Night Bird's Reign (17 page)

But Myrrdin was smiling as Gwydion handed Arthur down into the former Ardewin’s still strong arms. “Hello, Arthur. Do you remember me?”

Arthur nodded. “Great-uncle Myrrdin, the Ardewin.”

“Just Uncle Myrrdin, now. You are a clever child.” Myrrdin put Arthur down and turned to Gwydion. “Get down off that horse and come see our new house!”

“New?” Gwydion snorted. “This house was old before even you were born.”

“Thanks for reminding me how long ago that was. And I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Arthur and I have a fine house and a very fine flock of sheep.” Myrrdin looked down at Arthur. “Perhaps you would care to see the sheep later?” Arthur nodded, his eyes shining shyly at Myrrdin.

“Now,” Myrrdin said, taking Arthur’s hand, “let me show you the place. You’ll like it. And we certainly don’t care what Gwydion thinks, do we? We can very well do without his opinion.” Arthur giggled as they went inside.

The floor was of smooth wood, and the walls showed fresh plaster. A large fireplace occupied the far wall, and the stone hearth sported a few iron pots and pans and a small iron pot bubbled on a spit over the cheerfully cracking fire. A split oak table and bench occupied another wall. Two narrow mattresses stuffed with goose feathers were laid against the next wall, covered with colorful woolen blankets. Herbs were strung across the low ceiling to dry.

Incongruously, a large oak chest stood next to the door. It was carved with details of exotic flowers, trees, and animals. Gwydion recognized it from Myrrdin’s chambers at Y Ty Dewin. Myrrdin saw Gwydion looking at the chest and smiled. “My father made it for me, many, many years ago. He was the Archdruid, Arthur, so he was very busy, but he loved to work with wood whenever he got the chance. I found that I simply couldn’t bear to part with it.”

Myrrdin went to the chest and opened the heavy lid. One whole side was crammed with books. There was a space for Myrrdin’s clothes, as well as some clothes for Arthur that Gwydion had purchased and sent on ahead. There were two cups made of silver and inlaid with pearls. There was a basic torque of silver, one pearl dangling from it. It was the kind of torque that every Dewin wore, for Myrrdin had left the elaborate Ardewin’s Torque behind at Y Ty Dewin for Cynan to wear. But even wearing this simpler torque would be denied him here. He must be just an old shepherd living with his grand nephew. Of course, eventually the people of Dinas Emrys would piece together that Myrrdin was much more than that—if they hadn’t already. But that was to be expected in a small village. The people of Dinas Emrys held aloof from strangers. They would discuss Myrrdin, but only among themselves. After a time, when they had accepted him, they wouldn’t even do that much.

Gwydion didn’t bother to tell Myrrdin that he should not put either his torque or the rich cups in such an easily accessible place, because Myrrdin already knew that full well. Gwydion knew that soon, when Myrrdin had been able to come to better terms with this new life, his uncle would hide away these items in a safer place.

The fire crackled cheerfully, keeping the hut warm as dusk descended over the mountains. After Gwydion had stabled Elise they settled down at the table. A small cupboard yielded ale for Gwydion and Myrrdin and fresh ewes’ milk for Arthur. Myrrdin occasionally stirred the boiling pot of soup over the fire. The smell was delicious.

“We’ll eat soon, Arthur,” Myrrdin smiled. “I’ll bet that while you were on the road with your Uncle Gwydion you didn’t get a hot meal.”

Arthur gave a small, hesitant smile. “Uncle Gwydion doesn’t like to cook,” he volunteered.

“So he says, Arthur, so he says. But the truth is that he doesn’t know how!”

Gwydion replied in mock indignation, “I do so!”

“Ha!” At this Myrrdin ladled the soup out into small hollowed-out loaves of bread. All three of them fell to the delicious dinner with a will. After they had sipped the last drop, they ate the bread and Myrrdin set out a wheel of rich cheese.

Arthur’s eyelids began to droop and he gave a jaw-splitting yawn. “Time for bed, boyo,” Myrrdin said gently, and scooped the boy up, laying him gently down on one of the feather mattresses. Myrrdin drew the woolen blanket up to under Arthur’s chin, and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night.”

“Uncle Myrrdin?” Arthur said, his words slurred with sleep.

“Yes?”

“When will my Da come?”

“I’m not sure, Arthur. As soon as it is safe.”

Arthur considered this information. “He won’t forget me, will he?”

“Never,” Myrrdin said firmly. “Not even for a moment.” With that reassurance, Arthur fell fast asleep.

Myrrdin rose from the floor by Arthur’s side and made his way slowly back to the table. He picked up his mug of ale and took several swallows. “Was it bad?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gwydion relied quietly as he stared into the crackling fire. “I promised Uthyr I would bring him here, one day. And I will. But not for many years, I think. Most people will believe that Arthur died, of course. But there will be some that won’t. And those are the ones who will be watching Uthyr’s and my movements very carefully for some time to come. It will be long and long before either of us come to Dinas Emrys.”

The two men fell silent for a time. Finally, Gwydion spoke again, “What about you? How did you leave things at Y Ty Dewin?”

“As well as could possibly be expected. Cynan was quite reluctant to take my place. He felt that he wasn’t the right man for the job. And, of course, he’s right. But I can trust Elstar to keep Cynan from total disaster.”

“Cynan’s not stupid.”

“No. But he’s shy and easily intimidated. Fortunately, Elstar’s not.” Myrrdin shook his head. “Of course, she’s the one who really made it tricky for me to leave. She wanted to examine me, to determine the nature of my incurable illness. Of course I dosed myself secretly with a few very nasty concoctions so that I would seem to be suitably ill.” Myrrdin shuddered. “I’m glad that part is over. And when she was firmly convinced that I was ill, she was equally firmly convinced that going off alone to die was the wrong thing to do. In the end I simply slipped out at night, when I was sure everyone was asleep. I knew better than to fog the vision of the Dewin when they looked for me the next day, so I settled for the one where we gently encourage people not to look too closely, that there is nothing there to be interested in.”

Gwydion nodded. He had often used those masking techniques for his own movements. It did not do to use them too much, as they were very draining. But they came in handy sometimes.

“You are certain, then, Uncle, that you were not followed?”

“Positive. No one has any idea where I have gone. And, by the way, that’s a very sorry flock of sheep I found waiting for me here. Where on Earth did you buy them? It will take me years to make them profitable.”

Gwydion smiled. “Consider it a challenge.”

Myrrdin snorted. “A challenge, he says. How long will you stay?”

“I’ll be leaving for Caer Dathyl tomorrow morning.”

“What are your plans?”

“My plans are to stay put at Caer Dathyl and raise Cariadas until she is tested and goes away to school. I’m going to see to it that she has a happy childhood, with a father who’s always there.”

“You’d better get some sleep, then, if you’re leaving in the morning. Sorry I don’t have a bed to offer, but, as you see, we are not equipped for visitors.”

“Just a blanket in front of the fire is fine for me. I’d never ask you to give up your featherbed,” Gwydion said grinning.

“Old bones, Gwydion. I have old, tired bones.”

“Only when it suits you, Uncle. I’ll bet if that sweet Neuad were here you’d feel just a bit younger.”

Myrrdin scowled and threw a blanket at Gwydion. “Go to sleep,” he growled as he blew out the candles and crawled into bed.

Gwydion wrapped the blanket around him and settled down on the floor before the hearth.

Gwydion watched the firelight dart and flicker among the shadows. He felt odd and disjointed, the way he always felt when he knew that an important dream was waiting for him. Idly he wondered what the dream would be as his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. As he fell the Otherworld reached out for him, wrapped him in firelight, cloaked him in shadow, and took him away to hear the echoes of time within time, to walk through the walls between the worlds.

H
E WAS A
black raven with blood-red eyes. He surveyed the smoking battlefield below him. Bodies littered the landscape and he fluttered down to rest in the branches of a weeping willow tree, drawn here by the smell of death.

He saw a woman with her victorious warriors behind her standing on the bank of the river that bounded the battlefield to the east. She stared at the rushing waters and wept soundlessly, tears streaming down her beautiful face, with a look of regret even in her victory.

Unable to bear the grief on her face, he launched himself into the air with a cry and instantly found himself on the fringes of another battlefield beside a dark forest. He came to rest in the branches of a newly planted aspen tree that surrounded a freshly turned grave. Stones were piled to one side, waiting to be placed on top of the grave when it was filled. A league or so away a huge bonfire burned, fueled by the bodies of the dead warriors that had fallen in battle that day. He heard the harsh sound of a man weeping and the sound tore at his heart.

Again he shot up into the air, unable to bear the sounds of grief. And again he found himself at the scene of yet another battle. Bodies littered the plain, their blood soaking into the rich earth. Patches of Druid’s Fire still burned blue and orange above the ground. Two men wept in each other’s arms as they surveyed the smoking battlefield.

Their wracking sobs grated on Gwydion’s senses, and the smell of death clung to him. So, for the third time he flew, trying to get away from the stench of grief and sorrow.

And again he was not successful. He found himself alighting on a yew tree that had been freshly planted over a newly dug barrow. This battlefield was the worst of all. There were dozens of fires set to consume the dead warriors’ bodies. The men in the victorious army wept without ceasing as they gathered the bodies and fed them to the flames. Smoke stained the sky above the battleground. A man, his tunic and trousers dirty and bloodied, his head bowed and his shoulders shaking with grief, knelt next to the fresh barrow, his hand resting lightly upon the newly turned earth. The man lifted his grief-stricken face and shouted his raw sorrow to the uncaring, smoky sky.

Gwydion, laying before the pallet in the tiny hut in Dinas Emrys wept in his sleep, wept for the grief and sorrow he had seen in these places of death, wept until he could weep no more and the tears dried on his drawn, sleeping face. Wept for their sorrow—and for his own.

Three days later word reached the man that Arthur of Gwynedd was dead. He would have liked to believe that for he had his suspicions about the boy from the start.

Still, it could be true. And the fact that Myrrdin had announced an incurable illness and subsequently disappeared could also be true.

But he could not be sure. So he would watch the Dreamer carefully. Watch him until the Dreamer thought he was no longer watched.

And then the man would watch some more.

Part 2

The Dreamer

Alas for one who gives love to another

If it be not cherished;

It is better for a person to be cast aside

Unless he is loved as he loves.

The Song of Fand

Chapter Seven

Caer Dathyl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Helygen Mis, 494

Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late evening

T
he fortress of Caer Dathyl brooded in solitary splendor at the summit of Mynydd Addien. Proud and silent, the keep rose up like a fist out of the snowy mountain itself. The light of the waning moon glittered over the snow-covered walls. A single, round tower arched out of the stone walls, like the head of an eagle when it sights its prey. This was the Awenyddion’s Tower, the tower where the Dreamers dreamed their dreams and suffered their nightmares.

Gwydion sat by the hearth in his study on the second floor of the Tower, sipping wine out of a golden goblet studded with opals, staring into the flames of the crackling fire. The firelight played harshly off Gwydion’s handsome face, carving deep lines around his stern mouth and brow. His keen gray eyes glittered like ice, and the dark hair at his temples and within his closely cut beard was touched here and there with silver.

The restless flames tossed light and shadow over the round chamber, illuminating portions of the room one moment, wrapping them in darkness the next. The room had no windows, for it was completely lined with row on row of bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by the study door, the stairway to the upper-level sleeping chamber, and the small fireplace. The round, low ceiling was hung with clusters of small, silvery globes representing all the constellations that glittered in the sky over Kymru. The door to the study was carved to represent the four phases of the moon, each outlined in glowing silver—Disglair for the full moon and Lleihau for the waning, Tywyllu for the dark of the moon and Cynyddu for the waxing.

Large wooden chairs brooded silently at each end of the long table in the center of the room. The table was covered with books—some open, some stacked high, others hanging precariously near the edge where Gwydion had thrown them in exasperation after repeatedly failing to ascertain the whereabouts of Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings of Kymru.

Again and again he would remind himself that, when the time was right, the Shining Ones would put the proper clues in his path. But this thought always failed to comfort him. He was tired of being a pawn in the hands of the gods who made him wait and wait and wait while he inured himself at Caer Dathyl, trusting no one, reading his books, living with his nightmares.

He had read every book in this library—and every book in the three colleges—that pertained to Bran’s movements just after the murder of High King Lleu. By now Gwydion felt that he as an authority on Bran the Fifth Dreamer. But this brought him no closer to understanding exactly what Bran had done with the sword.