Chapter One

Dinas Bran

June 655 AD

“We ride!” The shout echoed all the way to the top of the keep. “Hail Cadwaladr! King of the Cymry! The king shines forth!”

The gate opened, and the host of cavalry surged forward. The narrow causeway between the ramparts was full of Mercians, but the riders swept down the pathway, their arms swinging, taking out every enemy within reach, even as they picked up speed. All the way down from the fort, the hapless Mercians fell under the horses’ hooves or—those who were less lucky—to one side, where a sword sliced through them.

Then they reached the field. “My God!” That was Bedwyr. Just ahead, Hywel checked his horse.

Exhilarated by the heat of battle, Goronwy threw back his head and laughed, and then he spurred his horse into the fray, Hywel and Bedwyr close behind. Even if this was his end, he would die with his friends. He put everything from his mind but his sword and the men he intended to kill with it.

He met a Mercian axe with his blade and ripped it away. He turned to the other side and thrust the point through another man’s throat. But then a third man buried his axe in his horse’s chest, and the creature went down. Goronwy cleared his feet from the stirrups just in time. Back to back with Hywel, with hardly a pause for breath, he continued to fight.

Sweat poured down his face as Goronwy shoved his sword through the midsection of one Mercian, pulled it from his belly, and in almost the same motion, slashed through another’s thigh. He spun and met a third man’s blade. A grin split the red-bearded Mercian’s face. For the first time, Goronwy felt weakness in his arms and found himself giving way under the onslaught.

And then the point of an arrow punched through the Mercian’s ribs. He’d been lunging at Goronwy, his axe held above his head and ready for a killing blow. Instead, from her vantage point at the top of the keep, Rhiann had shot him.

Behind Goronwy, Hywel fought on as one possessed, and Goronwy resumed his place at his back. Sweat ran into Goronwy’s eyes, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand. Or maybe those were tears.

They’d been tears, in fact, of pain and rage at what the Saxons had wrought. Now, as Goronwy stood on the battlements of Dinas Bran looking east, the sight of the banner of Mercia coming towards him nearly brought him to his knees. The memory of what they’d endured at Caer Fawr still clouded his vision, and he fought it. Men had died that day at King Penda’s behest. That some of those deaths had been an illusion brought on by Mabon’s glamour, did nothing to quell the fire in Goronwy’s belly at what had happened to them there. Even now, three months on, most nights he dreamed of that battle.

When he was able to sleep at all.

He licked his lips at the bitter taste the vision had left in his mouth. The meddling of the sidhe represented nothing more or less than everything that was wrong with the world. Goronwy’s stomach churned to think of the smug look of superiority that seemed a permanent fixture on Mabon’s face. He hated the way Arianrhod, the goddess of the silver wheel of time and fate, manipulated mortals—Cade in particular, but that meant all those who served him—to do her bidding whether he wanted to or not. And it was a crime of the first order that Taliesin was beholden to Gwydion, Arianrhod’s brother, for his sight, and found it conferred or withheld at the sidhe’s whim.

Goronwy believed to the depths of his being that the world would be a better place without the sidhe in it, and yet—

A hand on his arm startled him, and he turned, the rage still untamed inside him. “What?”

Catrin stared at him wide-eyed. She took a step back, both hands coming up defensively. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to disturb your thoughts.”

Goronwy took in a deep breath, dampening down his emotions. These days his anger was never far from the surface. “It is I who should be sorry. You have done nothing wrong.” He pointed over the battlement to the company of Mercians that had started to make its way up the long road from the valley floor. “I saw them coming and was thinking of Caer Fawr.”

A shadow entered Catrin’s eyes, for she’d been there too—not as a warrior but as the healer she was. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I wish I could help.”

Coming from someone else, her words might have sounded patronizing, and the last thing Goronwy wanted was sympathy. But Catrin meant them exactly as she’d said them. She was also one of the reasons that his hatred of the world of the sidhe couldn’t be sustained for long. For like Taliesin, she was a seer, though rather than seeing the future, she sensed magic and the truth in people.

Unfortunately for Goronwy, hating the world of the sidhe was also not far off from hating himself. His mother had been the great seeress, Nest, and he had inherited a small portion of her abilities. As a child he’d seen auras—the shimmer of light around a person ranging across the spectrum from purple to red, indicating good or evil, health or sickness. His mother had been extraordinarily pleased when she’d realized that he had inherited her gift. But the way she’d spoken of it—and him—to others had made Goronwy uncomfortable. He hadn’t wanted to be a seer. He wanted to be a warrior.

Before long, he taught himself to turn his head away from what his inner eye showed him, and he refused to speak of it to her again. The first time he denied his gift, his mother had slapped his face. But any strong-willed child learns very quickly how to get the better of his parent, and denying his gift gained Goronwy attention—for a time. Then, of course, as his abilities disappeared, his mother lost all interest in him.

Whatever else Goronwy’s mother had been, her gift had been a true one. Catrin reminded Goronwy very much of her, though Catrin’s heart was warmer, despite her years of isolation, than his mother’s had ever been. In the aftermath of Caer Fawr, it had occurred to him for the first time in many years that he might have done himself a disservice in suppressing his gift in favor of those feelings that came from his physical senses: the smooth leather of his sword hilt in his hand, the crunch of a man’s nose breaking as Goronwy hit him with his elbow, or the smell of a woman’s skin.

Those sensations, to him, were far more important and real than the world of the sidhe, but his familiarity with the ways of the gods was probably also one of the reasons he hadn’t run away from Cade when he’d learned the truth about who he really was—or Catrin, for that matter, when he’d encountered her on the road from Caerleon. Hiding his sight had never troubled Goronwy because he’d told himself that he really was no different from anyone else. Any man could have the sight if he would only open himself up to it. The more Goronwy dreamt of Caer Fawr, however, the more he was starting to think that maybe this wasn’t entirely true.

He had accepted his preternatural awareness as part and parcel of what any good fighter could marshal when the need arose. Cade had it. Goronwy thought that even his younger brother, Dafydd, who was born of a different mother from Goronwy, had it. But if Goronwy was honest with himself, he had to admit that his gifts went beyond the usual, and to attribute his skill in battle to training alone was the worst of hubris, of the kind the sidhe would frown upon most severely.

It was as if, after all his years of adventuring and wandering, he’d come full circle.

Catrin lifted her chin to indicate the oncoming Mercians. “Why would Penda be coming here?”

Goronwy looked with her. “I doubt it’s Penda. Peada at best, or perhaps a lesser lord who does Penda’s bidding. Regardless, Penda should know better than to show his face in Cade’s court ever again.”

The rage threatened to overwhelm Goronwy once again, but even as he fought it, he found Catrin’s hand resting on his arm as she’d done before he’d shouted at her. “I know anger can help men in battle, and it is hard to let go of once you’ve left the field, but I see how it eats away at you. Can I help?”

Goronwy almost growled at her again, but he swallowed that down too. “I don’t need help. I have it under control.” But even as he spoke, he knew his words weren’t true, by the very fact of his denial.

She didn’t argue with him, just studied him with that gentle expression. He cleared his throat, knowing that if he looked into those gray eyes for another heartbeat, he’d be back to tears, and that he couldn’t have—not with Mercia on their doorstep. So instead of answering or being honest, he cleared his throat, gave her a stiff bow, and departed for the gatehouse.

As he strode away, he deliberately put Catrin from his mind. With four days to Cade’s crowning, the last thing he needed was to be distracted by her or his own emotions. A warrior learned to accept his role in the order of things and to live with the consequences of his actions—or he didn’t live long.

* * * * *

Catrin watched Goronwy stride towards the gatehouse where undoubtedly he would be one of the first to inspect whoever this was who was riding to Dinas Bran on behalf of King Penda. For months Catrin been trying to reach Goronwy, and with this latest rejection, she finally had to accept that she’d tried for the last time. All she’d wanted to tell him was that she sensed a great foreboding in the mountain beneath their feet. It had been growing in her mind for some time, though she hadn’t put into words what she was sensing. It was very real to her now, however, and her thought had been to discuss it first with Goronwy before going to Taliesin or Cade.

When they’d met, she’d dismissed Goronwy as a soldier, who was by definition an oaf and not worthy of her time. Months of association had shown her that he was a prince and a warrior, with a sharp mind that understood far more than he let on. Even more, he was an honorable man, with a sense of humor and a large heart which he hid beneath a polished exterior.

Catrin looked down at her feet. She’d been alone for a long time, and for years she’d told herself that no man would ever move her again. At Caer Fawr, she’d wondered if walking at Taliesin’s side might be one kind of end for her, but before he’d departed on his quest for the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, he’d made it clear to her that they were not meant to be together, and she had bowed to his wishes and his wisdom.

After that, it had been natural for her to turn to Goronwy for companionship. He wasn’t afraid of her like so many others and, on rare occasions, she’d even sensed a kind of magic in him—though that didn’t happen often. And when he was angry, as he’d been just now, he was no different from any other mortal man.

After Caer Fawr, if she’d asked, Cade would have ensured a safe journey for her to wherever she wanted to go. He had men who served him all across north Wales, any one of whom would have been delighted to find themselves housing a gifted healer.

But she’d stayed, and as Catrin gazed at the oncoming Mercians, she realized that doing so had been a mistake. Before she’d come north with Goronwy, she’d been able to feel the hum of the earth in everything she touched. But since she’d arrived at Cade’s court, she’d felt disconnected from life around her. At first she’d thought it was because she’d spent too much time inside the castle, separated from the earth by the rocky outcrop on which the castle perched.

But then Catrin realized that her disengagement didn’t have anything to do with whether it was rock or soil beneath her feet. She was a seer, and the earth was a living, breathing thing that a few feet of stone, which were part of the earth too, could hardly affect. No, it had to do with allowing others to choose her path for her.

It was time to go, and maybe it would make sense to go now. She would tell Cade about the darkness rising within the mountain, let Rhiann know that she was leaving, and then slip out the wicket gate. With the arrival of the Mercians and the ongoing preparations for Cade’s departure for Caer Fawr tomorrow night, nobody—and by that she could admit she meant Goronwy—would even notice she was gone. Before she could think better of her decision, she hurried from the battlement to find Cade and Rhiann, and then to collect her things.