Night Bird's Reign (25 page)

T
HE TWO MEN
were silent for some time. Gwydion was disgusted with Rhiannon and her behavior. Her story had given him no feeling for her pain, only contempt. Did she think she should have been happy? No one was happy. She had thought that love would last and had been angry when it failed. When did love ever last? Love was of no use to anyone. It clouded the mind, it weakened a man. He had done without for many years, and he hadn’t run away like a spoiled child. He had stayed in the world and faced up to his duty.

“Where did she grow up?” Gwydion asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Geneur. It’s the chief town of cantref Gwarthaf, in Prydyn.”

“She would know the area well, then?”

“Probably. But when she first disappeared, Rhoram searched that area thoroughly. Are you open to suggestions?”

“From you, yes.”

“You should go to Neuadd Gorsedd. Speak to Anieron. Dudod’s his brother, and if Dudod really does know anything, maybe Anieron can convince him to speak.”

“I’d rather stay out of Anieron’s way. I never know what he’s up to.”

Myrrdin shrugged. “I don’t share your suspicions of Anieron. But if you want to find Rhiannon you’re going to need his help. No way around that.”

“True enough,” Gwydion admitted.

“While you’re there, talk to Elidyr. He’s Dudod’s son and Anieron’s heir. Before he was sent to Neuadd Gorsedd he and Rhiannon both lived with Llawen. When she used to slip away to Neuadd Gorsedd she would talk to Elidyr. He might know something.”

“All right.”

“You should probably consider stopping by Caer Duir, also,” Myrrdin went on. “Cathbad knows a great deal and might have some good advice for you. And, Gwydion, one last word that I am sure you will ignore. When you find her, go easy. Her life has been very difficult. Try charm. If you’ve got any.”

“Why, Uncle, you know that women love me,” Gwydion laughed bitterly.

“Not that kind of charm,” Myrrdin said sharply. “I’m just suggesting you try to understand her. If you need her, it would be foolish to antagonize her.”

“I’ll do my best, Uncle.”

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” Myrrdin muttered under his breath.

U
THYR AND HIS
son walked slowly up the mountainside beneath the gathering dusk. The moon had not yet risen, and they picked their way up carefully to rest upon an outcropping of rock halfway up the rough hillside. From their vantage point, they could see the fitful lights emanating from the tiny village. One by one, the stars began to come out. In the gathering gloom Uthyr could just make out Arthur’s young, fresh face.

“So every day I take the sheep up the hillside. And I have to be careful with them because sheep are very stupid, you know. They can get themselves in the stupidest situations. I remember one time . . .” Arthur hadn’t stopped talking the entire time, but Uthyr was content. Just to hear his son’s voice was enough for him, after listening to the silence in his heart for so many years.

When Arthur had first been taken away Uthyr had buried his own grief to keep his wife from going mad. Night after night he had held her as she wept. Day after day he had comforted her by his very presence, his calm demeanor. He had rarely left her side for months. The responsibility of holding Ygraine together had helped him through that terrible time when he felt as though his right arm had been torn away from his body. As a man with a missing arm feels the phantom pain from a limb that is no longer there, so he had sometimes thought he heard Arthur’s bright laughter from far away. He had sometimes thought, while riding home to Caer Gwynt after a day of hunting, how pleasant it was going to be to take Arthur hunting when the boy was old enough. He sometimes woke in the middle of the night, wondering if Arthur was warm enough and almost getting out of bed to go to his son’s empty chamber to see. But then he would remember that Arthur was no longer there.

Just as he thought she would, Ygraine clung to Morrigan, the child they had left, hardly letting her out of her sight. But his precocious daughter seemed to instinctively understand her mother’s need and had done her best to fill the empty place in her parents’ hearts.

“So he had caught himself in a thorn bush. Stuck fast, he was, and bleating like his throat was being cut,” Arthur was saying. “But he saw me and he knew I would fix everything. So he quieted right down and let me help him.”

“Do you truly like being a shepherd?” Uthyr asked. And, oh, how it galled him that his son, his only son, lived in a hut and herded sheep. Arthur should have grown up in Caer Gwynt. He should have had a fine horse, and fine riding leathers, and a chance to learn the ways of a warrior. But Uthyr let none of this show in his voice.

“Oh, yes,” Arthur answered. “Every day I am up in the mountains, with no other person around for miles. And the hills are quiet and you can feel the wind on your face. And the crocuses bloom up in the meadows. And there are streams and tiny waterfalls running through the mountains. And no one bothers you. It’s all very peaceful.”

“You like solitude?”

“Yes,” said Arthur brightly. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t get much of it, really. There are always people around.”

“How do you stand it?”

“Well, you see, that’s something that every Ruler must get used to. One day, when you’re High King—”

Arthur’s face, barely discernible in the fading light became still. Uthyr stopped and gazed at his son in surprise. “That’s not something you want, is it?” he said gently.

Arthur said nothing, sitting as though made of stone. “Arthur, I’m your father,” Uthyr went on. “And I love you. You must know that. You can tell me things—things that are hard to say. And I’ll listen. You mustn’t think I won’t understand.”

After a moment, Arthur said clearly, “I’m not going to be High King. I’ve made up my mind. I want to be left alone. I just want to stay here in the mountains, forever.”

“Why?” Uthyr asked quietly.

“I . . . I don’t know anything about how to fight a war. I don’t know anything about being wise and—and kingly. I’m just a shepherd.”

“But you can learn,” Uthyr pointed out. “So that’s not really it, is it?”

Arthur swallowed and stared down at his feet, unwilling to meet his father’s eyes. “Tell me the truth,” Uthyr said softly.

“It’s—it’s too big for me. High King. It’s too big. I can’t. I’m not strong enough. I’ll fail.”

“And if you stay here and herd sheep, you won’t have to try. And then you won’t fail. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Arthur said frantically. “I won’t try. I won’t. No one can make me—not even Uncle Gwydion. No one.”

The two sat in silence for a long time. The stars wheeled brightly overhead; their shining patterns piercing the dark, velvet sky. “Myrrdin taught you the stars, didn’t he?” Uthyr said suddenly. Startled, Arthur nodded. “Look there, then.” Uthyr went on. “Do you see the constellation of Taran?”

Again Arthur nodded as he looked up at the sky. Uthyr continued, “Taran, King of the Winds, who represents the element of air, is honored especially in Gwynedd. You know that Caer Gwynt, our citadel in Tegeingl, means House of the Winds?”

Again, Arthur nodded.

“On the great doors to Caer Gwynt, there is a hawk. Now, the hawk is a fine hunting bird, but I think the finest hunting bird is an eagle. Here in the mountains you must see many eagles. So you know what they are like. They are proud, fierce, and beautiful in their freedom. If captured they pine away and die, for they cannot bear chains.

“You are like an eagle, my son: proud in your solitude, fierce in defiance of your fate, beautiful in your need for freedom. But the eagle is able to soar because of the air beneath his wings. He flies the sky because he can ride the winds of Taran from here to the ends of the Earth. Because this is how he was made.”

Uthyr paused and grasped Arthur’s hands tightly in his own. “I sent you away when you were a child to ensure that you would grow up to be like the eagle—noble, ferocious, able to ride the sky on the wind. All this you can be. But there is a price to be paid for everything. Nothing is free. The price I paid to keep you alive was to sever myself from you. I pay the price in heart’s blood because I love you so. And I will never stop loving you. Whether you are a High King or a shepherd. I ask one thing of you. When the time comes, weigh the price carefully. Because there is no wind for an eagle who breaks his wings. He is bound to the earth forever.

“You were born to be High King. I felt it even when you were in the womb, and I would put my hand on your mother’s belly, and know what you were meant to be. So I tell you this, to turn away from what you were meant to be is to break your wings, to be earthbound forever. I would not want that anguish for you.”

Arthur said nothing, but Uthyr noticed that his mouth was set in a stubborn line. He knew he had not convinced his son, for the aversion was too deep. But he hoped that a seed had been planted that would one day bear fruit in his son’s lonely soul.

“How is Mam?” Arthur asked, turning the conversation away from him.

“She is well. She asked me to tell you that she loves you dearly. And she made this for you.” Uthyr reached into his tunic and pulled out a woolen scarf of sapphire blue. “She told me to tell you to wear it whenever it was a chilly night. She also said to drink chamomile tea in the winter, to keep from catching cold.” Uthyr smiled. “Your mother is convinced that you can’t take care of yourself. But that’s not personal—she thinks the same thing about me.”

Wonderingly, Arthur took the scarf and wrapped it around his throat. “It’s perfect. So soft and warm. Please tell her . . .” Arthur paused, for his voice was in danger of breaking. “Please tell her that I am most grateful. And please tell her that I love her.”

“I will.”

“Will you come back? Will she come to see me?”

“I won’t be back. And she can’t come. Gwydion says it’s too dangerous.”

“Gwydion,” Arthur spat, leaping up from the rocks. “I hate him! I hate him! He took me away. He wants to use me. He doesn’t care what I want.”

“Arthur, Gwydion is my brother. I love and trust him.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Yes,” Uthyr said dryly. “I can see that.”

Slowly, Arthur sat down again. “I’m—I’m sorry I upset you.”

“You’d be surprised how many people feel that way about Gwydion,” Uthyr said mildly. “I wish I had a gold coin for every time someone told me that. I’d be a rich man.”

“Then why do you defend him? Why do you trust him?”

“Because I know him. Not many people do. They think they do, but they don’t. It’s funny, but you remind me of him, a little.”

“Me?” Arthur was clearly appalled.

“Oh, yes. If he had his way he’s stay in the mountains, too. He loves the solitude. But he can’t do that, because he’s the Dreamer. And he dreams things that make his blood run cold. He didn’t want to be the Dreamer, didn’t want the burden. But he had to be. It’s what he was born for, after all.”

The night was quiet and cold, and neither said anything for an extended period. “You—you aren’t disappointed in me, are you?” Arthur asked anxiously.

“No! Never. You must never, ever think otherwise. Come, I’m sure our dinner’s ready by now.”

As the two walked down the hillside and neared the tiny house, Arthur asked, “But if I don’t become High King, if I refuse, will you still love me?”

Uthyr stopped and turned to face his son. “I will love you until the day I die, and beyond. Whether you are a High King or a shepherd, I will love you forever. Just remember that I only ever asked one thing of you. When the time comes for your final choice weigh the price carefully. There is a price for broken wings.”

Chapter Ten

Caer Duir and Neuadd Gorsedd, Gwytheryn, & Dinas Emrys, Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Bedwen Mis, 494

Addiendydd, Tywyllu, Wythnos—late afternoon

A
s Gwydion approached Caer Duir, the college of the Druids, he heaved a sigh of relief. He had been almost nine days on the road from Dinas Emrys, and he was weary.

The three-story, round keep of black stone reared up before him as he dismounted his horse at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up at the golden doors, bathed in the light of the late afternoon sun. On the left door, etched in emeralds was the sign for the oak tree, the tree most revered by the Druids. On the right door, outlined in emeralds, was the constellation of Modron the Mother.

To the west was a tall, slim observation tower that was used by the Druids to study the stars. A man exited the tower and walked swiftly toward Gwydion. The figure became recognizable as he neared.

Gwydion’s cousin Aergol, Dinaswyn’s son, had dark hair, clasped at the nape of his neck with a band of emeralds and gold. He was dressed in a brown robe trimmed with green. His dark eyes, as always, were opaque, not giving a hint as to what he was really thinking. Aergol was only a year younger than Gwydion, and the two of them had both lived in Caer Dathyl until Gwydion was sent off to school. Yet, for all that, Gwydion could not really say that he knew Aergol very well. For Aergol had in full measure his mother’s reserve. His father’s too, for King Custennin of Ederynion had been a somewhat cool and detached man.

“Welcome, Dreamer,” Aergol said formally when he was near enough.

Gwydion nodded. “Aergol,” he said, pleasantly enough. “How is Sinend?”

Gwydion’s inquiry of Aergol’s daughter and heir brought a spark of warmth to Aergol’s demeanor. “She is quite well, Gwydion. I thank you for asking.”

“And Menw?” Gwydion pressed on. Aergol’s son by one of his fellow Druids was just a few years younger than his half sister, Sinend, and was reputed to be a fine boy.

“Very well,” Aergol said with a smile. “Come, you must be weary. You have come, I assume, to see Cathbad?”

“I am and I have,” Gwydion said as he handed the reins of his horse to the apprentice that had come over at Aergol’s gesture. He followed Aergol up the steps and through the doors. Aergol turned right and began to ascend the stairs to the second level. At the top of the stairs he turned right again and led Gwydion to a small, pleasant room.