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with a pure, golden light. The clear water in the fountain in the center of the chamber sang softly against the glowing stones that held it. The Four Treasures—the Stone, the Sword, the Cauldron, and the Spear—stood next to the fountain, glimmering steadily with an inner light.
    Gwydion and Rhiannon stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the throne and waited for him to speak.
    “We have done it,” he said.
    “Anieron is avenged,” Rhiannon agreed.
    “Yes. It is finished,” Arthur replied.
    “No,” Gwydion said quietly. “It has just begun.”

C
hapter
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One
    Cadair Idris & Eiodel
Gwytheryn, Kymru
Helygen Mis, 500
    Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night
    A rthur ap Uthyr, High King of Kymru, Penerydd of Gwytheryn, stood quietly in the center of the Taran’s chamber on the eighth level of Cadair Idris. He craned his neck to gaze up through the clear roof at the stars wheeling overhead. His eyes focused on the constellation of Eos, the nightingale. For the nightingale was the symbol for the Bards, and his revenge for the death of Anieron Master Bard, just two days ago, was still fresh in his mind.
    The wyrce-jaga, Sledda, was dead at last, and Arthur had been the instrument of that death. Through him the power of all the Bards of Kymru had been focused and brought to bear on the man who killed Anieron. They had sung the Master Bard’s death song to his murderer, and justice had been served.
    It was this, after all, this for which a High King was born. To bring justice, using the ability to focus the power of the Y Dawnus into a weapon to be used against the enemy. And this was a power he had come to accept. This was the reason for which he had been born.
    He had once thought that he would do anything—anything at all—to turn away from this destiny. He had once twisted and raged against the turning of the Wheel. But he would run no more. Because Kymru needed him, and that reason alone was, at last, enough.
    With a steely hiss, he drew his sword, Caladfwlch, from the jeweled scabbard at his side. With both hands on the eagle-shaped hilt he rested the point of the huge sword on the stone floor. The eagle’s bloodstone eyes glittered in the starry light and its onyx studded wings shimmered coldly.
    It was time now. Time for the next step in this deadly end game. Although he knew what the result of this night’s work would be, he was, nonetheless, compelled to try to turn the Warlord from the path Havgan had chosen. Something, he didn’t really know what, demanded it.
    Still staring up at the stars, he calmly reached out and gathered to him the very essences of those that waited in the throne room, seven stories below him.
    He took the Bards to him first—Elidyr Master Bard and Dudod, Elidyr’s father, as well as Cynfar, Elidyr’s son and heir. Sapphire blue shimmered before his eyes as he drew in their power, and he felt Taran’s Wind rush cleanly and sharply through his soul.
    Then he reached for the Dewin—Rhiannon, Elstar the Ardewin, and Elstar’s son and heir, Llywelyn. They glowed softly like pearls, as Nantsovelta’s Water flowed through him, cool and clear.
    He gathered the Druids—Gwenhwyfar’s raw, untrained talent, Sinend, heir to the Archdruid’s heir, and Sabrina of Rheged. He felt the roots of the fruitful earth claim him, twining through his body, lacing him in the emerald green glow of Modron the Mother.
    Last, he gathered the Dreamers—Gwydion, whom he had once hated, Dinaswyn, the former Dreamer, and Cariadas, Gwydion’s daughter and heir. The heat of Mabon’s Fire burst deep within him, bathing him in an opal-like shimmer as the flames burst through him.
    And then he was ready.
    Wind-Ride,
he called, to the Dewin in his mind. And then he was there, in Havgan’s fortress. In Eiodel.
    H AVGAN SAT IN the Great Hall at Eiodel, his brooding black fortress just a league away from Cadair Idris—just a league away from the mountain that now glowed in the night, its