Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (33 page)

Gawain found himself hypnotized by the sound of his horse’s hooves, clip-clopping on the plains as he raced toward the Hwerydh Forest. The undulation of the horse rocked him to the brink of sleep. He struggled to keep his eyelids open, a battle he anxiously hoped he won. He only pried himself away from daydreaming when the wind at his back carried the smell of rain to his nostrils. He cursed his luck that rain seemed to accompany his travels, first with Connor and now on his way to Arlais.

He had yet to sleep since his departure from Helygen, eager to reach the forest. He hoped to keep up his pace so that he could outrun the storm from the south. As he looked up at the sky, he could still see the brilliance of the morning sun’s rays peeking out from behind the clouds as their golden light streaked across the plains. A good sign.

The Hwerydh Forest lay just ahead. The answers he had longed for would soon be his. Without warning, his horse reared. Gawain held the reins to stay on the saddle, but he felt himself fall backward as the horse tumbled to its side. His head hit the ground with a thud, and he saw nothing but darkness.

He felt something blunt poke him in the side, but he could not force himself to react. His eyelids fluttered open, his vision distorted. He could see nothing but a handful of blurry forms. The back of his head throbbed like nothing he had ever experienced.

As his vision cleared, he saw a woman standing over him. The simple, wooden staff she leaned on had to be what he had felt in his side‌—‌an assumption soon confirmed when she again jabbed it into him.

Dressed in long robes, she appeared to be a priestess in the Hwerydh Forest, near the perimeter of Arlais. But upon closer inspection, it was clear the robes she wore were not those of a priestess, at least not those he had witnessed in Cærwyn. He had never seen garb such as hers. It appeared to be fine, white linen, woven from the finest of flax and intricately adorned with woven patterns and embroidered symbols he did not recognize.

“Wake, young halfling.” She sounded soft and harmless, but Gawain could not help but notice something ominous about her.

A pale, white light, moonlight, graced her cheek, filtering through the leaves of trees which towered above them. Her skin looked like soft parchment, pale and ethereal. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, mimicking the light rose color of her full lips. Tresses of dark cinnamon framed her face, accompanied by braids wrapped around the crown of her head.

“You must wake.” She jabbed her staff under his rib cage, knocking the wind from his lungs.

Gawain sat up with a painful jolt as he grabbed his abdomen.

Lush, green moss carpeted the clearing they occupied, surrounded by tall trees of which type he could not tell. The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth, reminiscent of a warm summer rain. Behind the smell of earth, a sweet aroma reminded him of wild honeysuckle growing freely. He realized the light perfume came from the woman.

“What is this place?” He struggled to stand.

The woman, who previously appeared to be tall and looming, was actually quite small of stature. She was, at the very least, two heads shorter than Gawain. Despite her short stature, she lost none of her intimidating features as she peered up at him with dark hazel eyes, alight with the moon’s glow. The faint lines around her eyes told him she was not as young as he first thought, and yet, she somehow appeared ageless. Old and young at once.

“A more appropriate question would be how you came to find yourself in this place, Dáire, half-breed.”

Ice tingled up his spine and he took a step back. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. How did this strange woman know his name?

“I do not know the reason I am here, Lady. Might you tell me? It is clear to me that this is no earthly place, and yet I can feel the ground firmly beneath my feet. Tell me, have I perished? Have you come to take me to the Summer Lands?”

The woman shook her head and laughed. “I have not come to take you from these lands. The place where you stand is very much real. Your assertion it is not of Dweömer is correct, however.”

Gawain felt the chill sweep through his body as a terrible fright filled him. “Then I must ask again, what is this place?”

“A bridge of sorts.” The woman pointed toward two paths that Gawain would have sworn on his life had not been there before. “One leads to my world, and the other leads to yours, to the Hwerydh Forest. To Arlais.”

“Your world? Then, you are from the Goddess?”

“I am not her messenger, no. Although I know of Her well enough. My people were born many ages ago from She of the earth and He of the sky, carried to Dweömer on the currents of the wind.”

“Then you are one of the ancients? One of the Álfar?”

“Yes.” Her grin did little to allay his uneasiness, her cold gaze fixed upon him.

“I thought you were to have left this world long ago.”

“My people have not dwelt in your world for some time, save one. The Lady Rhiannon, the High Priestess of Arlais still remains.”

Gawain’s eyes widened. “The Lady is an Álfar?”

She looked away and did not reply.

“My Lady?”

“Is your blood so thinned that you have lost any form of sight?”

He felt embarrassed to answer. “I am afraid I do not believe I possess any of the gifts of my mother’s people.”

“And yet you find yourself here.” She turned back to him, a smirk upon her face and a gleam in her eye. “For that alone, you must retain something from our people, despite the corruptive Hume blood which courses through you.”

Gawain did not know whether he should be hurt by the woman’s words. He decided that since he had all but renounced his Hume heritage by abandoning his post, there was little use taking her words as insult when she did not seem to intend them as such.

“I find myself at a disadvantage. You know my name, and yet you have not told me your own.” He tried to sound as courteous as possible, frightened of the wrath he might conjure were he to offend one of the Álfar.

“I find names to be a triviality. I have no need for one now, but when I lived in your world, I was known as ‘Blodueyn.’ Let us speak of matters of more pertinence. You have not come here by chance.”

“Have I not?”

“Surely as a child of the Old Ways you must know that there is nothing left to chance in this world or another.” Blodueyn eyed him stoically, as though she was attempting to delve more deeply into his mind. “You have found your way to this place because it was meant to be, just as it was meant to be that we were to speak with one another.”

Her scrutiny made him shuffle his feet. “To what end, my Lady?”

“Your blood may be tarnished and your vision blurred, but mine is not. I know why you have come here. I see it as plainly as I see you standing before me. You venture to this place to receive my words. I am meant to tell you of your future.”

“My future?” Though intrigued, Gawain remained uncertain whether he wanted to know what would become of him.

“You hold in your hands the blood of many.”

He felt sick, knowing she spoke the truth, recalling the dream he had while in Cærwyn.

“There is a decision which is yours alone to make, and it rapidly approaches you.”

Gawain felt a knot in his stomach. If what this creature said was true, he needed to make the right choice.

“Some circumstances present only wrong choices, some present only right ones. Which of these you find yourself with would be a matter of interpretation. To some, you will play the fool. To others, the sage.”

“You speak in confusions.” Gawain felt his face redden as he grew more aggravated. “Can you not speak more plainly?”

“Do not worry, child.” Her tone was less than comforting. “All will become clear. You must simply walk down the path.” She motioned to the pathway which led to the forest, with Arlais at the end.

“And what if I do not make a choice? What if I do not want their blood on my hands?”

Blodueyn cackled. “Then you shall be the fool indeed. For even indecisiveness is a decision in itself. By attempting to spare the blood of the few, you shall slaughter the many.”

“But‌—”

“Leave this place.” She let loose a sharp breath and it hissed between her teeth. “I grow tired of you. Go and make whatever decision you want. I care not. I have done my part and my conscience is free.”

He did not dare linger. He scrambled from her sight and ran down the path as fast as he could. His legs burned with fire as he sprinted toward Arlais.

Gawain opened his eyes and saw the cloudy sky above the plains where he fell. Had it been a dream? A vision? Could she and her prophecies have been real?

He sat up and saw his horse dead beside him. The cause of the fall was apparent‌—‌an arrow deep into the beast’s hind leg with a finishing arrow protruding from its eye socket.

He quickly jumped to his feet and drew his sword. He spun around in a circle, but could not find a foe.

“Dáire?”

Gawain turned, relieved to hear the familiar voice. “Ceridwen!”

She stood with a small group at the edge of the forest. Most of them were men, armsmen of Arlais, if he guessed right. In addition to the men, two women stood just behind her.

She looked so regal, dressed in the robes of a priestess. His pace quickened as he walked toward them, doing his best to hide his emotion. He knew it would appear improper if he let show how happy he was to see her, a woman he had met only briefly on two occasions. Neither would it have been fitting to show such emotion to a priestess.

“How did you know of my arrival?” Gawain asked as he neared them.

“The Lady Rhiannon sent me to fetch a traveler. She did not tell me it would be you.” She looked at the horse’s carcass. “Who attacked you?”

The men who came with her party formed ranks, alert for any sign of an assailant.

“I saw no one. When I woke from the fall, I was only alone for a few moments before your voice beckoned.”

“Come, there is much we need to discuss.” Ceridwen guided him into the shelter of the forest.

Immediately upon entering the shade of the boughs of the trees, peacefulness washed over Gawain. He felt as though he was returning to a home he had longed for without knowing the pain it caused him to be away. A feeling of complete serenity drifted over him as they walked through the Hwerydh. Then the trees parted, and they stood at the entrance to Arlais.

“Welcome to the most sacred place for Her followers in the entirety of Dweömer, Dáire.” Ceridwen motioned for the priests to take their leave. “Come, we shall speak privately.”

“Are we permitted? You are a priestess and I am a man, not to mention an outsider.”

Ceridwen nodded once. “I am an attendant to the High Priestess Rhiannon, which gives me certain perquisites others are not afforded. Come, let us speak in the hazel grove.”

Gawain followed her through Arlais, feeling the eyes of its inhabitants on him. They passed the priests’ housing and went farther into the forest. The pungent aroma of unfamiliar herbs filled the air. Soon, the forest parted once more and hazel trees, planted purposefully in rows by an earlier generation, surrounded them.

Ceridwen led him to a small bench and motioned for him to sit, but she remained standing. She quietly studied him.

He could not unravel the mystery of her expression, and he shifted his weight on the bench. “My Lady?”

“I wish to discuss many things with you, but of the utmost importance is something the Lady herself has requested I speak with you about.”

“The Lady Rhiannon knows of me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Gawain realized what a daft question it had been. “I suppose I should have known she would have seen me in her visions. As an Álfar, she must know all.”

Ceridwen took a sharp breath. “You know the Lady is one of the Álfar? How do you know of such a thing?”

Admittedly, he had been testing the waters. With Ceridwen’s affirmation, however, he knew the woman he encountered had not been a dream, but very real indeed.

“A woman, an Álfar, spoke of her in the plains when I fell from my horse. She appeared to me as if in a dream, but it was not a dream, nor a vision. I fell out of this world and found myself in another. A world between worlds.”

“This Álfar, she told you Rhiannon was an Álfar as well?” Ceridwen’s tone betrayed her surprise.

“Yes, and she had come because the Lady Rhiannon would soon depart this world for the next. Is it true?”

Ceridwen nodded wistfully, turning her head away. “Rhiannon has confided in but a few of this matter. What else were you told?”

Gawain thought for a moment, but did not think it best to speak of the prophecies with Ceridwen. At least not yet. “She told me her name: Blodeuyn. You look surprised. Do you know of the name?”

“Blodeuyn was Rhiannon’s predecessor and the founder of Arlais, many centuries ago.”

“Then she spoke truth.” Gawain felt his heart sink. He hoped Ceridwen would say the whole matter had been nonsense and alleviate his worries of the decision which Blodeuyn said awaited him.

She did not appear to know what to say. She remained silent for some time, her slender arms crossed over her chest.