At dawn the next morning, the Alys sailed out of the village harbor and turned north. In case of trouble, the Captain had brought aboard extra men, all fully armed. The sea and wind were relatively calm, but in the space of less than an hour, they were close to the northern end of the island. Gwydion stood close to Dylan on the rear deck of the ship, as they rounded a rocky hill and the old harbor and fortress of Caer Dyfi came into view. Unlike the harbor of Pentref Lluned, here the water was lined with steep cliffs. At the far side the old fortress stood, one of its four towers in complete ruins, two others damaged, but one in good repair. The ancient grey stones were covered in many places with vines, moss or lichen. Some stones of the wall had fallen, and some had obviously been put back into place.

The lovely arched entrance gate called to him from another time, an echo of the beauty of Caer Colur before its fall. For a moment his vision clouded, as he remembered the grace and beauty of that castle, before it was broken and ruined, and isolated on a tiny sliver of what was formerly Llyr.

From the front gate, a formerly grand stairway, now crumbling at many points, descended to an ancient stone pier, topped with a makeshift wooden platform that provided a walkway along most of its length. At the end of the pier stood a pinnacle of stone, a monolith almost in the center of the harbor, like the hub of a wheel.

There were no ships in the harbor. The old fortress appeared to be abandoned.

Captain Dylan and Gwydion shared a glance of surprise.

"I don't know if they surmised that they wore out their welcome…or if they are just out fishing for breakfast, but I don't see a soul," Dylan said in a low voice. It may be that they will be back at any moment, but as the hour is still so early, odds are we will not see them soon. Should we chance it, my Lord?"

Although it was clearly said partly in jest, Dylan referring to him with deference was a bit disconcerting. Somehow, Gwydion had found it refreshing and comfortable not being referred to by the titles of nobility.

"I would say yes. You, at least, have a legitimate right to be here, much more so than they…and I would like the opportunity to examine the fortress more closely."

A few minutes later, the Alys slid quietly into the pier. Captain Dylan had expertly shaved close to the circular cliffs, and approached the pier with bow toward the sea, for a rapid departure. As his crew made the ship fast, Dylan divided his men: fifteen to guard the vessel, and fifteen to accompany him and Gwydion ashore. All were armed with swords, and each also carried either bow or spear.

Soon the landing party was up the steps, and through the open front gate. The courtyard was paved with mossy and broken stone, but still serviceable. The ancient workmanship was excellent, and clearly in the style and pattern of Llyr.

"Just tell me what you want to see," Dylan said to Gwydion with a grin. "I know Caer Dyfi well. Lovely old ruin, isn't it?"

"I am…I am not sure," Gwydion said finally. "Perhaps nothing. Perhaps…" and his voice trailed off.

They passed through the Great Hall, where food and flagons for water or wine still sat on the ancient, and recently hastily repaired, long table. The scullery still had fresh food, and had been left in disarray. Weapons, broken and whole, lay scattered in the armory. Obviously, the occupants did not plan to be gone for long.

"They have been here for months…you would think more repairs would have been made, if they are planning to stay for good," Dylan commented, pointing to holes in the ceilings open to the sky, broken doors sagging on their hinges, and the like. "The Lady didn't strike me as the type to put up with an unkept place…it seems that their focus has been elsewhere."

Indeed, instead of being put back into working order, the fortress appeared to have been ransacked. Every cupboard, every shelf, every cubbyhole, every nook and cranny hung open and empty. In places, loose stones had been pried from the walls or floor, instead of being put back into place.

Gwydion looked at the entrance to one of the towers.

"That one is in the best condition, as I recall," Dylan remarked. "Not much there, except there is an old altar to Rhiannon at the very top."

While Dylan and his men continued to search the fortress, Gwydion treaded up the old circular stone stairs, worn in their centers by time and the passage of countless feet.

The staircase ascended into a broad circular room, with six great windows open in all directions. At the center, an ancient stone altar stood, again similar to those of Llyr that he had seen, and the smaller version that stood in the willow grove next to Pentref Lluned.

As he studied the altar, his ancient instincts awoke, like quiet voices in his mind, almost too low to hear. He sensed that the altar was somehow…changed. The stones were of Llyr, he knew, but the altar was no longer to Rhiannon—at least not completely. Instead, it was some type of mutated creation. An anomaly, a blasphemy. He sensed incompleteness, desperation…but underneath, formidable power.

Affixed at the top of the altar was a large, opaque, black hemisphere, wide as his hand, set into the rough stone, like an unblinking eye. He stared at it for a moment. He imagined muted colors, swirling and changing underneath. Unbidden, his hand reached out to the smooth cool surface.


He was in a long dark tunnel, pushed forward as if by an invisible tide. Then suddenly he emerged before a long table of dark wood, in a grand hall. He tried to focus his mind and his wits. He still felt a sense of alarm, but his instincts told him there was no immediate danger. His alarm began to subside, as he took in his surroundings with all his senses.

The table seemed similar to that of Caer Dyfi, but larger. Its carving, and that of the chairs, was certainly very similar, and somehow familiar. The table was set for a feast, piled with glorious foods of every description. There were flagons of wine, and great golden cups.

The room was dimly lit by a great fireplace. As he approached, he could see the table was set only for two. A lone woman sat at the lone large chair at the end, sipping from a tall glass. She wore an evening dress of sea blue and purest white, adorned with glittering silver and white jewels. At her neck was a necklace of silver and fine pearl. Her stunning face glowed with vitality and life; her eyes were bright. Her auburn hair fell about her shoulders, and a circlet of silver adorned her brow. She carried herself with regal authority. She was so similar to Princess Angharad of Llyr…yet was not her, Gwydion sensed. This must be the Lady Eleri. Why had he not thought that she might possibly be an enchantress herself? Although, only too obviously, she needed no magic to enchant.

His place was set at the traditional location to her right at the end of the long side; the place of the most honored guest.

"I am so pleased you could join me," she said with an inviting smile, her voice light and smooth as silk. "I do not recognize your face from our previous meeting in the village. You are a man of Lluned?"

He did not understand, but sensed that perhaps a game was being played. Very well, he would play.

"No, I am a voyager from the mainland, from a cantrev in central Prydain. I am Lord Gruffydd, if it pleases my Lady." Gwydion bowed respectfully.

"And what brings you to this remote place, so far from home?"

"I reached a point in my life, my Lady, where I decided that nothing was stopping me from seeking a bit of adventure, and from seeing a bit more of the world. I have always had a desire to see the sea, to explore and to sail. So, when the opportunity presented itself, I availed myself of it."

"How exciting…will you be here long? It is so rare for us to receive visitors, and certainly this is the first time that a nobleman from the mainland has ventured so far out to sea." She poured herself a bit of wine from the flagon, took a sip, and placed it before Gwydion.

Gwydion took his seat, and reached for the flagon.

"So unusual to embark on such a journey alone; it speaks to an unusual amount of courage—but perhaps also foolhardiness. There is no predicting what you might find on the high seas, and my warriors and sailors are always telling me stories of brigands and pirates."

"Indeed, the folk of Pentref Lluned have told me such tales as well," Gwydion said with a smile, revealing only the tips of his teeth.

"Ah yes, the folk of Pentref Lluned. They did not give us the greeting we had hoped, as I'm sure you have been informed. We had thought that perhaps they would wish to rejoin the family of the folk of Llyr, but that has not yet occurred. Still, perhaps in time they will find their way, like sheep who escape the fence, but grow weary of the dangers outside, and finally return home."

"They do not appear as sheep to me," Gwydion remarked. "They have made their way alone for many long years, and enjoy their independence. Similar to the Free Commots of Prydain, in many ways."

"Yes, but even wild sheep can be domesticated," the lady returned. "It is in their nature to want a strong leader, a protector. As I said, we are all of a family, and I only want what is best for all…but tell me, my Lord, what news of the mainland? We have heard so many tales of late…first of the fall of Arawn's war leader, and then of the destruction of his black crochan of undead warriors. Are they all true, and Arawn is so weakened?

Gwydion took a drop of wine, and began. "As a subject of King Smoit, who owes allegiance to the Children of Don, I can tell you this: Arawn's war leader did fall, but not by the sword. How exactly he fell is a bit of a mystery…and yes, the black crochan was destroyed. It was somehow taken from Arawn, although again, who and how, is a mystery. But it was found, and destroyed by a man giving his life in it to do so."

Lady Eleri leaned back, sipping from her cup. "So those tales are confirmed by your word…and Arawn himself? Does he still hold sway over Annuvin, and his armies of men and cauldron-born? Or has he possibly fallen as well?"

"He has not fallen," Gwydion said, his grip tightening on the arm of his chair. "He lives, and his wrath has only grown since the loss of the cauldron. However, no major battles have occurred, and Prydain is in a time of relative peace—although how long that will last is yet another mystery. Arawn will surely strike again, at a time of his choosing."

"Indeed," said the Lady. "Thank you for your news, and for confirming what we have heard. As you can imagine, it is difficult at such a distance, and rumors fly about with as much force as reality. "

For a time, they talked of lighter things. The wine flowed freely, and was replenished by attentive servants who apparently appeared from nowhere, and then just as quickly disappeared. To Gwydion, it seemed as if there was no one in the world but the two of them. The lady's laughter floated like peals from a silver bell around the room, and Gwydion could not help but return her good humor. Eleri was delightful and intelligent company, and his mind slowly began to lose its wariness, and soften around the edges. The Lady Eleri and Angharad were so much alike—the two shared the same disarming charm, which lowered all of his defenses. He could not recall the last time he had enjoyed himself more; perhaps he never had. It was indeed as if he were visiting once again the joy and brightness of the House of Llyr. Only now, the attraction he felt was clearly shared.

Eleri now leaned over toward Gwydion, her fine boned, ring-adorned hands on the edge of the table. She looked at him boldly and directly, and he could not resist but sinking into the beauty of her cool viridescent eyes. His heart pounded, and he laid his own open palms on the table as he instinctively leaned toward her in return.

"So now, what of you? Will you be returning immediately to Pentref Lluned, and then to the mainland? Or would you pleasure me with your company for a while? A few days, at least? "

The allure of her glance, and her scent, and her velvet voice were inescapable. Days with her could stretch into an unimaginably blissful length of time, he sensed. Suddenly, she laid her delicate white hand on top of his own, rough and dark and lined from sun and weather. The touch was warm, and inviting, and charged with excitement. Her bright eyes met his, and she leaned toward him, over the corner of the table. He could not resist being drawn to her, and he did the same, their faces only inches apart.

"I promise you, my dear Gruffydd, it will be days you will remember," she said. He could feel her soft breath on his cheek, on his lips. "I could wish for nothing more than to know you better."

Why not then? Why not give in to this? It would be a balm for so many aching scars, so many old wounds.

Their eyes held each other in their clasp for a long moment. Finally Gwydion tore his eyes away. He set his jaw hard, and slowly recovered his composure. He withdrew his hand.

"No," he said. "You already know me."

He recalled words he had used once before.

"You know me as well as I know you, Achren."

A shadow came over the room, as the fireplace flickered. For an instant, the face before him seemed to grimace and twist into something horrible and ancient, something unrecognizable. Then, the red hair flowed silver, and the face before him was changed. It was no longer the face that he had longed to see, conjured from the past, and his heart cried out in anguish to think he would never see it again. It was another—also beautiful, but clearly displeased, the lips curled in disdain. A face he knew all too well.


"A pity you couldn't have allowed our little game to continue just a little while longer. It would have been a kindness to us both, don't you think?"

"I suppose you scanned my mind in the darkness of your spell, and perceived my thought that the Lady Eleri might resemble Princess Angharad. I had not realized that you possessed this power, of dream and illusion, the ability to form such a reality in another's mind. I had thought that perhaps only Arawn possessed such power. But why bother to mask yourself in a dream, as the misguided Lady that leads these folk?"

Achren's eyes glittered with amusement and mockery and she laughed, "As always you are a shortsighted fool…and who do you think taught this enchantment, and so many others, to Arawn? Everything he has was a gift from me, or stolen from me. He was nothing before me, and he will be nothing after me, when I once again wear the Iron Crown. All in good time."

"Your rule is over forever. Your enchantments have turned paltry—like all of this, they are only a fleeting amusement, an illusion. They will not be enough to regain your throne."

"Really, my good Prince? Illusions can be more persuasive than reality, can they not? I chose the proper face for that, undoubtedly—drawn from the memories of a child, and from yours, and also from my own. So clear now that the rumors were true, about how you pined for Angharad like a lovesick hound—and how she rejected you. So pathetic; I almost could not believe it.

"Now at least, you have a taste of what is possible. For the average dullard cantrev king, I can be anything he wishes, in his dreams. He will do anything to live in that illusion—or in another illusion, even more of a lie, where he thinks he has control of his own fate…but no matter. Paltry enchantments? You have no idea of the power that is all but within my grasp. Enough to make illusions become reality. Enough power to topple Arawn, the treacherous ingrate. Enough to vanquish Dallben and your High King, the old fools. Enough to bring about the next age of Prydain's rightful ruler. Enough to destroy you, and everything you ever struggled for. Enough to banish the Children of Don from Prydain forever. If that was what I wished. "

"I had not thought you so pitiable, that you would insist on deceiving yourself as well."

"Do I? You will not live long enough to learn…unless." Once again, she reached for his hand. "I threw you into utter darkness once. It was not my wish, but you scorned me, and gave me no choice." Her voice softened. "I left you with a chance though—a ray of hope in that darkness—and you took advantage of it. Now, we have each escaped our own prisons—but still, you do not have the power to gain what you seek. You know you need a powerful ally to defeat Arawn. If that is truly your goal, might it not at least be a reasonable thought to join with me? Do not respond quickly in anger, but with clear and dispassionate thought. What better ally, than one who knows Arawn as well as he knows himself? My illusion could not sway you…but can I?"

She looked Gwydion deeply in the eyes, just as Eleri had done, and to his own consternation, the look was just as magnetic, if not more so. He had never understood this part of himself…how could he despise her, and desire her at the same time?

"I do not wish to kill you…I told you once, before I healed you, that such a man should not be bleeding out his life in a ditch. I still think the same. We could build a new world together, you and I…and you could have much influence over the fate of Prydain, and the fates of all those that you love…but if you continue to scorn me, again I will have no choice. As fond as I am of you," and she brought his hand for an instant to her silken cheek, before releasing it. "I cannot have you interfering with my plans. Illusions will become reality in the morning light. Reconsider my offer, Prince of Don. Rule with me, or die a fool…and I will rule again, regardless. Consider well—and unselfishly. We will see each other again, and soon. Sooner than you realize."

Gwydion awoke, his body curled at the base of the altar at the top of the tower. Only a vision…only a dream, he told himself. Achren was not here. She could be anywhere, he supposed…but now there could be no doubt that she was alive.

He had no time to organize his thoughts. His sword had been taken, and real warriors of flesh and blood surrounded him. As he struggled to his feet, his arms were pinned, and his hands bound behind his back. He was herded from the tower by a dozen prodding spears. Night had already fallen.


The cell was dark and moist, and from the pounding sound of the surf, almost at sea level. A single grating, more of a small hole in the wall, allowed a keening wind from the sea to penetrate, and he was chilled to his bones by the damp air. His hands were still bound behind him.

He wondered what had become of Dylan and his men, and he regretted to think they might be dead on account of him. He did not have his sword, and the thought of the loss of Dyrnwyn filled him with dread. He thought of Commander Gwaednerth, and could hear his grating reprimand, if he ever heard anything from him again. He had failed…but perhaps not totally. He had wanted to find a trace of Achren, and a trail. He had found more than that.

He flexed his hands and wrists until they were raw and bleeding, but his bonds would not yield.

Now, he supposed, he would meet the real Lady Eleri at last. If she were truly of the folk of Llyr, as Dylan had described her, perhaps she would be merciful to a prisoner. Based on Captain Dylan's description, he had imagined her as much like the Princess Angharad, and Achren had used that memory to entice him. As his mind wandered in the darkness, he wondered how she really appeared. Surely not just as Angharad had looked…it was certainly the least important of the problems facing him.

Why would Achren choose the form of Angharad for Eleri? Why not choose Eleri's own form? Just to entice him, to embarrass him, to confuse him—or was there another reason?

He had the absurd thought that perhaps Achren had masqueraded as Eleri, to make herself appear more like a Lady of Llyr for the village folk. False hair of auburn? No, Dylan had described Eleri to him more than once, over the past few days, in great detail. Her eyes, her hair, her face…could not be those of Achren. Achren could only be Eleri in a spell, an illusion, a dream. She could not change what many men had seen at once, with their waking eyes, in full daylight.

Could she?

No, it was not possible. Not even an enchantress had such power, according to everything he had ever learned of magic and sorcery.

Still, she was Achren.

As time crawled into the early morning hours, he thought again of Angharad—the true one. She had not loved him as he had wished—but she had been his friend. He thought of what she would think of him, and what she would expect of him now. He thought of her daughter, and what he owed her. His mind calmed, and his despair diminished. He was still himself, and he was still alive. The future would bring what it would bring.

He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to doze.

The next day passed slowly. There was little noise except the occasional passing of iron shod boots, and no event beyond a cup of water and a handful of bread being shoved through the slit at the bottom of his cell door. He took advantage of both, and waited, as the long day passed into another never-ending night. Apparently, his captors awaited Eleri's return to decide his fate.


Gwydion awoke suddenly, to the sound of his cell door creaking open. It was still an hour or two before sunrise. He turned and saw but a single shadow at the door, which moved quickly toward him, with knife upraised. He braced himself.

"Ah! I thought I might find you here!" spoke the unmistakable voice of Dylan. "Your wrists…"

In surprise and relief, Gwydion turned, and soon his bonds were severed.

"I relieved the guards outside of your sword," Dylan said, handing over the scabbard, which Gwydion accepted gratefully. "I was ready for a glorious battle, but it was exceedingly dull…it's hard for me to believe that these are warriors who ever descended from Llyr; they fight like common brigands.

"I'm sorry we had to abandon you...two of their ships arrived suddenly in the harbor, with more than a hundred warriors. The Alys and crew made their escape barely in time, and the rest of us made a run for it through the woods from the back gate. We made our way back to Pentref Lluned along the old coast road. Quickly now! Don't forget I know this fortress better than its current occupants; it was our playground as children."

Gwydion followed Dylan from the cell, and saw the bodies of four of his guards. Dylan was a fierce enemy.

Rounding a corner near the outside wall, Dylan flew down a flight of ancient steps, and ducked into a low passage. Along the great wall, a loose stone had been pushed aside— an opening toward the sea.

"Up you go," said Dylan, and Gwydion clambered through. He offered his hand, to pull Dylan through after him.

"No," he said. I go to open the rear gate—our warriors are waiting to attack. I spent yesterday convincing our people that either we fight today, or become enslaved tomorrow. If the battle does not go our way, you should not be here. Your boat is waiting at the end of the pier, hidden behind the great standing stone. Farewell Prince! Long Live the High King!"

And with that, he was gone.

Gwydion turned, and raced toward the great pier in the predawn darkness. Two guards stood at the end. He unsheathed Dyrnwyn, willing its flame to stay extinguished. However, the two men drew back quickly in fear, and scurried toward the fortress. He sprinted down the pier as quietly as he could manage. The two ships of Eleri were dark, the guards apparently asleep. He darted past them without incident.

From the fortress, he could hear the sounds of clashing weapons, and the cries of warriors. The rear gate had been thrown open, and the men of Pentref Lluned had poured into the courtyard.

The repaired wooden part of the pier soon ended, and he clambered over rocks for the next hundred yards. At the end, the great stone stood. He climbed around it, and found Melyngar waiting, tied to a small outcropping of rock. He rowed quickly away from the pier, and soon had raised the sail. In moments, he was at the mouth of the harbor.

From the fortress, he heard exultant cries. The folk of Pentref Lluned had overrun the old fort, and were fighting fiercely, pushing the outsiders back. The warriors of Eleri began retreating toward their vessels. Moments later, the two ships were being pushed from the dock, leaving many of their screaming companions on the pier to fend for themselves. The village folk began to cheer, lining the walls of the fortress.

Gwydion was well away and had set his course out to sea, away from the island. To his relief, the ships of Eleri sailed north from the harbor, in almost the opposite direction, just as the sun finally appeared in the east.

Another ship appeared from the south, built in the same style as the ships of Eleri. Dylan had said there were three. He saw a symbol on its sail. He could not recall where he had seen it, but it looked vaguely familiar. Suddenly, the ship turned in his direction.

He tightened his own sail and ran at top speed, as he had from the Alys. Melyngar leaped forward, skimming the waves like a great gull, but still the larger ship slowly gained. It was an equal in speed to the Alys. His heart sank with dread, at the thought he would soon once again be a prisoner.

His eyes were wet in the salt spray, and the early morning light was dim and uncertain. Still, he imagined he saw the figure of a tall woman standing near the bow, her long hair blowing in the morning wind.

Ahead now, he saw a great plain sail. A large merchant vessel sailed toward him, much larger than the pursuing ship. His heart leaped, as he turned his tiller in its direction.

Alas, it was moving too slowly— the wind was not to its advantage. The pursuing ship would have him before they could meet, and his heart sank once again.

Suddenly, a great banner unfurled from the pinnacle of the merchant ship's mast— the sunburst of the House of Don. From the sides of the ship, many oars leaped out, and he heard the cries of the crewmen as they bent their backs to the oars. The ship bolted forward, waves cresting white at the bow. Very possibly now, the ship could reach his position before his pursuers.

Behind him, the ship of Eleri heaved to, and turned back to the south. Its sails were pulled taut, and it raced away at top speed.

Gwydion waved to the oncoming vessel, and inwardly thanked Don that Gwaednerth was not a patient man. Soon, the hand of his next in command was reaching for him, and he was lifted aboard.

"Can we intercept that ship?" he bellowed to the vessel's captain, standing in the stern at the tiller.

"No chance, my Lord," the Captain returned. "She is much faster under sail than this broad-beamed ship."

The three men watched, as the fleeing ship's sail disappeared rapidly in the distance.

Gwaednerth turned and regarded the Melyngar, now bobbing not far away. "Your craft, my Lord?" he asked.

Gwydion looked upon his little ship once again. "Leave her," he said. "I have friends that will find her, and give her a good home. She belongs at sea."

Suddenly a quick shadow passed over his head.

"Dallben! Eilonwy! Mona!" croaked a raucous voice, almost in Gwydion's ear, and he very nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Oh, there is something else, my Lord," Gwaednerth began. "Before we departed, a crow found us…"