Night Bird's Reign (20 page)

“Wake up,” he commanded, his hands still cradling her head.

Arianrod started awake, her eyelids fluttering. “Well?” she asked expectantly. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” he said shortly. “You do not hold the memory.”

Her eyes glinted. “I see,” she said. “So, you must find Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Well, that will be interesting. Maybe you can get her to fall in love with you. Then you can use her any way you want.”

“I didn’t ask to have to find her,” Gwydion said, stung.

“But you must, surely, look forward to using her,” she taunted. “Since you are done with me.”

“Arianrod—”

“Come now, Gwydion. You and I, we understand each other. Don’t we?”

“I understand you. I’m not at all sure you can return the compliment.”

“Oh, but I can. I know what you are. And what you want.”

“No you don’t.”

“I believe that I do. What’s the matter, Gwydion,” she went on with a smile. “Afraid I’ll stab you in your bath?”

At this his clenched his hands into fists, to keep himself from striking her. No one talked about that. No one reminded him of what happened all those years ago. Swiftly he leapt toward her and grabbed her wrist. His face was drained of all color, twisted with pain. His gray eyes blazed. “Never speak of him to me again. Do you understand?” He shook her. “Do you understand?”

She laughed, for she did not fear him. Enraged, he lifted his hand to strike her, but caught himself. He had never struck a woman in his life, and he would not do so now. He rushed from the room and stumbled down the hall to his tower. He mounted the stairs, shaking. He made his way into the study and slowly sank into his chair. Unbidden, the memories flooded over him. Unwillingly, fighting every step of the way, he thought of his father, whom he had loved. And he thought of his mother and what she had done to them both.

H
OW MANY TIMES
when Gwydion was a young boy had he seen his father? He could count the times on one hand. For whenever Awst would come home to Caer Dathyl he only stayed a few days before Celemon’s anger, her emotional outbursts, her jealousy drove her husband away again.

Gwydion clearly remembered the time when he was only six years old. He hadn’t seen his father for over a year. Waking up early, he roused his younger brother, and the two of them made their way to the kitchens to see if the cook would give them a little something before breakfast. They had stumbled into the busy kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep. Awst had been there, sitting on the hearth. They hurled themselves into their father’s waiting arms, shouting for joy. Gwydion remembered the feel of his father’s strong arms about him, the love and pride and joy in his father’s face. Gwydion had felt safe, loved, and truly happy.

But only for a moment. For then Celemon had come down and everything had changed in an instant. Awst had reached out to hug her, and she had put her arm up to hold him off. She had begun to rant at him for staying away for so long, demanding to know if he had been with Queen Rathtyen in Tegeingl. He did not love them, she had screamed. He had two fine boys right here in Caer Dathyl, but he spent all his time with Uthyr, his son by the Queen. Within the hour Awst had left, driven away by his wife’s recriminations.

Soon after this, Gwydion, who had been tested and found to be the next Dreamer, had been sent to Y Ty Dewin to learn the ways of the clairvoyant Dewin. Amatheon had joined him there a few years later, for his brother was Dewin. Gwydion had spent four years there before going on to Neuadd Gorsedd to learn telepathy from the Bards, and later to Caer Duir to learn psychokinesis from the Druids.

During those years he and Amatheon would see each other when they could. And their father visited quite often, at whatever college Gwydion had been living in at the time. Sometimes Awst would take them both to Tegeingl. There they met Queen Rathtyen, who was not the horrible woman their mother had told them about. The Queen had been kind to them both. And her son, Uthyr, had also been especially kind to young Gwydion, who was shy and awkward, soon becoming a hero in his half brother’s eyes. Gwydion avoided going home to Caer Dathyl whenever he could, preferring to spend his holidays in Tegeingl with his father and brother, or at Y Ty Dewin, with his uncle, Myrrdin.

But then the day came when he was twenty years old and it was time to return to Caer Dathyl to complete his training with Dinaswyn. When he returned, he was greeted with reproaches from his mother for staying away so long. But Gwydion was no longer a helpless child and he defended himself. They had screamed and shouted until Dinaswyn had put an end to it by sending Celemon to her rooms and Gwydion to the garden.

For three years Gwydion trained with Dinaswyn in Caer Dathyl. He no longer suffered his mother’s rages in silence, and the two fought regularly. Occasionally Amatheon, now a journeyman Dewin, would get leave to visit Caer Dathyl. Gwydion was always glad to see Amatheon, and grateful to his brother for coming, for he knew Amatheon only did so because of his love for Gwydion.

In those three years his father did not come once. Until one day Gwydion awoke to find his father sitting serenely by his pallet. The two men spent the entire day together. His father had been proud of him, he said, proud to have sired such a fine man. And Gwydion had glowed under his father’s praise.

Now, thirteen years later, sitting by his lonely fire, Gwydion squeezed his eyes shut tightly. His breathing ragged, he tried to stop the remembering. But the memories came, crashing against his last defenses like ravening beasts, tearing the fragile peace of forgetfulness that he had built, oh so painfully, to shreds.

He remembered that Celemon had come down from her rooms that day. She had been smiling. She had drawn Awst’s bath, she had said. And she had held out her hand to her husband, saying she would help him bathe. She had kissed Gwydion gently and reminded him to change for dinner. She had tucked her hand into the crook of Awst’s arm and led him, laughing, into the house.

But when dinner was served, only Gwydion and Dinaswyn were there to eat it. He remembered how they had sat at the table until long after dinner was done. How the steward had come to them, worried because the door to Awst’s chamber was locked, and his knocking had brought no answer. How they had gone then to Awst’s room and knocked on the door. How the silence had frightened Gwydion. How he, now in a panic, had used psychokinesis to unlock the door that had been bolted from the inside. How in the large, copper tub set in front of the fireplace he had seen them. How the firelight had flickered over the blood-red water.

He remembered the look on Awst’s face—the look of surprise that was frozen there in that moment when his wife murdered him. And the smile on Celemon’s dead face that must have been there when she stepped into the bloody water, slashed her wrists, and arranged herself in her dead husband’s arms.

G
WYDION REMEMBERED IT
all. And remembering began to weep as the firelight turned his tears to blood in the Awenyddion’s Tower in the fortress of Caer Dathyl, which stood in proud and lonely silence at the top of the world.

Chapter Eight

Coed Aderyn Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Onnen Mis, 494

Calan Morynion, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon

R
hiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg swore as she stubbed her toe on a tree root and almost fell face down into the snow. She felt awkward trying to keep her balance while carrying a dead rabbit in one hand and a spray of snowdrops in the other. Taking a tighter grip on the snare around the rabbit’s neck, she pushed onward through the snowdrifts.

She felt irritated and unsettled, out of sorts today. And she knew why. Today was Calan Morynion; the festival that honored Nantsovelta, the goddess of the Moon and Lady of the Waters, the goddess most revered by the Dewin. And that was the problem. Although Rhiannon was herself Dewin, she had turned her back on that part of herself long ago. The festival evoked far too much for her to enjoy it.

Today was also her name day. Today she was thirty-five years old and, as time went by in the quiet forest of Coed Aderyn, she tended more and more to dread the anniversary of her birth. It always reminded her that time was passing. She suspected—she knew—that she was wasting the life she had been given.

Worse still, in the past few weeks she had begun to feel uneasy. Someone, somewhere, was thinking quite hard about her these days. The feeling was nebulous, not like the time when she first came to the woods. Eleven years ago all of Kymru had been looking for her. How irritating it had been to hear her name Spoken on the Wind over and over by telepaths up and down Kymru. It created such a din that she had headaches for months, even after they had stopped calling for her.

But this was different. It was as though someone was looking for her quietly, so as not to alarm her. Stalking her, perhaps.

Pushing these unsettling thoughts away, she continued to make her way between the dense trees to her home. She had told Gwen to stay inside while she was gone, but Rhiannon had little hope that her daughter would do as she was told.

Although the wood was silent, and she knew she was alone here, Rhiannon moved quietly for it was now her second nature. That had been hard to learn at the beginning, when she had first come here, bringing her child and her broken heart with her. They had almost starved that first winter. She had been forced to learn how to walk the woods quietly, to stalk and kill the wild animals in order to keep herself and Gwen alive. She had done it, for when the choice was learn or die, learning came quickly.

Once or twice a year, as need demanded, she visited the tiny village of Dillys to the west, just at the edge of the wood. There she would trade rabbit and deerskins for grain and other necessities. In the first years she had always made the journey with her heart in her throat, knowing that her description was being circulated and fearful that she would be recognized. But they never so much as blinked when they saw her and the baby. Of course, the people of Dillys, like those of other tiny villages, were closed-mouthed with outsiders.

Her doeskin boots, which she had patiently waterproofed by rubbing candle wax into them, made no sound as she glided across the snow. Her leather tunic and trousers were white; blending in with the snow-covered landscape. Her white winter wool cloak was hooded and lined with rabbit fur. The hood covered her long, black hair, which was tightly braided to her scalp. Her skin was tanned, and her large green eyes were fringed with long, ink-black lashes. Her snub nose was red with cold.

As she neared her home she automatically scanned the sky. But she could see no smoke rising from the fire she knew burned in the hearth. She smiled a little, for she was proud of her hard work. Realizing that even the dullest traveler would wonder about smoke rising from a lone hill, she had patiently hollowed out a fissure in the cave where she lived and set the hearth into the side of the cave itself. The smoke was drawn out through the fissure and into the series of connecting caves that went far back into the earth.

The opening to the cave under the hill was covered by a shimmering waterfall, which fed into a tiny pool. Even in winter the waterfall did not freeze, and the pool was never fully covered with ice. She made her way around the pool and climbed the wet rocks, slipping behind the waterfall and entering the hidden cave.

She stepped carefully, for the entrance was always slightly wet from the spray of water. Her eyes, dazzled by the snow, took a moment to adjust to the dim interior. She made her way to the small table in the middle of the chamber and placed her burdens down on the rough wooden surface. The fire crackled merrily, and Gwen had lit the candles. She returned to the entrance and drew the heavy woolen curtain across it so that nobody would be able to see the glow of the fire.

As she looked around the chamber, the rough walls, covered with rock crystal, glittered in the light of the fire. Rushes covered the floor. The firelight played off the walls and the wooden shelves that she had built. One shelf, to the left of the entrance, contained a few books. A telyn, the small harp that had belonged to her father, stood silently next to the books. The tiny harp was covered with dust, for Rhiannon had not touched it in years. When her father died he had left her that harp, and her first instinct had been to smash it to pieces. But the beauty of the instrument always stopped her. So it sat mute, year after year, but still in one piece.

To the immediate right of the entrance were two stacked sleeping pallets. Next to these was another wooden shelf, which held a large golden bowl, an ivory-backed hand mirror, and a silver comb, the only gifts from Rhoram she had taken with her that long-ago night. In the middle of the rough wall, a small, intricately carved trunk squatted, its dark, satiny surface reflecting the fire’s cheerful glow.

All was as it should have been, except for one thing. Her daughter was nowhere in sight. Rhiannon sighed in exasperation. She knew where Gwen was—exploring the caves. Over and over she had explained to Gwen how dangerous that was. Gwen could get lost, or the caves could collapse. But Gwen obviously felt that her mother was exaggerating these dangers, for she never paid the slightest bit of attention.

Rhiannon heard the sound of running feet, and Gwen burst into the chamber through the opening in the far wall of the cave. She had a single candle tightly clutched in her tiny hands—at eleven years old she was small for her age. Her long blond hair was uncombed, and her delicate features were smudged with dirt. Her large blue eyes held her usual look of unfettered innocence. She wore an old blue gown, and doeskin boots covered her little feet.

“You misjudged the time, I take it,” Rhiannon said dryly, covering her relief that Gwen was unharmed.

Gwen’s blue eyes widened in hurt surprise as she tried to hold off the inevitable scolding. “What do you mean?” she asked in her high, piping voice.

“You know what I mean, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram. You were exploring the caves again.”