Afalon Gwytheryn, Kymru Eiddew Mis, 500
Meriwydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening
The stars sprang forth, glittering brightly as the sky darkened overhead. It would be hours before the moon rose, so no other light vied with the diamond-hard starlight that pooled over the shadowy plain. Even the steady glow of Cadair Idris could not be seen. For the mountain was a day’s march away from the shores of Llyn Mwyngil, where Arthur and his companions now lay concealed in the tall grasses at the edge of the lake. A faint breeze stirred the grasses, but the night maintained its silence, holding its secrets closely.
The dark hulk of Afalon lay silently in the center of the lake, giving out nothing, asking for nothing, inviolate, in spite of the fact that the Coranians had invaded its shores. Arthur could just make out faint pricks of torchlight on the east shore of the isle, pinpointing the compound where his Y Dawnus were held captive.
Arthur, remembering that this was the place where the last High King, Lleu Silver-Hand, fell in battle, shivered for a moment. Lleu had lain here in the grasses, somehow clinging to life, knowing, perhaps, that his dear friend, Bran, would come to him and hear his last words. Knowing, somehow, that Bran would never have let him die alone.
Silently he glanced around at the men and women with him, safely hidden from sight of the lone Coranian guard who paced the docks just half a league north of them. Gwydion hovered at Arthur’s right, simmering silently and refusing to even acknowledge Rhiannon’s presence. Rhiannon, wrapped in a voluminous black cloak, was to Arthur’s left, supremely indifferent to Gwydion’s simmering rage.
Talorcan and Regan huddled closely together, hands clasped. Myrrdin, with Neuad at his side, lay next to Dudod. Dudod’s green eyes were bright as he studied his old friend’s expression—a curious blend of contentment and anxiety that apparently amused the Bard to no end.
The Druids—Aergol, Menw, Aldur, and Sinend—huddled tightly together, conserving their strength for the heavy demands Arthur would soon make on them.
Elstar, Elidyr, and their sons, Cynfar and Llywelyn, were together next to Cariadas, who lay on Gwydion’s right. The Dreamer’s heir watched the isle silently, her silvery eyes alight and ready.
Last of all Arthur turned his eyes to Gwen, who lay quietly next to her mother. The starlight turned her golden hair to silver. Sensing his gaze she turned her head toward him, but he looked away quickly, unwilling to let her know how aware he was of her, now and always.
Hidden deep in the grasses behind them lay sixteen large row-boats. These boats had been fashioned by the steward, Rhufon, and his family. It had been Rhufon’s eldest son, Tybion, who had led them through the maze of underground passages that ran all the way from Cadair Idris to the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. Tybion waited alone now at the cave entrance less than half a league away to guide them all back later tonight. All of them who were still alive, at any rate.
If Arthur’s plans went as expected, Tybion would guide more than one hundred people back to Cadair Idris. The journey back would take some time, for the people that would be with them were ill and tired and some of them were near death. He hoped that the flasks of Penduran’s Rose would be enough to help them reach the safety of Cadair Idris, enough to help them begin to heal.
For he was done with waiting. Tonight was the night when he took the captive Y Dawnus on Afalon back from Havgan’s clutches. Tonight was the night when they would be freed, their collars would be removed, and they would be led back to the safe haven of Cadair Idris.
For Arthur had come for them at last.
A slight breeze ruffled his hair. From somewhere nearby a night owl called. The stars shone coldly, bathing them in silvery light. And the torchlight on Afalon beckoned.
It was time.
“Rhiannon, Talorcan,” Arthur whispered.
Talorcan rose cautiously, and Regan stood, also. Queen Elen’s Dewin lifted her face to her Coranian lover and kissed his lips in farewell.
Talorcan clasped her hands in his. “Death cannot touch us,” he murmured, speaking Queen Hildelinda of Dere’s last words to her husband. “I am yours forever.” He turned away before she could reply.
Rhiannon rose and joined Talorcan. Gwydion did not speak.
“We will be watching,” Arthur said, rising also. “May the Shining Ones be with you.”
“And with you,” Rhiannon said. She glanced down at Gwydion, but he turned away. “With all of you.”
But Rhiannon and Talorcan hadn’t gone but a few steps toward the dock before Gwydion silently rose and took Rhiannon’s arm, spinning her around to face him. “You will come back to me,” he rasped. “You will come back to me or—”
Rhiannon’s lips twitched. “Or you’ll kill me?”
“Or worse,” he said grimly. Without another word he took her into his arms and kissed her long and deeply, as though he had all the time in the world. At last, he let her go and sank down again in the grass. Rhiannon smiled down at him, and then she and Talorcan walked away.
Gwydion lay silently next to Arthur as the two moved away down the shore. At last Gwydion murmured a line from an old Kymric song. “I have loved you. Is there any help for me?”
Arthur remained silent. If he could have reassured his uncle, he would have. But reassurances would be hollow, and they both knew it. He would not lie. Rhiannon and Talorcan might very well die tonight. They might all very well die tonight.
RHIANNON AND TALORCAN neared the dock.
“Wait here,” Talorcan said. “I want to deal with this one alone.”
Rhiannon hesitated momentarily, but then gestured him to go ahead, clearly puzzled, but willing to let him do this himself.
Talorcan went forward, hailing the lone soldier standing on the dock. “Warrior,” Talorcan called. “I look for passage.”
“Passage you shall not have,” the Coranian warrior replied, “unless you have cause.” The silver mesh of the soldier’s byrnie reached to midthigh. He carried a spear and a round shield marked with the boar of the Coranian Warleader. His blond hair spilled out from under the helmet and hung lankly around his thin shoulders. Talorcan doubted that the guard was any older than eighteen years.
“What business do you have there?” the young guard demanded, false bravado in his voice.
“You truly do not know?” Talorcan asked softly.
At his tone the guard took a closer look at Talorcan. Suddenly, he stiffened.
“I see you recognize me, boy,” Talorcan said, still speaking quietly.
“General Talorcan!” The young guard backed slowly away. “You who betrayed us.”
“I never betrayed you,” Talorcan murmured. “Never.” Quick as lightening he pulled his dagger and threw it so swiftly that the blade was a mere blur. It plunged into the guard’s neck and the dying man fell onto the dock. Talorcan pulled out the dagger and kicked the now-dead body off the dock and into the water.
“A little severe, don’t you think?” Rhiannon asked as she came up to join him.
Talorcan shrugged. “One less for Arthur to deal with.”
“Ah.” Rhiannon went to the lone boat tied up at the dock and climbed in, gesturing for Talorcan to join her. He grabbed the oars as she pushed the boat away from the dock.
They both sat quietly in the boat, each with their own thoughts, as Talorcan rowed steadily toward the island. The soft splash of the oars cutting through the silent, dark water was the only sound. The distant torchlight from the island grew brighter. Torches lined the dock. The shadowy hulk of buildings beyond the dock was illuminated by the light of a large bonfire in the center of the compound. Distant shadows moved near the dock, indicating that the guards were alert.
Talorcan slowed the boat as they neared the isle, looking at Rhiannon with what seemed perhaps to be pity in his green eyes.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m ready.”
“Then there is just one more thing.” He whipped the enaid-dal from the inside pocket of his cloak. Before she could even move he had it around her throat.
He almost hesitated when he heard her moan of despair as her psychic powers were snuffed out, as a candle is blown out by the wind. But he was a soldier. He had done many things he hadn’t liked before. Things for Havgan that he hadn’t wanted to do.
This would be just one more thing.
TALORCAN SHOUTED. “Hoy, there, soldiers. You have visitors!”
Ten guards, dressed in various states of slovenliness, materialized on the dock. Two held the boat while Talorcan stood, grabbing Rhiannon’s arm. He hauled her from the boat, flinging her out onto the dock. Two soldiers, not quite sure what was happening, nonetheless reached out and grabbed her arms, hauling her to her feet and holding her securely.
A large, fat warrior stepped forward. Stubble covered the lower half of his face and his blue eyes were bloodshot. “My name is Sigald, and I am the commander here. What is all this?” he demanded of Talorcan.
“This,” Talorcan gestured to Rhiannon, “is my prisoner.”
Rhiannon, her green eyes blazing, her neck already beginning to blister from the enaid-dal, spat at Talorcan. “You pig!” she cried.
“My companion does not care much for me,” Talorcan said with a twisted grin. “She thought she knew me. But she did not. Tell me, gentlemen, do you?”
Sigald looked closely at Talorcan, his blue eyes narrowed. “You will tell me right now or I will—” he broke off, staring at Talorcan. “General!”
“Yes, General Talorcan,” he said dryly. “Traitor to Havgan. Or so the story goes.”
“You mean—” Sigald asked, comprehension dawning on his face.
“Yes, I mean just that,” Talorcan said. “I mean that this is a little something that Havgan and I cooked up between us. The only way to get them.”
“The Kymric witches, you fooled them!”
“I did. And many years I worked at it, too. A plan long in the making. But come to fruition at last.” He gestured to Rhiannon, who was now pale and silent. “I bring you the first of many. Next to come will be Arthur himself. And saving the best for last—the Dreamer. Before tomorrow is out Havgan will behold the Dreamer in the dungeons of Eiodel.”
“Then by all means, General Talorcan,” Sigald said, “welcome to our island. It isn’t much, but we call it hell. For the Y Dawnus, at any rate.”
He turned, gesturing for Talorcan to follow him. Rhiannon followed, dragged forward by her two guards. As they walked off the dock and onto the shore of Afalon, Talorcan sensed something that made his heart quake. As his feet touched the isle he felt something, something powerful and angry; something that was done waiting. Something, he did not know exactly what, that almost frightened him with its intensity.
He could not, he would not, let these men know what he felt. He had struggled far too long against this thing that was inside him to let it betray him now.
A large, roughly timbered hall loomed on their left as they entered the open gate of the compound. To his right three whipping posts were set up. The posts were covered with blood. Two blackrobed wyrce-jaga were removing a man from one of the posts.
“Dead?” the first one asked.
“Not yet,” the second one said. “We’ll give him a few days to heal up and then be at him again.”
“Well, he’ll never call us names again after this,” the first one said with a grin.
“Don’t count on it. This one’s been trouble ever since he got here. He was the very first of the witches to be collared, and yet he’s still alive.”
Talorcan guessed that this must be Cian, one-time Bard to King Rhoram. Cian, along with his testing device, had been captured by Rhoram’s Druid, Ellywen, and taken to Eiodel. He had been the last Kymri to see Anieron Master Bard alive. And he had been among the first to be brought to Afalon.
Talorcan glanced over at Rhiannon, for he knew that Cian was an old friend of hers. She took in Cian’s scarred body, his bloody back, his skeletal frame, and her eyes hardened to emerald. But Talorcan saw the flicker of fear cross her face.
Cian opened his eyes. His gaze traveled slowly over them until he saw Rhiannon. They looked at each other steadily. At the last Cian was the one to turn away, unable to bear the sight of Rhiannon with a collar around her neck.
A long, low hut in the center of the compound drew his eye away from the half-dead Bard. The stench from the hut was almost unbelievable. Through the barred windows he saw pale, skeletal limbs and lusterless eyes gazing out. Each of the people penned there wore a collar of dull, gray lead. Hopelessness and despair emanated from the hut. Some of the people were children, their dull eyes huge in their ashen faces.
To the right was another hut, this one apparently for housing wyrce-jaga, for they spilled from the hut as he came near. They bowed briefly as the recognized him, but did not speak. Their eyes gleamed as they saw Rhiannon.
A pack of dogs came rushing up, barking and growling at the sight of Rhiannon. Sigald roared for the dogs to heel and they did, abruptly. Sigald, his face red with temper, cuffed the lead dog. The animal yelped but did not give ground. He growled and, for a moment, Talorcan wondered if the dog might not leap for Sigald’s throat. But, for now, at least, the dog backed away slowly, acknowledging Sigald as his master.
A kennel for the dogs, a well, and the guard’s quarters completed the compound. In the center, just outside the wyrce-jaga’s quarters, a large bonfire roared.
“Welcome to Afalon,” Sigald grinned. “Who exactly is your prisoner?”
“Gentlemen,” Talorcan said to the guards and to the wyrce-jaga. “I give you Rhiannon ur Heyvedd. The woman who journeyed to Corania and, under false pretences, entered our Warleader’s house. She ate his bread, she slept beneath his roof, and then she betrayed him.”
“Betrayed him!” Rhiannon exclaimed with contempt. “How could I betray an enemy?”
“He thought you a loyal servant,” Talorcan replied. “But you were little better than a snake in the grass, waiting for your chance to harm him. I can only marvel that you never killed him. For you surely would have if you could have.”
“You are right there, traitor,” she spat. “If I could have I would have. And if I had known what you had in mind, I would have killed you.”
“But you did not,” Talorcan said smoothly. “And so you and the others, you welcomed me into your halls. As we had done to you.”
One of the wyrce-jaga stepped forward then, his dark eyes fastened on Rhiannon. “I know who you are, witch. Lord Sledda wanted you brought before him. He wanted that more than anything.”
“Too bad he is dead,” Rhiannon sneered. “Dead at the hands of High King Arthur, the one whom I serve.”
The wyrce-jaga slapped her across the face so hard that she spun and fell to the ground. Instantly she was on her feet, spinning back to face him, her face defiant, blood trickling from her lip.
“Now, now, wyrce-jaga,” Talorcan chided. “Havgan will be displeased if you do too much damage before he has his chance.”
The wyrce-jaga paled and stepped back.
“A pity,” Sigald said. “We could use her here. We take the witch-women, but it isn’t the same. They have no spirit. The new ones are good for a while, but then the collars take their energy—they don’t even scream after the first few times.”
“It is indeed a pity,” Talorcan went on. “This one is particularly interesting. I used to watch her do the Dance to Freya in Corania and I still dream about it.”
At that Sigald tore his gaze from Rhiannon and looked at Talorcan, a light in his bloodshot eyes. “Freya’s Dance?”
“Oh, yes,” Talorcan said absently.
“Really?”
“Like you’ve never seen.”
“That so?” another guard asked.
“Turn your bones to water.”
Sigald turned back to look Rhiannon up and down. “Take her cloak off,” he ordered. Rhiannon’s two guards tore her cloak from her. She was wearing a cream-colored shift under a gown of dark green.
“Take the gown off,” Sigald ordered.
“I can do it myself,” Rhiannon said, between gritted teeth.
At Sigald’s gesture the two guards stepped back. Rhiannon took off her outer gown and threw it on the ground. Her shift reached to mid-calf and she bent down to take off her shoes. She straightened up and looked at Sigald, Talorcan, all of the men gathered there with contempt in her eyes.
“Shall I dance for you?” she asked, her tone cold and even. “Is that what you want?”
Sigald glanced at Talorcan. Talorcan shrugged.
“We’ll have to take the collar off,” Sigald ventured.
“What could she do with all of us here?” Talorcan asked.
Sigald grinned. “Boys,” he said to his men, “looks like we’ll have a little fun tonight.”
They gathered in a semi-circle around the bonfire, the soldiers and the wyrce-jaga. Talorcan and Sigald had places of honor in the front. At Sigald’s nod, one of the guards took Rhiannon’s collar off. As he did so she sighed and closed her eyes briefly, bowing her head for a moment. At last she raised her head and came to stand between the men and the fire.
The fire played greedily over her shift, over her skin, over her pale and set face, outlining the contours of her lovely body for all the men to see. The firelight shifted, illuminating the lust-filled faces of the men gathered there.
The captive Y Dawnus who had been gazing out from their filthy hut at the scene turned away as the drumbeat began, knowing where this would lead, unwilling to look at the humiliation of one of their own.
Rhiannon raised her hands above her head, her face lifted to the starry sky. Behind her the fire blazed up, roaring for a moment as though in anger. A wind whipped through the compound, stirring up the hard-packed sand, making the flames dance this way and that. The men, women, and children in the hut stirred at that, sensing, perhaps, something, even though the collars had deadened their psychic senses. Some of them raised their heads and looked at each other, a slight, fragile hope stealing into their dull and lifeless eyes. Beneath their feet the earth trembled slightly, shifting for a moment like the movements of a restless sleeper on the edge of waking.
Rhiannon stood quite still for a moment, firelight and starlight playing around her body. And then she began to dance. She twisted her body slowly, her arms spread wide, swaying toward the men as though she longed for them. Slowly, to the beat of the drum, she drew back, then again leaned forward, her arms extended. The gaze of every last man there was fastened hungrily on her.
Which was why, when the fog settled thickly around the island, cutting off their view of the lake, they didn’t even notice.
SIXTEEN BOATS MADE their way silently across the fog-enshrouded lake. Each boat was piloted by one of Arthur’s companions, and they followed each other closely. Arthur, piloting the lead boat, Wind-Spoke to Gwydion, whose boat was just behind.
Looks like it’s going according to plan.
Yes, Gwydion replied sourly. If your plan is to have a pack of slavering, disgusting, Coranian dogs staring at Rhiannon with lust and bestiality in their piglike eyes.
It is.
Stupid plan.
Arthur almost smiled.
But Gwydion went on. You should have brought warriors with you.
I have told you more than once, Arthur said with a hint of impatience in his Mind-Voice, why I did not. Y Dawnus take care of their own.
Foolish, Gwydion snorted.
Wind-Ride with me, uncle, Arthur said suddenly, even as the boats were nearing the dock. I have a feeling that I don’t like.
Without another word Gwydion’s and Arthur’s awareness flew ahead, focusing on the scene by the bonfire. What they saw there made the body Gwydion left in the boat cry out in anguish.
Oh, Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, Arthur breathed. Oh, Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Spare them. Spare Rhiannon, and by doing so spare Gwydion. Spare these two who have done so much for me.
GWYDION, ALERTED BY Arthur’s tone, Wind-Rode swiftly to see Rhiannon dancing by the bonfire. He was in time to see the captain lurch forward and grab Rhiannon, throwing her to the ground and pulling up her shift. He was in time to see Talorcan leap to his feet and throw himself at the captain and see the two men rolling on the ground, each trying to get the upper hand. He was in time to see a wyrce-jaga leap forward toward the two men with murder in his eyes and a dagger in his hand.
But he was not in time to stop it when the knife flew toward Talorcan’s unprotected back. Nor was he there to stop it when Rhiannon threw herself in front of Talorcan. He was not there to stop the knife from sinking into her chest, just below her heart. He was not there to stop the blood from spurting forth beneath her fingers as she laid her hand against the wound and sank to the ground.
The best he was able to do was the call the dogs from their kennel. But it was, of course, far too late.
ARTHUR, SEEING WHAT was happening through horrified psychic eyes called for his companions to hurry. They brought their boats to shore and leapt from them onto the sand, running for the compound. Arthur was in the lead but Gwydion was right behind him.
As he ran Arthur gathered to him the powers of his Bards—Dudod, Elidyr, and Cynfar—and flung his call to the north, where he knew the ravens were waiting, for he had sensed them earlier that day. And they came, instantly. In an unexpected boon, Ardeyrdd himself led the flock. The huge eagle cried out fiercely as it led the ravens straight into the compound. The birds cried out in reply, then dove, covering the guards and the wyrce-jaga, beginning their dreadful feeding.
The Coranians screamed and tried to beat off the birds, but there were far too many. The dogs, called by Gwydion, were already a part of the fray. They growled and barked, going for the throats of the guards and wyrce-jaga, hamstringing them from behind, fighting in tandem with the ravens to kill the Coranians.
The only two bodies by the bonfire not covered with birds or bloodied by dogs were Talorcan’s and Rhiannon’s. Talorcan held Rhiannon in his arms, blood flowing through the hand that he pressed on her wound, his face tight and pale.
Arthur barked a silent order to the animals and they backed away from the Coranian bodies. He reached out for the power of the Druids. And the power was there. He took in the flames, the fire from Aergol, Menw, Sinend and Aldur. With terrible concentration he focused the heat on the Coranians. He lifted his hands to the sky and called out. “Annwyn! Aertan! Aid me!”
The bodies burst into blue and orange flames. Some of the men that were still alive screamed, and tried to roll on the ground to put the fire out. But the blue-tinged Druid’s Fire burned on and on.
Beside him Gwydion and Cariadas added their Dreamer’s powers and they, too, called on the flames, burning the wyrce-jaga and remaining guards to nothing more than smoldering bones and ash.
When the screams ended Arthur lowered his hands. Cariadas and Gwydion raced forward to where Rhiannon lay. Gwydion pushed Talorcan aside and took Rhiannon in his arms. Arthur walked up more slowly, and he had to turn his gaze away from the look in his uncle’s eyes as he gazed down at Rhiannon’s still, white face.
Elstar knelt on the ground next to Rhiannon. She laid her hands on Rhiannon’s wound and closed her eyes. They were all silent as they waited for Elstar’s Life-Reading. Cariadas stood behind her father, resting her hands on his shoulders, never taking her eyes from Rhiannon. Talorcan turned away with tears streaming down his thin face, blundering almost blindly into Regan’s waiting arms.
At Arthur’s nod, the rest of them turned away and went to the hut where the Y Dawnus were kept. One by one they helped the people to stand and exit their prison. Some crawled out on their own, hope sitting oddly on their thin, pinched faces.
At last, just when Arthur could hardly bear it any longer, Elstar looked up. “She is alive. And will remain so if we can get her back to Cadair Idris quickly.” She reached for her pack and took out some dried herbs, gesturing for Cariadas to fetch some water.
Gwydion’s silvery eyes filled with tears. At that moment Rhiannon opened her eyes and looked up at him.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwydion said harshly.
Rhiannon tried to smile, but it faded quickly. “Sweet-talker.”
Gwydion tried to smile, too, but the pain and fear in his eyes was too great. “You are going to be fine. I won’t let you leave me. Ever.”
“And I don’t want to go.”
Elstar, who had been hurriedly binding the wound with the blackberry and chamomile leaves she had taken from her pack, looked over at Gwydion. “No more talking,” she said sternly. “She needs to save her strength.”
Gwydion nodded, but did not move.
“Arthur,” Elstar said crisply, “your people need you.”
Arthur turned and saw his captive Y Dawnus slowly making their way from the hut and out into the open air. He drew Caladfwlch from its scabbard. The blade rang as he did so with a clear, pure note. As he walked by the now-silent dogs the lead dog rose and followed him across the compound, his dark eyes bright.
The first one Arthur saw was Cian, his skeletal frame supported by Gwen and Menw. Cian’s green eyes glinted at Arthur as he raised his head with a mighty effort.
“You came,” the Bard whispered.
“I did,” Arthur replied. “I came as soon as I could.”
“Soon enough for them,” Cian said, inclining his head a fraction to the rest of the Y Dawnus gathered behind him. “Not for me, I think.”
“I disagree,” Arthur said, laying his sword against the man’s thin neck. “I think there is still plenty of time for you.” With one swift movement the blade sheared through the enaid-dal and the necklace fell from Cian’s neck onto the ground. Cian looked down at it, shuddering. He raised his head to the sky.
“I can feel it,” Cian said, wonder in his voice. “Taran has returned to me. His gift lives in me again.”
“Drink, my friend, of Penduran’s Rose,” Arthur said, gesturing for Gwen to hand him her flask. “Drink, and live again.”
Cian drank a mouthful of the concoction and smiled. “Yes,” he said his voice stronger. “Yes.”
One by one Caladfwlch cut off the hateful necklaces. One by one the sick and weary Y Dawnus drank Penduran’s Rose. One by one they were helped up and led to the boats.
There were a few that Arthur recognized. Most notably, the five Y Dawnus that he had briefly met when on the quest for the Treasures—the five who had been prisoners in Gwynedd, who had recognized him and his companions but who had given nothing away.
The two Bards, Elivri and Maredudd, as well as three Dewin, Morwen, Trephin, and the young girl whose name he did not know all recognized him.
“What is your name?” Arthur asked, as he sheared the collar off her neck.
“Morgan Tud,” she whispered.
“Morgan Tud, you are free,” he said.
Morewen and Elivri had smiled weakly as he had sheared off their collars. Trephin had sighed in relief and briefly closed his eyes as he sipped Penduran’s Rose. And Maredudd still had the presence of mind to greet his old friend, Dudod.
“Took you long enough,” Maredudd snorted as he drank.
Dudod’s eyes were full of pity that he knew better than to give voice to. “You are right, my friend,” he said quietly. “I took my own sweet time, didn’t I?”
“Probably warming some widow’s bed,” croaked Trephin.
“Very likely,” Morwen said dryly. “Because some things never change.”
Elivri, a huge bruise on her cheekbone, rasped, “I think I shall write a song about it.”
Dudod smiled. “Make it a good one, then,” he said softly.
“All my songs are good ones.”
At last, when all was ready, Gwydion picked up Rhiannon and cradled her close to his heart. Assisted by Elstar he settled her into his boat, along with ten other Y Dawnus. At Arthur’s signal the boats began their return journey across the lake.
At last the only boat left was Arthur’s. Seven Y Dawnus, including Cian and Morgan Tud, sat in the boat, waiting quietly for him.
Arthur held out his arm and Arderydd flew to him, coming to rest on his forearm. The bird’s talons sank into Arthur’s skin, but the High King did not flinch. Why should he? Arderydd had already marked him more than once. The eagle had given Arthur the scar on his face. And more. Much, much more.
Tell them, old friend, he murmured to the silent eagle. Tell them that I did what they asked me to do. Tell the Wild Hunt that soon I shall call them to me, to help rid the land of all Coranians.
The eagle fixed him with its silvery eyes then launched itself into the air. The bird circled above Arthur once, twice, three times, then, with a loud, triumphant cry, flew north.
The lead dog came up to Arthur and sat on his haunches, his brown eyes steady and waiting, but too proud to plead.
But Arthur knew. He nodded at the animal. The dog leapt up and barked joyfully. He ran straight into the lake and began to swim, the other dogs following.
Arthur smiled. It looked like he might have found a new friend.
To the east the sky began to pale, heralding the return of the sun. By the time the day dawned, Arthur wanted Havgan to see his signal and know that the High King had taken the Y Dawnus back. He wanted Havgan to know that yet another piece of Kymru had fallen through his clutches.
Soon, Havgan would be receiving the messengers sent to him after the battles for the four kingdoms. Soon the four men Arthur had chosen would come to Havgan at Eiodel and tell him of the Coranian defeats. Although Afalon had been the last to be freed, Havgan would learn of this first. It would be another three or four days before Ecgfrith of Gwynedd and Oswy of Rheged reached Eiodel. And it would be another four or five days before Cuthwine arrived from Ederynion. And it would take a few days more for Penda to arrive from Prydyn.
These four men would each bear Havgan the news that the four kingdoms were no longer his. And they would give Havgan Arthur’s message—to leave Kymru or die.
But it would be this first message that would be most important. Arthur wanted Havgan to know as soon as possible about Afalon.
Which was why, before he left the island, the entire Coranian compound was burning with Druid’s Fire, cleansing Afalon of the Coranian taint. Thick, black smoke billowed up into the air, sending a message to Havgan.
The Y Dawnus were free.
Leave or die.