

“Oh, beloved. Did you not know that I have called you that in my heart for so many, many years?” he asked softly, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Did you never guess?”

“Gwydion,” she whispered.

“Oh, my love,” he said. “I beg you to forgive me. All these years wasted. But I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” she asked.

He guided her back to the hearth and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. He tried to explain to her how it had been with his father and mother. How his mother had done all she could to control his father, making Gwydion’s home a battlefield. How his father had rarely come home because of that, how Gwydion had grown up so lonely. And that horror-filled moment when he had discovered their bodies, knowing that his father had died at his mother’s hands.

“From that moment I vowed never to fall in love, never to let a woman into my heart,” he said. “I vowed that my only love would be my duty as Dreamer. It was the only safe thing to cling to. But then I met you. Remember that first time?”

Rhiannon nodded, but did not speak.

“You and Gwen were living in that cave. And you appeared from behind the waterfall. And, oh, you were so beautiful. My heart—even then I think—knew you. When we searched for Caladfwlch I could barely take my eyes from you. That day on Afalon when Amatheon died and I was so cruel to you still shames me.”

“Gwydion—”

“Please, let me speak. When we went to Corania, how often I wanted to take you in my arms, to tell you the truth. But I couldn’t. Not there, for I knew that you still loved Rhoram, and I was afraid. And then when we came back here, and I knew you would be seeing him again, I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t.”

He was almost babbling now in his eagerness to make her understand, in his fear that she would turn away from him if he stopped talking. And all the while he was speaking to her she simply stared at him, her eyes wide and clearly shocked.

“That day by the lake, the day you found the Stone, the day I thought you dead—nothing was worse than that. I wanted to kiss you again so badly, but I couldn’t. I was afraid that I would fail in my duty to Kymru if I—even once—let you know the kind of power you truly had over me. And now—”

“And now?” she prompted when he hesitated for a moment.

“And now I know that my fears are meaningless. Now I know that nothing else matters but that I love you so. When I was wandering in my mind, trapped in the dark, I called for you. I knew that you and you alone could save me. I knew that if I ever saw you again I must tell you this truth. And you would make of it what you would. I beg for you not to tell me that it is too late. But if you do, know that I will still love you. I will love you forever, and if you will allow me to, I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

He paused, looking into her beautiful eyes. Behind her the flames of the fire leapt higher. “The truth I learned at last is that my love for you did not weaken me. It strengthened me. Without you I could not have done my duty at all. Without you I would not have come back from Corania alive. Without you Caladfwlch would not have been found, nor the Treasures. Without you, Arthur would not be High King. Most of all, without you, I will never smile or laugh again. You are all that I want. All that I need. And I love you so.”

He reached out and took her face in his hands. His thumb brushed her lips and he leaned forward to kiss her. Her lips tasted sweet, so sweet that he was dizzy with desire for her. He plunged his hands into her silken hair, delighting in the softness of it. He kissed her with rising passion. At last he released her mouth, murmuring her name, raining kisses on her face and her slender throat until they were both breathless.

“I love you,” he whispered, pulling back a little to look into her eyes.

“Convince me,” she said. And behind the challenge in her eyes was the promise of things he had barely dared to dream.

“I have always loved you. I always will love you.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, love me, Gwydion. Love me. As I love you.”

His breath caught in his throat as she said the words he had longed to hear. But he began slowly. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her fingers, one by one. Her fingers curved around his mouth and he look up at her. Her green eyes were smokey with desire. His hand found the laces of her gown and he loosened them, baring her shoulders on which he rained tiny kisses. She shivered. He gently pulled down the front of her gown and kissed her silky skin.

He raised his head to look at her. “Rhiannon?” he questioned.

She understood what he wanted to know. She reached out and unfastened the laces of his tunic, then drew off his undershirt. They undressed each other slowly until they stood naked together in front of the fire. He gazed at her, his eyes hot and glowing. He picked her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down on the red coverlet. He bent over her and kissed her again.

“Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg,” he whispered. “I love you.” He took her slowly, giving her all of himself, holding nothing back. At the peak of their ecstasy they cried out together and he called out her name.

Then he gathered her in his arms, his heart still beating wildly from his release.
“Cariad,”
he whispered as he stroked her hair. “Beloved. Forever.”

S
IGERRIC STOOD IN
the center of the marketplace in Dinmael. Coranian soldiers ringed the perimeter, their axes and spears at the ready, pinning the people of the city within the crowded market. When a certain measure of quiet was obtained, Sigerric began.

“People of Dinmael, be it known that Havgan the Golden, ruler of all Kymru, calls you to task for your complicity in a crime. For not many days ago Queen Elen was spirited away from Caer Dwfr.”

Even now the Kymri were defiant, for cheers erupted from the crowd at the mention of Elen’s escape.

“It is each one of you who allowed this to happen,” Sigerric called out. “For her rescuers could not have entered and left the city without your knowledge and cooperation. And for this you will be punished.”

He signaled to one of the lieutenants, and the man nodded. The lieutenant lit his torch and raised it over his head. He swung it from side to side, facing the docks to the southeast, once, twice, three times.

“Even now soldiers are destroying your boats,” Sigerric cried.

An angry mutter broke from the people gathered there.

“You have brought this on yourselves,” Sigerric went on. “The docks will be destroyed. And so will the marketplace.”

At his words smoke from the southeast began to rise into the air. And the soldiers around the marketplace began to move in, pushing the people aside, making for the stalls. They began to tear the stalls down, throwing goods onto the streets, trampling and ruining them.

At first Sigerric thought that the Kymri would rise up against the soldiers and he braced himself. Something he felt in the air told him that everything hung in the balance at that moment. But something, he did not know what, and he did not know from where it came, calmed the crowd. Perhaps it was whispered words of patience. Perhaps it was promises that the destruction would be righted. Perhaps it was remembrance that Cadair Idris glowed again with the coming of the High King, and that Arthur would not suffer his people to remain under the Coranian yoke forever. Perhaps it was the knowledge hidden in their hearts that they would win in the end.

Whatever it was, it prevailed that day. The Coranian solders continued their destructive work unhindered by the people of Dinmael. And if the people did not attempt to stop the destruction neither did they appear to mourn it. No one cried out at the loss of goods. No one tried to save anything. They simply stood quietly, murmuring things amongst themselves, as though the destruction around them was meaningless.

They were right, of course, Sigerric thought. But not for the reason they thought. For the destruction of the marketplace and the docks meant nothing to Sigerric, either. That was not why he was here.

Though the Kymri did not know that. And would not know that until it was far, far too late.

The docks southeast of the city were burned and ruined. Boats drifted in the sea, some half burned, some with holes in their sides and slowly sinking, some simply set adrift. Later the people of the city would swim out to some of these boats and bring them back in for repair. Other boats drifted farther out to sea, riding past the waves that attempted to halt them.

As twilight fell over the sea, one boat, far, far away from shore rocked violently. A man’s head appeared from within the boat. The man peered around, making sure he was far from shore. Then he sat up, took the oars from the bottom of the boat, and locked them into place.

The man smoothed back his scanty, gray hair and raised the tiny sail. He then grasped the oars and began to row. He had a long way to go, he knew, to reach the shores of the Coranian Empire. But he could do it, and do it in time. He had assured Lord Havgan that he could, and Torgar knew better than to fail.

He would reach Corania and find the Emperor’s brother and give him Havgan’s message.

And Corania would then be able to defeat the witches of Kymru once and for all.

Eiodel & Cair Duir
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Eiddew Mis, 500

Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—midmorning

Y
ou must be out of your mind!” Sigerric cried.

Cathbad, Archdruid of Kymru, stiffened in his chair at the insult. But he attempted to keep his voice even when he replied. “I am not out of my mind. And I must insist that you do this the way I say.”

“There is no way,” Sigerric went on furiously, “that I am going to let Havgan go to Caer Duir without a guard. No way under the sun.” For a moment he wondered why he was still such a fool, why he was still so determined to protect the life of the man he had once called friend—once, but no longer. But he knew why. Loyalty was an integral part of who he was. He had always known that. If only he had had the wit to have been more discriminating on whom he originally bestowed it.

“He must come without his men,” Cathbad continued to insist. “The ceremony of tarw-casgliad is sacred to the Druids. Anything which smacks of coercion will compromise the results of the ceremony.”

“You are a fine one to talk about compromising the ceremony,” Sigerric sneered, unable to bear the smug tone of the Archdruid. “Are you not using it for your own ends?”

Cathbad rose, his face suffused with rage. “I am doing this for the Druids! Not for my own aggrandizement!”

“Ha!” Sigerric cried.

The two men continued to argue with each other in the dim chamber at Eiodel, Havgan’s dark fortress. The chamber contained a few slit-like windows, which should have brightened it somewhat as the midmorning sun streamed down. But Havgan’s form blocked the light from the north window, as he stood there looking out over the plain to Cadair Idris, the mountain hall of the High King of Kymru, the edifice that was still denied to him.

A fire glowed feebly on the hearth, shifting shadows across the ceiling and walls. Firelight glinted occasionally off the goblets of ruby and gold on the dark oak wood table that stood in the center of the room.

Cathbad’s dark eyes, even in the gloom, seemed to Sigerric to give off a mad glow. Sigerric knew that the time had almost come to discard this increasingly erratic tool. After the ceremony, perhaps.

Finally Havgan moved, shifting around to gaze at Sigerric and Cathbad. At his movement both of them fell silent.

“We shall do it as the Archdruid says,” Havgan said.

Sigerric was outraged. “What? Go alone? What better time might the Kymri have to kill you than at Caer Duir?”

“You will be surrounded by loyal Druids,” Cathbad insisted, his old face almost breaking into a smile at his triumph.

“Don’t be a fool, Cathbad,” Havgan said smoothly. “Your Druids are anything but loyal.”

Cathbad’s face darkened. “I must protest—”

“Don’t argue with me,” Havgan said his tone smooth but his words clipped. “Your own heir has recently gone to Arthur, taking with him your most talented teachers, as well as his own son. Is that not so?”

“It is,” Cathbad said, making the admission reluctantly. “But that was only six of my Druids. The rest—”

“Are waiting to see who is the stronger—you or Aergol.”

“Say rather, you or Arthur,” Sigerric cut in, speaking to Havgan.

“Yes, you are right,” Havgan replied, crossing the room to pour a cup of wine. The rubies on the cup glittered in the uncertain light like old blood. “I can tell you now which of us is the stronger. For Cathbad will declare me the true High King in the tarw-casglaid ceremony and I will have a claim to Kymru. The restlessness of the Druids will be stilled. And they will, in turn, still the restlessness of the people.”

Sigerric opened his mouth to point out the obvious flaws, but shut it as Havgan raised his amber hawk eyes to him. He saw that Havgan was fully aware that this would not be enough to make him High King of Kymru. The only real way to do that was to defeat the Cerddorian and Arthur utterly on the field of battle. And this was just what Havgan was planning to do—providing the old sailor made it to Corania with Havgan’s message. But all this was something that Cathbad had best not know. So Sigerric remained silent.

Havgan turned to Cathbad, and the Archdruid’s complexion turned from angry red to fearful white as Havgan’s amber gaze pinned him, like the soaring hawk that sights the trembling mouse far below. After a few moments Havgan spoke, very softly. “You will not fail me in this, Archdruid.”

“Great Warleader,” Cathbad stammered at the glimpse of the future promised in Havgan’s predatory eyes should he fail, “I will not.”

“Good,” Havgan said softly.

Gwaithdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—noon

C
ATHBAD STOOD IN
the center of the sacred grove of Nemed Derwen. Hundreds of mighty oaks, the tree sacred to Modron the Mother, planted in circle after widening circle, radiated out from the clearing and lifted their branches to the noonday sun. Cathbad faced west, the direction of the element of earth, but he could still keep an eye on the south, the direction that Havgan and Sigerric would be led through the trees. Even through the shifting oaks he could glimpse the massive, dark standing stone that made up Aelwyd Derwen, the burial mounds of the Archdruids.

Brown-robed Druids lined the perimeter of the clearing. The most senior, those teachers still left at Caer Duir, stood next to him, engrossed in their own tasks. Two of them sharpened their knives. The sounds of the whetstones grated on Cathbad’s ears, but he said nothing. One of them tended a pot of boiling water that hung on a spit over a crackling fire. The fourth held a sickle of gold, and the sunlight that pooled in the clearing flashed off the curved blade. The fifth held a white, pristine cloth. All five, like the rest of the Druids around the clearing, had their hoods up, covering the sides of their faces, casting their countenances into impenetrable shadow.

Cathbad was dressed in a robe of rich green trimmed in velvety brown. Around his shoulders was a cape of brown bull hide, fastened with brooches of gold and sparkling emerald. The Archdruid’s massive golden torque, glittering with emeralds, was clasped around his thin neck. On his head he wore a tiara of shining gold, studded with the verdant stones.

Even though what he would do here today had been staged in advance, Cathbad was not afraid of offending Modron. For all that he did was with one aim in mind—to increase the power of the Druids in Kymru. And surely Modron would not object to that. Were the Druids not her sons and daughters? Modron would understand and he did not fear that the ceremony—and its preordained conclusion—would enrage his goddess.

Aergol had, of course, disagreed. He had shouted that he would not be a part of such a mockery, such traitorous behavior to the Mother. He had spoken of the sacred nature of the rite, of the responsibility of the Archdruid to dream truly and to declare truly. For the tarw-casglaid was a holy rite, a ceremony to enable the Archdruid to speak to the Mother and hear her will and to dare to use it otherwise was to invite disaster.

Cathbad had, of course, disregarded Aergol’s arguments. He had not been particularly surprised a few months ago to discover that Aergol, as well as his son and many of Caer Duir’s finest teachers, had fled during the night. Surprised, no, but enraged, yes. Nonetheless, he had determined to go ahead with his plan. For he knew he was right. Havgan had to be High King of Kymru, for whom else but the Coranians would ensure that the other Y Dawnus—the Dewin, the Bards, and the most hated Dreamers—were exterminated, leaving the Druids supreme?

Movement to the south caught his eye and he turned, watching as Havgan and Sigerric were led on foot into the clearing. Havgan was dressed all in gold from head to toe and rubies glinted around his neck, in his ears, on the turned down cuffs of his boots. A cloak of red hung from his shoulders and a band of gold and rubies bound his brow.

Sigerric was dressed in rich brown. Gold glittered around his neck and wrists, flashing in the sun. Havgan was unarmed, as the law required, but Sigerric had defied Cathbad’s orders by thrusting a dagger into his belt. By the fierce look in Sigerric’s eyes Cathbad knew that to insist on disarming the man would be useless. Better to ignore it.

The two men took the places indicated for them on the south side of the circle. Cathbad again turned west and lifted his arms high. “In the name of Modron, the Great Mother of All, the Goddess of the Earth, Lady of the West, I greet you all. In the name of Modron, Mother of Mabon of the Sun, Mother of Sirona of the Stars, Mother of Cerridwen of the Wild Hunt, Mother of the Druids, I greet you all. In the name of Modron, mate to Taran of the Winds, I greet you all. Oh, mighty Mother-Goddess, we beg for your wisdom. We beg for your guidance. We beg for the gift of a dream, that we may know your will for Kymru. Guide us now, in this the sacred ceremony of tarw-casglaid, as we seek to know your desire. Today I beg you to answer the question on our hearts—who should be proclaimed the High King of Kymru?”

At Cathbad’s nod the Druid with the golden sickle left the center of the clearing to stand beneath one of the oak trees. The Druid hooked the shining, curved blade onto a strap of leather that she then hung around her neck. With a mighty leap she began to climb the stately tree. She climbed swiftly, for the oak seemed to welcome her, almost seeming to bend to enable the climber to make her way up the trunk. At last the Druid reached a clump of mistletoe hanging on one of the uppermost branches. The Druid with the white cloth came to stand beneath the clump of mistletoe, spreading the cloth tautly between his hands.

The Druid in the tree unhooked the golden sickle and carefully cut the clump of mistletoe. The mistletoe fell from the branch, landing squarely in the center of the white cloth. The Druid who had caught the mistletoe brought the plant with its milky-white berries to the Druid who was tending the boiling water. Both Druids tore the leaves from the plant and dropped them into the boiling pot. The water took on a greenish hue that seemed to glow faintly. Then they plucked the white, leathery berries and dropped these too, one by one, into the bubbling pot.

At that moment two more Druids led a brown bull into the clearing. The bull, secured by ropes tied to the golden ring in its snout, was docile, for it had been drugged before the ceremony. Its small, brown eyes were glazed and its movements were slightly sluggish.

The Druid who had climbed the tree was now back in the clearing, and she handed Cathbad the golden sickle. Cathbad made his way to stand by the bull. “Oh, Great Mother,” he called. “Oh, Modron, Queen of the Earth, guide my hand!” He leapt on the bulls back, grabbing the hair between the ears to steady himself. The bull shifted beneath him, but did not run. With his other hand he brought the golden sickle down to the bull’s throat and, in one swift motion, killed the animal.

The bull fell to his knees and Cathbad rolled off to stand to one side. Blood spurted in a fountain from its throat and a Druid caught the liquid in a golden bowl. When the bull fell to its side, dead, the two Druids that had sharpened their knives went to work. Expertly, swiftly, they skinned the bull and cut up the meat, piling it on a golden platter.

Finally, their work was done. The two Druids brought the bull hide to Cathbad and laid it on the ground at his feet. Cathbad sat down on the still-warm and bloody hide. Two more Druids brought the bull’s blood in the golden bowl and the bull’s meat on a golden platter. Cathbad took the bowl and drank, spilling some blood down his chin and onto his fine robe. He then took meat from the platter and began to eat, chewing on the raw meat and swallowing as much as possible. When he could eat and drink no more, he motioned for the Druids to take the bowl and the platter away.

The Druid who had been tending the concoction of mistletoe poured a portion of the contents of the pot into a large goblet of gold and emerald. She brought the cup to Cathbad and he drank. He drank less than it seemed, for though his throat worked he did not swallow much of the liquid. He took care to let some of it spill down his face. If he had drunk the entire cup, as he was supposed to, the contents would indeed induce hallucinations and he did not want that. He did not need those fevered dreams for the Mother to speak to him. After all, he already knew Modron’s will. He set the cup down next to the hide, deliberately spilling some of its contents. The brew sank swiftly into the earth, and it was impossible to tell how much he had drunk, just as he had intended.

“Now will I dream the dreams that Modron sends,” he declared, careful to make his voice somewhat sluggish. For the entire dose of mistletoe would have lowered the speed at which his blood coursed through his body and slowed his heart, and therefore his speech. “For the Great Mother of All will surely speak to me, giving the Kymri the guidance that we crave.” So saying he lay back on the bloody hide while four Druids wrapped the skin around him. Then each stood over him, two at his head and two at his feet.

At that moment the earth trembled beneath them, ever so slightly. The trees rustled as their roots danced. For a moment Cathbad’s nerve almost failed him. For surely Modron herself had indeed come to them. But, after a moment, when the earth again stilled, he took heart. He was doing this for her.

That he was really doing it for himself was a secret he was sure he held inviolate in the deepest recesses of his heart.

And that, he realized later, was his biggest mistake of all.

F
OR A MOMENT
Cathbad lay on the hide, his eyes still open, staring up at the oak branches that spread across the blue sky over the clearing. In a moment he would close his eyes and pretend to dream. In a moment he would—

He started, every muscle in his body tensed. For he thought he saw—something. For a moment it seemed as though the face of one of the four shrouded Druids that surrounded him was the wrong face. It should have been that of Hywel, one of the teachers of the almanac. But, instead, for one moment it seemed to have been Aergol’s face. He blinked, looking closer at the Druid above him. But the face was shadowed by the Druid’s cowl and the hands tucked into the long sleeves of the Druid’s traditional robe. And, any way, that was nonsense. Absolute nonsense. Aergol, his heir, was gone. Aergol has repudiated his master, and would not return.