Crimson Fire (8 page)

The
fi
re from the hearth
fl
ickered over the book-lined walls

as she crept to him cautiously, looking down at him as he lay prone on the rich rug of red and black. His close-cropped, black beard shadowed the lower half of his handsome face, and his eyes were closed.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and smiled, and she crowed with delight. He sat up, and she put her arms around his neck to ensure that he was all right. Her nearly toothless grin was wide and happy.

“So,” he said with a laugh, “the great Cariadas, heir to the Dreamer of Kymru, has defeated the terrible monster! You win, my daughter. Savor your victory!”

She laughed again, her one-year-old fresh face delighted. Her red-gold hair clung to her head in riotous curls and her gray eyes, so like his, were sparkling with glee.

They heard footsteps outside the study door and looked at each other, both with mock terror on their faces.

“Oh, no!” Gwydion cried. “She’s come to take you! Well, I will not let her, not I!” He leapt up, Cariadas in his arms, and faced the door. “Fear not, fair maiden!” he went on. “For I will protect you!”

The study door opened, and Dinaswyn, Gwydion’s aunt, stood there, her arms on her hips, a scowl on her face. Her dark hair, lightly touched by frost, was held back from her face by a red ribbon, and her gray eyes were sparkling with irritation.

“She should have been in bed an hour ago,” Dinaswyn ac- cused.

“I wanted to spend more time with her. I haven’t been back very long,” Gwydion protested. “And I was a long time away.” “Nonetheless, it is past her bedtime,” Dinaswyn insisted. “And you’ve been back for over a week. Not, of course, that I

have any idea where you were.”

Gwydion sighed to himself. That he had not told Dinaswyn exactly where he had been still rankled. Knowing his aunt, it always would. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her as much as it was

that he needed to distance himself from her. He had been the Dreamer of Kymru now for four years, and she still seemed to have trouble remembering that.

Besides, where he had been and what he had been doing was far too secret to be bandied about. He had recently taken young Arthur, the Prince of Gwynedd, from Tegeingl and de- posited the boy in the care of Myrrdin in the tiny village of Di- nas Emrys. And that was something he wanted no one to know who didn’t have to. And Dinaswyn didn’t have to.

“Where I have been and what I have been doing is surely my business,” he said coolly.

“As I well know,” Dinaswyn replied as she crossed to him and took Cariadas from his arms. “Now, little one,” Dinaswyn said softly to the little girl, “say good-night to your da and go to bed.”

Cariadas yawned and leaned forward to put her little arms around Gwydion’s neck. She kissed his cheek then nestled against Dinaswyn’s chest, her eyelids already drooping. He smiled as he gently stroked her hair, then whispered his good-night.

Dinaswyn turned and went to the study door. She hesitated a moment, then turned around. “I see the signs,” she said qui- etly. “You will dream tonight. If there is need, call me.”

“I will,” he said, knowing that he wouldn’t.

She knew it, too, but did not say it. She left, cradling the already-sleeping Cariadas.

She was right. The signs were there. He had been restless all day, and had been having trouble concentrating. There was a dream awaiting him, and it was an important one, as he had learned to judge these matters.

He climbed the steps leading to Ystafell Yr Arymes, the

Chamber of Prophecy at the top of the Dreamer’s Tower. When he entered the room, he lifted his hand and called Druid’s Fire. Blue and orange
fl
ames immediately
fl
ickered from the brazier that stood next to the simple pallet in the middle of the room. Sapphires, pearls, opals, and emeralds glittered around the four round windows that pierced the tower walls. Onyx and blood- stone gleamed from the
fl
oor as he crossed over to the pallet.

He discarded his robe and lay down, his hands behind his head, eyeing the constellations that glittered through the glass roof of the chamber. His eyes picked out the constellation of Ar- derydd, the High Eagle, the sign of the High Kings of Kymru. He thought of young Arthur, safe for the moment, in the tiny mountain village of Dinas Emrys. He wondered again what terrible thing the future had in store that a new High King had been born to combat it. He knew that it would be revealed to him in time, and he hoped with all his heart that he would be able to meet whatever challenge was in store.

Still looking up at the stars, he recited the Dreamer’s prayer:
“Annwyn with me laying down, Aertan with me sleeping. The white flame of Nantsovelta in my soul,

The mantle of Modron about my shoulders,

The protection of Taran over me, taking my hand, And in my heart, the fire of Mabon.

If malice should threaten my life

Then the Shining Ones between me and evil. From tonight till a year from tonight,

And this very night, And forever,

And for eternity. Awen.”

And then he slept, as the waning moon bathed him in its dying, silvery beams.

H
E WAS STANDING
at the crossroads. On either side of the road, tall grass stretched to the horizon as far as he could see. Wind rippled the grass, creating patterns that lay just beyond the edge of understanding. Around and around the wind played, draw- ing shapes that constantly
fl
ickered and vanished, shifting over and over across the plain.

Storm clouds hovered, piled high in the darkening sky. The threatening black and purple clouds were laced with
fl
ashes of lightning. But there was no rain. And no sound other than the wind whipping mercilessly past him as he stood at the cross- roads, unable to go on.

It was here that the road parted. The road leading to the right stretched out to the horizon, shining with a warm, steady glow in the
fl
ickering light of the gathering storm. Wide and straight, it was a safe path, the one he wanted to take. The one he would have taken, if he could only move. But, somehow, the decision was not his to make.

He glanced at the left-hand road and shuddered. It twisted horribly as it made its sluggish way across the plain, like a dy- ing serpent. It was full of shadows that stretched across the road like greedy
fi
ngers. The road led into a tunnel of darkness unimaginable. It frightened him to think of what was waiting in that dark tunnel in the middle of the plain. If only he could move, he would run like the wind up the glowing right road, run far away from this terrible crossroads and from this terrible choice that was not his to make.

Then he became aware that there were others waiting at

the crossroads. People began to emerge from the tall, waving grass and step reluctantly onto the road, pulled there against their will by a force they could not break.

He saw Uthyr and Ygraine with their daughter, young Morrigan, followed closely by Cai, Gwynedd’s Captain. He saw Queen Olwen of Ederynion put a protective arm around the slim shoulders of her daughter, Elen, and ignoring her son, Lludd, while Angharad, Ederynion’s Captain guarded them all. He saw Urien, the King of Rheged, with his wife and four children clustered around him, followed by Rheged’s Captain, Trystan. He saw King Rhoram of Prydyn with his son, Geriant, and daughter, Sanon, shadowed by Achren, Prydyn’s Captain.

More and more people were stepping onto the road behind him, all waiting silently to travel the road they were destined to take. Dinaswyn and Arianrod appeared, their hands linked by a silver chain Arianrod was struggling to break. Cathbad, the Archdruid, his expression serious and thoughtful, stepped onto the road, followed by Aergol, his heir, whose face was carefully expressionless.

He saw Anieron, the Master Bard, step from the tall grass and look around him with knowing eyes. He was followed closely by his brother, Dudod. Then Anieron’s daughter, El- star, and her husband, Elidyr, and their two sons stepped onto the path. Gwydion’s daughter, Cariadas, was with them. He longed to go to her but somehow knew that he could not.

Myrrdin made his way up the road, his arm around the shoulders of a young man whom Gwydion knew to be Arthur. And Arthur, slim and tall, with his auburn hair and his dark eyes, left Myrrdin to stand next to Gwydion at this terrible crossroads.

And then, most surprising of all, a woman stepped out of the tall grass. Her long dark hair was black as night and her eyes were a startling emerald green. She walked up the road to stand on Gwydion’s other side, and he instantly knew her— Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, the woman of the House of Llyr who had disappeared so long ago. She was holding the hand of a young girl with blond hair whom Gwydion somehow knew to be her daughter, Gwenhwyfar. The sunny-haired girl reached out and clasped Arthur’s hand tightly.

Thus the four of them—Gwydion, Rhiannon, Arthur, and Gwenhwyfar—stood together, the rest of Kymru fanning out behind them, standing silently at the crossroads beneath the darkening sky, waiting for the one who would make the choice. And at last he came.

Out of the tall wind-swept grass a man rose up, golden and proud. His hair was honey-blond, and his eyes were amber, set above high cheekbones in a handsome, powerful face. As he made his way up to the crossroads, the crowd parted before him like water. And then he stopped, staring at Gwydion. For a mo- ment they looked at each other. And for a moment it seemed to Gwydion that he had always known this man. Face to face they stood silently as the wind grew stronger, whipping around the Golden Man and the Dreamer.

The man looked up the road to the right and took a hesitant step in that direction. Gwydion sighed in relief. But then the golden man looked back to the left road and all was lost. For in the middle of that road a helmet of gold appeared. It was fash- ioned like the head of a boar, with tusks of ivory and ruby eyes. Trans
fi
xed, the Golden Man stepped onto the left road, reach- ing for the helmet. He raised it high, and the lightning began to

fl
ash. Jagged spars reached down from the sky, bathing the left road in
fi
re. The golden man lowered the helmet over his head, and the right road suddenly vanished from the plain. There was only one road now, the road of
fi
re leading into darkness.

One by one the people took the left road, following the Golden Man down, down into the dark. Gwydion was pulled helplessly along with the rest, terror-stricken, his heart pound- ing. But Rhiannon held tightly to his hand, giving him strength in this horror as the darkness loomed over him and swallowed him whole.

A
S
G
WYDION JERKED
awake, the thought came clearly. Cross- roads—the place where decisions are made. Something had happened, somewhere. The Golden Man, whoever he was, wherever he was, had made a decision to travel the left road down to darkness, taking everyone with him.

And as he thought that, the wind came up, whipping through the mountains, reaching even into the Chamber of Prophecy, stirring the
fi
re in the brazier. The gale shook the tower, scraping over the stone, tumbling leaves with the sound of bones rattling, making the mountains shiver. And bringing with it the faroff sound of a hunting horn as the Wild Hunt rode the night sky.

C
hapter
3

Camlan, Marc of Gillingas, Aecesdun, Marc of Cantware & Athelin, Marc of Ivelas

Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire Falmonath & Sifmonath, 488

H

Wodaeg, Sol 11—early afternoon

avgan walked through the ruins of the once-white halls of Ealh Galdra, the Temple of Magic. Though the roof was long gone, the stone pillars that had

once held it were still standing. Here and there white glim- mered from stones stained with dirt, age, and soot—for the
fi
re that had raged through the temple centuries ago had burned
fi
ercely, imprinting its deadly memory onto the stones.

Behind him the others stood in a knot just outside of the ruins. Catha and Baldred appeared to be almost bored, but Havgan had expected that. They and their families had long ago accepted the worship of Lytir, and they gave no credence to, nor had any real understanding of, the power of the Old Gods.

But Talorcan and Penda did, and for that reason, Havgan knew, they both were tense and wary. They had done their best to argue him out of coming here, to this place where the Old Gods had once reigned supreme through the once-revered

Maeder-Godias, the mother-priestesses. Before the new reli- gion of Lytir had come to Corania, women of the royal family had often become Maeder-Godias, leading the country in the worship of the gods. But when the worship of Lytir had be- come universally accepted, this place had been burned, and the reigning Maeder-Godia, Valeda of Dere, had been taken away to Athelin and burned at the stake.

Before her death Velada had chosen her successor, a prin- cess of Dere named In
fl
eda. But whom In
fl
eda had chosen as successor was unknown, for by that time Dere had been ab- sorbed into the Empire and the Heiden, as those followers of the old religion were now called, had been outlawed, as had the Wiccan, those who had special gifts akin to the witches of Kymru. Rumor had it that the line of Maeder-Godias still con- tinued, in secret. Their capture was the dream of every wyrce- jaga in the Empire. But those women who had held the position since In
fl
eda had been far too canny to be caught—if they even really existed at all.

He brushed his hand against a blackened stone and shiv- ered as an unexpected chill ran through his body. The wind moaned softly as it made its lonely way among the stones. Since the time of Velada’s execution, the ruins of Ealh Galdra had been deserted and no one willingly came here—even in the daytime. No, Havgan had not been at all surprised that Talor- can and Penda had tried to prevent his coming here.