Cry of Sorrow (2 page)

Cerrunnos said, “Look now at Gwyr Yr Brenin, the Seeker of the King. The Stone you seek.”

And though Gwydion did not know it, at that moment Rhiannon ur Hefeydd called out in her sleep. “The water. Please, please, no.” Her words echoed hollowly in the cave in which she slept.

In the dream, another object swam to the surface of the pool. It was a cauldron of gold, interlaced with a dizzying array of spirals, the lip of the bowl covered with emeralds.

Cerridwen said, “Buarth Y Greu, Circle of Blood. The Cauldron you seek.”

While far away, in Ogaf Greu on the shores of Prydyn, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram moaned in her sleep, her blond hair drenched with sweat. “No. The earth. No,” she pleaded softly.

Another shimmer and Gwydion saw a spear, the shaft twined with silver and gold. Fiery opals gleamed around its shaft.

“Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge,” Cerridwen said. “The Spear you seek.”

At that moment Gwydion’s sleeping body, which lay dreaming on his pallet, twisted in fear. “The fire. Oh, the fire,” he moaned.

Another object hurtled to the surface of the pool. It was a sword. The hilt was silver mesh, chased with gold, formed in the shape of a hawk, and studded with sapphires.

“Meirig Yr Llech,” Cerrunnos intoned. “The Guardian of the Stone. The Sword you seek.”

While far off, in the tiny village of Dinas Emrys, in the mountains of Eyri, Arthur ap Uthyr called out, “The air. No. No. I can’t.”

And then, to Gwydion’s horror, a man he knew appeared on the opposite edge of the pool. He was dressed in shining gold, and his amber eyes gleamed with a terrible need. On his head he wore a helmet fashioned like the head of a boar, with ivory tusks and baleful, ruby eyes. He held a huge sword, the blade carved with boar’s heads. The Golden Man raised his head, his amber eyes boring into Gwydion’s gray ones. “I will find the Treasures, Dreamer. Find them—and you. I will take them, and enter Cadair Idris. I will kill you all,” Havgan rasped, then vanished.

The pool, still glowing at Gwydion’s feet, abruptly winked out.

“Now is the time we have spoken of, Gwydion ap Awst,” Cerridwen said. “The Hunt for the Treasures begins. We give you these two clues. Remember the Song of the Caers. Use the rings as your guide.”

As Cerridwen and Cerrunnos turned their horses to go, Gwydion cried out. “Wait! I have never heard of the Song of the Caers. And I don’t know which rings you speak of! Please, you must tell me! Help me!”

“This is a mystery for you to unravel, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos said coldly.

“And yours to unravel soon. The Treasures must be found, and brought to Cadair Idris before the year is out,” Cerridwen said. “Or Kymru will die beneath your feet, never to return to life again.”

“But Cadair Idris is surrounded by the enemy! How can we get through?”

Cerridwen went on as though Gwydion had not spoken. “There the High King must go with the Treasures in his hands. And there he will undergo the Tynged Mawr, the Great Fate, and, if found worthy, he will have the power to free our land. And so your task begins again, Dreamer. It is time.”

As G
WYDION WOKE
, shivering in the cave, the faces of those seen in the pool burned in his mind. Queen Elen of Ederynion, held captive in Dinmael by the Coranians. King Rhoram of Prydyn, hiding out in the caves of Ogaf Greu, his country ruled by his traitorous brother-in-law. Princess Enid of Rheged, hiding from the enemy with her brother, King Owein. Queen Morrigan, Uthyr’s daughter, hiding in the mountains of Gwynedd while her uncle ruled in her stead. These four held the key, somehow, in some way, to finding what he must now seek.

The last words of Cerridwen rang in his mind, fresh and vibrant, as he rose from his pallet and knelt by the sleeping Rhiannon. The moonlight turned the waterfall that stretched across the cave mouth into a curtain of shimmering silver. The silvery light outlined her sleeping face, a face that had become dear to him, though he would not speak this truth aloud. Her shadowy hair was tangled, as though her sleep was restless, too. Gently he reached out and touched her rich hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and shook her awake.

And as her green eyes opened and fastened on him, it was Cerridwen’s words that rang throughout the cave.

“It is time,” he said.

Gwaithdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

H
avgan, Warleader of the Coranian Empire and the self-styled master of Kymru, gazed upon Cadair Idris, passionate hatred on his handsome face.

The deserted mountain hall of the High King remained closed to him. After two years of trying, the Doors would not open. Not yet.

Not ever
, a voice inside whispered, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Gwydion the Dreamer, Havgan’s most hated enemy.
You are not the High King
, the voice went on.
And you never will be
.

But he would be. When he found the Four Treasures, then the doors of Cadair Idris would open to him, and he would walk into the mountain that defied him. He would walk through in triumph, and the place would be his. All of Kymru would be his.

When he found the Treasures. And he would. He must.

For crushing Kymru beneath his heel had not been enough. Driving the Bards and the Dewin from their halls had not been enough. Killing Kymru’s Kings and Queens had not been enough. For even now he could feel Kymru slipping through his fingers, as it had from the very beginning.

His gaze played over the plain from which the defiant mountain sprang. It was early spring, and the day was crisp and cool. The grasses of the plain were brown, yet here and there patches of pale green could be seen. The trees of Coed Llachar, the forest to the west of the mountain stood tall and proud, guarding their green silences closely. The standing stones of Galar Carreg, the burial place of the High Kings of Kymru, loomed coldly, keeping their secrets to themselves.

Far off at the edge of the western horizon, he caught a glimpse of the silvery waters of Llyn Mwyngil, shining clear and cold. A cool breeze blew over the meadow, creating swirling patterns in the grass. But, once again, the message in those patterns eluded him. The wildflowers that dotted the plain were just beginning to raise their heads. Yet even the once-vibrant colors of the wildflowers looked pale, washed out, lifeless. Almost as though Kymru was dying beneath his feet even as he tried to take it for his own.

The harvests for the past two years had been poor, and some of the Kymri had starved. The earth gave food grudgingly, if at all. Oh, he knew what the people were saying. They said that Modron, the Great Mother, was angry that her children, the Druids, had turned from her. In retaliation, she withheld her blessing from the earth.

Not true, Havgan knew. For his God was stronger than the gods of the Kymri. It was obvious that Lytir, the One God, was displeased, and he showed it by the poor harvests. And he must be displeased because the witches—the Dewin, the Bards, and that hateful Dreamer—were still alive, still free, still defying Havgan and his God.

But not for much longer. Today he would meet with his inner circle, to bring to fruition plans that would make his dream a reality, plans that had been in the making for the past two years. Today, the battle for Kymru would begin again. And this time, when the battle was over, his victory would be complete.

It had been the strange dream two nights ago that made him understand victory was in his grasp. For the search for the Treasures was beginning. When Gwydion ap Awst found them, he would turn to find Havgan right behind him.

Havgan’s fists clenched in rage as he gazed with hungry eyes at the still-closed Doors to the mountain.

The jewels of the Doors winked slyly at him in the morning sun. The fiery opals of Mabon of the Sun, the cool sapphires of Taran of the Winds, the gleaming emeralds of Modron the Mother, the luminous pearls of Nantsovelta of the Waters all mocked him in their splendor, in his inability to destroy them.

The onyx of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, the bloodstone of Aertan, the Weaver of Fate, seemed to laugh at him. The diamonds for Sirona of the Stars, the garnets for Grannos the Healer, the bloodred rubies for the Warrior Twins shimmered and danced before his predatory gaze.

And it was then that the topaz of the Master of the Hunt and the amethyst of the Lady of the Wood blazed up fiercely, blinding him with their light. It was then that the many-colored hues of Arderydd, the High Eagle, seemed to shriek at him in defiance.

Havgan did not step back as the light bored into his eyes. He stood his ground before the Doors and vowed that the Shining Ones of Kymru would not mock him much longer.

What was left of them, that is. For they were dying. The god and goddess in his dream of a few nights ago, the two that led the Wild Hunt, glimpsed for one brief moment, had been bereft of power. Wan and pale and—almost—lifeless. He would defeat them.

With a mocking bow to show he was unafraid, he turned from the Doors to gaze upon Eiodel, the black fortress he had built less than a league away. Eiodel, built in defiance of Cadair Idris, in pride, in mockery, gleamed darkly, its shadowy stones rearing proudly to the sky.

One day he would bring Gwydion to Eiodel. He would cast the Dreamer into its deep dungeons. And he would smile at the sound of Gwydion’s screams.

But there was much to be done, he thought, as he walked down the broken steps of Cadair Idris. The steps were twined with the brown stems of dead rockrose and alyssum. The low moan of the wind whistled past him, ruffling the golden cloak he wore. The sunlight blazed on his golden helmet. His amber eyes, keen and fierce, flashed with contempt at the sight of the man who was waiting at the bottom of the steps.

“Lord Havgan.” The black-robed figure bowed. “I have been looking for you.”

“How difficult that must be with only one eye,” Havgan replied pleasantly.

Sledda, the Arch-wyrce-jaga of Kymru, supreme witch hunter, flushed an ugly red. The empty socket where his right eye had once rested was stiff and seamed with scars. His remaining eye, pale and colorless, shined with malevolence as Sledda bowed his head in what Havgan knew to be mock humility.

“One day, Lord Havgan, I will find that eagle. And I will kill it.”

“You would do better, Sledda, to find and kill the witches who have escaped you. Two years I have been waiting for you to do so.”

“The witches are clever,” Sledda hissed.

“And you are not. The Master Bard and the Ardewin still elude you. And, worse, yet, you have not brought me the Dreamer or his whore, Rhiannon.”

Sledda’s one eye gleamed at the mention of Rhiannon’s name. “One day I will, Lord. And you will give the whore to me.”

“Most probably. After I am finished. Just what is it you want, Sledda? Assuming you have come for some other purpose than to tell me all the things you will do—but have not yet done.”

“I come to tell you that they are all here and waiting. It is time.”

Sledda’s words echoed within him, as he remembered the words of the dying goddess from his dream.

“Yes, Sledda,” he said. “It is time.”

T
HE CHAMBER IN
the castle of Eiodel was stark. The stone floor was polished to a deadly sheen, its smooth darkness unrelieved by rugs. The walls, pierced here and there with narrow windows, were bare. Torches flickered in their wall sockets, but they could not fully illuminate the shadows that clung to this room.

A fire roared in the huge fireplace set into the south wall. Six high-backed chairs were arrayed in a semicircle before the fire. All but two of the chairs were occupied when Havgan walked into the room, Sledda behind him like a malevolent shadow.

The first man Havgan greeted was Sigerric, now the Over-general of Kymru. The face of Havgan’s oldest friend had changed steadily over the years. The joy of life, which had once danced in Sigerric’s dark eyes, was gone. His too-thin face was stern, and lines of despair bracketed his once-laughing mouth.

The blue robes of Eadwig, the Archbyshop of Kymru, shimmered in the firelight, straining against his broad, muscular shoulders. His large hands were scarred from the thousands of battles he had fought to claim the life and blood of the bulls in the weekly sacrifices to Lytir. The Archbyshop’s blue eyes were peaceful, despite the fact that the Kymri eluded the grasp of the One God. Havgan envied the inner peace in the man’s eyes, the peace of a man who knew himself and his place in the world.

Far to the right of the circle sat two of the Kymri, both dressed in brown robes trimmed in green. The hair of the Archdruid had turned even whiter in the past few years, but Cathbad’s dark eyes still gleamed with cunning and—on occasion—madness. At his feet was a leather bag, which he touched occasionally as though it held something very precious.

The saturnine features of Aergol, the Archdruid’s heir, were unreadable as always. Even his eyes were opaque, giving no hint of his thoughts. If he disapproved of Cathbad’s support of the enemy, he did not show it. If he approved, he did not show it. He rarely showed anything, including concern for his family. For Aergol’s mother, Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer, was still alive, hiding somewhere. His daughter, Sinend, had run away from Caer Duir two years ago and had not been heard from since. Havgan rarely saw Aergol’s son, Menw, whose mother was one of the teachers at Caer Duir. The boy never seemed to be around when the Coranians were there. Aergol never spoke of him. In fact, Aergol rarely spoke at all.

Havgan took his place. The firelight flickered off his golden helmet. His amber eyes shimmered with an inner fire, as he began.

“A few years ago I won the position of Warleader of the Empire, killing my rival, claiming the hand of Princess Aelfwyn. I claimed the power to direct the might of the empire for one reason—to complete the task that God had set for me many years before, the task to conquer the Kymri, to retake this land and cleanse it of the unholy taint of the witches who ruled it. I came to Kymru to bring the might of my God before the people, to reclaim them from their evil ways. To that end I brought with me the preosts of Lytir, as represented by the good Archbyshop.” Havgan paused to nod at Eadwig.