Night Bird's Reign (14 page)

Myrrdin sighed. “Well, she graduates tomorrow, and I’m going to send her to the farthest reaches of Kymru.”

“Oh, Myrrdin,” Elstar said, “you can’t do that. It will break her heart.”

“She’ll have to bear it,” Myrrdin snarled.

“I think you should keep her here. Just getting to really know you would cure her,” Gwydion contributed with a grin. “With a vengeance.”

“Ha, ha,” Myrrdin said flatly.

L
ATER THAT EVENING,
Gwydion and his uncle walked in the gardens. The herb garden of Y Ty Dewin, where the physicians of Kymru learned to identify, harvest, distill, and preserve their herbal remedies, was legendary.

Trees of apple, willow, and hawthorn grew around the perimeter of the five-sided garden. Barberry and blackberry twined in glorious profusion over the low, stone walls. The shapely bell-like flowers of foxglove trembling slightly in the gentle night breeze. The heady aroma of various mints, of thyme, of rosemary, wafted in the night air. Five streams meandered throughout the garden, pouring into a deep, shining pond in the very center. The bright half-moon turned the streams into ribbons of silver.

Gwydion and his uncle had been wandering the garden for some time now, walking the graveled paths, talking quietly of personal things. Of Gwydion’s daughter and of Dinaswyn, Myrrdin’s sister, back at Caer Dathyl. Of the latest group of apprentices, of the most promising journeymen.

Gwydion only fully trusted three people on this Earth; his brothers Uthyr and Amatheon, and his uncle, Myrrdin. Myrrdin had not only always been kind, he had also been wise, seeing early on the damage his sister, Celemon, was doing to Gwydion and Amatheon, and doing what he could to minimize it.

During the time he was Ardewin’s heir, he frequently invited Gwydion and Amatheon to stay at Y Ty Dewin for as much of the holidays as his sister would agree to, sparing them lonely and tension-wracked days at Caer Dathyl.

All his life Gwydion had known that his uncle cared for him. But he also knew that his uncle cared greatly about his responsibilities as Ardewin of Kymru. And this was something he would find very hard to give up.

Their conversation grew more disjointed. Myrrdin was obviously waiting for Gwydion to unburden his heart. And Gwydion was waiting for the courage.

At last he swallowed hard and tried to begin. “Uncle . . .” He trailed off, not knowing how to say what he must.

“Ah, ready at last then? Here,” Myrrdin said, gesturing to a stone bench. “Let me rest my old bones while you tell me whatever you are trying so hard to say.”

“I tested Arthur privately. Just Susanna, Ygraine, and Uthyr were there.”

“Why would you do that?” Myrrdin asked, perplexed.

“Because I knew what we would see. And we did. He has the makings of a High King.”

Myrrdin blinked in surprise. “A High King? It is time again?”

“It is time,” Gwydion agreed, grimly. “If I can keep him alive long enough,” Gwydion rushed on. “I persuaded Uthyr and Ygraine to agree to have Arthur sent away and brought up in secret.”

“How were you able to get them to agree to that?” Myrrdin asked in astonishment.

“By telling them the truth. That Cerrunnos and Cerridwen have come to me in my dreams and warned me that there were traitors among us. Ygraine said that Uthyr would be able to protect his own son. But I said that he could not.”

“Traitors among us,” Myrrdin said quietly, “who seek to harm the boy. Who seek to keep Kymru without a defender. And who are these traitors?”

“The Protectors would not say.” He told his uncle of the recurring dream of the shadow that menaced the young eagle. “There was one other thing I told them that made them agree to it.”

“And that was?” Myrrdin asked softly, his keen eyes searching his nephew’s face.

Gwydion took a deep breath. “I told them that you would bring up Arthur.”

“You told them what?” Myrrdin exclaimed, stunned. “But Arthur has to be brought up in secret! I can’t do that as Ardewin!”

“That’s right, you can’t,” Gwydion said steadily. “Are you asking me to give that up? To step down as Ardewin and just disappear?” Myrrdin asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Gwydion,” Myrrdin said patiently, “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, there’s nobody to take my place here.”

“There’s Elstar. It’s what you’ve been training her to do, after all.”

“Elstar’s too young,” Myrrdin snapped.

“Myrrdin, she’s my age.”

“Oh, Gwydion,” Myrrdin said impatiently, “you’re too young. Didn’t you know that?”

“What about Cynan at Tegeingl? He’s of the House of Llyr.”

“Cynan! Oh, he’s a good man and a good Dewin, but he couldn’t lead a horse out of a stable, much less the Dewin of Kymru.” Myrrdin stood, looking down at his nephew. “I’m sorry. You ask the impossible. Don’t you see that? Being Ardewin isn’t about power, or prestige. It’s about leadership and its burdens. It’s about understanding the people who look to you. And, by understanding them, giving them the means within themselves to be the best that they can be. It’s about guiding men and women to use their gifts, to explore within. I can’t give that responsibility into uncaring or unskilled hands. And I won’t.”

“Uncle—” Gwydion pleaded.

“I tell you no. Get someone else to raise Arthur. I have a duty.”

“Myrrdin, Arthur is your duty.”

“You know nothing,” Myrrdin said flatly. “Nothing.”

Myrrdin turned to leave determined not to hear another word. Gwydion grasped his uncle’s sleeve, refusing to let go. “Wait. He needs you. He’s going to have power at his fingertips that you and I could never truly imagine,” Gwydion went on, the words hastily tumbling out of his mouth. “And he’s going to have to be taught how to use it. And how not to use it.” Myrrdin stopped struggling to stare at his nephew as Gwydion went on, still clutching his uncle’s sleeve. “He will have to be compassionate, hard, honest, cunning. He’ll have to have a heart that can love but cannot be broken. Who else in all of Kymru could teach him these things? Who else but you?”

“No, lad,” Myrrdin whispered. “Don’t ask this of me, I beg you.”

“I don’t ask it of you, Uncle. Kymru itself beckons you.” Unbidden, words came to him, as though from another place, at another’s command. “The mountains of Gwynedd where the eagles nest in their aeries beg you to do this. The sands of Ederynion that ebb and flow with the ocean tides; the glens and forests of Prydyn where the wolves hunt; the wheat fields of Rheged, shining like fire in the noonday sun; all these beg you. Cadair Idris itself begs to hear more than the silent wind; it longs to listen to music and laughter again. Do this. Bring up the High King in secret. Your reward—”

“Do not speak to me of reward,” Myrrdin flared. “Do not speak at all!”

“I understand—”

“You understand nothing, boy.” Myrrdin gazed at the great keep of Y Ty Dewin as Gwydion’s hand fell away from his arm. The white stones glowed silvery in the light of the moon. His gaze played over the garden, the stream, and, finally, to the moon herself. Myrrdin stood still as the moonlight washed over him and pooled at his feet.

Finally, he spoke, never taking his eyes from the glorious moon. His voice was quiet. “When I became Ardewin, I went to Nemed Onnen, Nantsovelta’s sacred grove of ash trees here. I spent the night in the grove alone, listening to the beat of my heart, to the voice of the Queen of the Moon. The moon was full, and she shone that night with a light that still breaks my heart to recall. She was so beautiful. I spoke to her in the silence. I vowed to lead the Dewin with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, until the day I died. I made this vow to Nantsovelta, to Kymru itself. And now you tell me to break it.”

The breeze chose that moment to send a gust through the garden with a gentle sigh. The stream laughed softly to itself. And the silver light of the moon shone, brave and quiet in the night sky.

Myrrdin turned to Gwydion, his eyes deep, dark pools, awash with agony. “I can’t do it,” Myrrdin said simply. “Good night.”

G
WYDION SAT MOTIONLESS,
his uncle’s departing footsteps echoing down the graveled path. He lifted his head and stared at the bright, shining moon. Suddenly, tears blinded him and the moon wavered, then spilled and ran down his face.

His uncle was right, he understood nothing. Nothing except that life could be so cruel.

She handed you a gift, then took away another. Or snatched it from you when you stretched out a hand to take it. She gave you pain to set you on your path then laughed when you fell on the way. And you fell and fell until your skin was scraped raw, until you were bruised and bloodied. And still she beckoned you on.

He thought of his own sorrows, his own festering wounds, how he had been unable to heal them and had now bled away too much of the man he might have been.

But he could not care about that. He could not care about Myrrdin’s happiness; he could not care for his own. He would complete the tasks given him by the Shining Ones, using anyone and everyone to do it. Somehow he would make Myrrdin do this thing.

Only the task had meaning. It was the only thing that ever would.

Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—afternoon

G
WYDION STOOD BY
himself at the back of the Great Hall, waiting for the ceremony to begin. A low buzz of conversation floated up to the high ceiling of the two-storied, five-sided chamber. The white stone gleamed in the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles.

Benches were lined up in the center of the hall. Dewin, journeymen, and apprentices occupied the first group of benches, while friends and family members of apprentices who were graduating to journeymen filled the next rows.

A huge banner of a silver dragon on a field of sea green hung on the wall behind the dais at the far end of the hall. Two more long benches had been set next to the dais. The bench to the right of the dais was empty, waiting for the graduates to enter. The long bench on the left was filled with the heirs of the four kingdoms and their escorts.

Arthur sat solemnly with Susanna next to him and Cai standing behind them. Next to Susanna sat the young heir of Prydyn. Nine-year-old Prince Geriant ap Rhoram’s hair was golden like his father’s, his face open and warm, and his blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

Achren, King Rhoram’s Captain stood behind Geriant. Her black hair was braided tightly to her scalp, and her dark eyes were alert, constantly sweeping the hall for any sign of menace to her charge. Ellywen, Rhoram’s Druid sat stiffly next to Geriant. Her dark brown hair was pulled tightly back from her face and confined with an emerald clasp. Her gray eyes made Gwydion think of thin ice, the kind that covered a very deep river. One misstep and a man might drown.

Princess Elen, the heir to Ederynion sat with all the dignity she had inherited from her mother, Queen Olwen. She was small for her eight years, delicate and slender, with rich auburn hair. The little girl would be a beauty like her mother one day. A slight smile crossed Gwydion’s face, remembering his brief time with Olwen years ago.

Angharad, the Captain of Olwen’s
teulu,
laughter in her light green eyes and her red hair braided and wound round her head, bent over to say something to Elen that made the little girl giggle. Young Iago, new to his post as Olwen’s Druid, laughed with them, his dark eyes sparkling. It was obvious that he adored the child.

Prince Elphin, the eleven-year-old heir to Urien of Rheged, had brown eyes that brimmed with mischief as he chatted with Esyllt, King Urien’s Bard. Esyllt had a sensuality that caught every man’s eye. Her rich, light brown hair and sparkling blue eyes drew admiring glances. By the look in Trystan’s green eyes, the Captain of Urien’s
teulu
was interested in admiring even more of the lady. A good thing that March, the lady’s husband, was not here to see it.

By rights Gwydion, as the Dreamer of Kymru, should have been sitting up front also. But for now, he preferred to lean against the stone wall next to the doors. He had not seen his uncle yet today, and he was far too tense to take a place where all eyes would be trained on him. As befitted the formality of the ceremony he wore the traditional Dreamer’s robe of black, trimmed with red. Quite a few admiring glances from the ladies were sent his way. But he did not see them. All he saw was the memory of his uncle’s eyes, dark with the pain that Gwydion’s demand had given him.

The graduating apprentices and journeymen began to file in and onto the empty benches. The apprentices wore plain gray robes, while the robes of the journeymen were sea green. Elstar entered through a small door to the right of the dais, wearing a robe of sea green trimmed in silver. Around her brow she wore a silver circlet with a pearl in the center. She carried a silver staff and solemnly rapped the floor with it three times. As she did so the crowd fell silent. She lifted the staff and began the prayer to Nantsovelta.

O vessel bearing the light,

O great brightness

Outshining the sun,

Draw me ashore,

Under your protection,

From the short-lived ship of the world.

Then Myrrdin walked in slowly, mounting the steps to the dais and turning to the waiting crowd. His robe was silver, trimmed with green. Around his shoulders he wore the traditional Ardewin’s cloak of white swan feather. He carried a staff of gold, and he looked haggard and haunted.

“Who comes here now before Nantsovelta, Lady of the Moon?” Myrrdin asked in a solemn voice.

Elstar answered her voice clear and light in the sudden hush, “Five apprentices who seek to become journeymen. May I present them to you?”

At Myrrdin’s nod the five apprentices in gray robes came to stand before the dais. “I declare,” Elstar went on, “that these are worthy. They have shown proficiency in herbal lore, in anatomy, and in surgery. They have mastered Anoeth, the secret language of the Dewin. They have learned the ways of clairvoyance and can Life-Read and Wind-Ride. I deem them worthy of becoming journeymen. Will you accept them?”

Myrrdin stepped forward and spoke to the first apprentice in line. “Are you, Llwyd Cilcoed, ready to dedicate yourself to Nantsovelta and the ways of the Dewin? Are you ready to accept the responsibilities of your gifts and to let truth guide your deeds?”