Chapter One
Caer Dathyl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 482
Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—night
Gwydion slept on the Dreamer’s pallet in Caer Dathyl, twisting restlessly under the light of the waning moon that streamed through the glass ceiling. His dark brows were drawn together in concentration, and the lids of his closed eyes twitched rapidly.
For the Dreamer’s heir was dreaming.
And the Shining Ones smiled, satisfied.
HE WAS STARING at Cadair Idris, the deserted hall of the High Kings of Kymru. The mountain stood tall and silent, closed and dark, as it had been since the murder of Lleu Silver-Hand, over two hundred years before.
The waning moon was rising over the mountain, bathing the still plain in faded, silvery beams. In Calan Llachar, the forest west of Cadair Idris, even the leaves on the trees did not move. But from Galor Carreg, the standing stones that guarded the burial mounds of the High Kings, he saw movement.
Three figures made their way from the shadowy stones to stand at the base of the dark mountain. Silently they mounted the broken and time-stained steps that led to Drwys Idris, the bejeweled Doors that guarded the entrance to the hollow mountain.
The golden Doors glittered palely at first, then began to glow as the ghosts of the High Kings approached. Verdant emeralds and azure sapphires vied with milky pearls and fiery opals. Rubies shone like drops of fresh blood while clear diamonds, orange topaz, and purple amethyst glowed warmly as though in sweet welcome.
When the three ghostly figures reached the top of the stairs they turned their backs to the Doors, facing outward toward the plain, toward Gwydion who now faced them from the bottom of the steps.
He knew them, for he had seen them before in his dreams, the dead High Kings of Kymru.
Idris, the first High King, had silvery eyes in a face lined with years of bright laughter and unspeakable sorrow. Macsen, Kymru’s second High King, was tall and broad-shouldered, his honey-blond hair held back from his good-natured face by a band of gold. Lleu Lawrient, the last High King of Kymru, stood in the center. Moonlight spilled across his silver hand and his golden hair.
Each of them wore an identical, massive torque formed of twisted strands of silver and gold. At the center of each necklace was a figure eight studded with onyx, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. A luminous pearl and a sparkling emerald hung to the left of the onyx, while a glittering sapphire and a fiery opal flashed from the right.
As one the High Kings pulled the ghost of a sword from the scabbards hung around their waists. Each shining sword was a duplicate of the other two, for all three of them had once carried Caladfwlch, although where the real sword was now, no one knew.
The gold and silver sword flashed in the moonlight. The hilt was fashioned like an eagle with outspread wings. The eagle had eyes of bloodstone and wings of onyx, and the remainder of the hilt was scattered with emeralds and pearls, sapphires and opals.
The three High Kings stood silently, ghostly swords raised, scanning the sky above the shadowy plain.
At last Gwydion found his voice, sure that the question in his dreaming mind was the right one. “What do you here, High Kings of Kymru?”
Idris answered his voice like the rushing of a storm through the trees, “We are waiting.”
“What do you wait for?”
“For the next High King,” Macsen replied, his voice hollow, echoing with dead power.
“It is time?” Gwydion asked, his heart beating faster. For Kymru only had need of a High King when the land was in danger.
“The time is coming,” Lleu answered, his voice resonating across the moonlit plain.
“Betrayal endangers the life of the one we wait for,” Idris said.
“Betrayal, Dreamer,” Lleu said, “is what killed us all.”
Before Gwydion could reply he heard the faint strains of a hunting horn, borne on a suddenly quickening breeze. The moon seemed to shine even brighter and the stars glittered sharply. A fierce cry sounded out over the plain. Gwydion could hear the beat of wings overhead and turned sharply to see.
The largest eagle Gwydion had ever seen soared effortlessly over the dark mountain. Silhouetted against the bright moon, its wings outstretched, the eagle cried out again as it folded its wings and dropped down, coming to rest before the three kings at the top of the stairs.
The eagle was brown, with tail feathers of shimmering blue. Around its breast it wore a massive torque of gold exactly like the torque’s that glittered from the necks of the High Kings. The eagle cried out again, its call fierce and commanding.
As one the High Kings laid their ghost-swords on the stones before the eagle’s talons. But as the eagle stooped to take the swords in its beak, the weapons shimmered and disappeared.