May Earth Rise Read Free Page B

golden light proclaiming that a High King had once again returned to its halls.
    Havgan knew that light well. Every night in the past three months, he had gone out to the battlements and stared at that mountain that continued to defy him. He would focus his hate-filled amber eyes on the glowing doors that had refused to open to him for so very long, the same doors that had opened for Arthur ap Uthyr just three months ago.
    Later, after the meal was over, he would again go to the heights of Eiodel and take in the sight of that glowing mountain. And his hatred for the Kymri would burn even brighter.
    His warriors feasted and drank noisily, filling the hall with their coarse jests and loud boasts. The fire in the pit in the middle of the hall cackled and danced. The dark walls were stark, relieved only by the torches set in their brackets and by a few banners whose rich jewels glittered darkly. The banner of the Warleader of Corania, a golden boar on a field of blood red, shimmered in the light of the fire. The boar’s ruby eyes seemed to gleam maliciously in the uncertain light of the smoky hall.
    He took a deep drink from the golden goblet in his hands. He had, of late, begun to drink heavily. Because things were slipping away from him, and he knew it.
    His victory over the Kymri two and a half years ago was turning sour. The Dreamer, his false blood brother, had snatched the Treasures Havgan had sought. The mountain had not opened for him, in spite of all his efforts. He had captured hundreds of Dewin and Bards and imprisoned them on the island of Afalon, but the victory was hollow, for the leaders had escaped. He had captured one of the Kymri’s testing tools, that strange device which demonstrated who of the Kymri were Y Dawnus, the witches of this land—yet the device had not identified a witch in many months.
    And Sledda, Havgan’s wyrce-jaga, had been killed just a few days ago. Sledda had thrown himself off the highest tower at Neuadd Gorsedd, seeking to escape something. Exactly what, he did not know. But that it was something sent by the witches, he had no doubt. That the witches had been led by Arthur ap Uthyr, the self-styled High King, he also knew.
    For Arianrod, Havgan’s Kymric mistress, had explained to him the purpose of a High King in this land. And what a High King could do with the power of the Y Dawnus in his mind.
    And worst of all, the thing hardest to bear, Gwydion ap Awst was still alive and free. And that angered most of all. For Gwydion’s death was Havgan’s dearest wish.
    But the game was not over yet. One day, one day soon, he would have Gwydion’s life in his hands. And it would take Gwydion so very, very long to die.
    A soft, light touch on his arm roused him from his reverie. “You are pensive, my Lord,” his mistress said.
    He turned to her as she sat by his side. Her honey-blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, held back from her face by a band of topaz. Her amber eyes were soft and beautiful and her sultry mouth invited his kiss. Her gently rounded belly strained slightly against her shift of tawny silk. The child would be born near Calan Llachar, she had told him, one of the eight festivals of the Kymri, the time when they honored Cerridwen and Cerrunnos, the Protectors of Kymru. It would be a boy, she had said. For she was a Dewin and had a way of knowing these things.
    His mistress was a Kymric witch. One of the Y Dawnus, one of those that he had come to Kymru to kill. And he loved her as he had never loved a woman before, as he had never loved anyone on this earth before. She was what he had been looking for all his life. She was the other part of him, just as the wyrd-galdra cards had foretold back in Corania. Just as Holda, the Goddess of the Waters, had said. No matter what she was, no matter what happened, no matter who stood in his way, he would never give her up. Never, witch or no.
    He took her hand and kissed her palm and he felt her shiver with passion. He smiled at