May Earth Rise (44 page)

Elen cleared her throat. “I would be honored to have you by my side.”

Rhiwallon grinned, relieved. He took her hand and imprinted a kiss on her palm. He bowed briefly then left to join his brother for the day’s march.

“Very smooth, sister,” Lludd said with a grin.

Elen, without taking her eyes off of Rhiwallon’s retreating figure said crisply, “Don’t you think there is someone you need to see this morning, too?”

M
ORRIGAN STOOD BY
her campfire staring out across Lake Mwyngil. She could just make out traces of the blackened, scarred encampment on Afalon. This had been the place where the Y Dawnus had been held captive, up until just a few weeks ago. This had been the place her brother had destroyed, cleansing it with Druid’s Fire.

Already it seemed the signs of burning were being replaced by fresh growth. Birch trees, with their silvery white bark and drooping branches mingled with tall ash trees, their large, dark green leaves tossing in the breeze.

Surely, she thought, they were closer to the old encampment than they had been the day before. But then, Afalon had always been a strange, enchanted place. A breeze rippled the clear, blue water as she listened quietly to Susanna.

“Legend says that when Bran found the High King right here on the shore, Lleu was still alive,” the Bard said. “He begged Bran to spare the High Queen, though she had betrayed him.”

“Why did he do that?” Morrigan asked.

“He loved her,” Cai said as he gazed at Susanna. She smiled back at him, her blue eyes alight.

Gwyhar, Susanna’s son, smiled at the look in his stepfather’s eyes. Even Ygraine’s frosty expression melted a little at the tone in Cai’s voice, as though remembering the love she and Uthyr had once shared. Bedwyr and Tangwen, newly married, also smiled.

Morrigan sighed inwardly. There seemed to be a great many people in love these days. She was happy that her friends were happy, but it seemed to her that they were easily distracted. And they had serious business to do.

“Any word from my brother this morning?” she asked Susanna, to get the conversation back to business. She would hear the story of Bran and Lleu another time.

“He asked me to greet you. And to tell you that he requires Gwyhar to stand with the Y Dawnus tomorrow.”

Then her mother spoke. “I, too, will join Arthur tomorrow. He has asked me to arm him.”

Morrigan’s eyes filled briefly with tears at the pride in her mother’s voice, for she knew what it meant to Ygraine to have been asked to do that. And she did not begrudge her mother that task. Still, she felt a little deflated that both Gwyhar and Ygraine would not be with her tomorrow.

But that feeling was forgotten swiftly when she heard her name.

“Good morning, Morrigan,” Lludd, the Prince of Ederynion, said.

A
RTHUR SAT IN
Taran’s Tower, the chamber at the uppermost level of Cadair Idris. Sunlight streamed through the clear glasslike ceiling, illuminating the silvery walls. Diamonds on the walls, representing the stars over Kymru, glittered brightly. A few small tables and some comfortable chairs completed the furnishings. Arthur sat in one chair, frowning down at the black and white squares of the tarbell board.

The game had once been in the garden room, a room Arthur loved. But since the wounded Y Dawnus had been rescued from Afalon and brought here to Cadair Idris, they spent a great deal of time in the garden room as they regained both their psychic and physical strength. That room, which held a small fountain as well as shrubs, flowers, and trees, soothed them. So he had given the room over to them and moved the tarbell set up here to this chamber.

As from the beginning, the tarbell game fascinated him. He had found that he had a knack for this game of strategy, an ability to plan many moves ahead, keeping his eye on the goal—to capture the opposing side’s High King. But there was something else about these particular pieces that drew him. Something he had noticed about them from the beginning. Something that, if other people had noticed, no one had mentioned.

He heard the door open. He did not have to turn around to know who it was. Gwydion took a seat opposite Arthur. After a moment he reached out and moved the raven-shaped Dreamer’s piece diagonally across two squares.

Arthur reached out and moved the High Queen to that square, taking the Dreamer’s piece off the board. “You sacrificed the Dreamer,” Arthur pointed out. “Why?”

Surprisingly, Gwydion grinned. “There’s more than one.”

“And how is Cariadas today?” Arthur asked.

“A little subdued, actually,” Gwydion replied, his smile fading a little.

“Overwhelmed?”

“She’s young.”

Arthur snorted. “She and I are about the same age.”

“So very true,” Gwydion murmured.

Suddenly, Arthur laughed. “Yes, I too, am young. But it is my time now.”

“So it is,” Gwydion agreed. “Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

Gwydion’s brows raised in surprise. “What do you mean by almost?”

“There is one thing yet to do before tomorrow. And for that I need both Dreamers.”

“What do you intend?”

“I intend to Walk-Between-the-Worlds.”

“Where do you need to go?”

“I need to go to Gwlad Yr Haf.”

“To the Summer Land to speak with the dead? Why?”

“To be honest, uncle, I do not know. I know only that I am drawn to go there. I hope that once I am there, I will understand something that I do not understand now. I only know that there is something I do not know. Something that I need to know if we are to achieve victory tomorrow.”

“Unlikely as that is.” Gwydion snorted.

“It is unlikely,” Arthur agreed. “But it is the only chance we will get.”

“Very well. Cariadas and I will return here this evening.”

At that the door opened again. Gwen stood framed in the doorway. She wore a tunic of black leather with the wolf-badge of Prydyn sewn to the front. Her blond hair was braided tightly and wound around her head. She carried a metal helmet and her expression was defiant.

Gwydion rose and went to the door. He bowed briefly to Gwen. His silver eyes danced as he took in her outfit and Arthur’s face. But he left without a word.

Gwen entered the room and came to stand before Arthur. “I am leaving today,” she said abruptly.

“I see.”

“To join my father when he nears Cadair Idris.”

“Yes.”

“I insist that I be able to fight by his side tomorrow.”

“Yes, you would.”

“I would what?” she snapped.

“Insist. It wouldn’t matter to you that I need you here.”

“For what?” she snorted.

“To join the Druids. Battle is the hardest on them. I need as many as I can get.”

“You won’t miss me, then. I am not trained.”

“You are not, perhaps, as well trained as some,” Arthur replied evenly. “But Madryn has taught you well these past few months. More than that, you are strong—very strong—in your gift. Stronger than you realize.”

For a brief moment uncertainty flickered in her beautiful eyes. “Really?”

“Really.” He lowered his eyes beneath her gaze to stare back down at the tarbell board. For looking at her made him want to say all the things he knew he should not say. Not yet, at any rate. Not until—not unless—he won the battle tomorrow. His eyes rested on the face of the tarbell High Queen and he reached out and took the piece in his hands.

“You don’t need me here,” she said.

“I do,” he answered.

“I don’t believe you,” Gwen said after a moment of silence.

“I don’t suppose you do,” he said quietly. “To believe me might take some measure of understanding. And you have none.”

He expected her to be enraged by that. He expected to have a brief fight with her now that would end with her leaving in a rage. He expected to feel better after that, to feel less like he was risking the loss of something dearer to him than life. But she remained silent. At last he looked up. She was staring down at the piece in his hand, a strange expression on her face.

“I understand more than you think, High King,” she said quietly. She reached out her hand and he gently handed her the piece. She held it up, studying it intently. “Or did you really think I hadn’t noticed?”

He did not know what to say to that, so he remained silent. She handed the piece back. “I will stay.” She left the room before he could reply.

He held the piece in his hand, staring down at the exquisite, carved face, the face that was the image of hers. After a moment, he smiled. She would stay.

T
HE STARS WHEELED
overhead, glittering coldly in the darkened sky. Starlight streamed into the chamber, vying with the low glow of the smoldering fire in the brazier. Rhiannon and Gwen, both with scarves tied over their noses and mouths, slowly fed the fire using wet, green saplings.

Smoke filled the room, dimming the starlight, dimming Arthur’s vision. Although he knew Gwydion lay on the floor to his right and Cariadas lay on the floor to his left, he could no longer see them.

It was time. He closed his eyes, and waited.

H
E STOOD BY
a well on the isle of Afalon. Gwydion and Cariadas stood with him, looking down into the clear water. Without even having to ask, Arthur knew that this was the place where Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings, had rested for so long. And he knew that this was where Gwydion’s brother, Amatheon, had died. Even all these years later Arthur could still see the echo of grief in his uncle’s eyes. The sound of wings caused him to look up and he saw that the surrounding trees were filled with ravens. They made no other sound, and their strange silence filled his head.

“They are your escort to the Otherworld,” Gwydion said quietly.

“And they will ensure your return,” Cariadas said. She held out three black raven’s feathers. Arthur took them, stowing them inside his tunic. “Keep these with you on your journey,” she went on. “When you are ready to return, take them in your hand, then call us. We will be waiting.”

“What must I do?” Arthur asked his uncle.

But it was Cariadas who answered. “Look into the well.”

And so he looked, but he could see only his own reflection. The scar on his face whitened, and his dark eyes gazed back up at him. The water, still and silent, began to glow with a silvery light. He reached down and put his hand into the water. And that was when he felt another hand grasp his. And pull him down.

W
HEN HE OPENED
his eyes he was laying in a meadow. His clothes were dry. The long grasses bent beneath a gentle wind and he thought he heard the faint sound of a hunting horn. Overhead the sky was clear and the sun shone down warmly. He leapt to his feet. Before him stood a massive door of stone set incongruously in the center of the meadow. He walked all around the door, trying to see where it led. But he could not, for it was just a door standing by itself. At last he reached out to open the door when a low growl stopped him. Involuntarily he stepped back.

The hound was huge, almost the size of the door itself. It was white, like the hounds of Annwyn, and its eyes were blood red. But Arthur knew the dog’s name. And he knew the dog’s purpose. And he knew that the dog would let him by.

“Heel, Dormath,” he said to the hound that guarded the door to Gwlad Yr Haf. “I have come to speak to your master and mistress. They have called me.”

The hound raised his head to the sky and bayed. The mournful howl sounded out across the meadow, echoing again and again across the plain. But the dog stepped back from the door. Tentatively Arthur reached out and grasped the round, iron ring. He pulled with all his strength. Slowly the door opened. He could see nothing but velvety darkness. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through, to the Otherworld.

I
N THE CENTER
of the garden, there was a fountain fed by five glittering streams. The streams played over rocks and the splash of the fountain sounded joyfully. Delicate lily of the valley, impossibly blue forget-me-nots, and shy violets lined the streams. Beds of green moss glowed emerald, lit by lemony yellow globeflowers and sweet, white alyssum.

At first Arthur had thought he was alone. With a start he saw that a man sat on the rim of the golden fountain, his head bowed. The man raised his head as Arthur came to stand before him.

“Da!” Arthur exclaimed in a strangled whisper. “Oh, Da.”

Uthyr ap Rathtyen var Awst rose and bowed to his son.

“Da, don’t bow to me.”

“I do not bow to you, my son. I bow to the High King of Kymru.” But then Uthyr smiled. Arthur hurled himself into his father’s arms and they held each other tightly, neither of them willing to let go.

At last they reluctantly parted, stepping back to look at each other. Uthyr looked much as he had when Arthur had last seen him, but the lines of strain and care were gone. His face glowed with pride as he looked at Arthur.

“My son,” Uthyr said, “you look tired.”

“I suppose I do,” Arthur said past he lump in his throat. “There is much happening in Kymru.”

“Is there?” Uthyr asked. “But now you are here, and I can tell by the life in your eyes that you are not dead. What, then, is your need?”

“I must see Aertan and Annwyn.”

“You seek the Weaver and the Lord of Chaos? That is something few of the living dare, or even the dead desire.”

“Yes, I know. But the need is great.”

“Then your courage must be, also. Come, I will take you to them.”

He took his father’s hand and the fountain, the streams, the garden melted away. Suddenly a huge wheel began to take shape before his eyes. It appeared to be made of fire and water, of earth and air. Streams of golden fire twined with silvery water as the wheel spun. Green grass mingled with cool breezes. Sunny days twisted with ropes of lighting sped by. Silvery moonlight and golden sunlight were knotted together in an intricate pattern that the mind could not grasp. The wheel spun sometimes slowly, sometimes so fast it was merely a blur. A great rushing sound filled his ears as the wheel spun. Behind the wheel he saw planets moving in an intricate dance, stars wheeling after them, and meteors leaving trails of fire as they rushed by.