4 ½ stars – TOP PICK
“Murder, treason, magic and love combine to make this epic fantasy a tale that will blow you away. Even if you haven’t read the first two books—and you should to fully appreciate the story—you’ll be drawn into this sweeping saga. The world building is superb, and excellent character development skillfully exposes personality and motivation.”
~ Gail Pruszkowski, Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Murder, treason, magic, and love combine to make this epic fantasy a tale that will blow you away. Even if you haven’t read the first two books—and you should to fully appreciate the story—you’ll be drawn into this sweeping saga. The world building is superb, and excellent character development skillfully exposes personality and motivation.”
~ Gail Pruszkowski, Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Holly Taylor is at her best with her strong High King saga.”
~ Harriet Klausner, Midwest Book Review
“This volume belongs, along with its predecessors, in most libraries.”
~ Library Journal
Coed Aderyn Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Bedwen Mis, 499 Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—night Gwydion ap Awst, Dreamer of Kymru, twisted and turned on his narrow, sweat-soaked pallet. His face, illuminated by the shining moon that slipped through the shimmering waterfall and into the cave, was rigid with loss, with grief, with unyielding pain. And the dream unfolded. He stood in a dark forest, lit fi tfully by the pale light of the waning moon riding high overhead. Th e dark trees surrounded him, hemming him in tightly. Th e night was cold, and he was alone in a strange place he did not know. Th e silence hummed loudly in his ears, drumming like thunder with every beat of his heart. Inky black shadows stretched around him, growing and wavering in the uncertain light. Suddenly the trees shivered as a chill wind blew through the forest, moaning and wailing of loss and despair. Leaves fallen from nearly bare branches rustled around him like the rattling bones of a restless corpse. Faintly, so faintly he could not be sure at fi rst that he really heard it, a horn began to blow, the note drifting through the forest on the wings of the sobbing wind. Again, he heard the call, coming closer now. And though he thought he knew who sounded that call, it was not the cool, clear note he had heard in times past. It was soft, mournful, as though sent vainly into the air with a dying breath. Th e sound of horses’ hooves on the ground was muffl ed, and came slowly. He turned toward the sound, and the aching slowness of it frightened him, until he was terrifi ed of what he would see. Perhaps they had come to him too late. Perhaps they were dying even now, this moment. Perhaps there would be nothing left of them for him to save. A faint glimmer of topaz through the dark trees caught Gwydion’s terrifi ed gaze. Th e horse was pale and skeletal. The rider was slumped over the horse’s neck, the horn dangling in his hand, forgotten. With an eff ort, he raised his head, staring at Gwydion with the eyes of an owl. Th e antlers that grew from his once-proud forehead gleamed faintly in the moonlight. His once-muscular, bare chest was hollow and frail. “Cerrunnos,” Gwydion whispered past the ache in his throat. “Leader of the Hunt. Protector of Kymru.” A rustling of leaves, stirred by the hooves of a black horse, a glimmer of amethyst, and she was there. As her dark horse staggered into the tiny clearing, she slowly straightened and lifted her head. Her once-white tunic was tattered and stained with dirt and blood. Her shadowy hair was tangled and dusty. But her amethyst eyes still had the power to awe him with their pitiless gaze. “Cerridwen,” Gwydion whispered. “Lady of the Wood. Protectress of Kymru.” The two fi gures stared down at Gwydion but did not speak. Their harsh, labored breathing frightened Gwydion. “What have they done to you? What have they done to you both?” he cried. “You know what they have done, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos replied, his voice hollow. “Th ey came and took Kymru for their own.” “Two years ago they came,” Cerridwen whispered. Once, her voice had been like the silvery chime of bells. But no more. “You . . . you are dying. I did not know that the Shining Ones could die.” “Didn’t you?” Cerridwen asked slowly. “For we can. But not yet. Not just yet. Still do I ride with the Horned God, the Master of the Hunt.” She reached out with her pale, wasted hand to the god by her side. Cerrunnos, with a mighty eff ort, took her hand in his own. Th e god’s topaz eyes fi xed on Gwydion, and the Dreamer was startled to see the life that still blazed there. No, the gods were not dead. Not yet.
