Night Bird's Reign (27 page)

Anieron smiled. “Ah, Gwydion, how very good to see you. Please sit down.” Anieron motioned to one of the chairs before the hearth. Elidyr withdrew, not even waiting for Anieron’s dismissal.

Still smiling, Anieron poured wine into one of the goblets and handed it to Gwydion. Then he sat down again in the other chair. Casually, he put his feet on the hearth and crossed his ankles. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit, Gwydion?”

“Why bother to ask? Don’t you already know everything?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Gwydion realized he had made a mistake by showing his irritation. He tried to mask it by casually sipping his wine, but it was too late for that.

“Do I detect a note of censure in your voice?” Anieron inquired softly. “Is that any way to talk to an old man?” Anieron still smiled, but his green eyes were cool.

Gwydion cursed himself for a fool. “Sorry,” he said with a smile. “To tell you the truth—”

“Yes, let’s try that, shall we?” Anieron interjected smoothly.

Gwydion took another sip of wine and tried to get a hold of himself. He had been very rattled by the news that Anieron had known he was coming. “To tell you the truth, Anieron,” Gwydion repeated, “I’ve come here for your help.” There, he thought, that should appease the old man.

But Anieron, his eyes cool as ever merely asked, “With what?”

“I’m looking for Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. I need to find her.”

Anieron leaned back and took another sip of wine. “Why?”

“I had a dream.”

Anieron waited with a look of polite attention of his face. “And?”

“And what?”

“And what was the dream?”

Gwydion took another sip. He had suspected that Anieron would choose to question him. There seemed to be nothing for it than to give Anieron a somewhat edited version of his need. Anieron would find out one way or another, if he didn’t know already.

“The Shining Ones sent me a dream. In it Bran the Dreamer indicated that I must find Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. She carries a memory, a clue, passed down subconsciously through his descendants.”

“A clue to what?”

Gwydion took a deep breath. “A clue to the location of the High King’s sword.”

He watched as Anieron, so dreadfully quick, pieced together the clues.

“Ah,” Anieron said. “So, Kymru is to have a High King again. Of course.”

Gwydion waited for Anieron to ask him who the High King was to be. But Anieron did not ask. Which only worried Gwydion more. No doubt that meant Anieron didn’t need to ask, because he already knew.

“In truth, Gwydion,” Anieron went on, “I don’t know where Rhiannon is, but—”

“But you know someone who does,” Gwydion finished for him.

“I believe so.”

“Dudod.”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Traveling. I’ll get in touch with him and see if I can persuade him to talk. I make no promises.”

“I ask for none,” Gwydion said. “But I thank you for your help.”

Anieron smiled genially and sipped his wine. But did not answer.

G
WYDION HAD BEEN
back in his room for only a few moments when he heard a knock on the door. Elidyr poked his head in. “Visitor for you,” he said, his face expressionless.

“Who in the world—” Gwydion started, but got no further. A young girl ran in and leapt into his arms. Gwydion laughed with delight and hugged his daughter close. “Cariadas! What are you doing here?”

Smiling, Elidyr left, shutting the door softly behind him as Cariadas replied, “I came over with Elstar and her son, Llywelyn. And when I got here, they told me that you had shown up. Oh, Da, I’m so happy to see you!”

“Let’s take a look at you, my girl,” Gwydion said as he stepped back to gaze at his daughter. Cariadas was now almost ten years old and her face contained the promise of beauty. She had his gray eyes and her mother’s red-gold hair. At the moment her thick hair had come out of its careless braid and fallen down her back in tangled waves. She was slender and her skin was fair. She wore a plain Dewin apprentice robe of gray, bound at the waist with a leather belt. She was a sunny-tempered child and her delighted grin was infectious. Gwydion found himself smiling, as he hadn’t done for some time.

“You look beautiful,” Gwydion said. Oh, they changed so quickly when they were young. Since she was sent away to Y Ty Dewin at the age of seven he had only been able to see her briefly when she returned to Caer Dathyl for a few months during the end of each school year.

“You look tired,” she said critically. “Are you getting your rest?”

“Some, thank you,” he replied, amused at her concern.

“You really need someone to look after you. You know that?”

“You remind me of your mother when you talk like that.”

“Ouch,” Cariadas winced, for she knew how Gwydion had felt about Isalyn.

“It’s all right,” Gwydion said gently. “I was only teasing.”

“No you weren’t,” Cariadas replied. “But never mind. I’ve been put in my place, as I deserved. At least, that’s what Elstar always says!” She grinned at him and Gwydion laughed and hugged her again.

As they settled down on the edge of the narrow bed for a long talk Gwydion asked, “How are things at Y Ty Dewin?”

“Good. I love it there. Cynan is very kind to me—but he’s kind to everyone. Elstar is a little stricter. She’s worried I’ll think too much of myself.”

“Hard to believe,” Gwydion said.

She lightly swatted his arm, “How can you say that when you know that I am full of humility?”

“Full of something, anyway,” he murmured. “How are the lessons?”

“Oh, they’re fun. I’m very good at Wind-Riding and I’m getting the hang of Life-Reading. I really am.”

“Cariadas, I must tell you something in the strictest confidence.”

“Da, everything you do is in the strictest confidence,” she said, laughing.

“This is important, daughter.”

Cariadas stopped smiling and turned to him, her little face serious. “Tell me.”

“I will be doing a great deal of traveling this year. I’m not sure when I can be back to see you.”

“Where you are going?” she asked anxiously.

“I cannot be specific.”

“But Da, why can’t you tell me where you are going?”

“Cariadas, if I could tell you more I would.”

“You act like you don’t trust me,” she accused.

“I do trust you. But what you don’t know no one can make you tell.”

“Oh, Da,” she sighed, giving in, “you make me so mad, sometimes.”

“I have that effect on a lot of people,” Gwydion replied dryly.

She smiled. “But I love you anyway.”

“That’s an effect I don’t usually have.”

“Well you could,” she said, “if you took the trouble to be nice to people.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I’ll try to remember your advice. So, do you want me to escort you to the festival tonight?”

“Oh, yes. That will keep that nasty Llywelyn out of my face.”

“Oh, ho. Already you begin to break hearts.”

“He doesn’t have one to break. Why, he’s only four years older than I am and he’s always criticizing me: ‘Wash your face’; ‘Your dress is torn’; ‘Climbing trees at your age, how juvenile’; and on and on.”

Gwydion said, highly amused, “Perhaps I should give Llywelyn some advice on how to handle women.”

“No one needs advice from you on that subject,” she laughed. Before Gwydion could ask her what she meant, she jumped up. “I promised Elstar I’d let her get me ready for the festival. She says that a future Dreamer must look her dignified best on important occasions.” She made a face, swiftly kissed him, and was gone.

T
HE WAXING MOON
had risen by the time the inhabitants of Neuadd Gorsedd had gathered in the sacred grove. The silver light of the moon glowed off the white trunks of the birch trees.

The clearing in the middle of the grove was filled with over a hundred Bards, journeymen and apprentices, all carrying birch branches and waiting for Anieron to arrive and begin the celebration. A huge bonfire made with birch wood was burning in the middle of the clearing. A stone altar stood at the western end. A golden bowl full of seeds and a silver goblet of wine were laid on top of the stone. Eight unlit torches had been placed around the altar.

Gwydion stood with Cariadas near the altar proper. Gwydion was dressed in a formal red robe with black velvet trim. He wore the Dreamer’s Torque of opals and gold around his neck and his shoulder length black hair was bound back with a black ribbon. Cariadas wore a gown of red and the underskirt, showing just below the hem, was black. Her hair had been elaborately braided and tied off with red and black ribbons.

The night was silent, without even the slightest breeze to stir the branches of the trees. Overhead the stars glittered coldly. Anieron entered the clearing with Elidyr behind him. The Master Bard wore a cloak made of songbird feather—thrushes, sparrows, wrens, robins, and bluebirds. He carried a birch branch hung with dozens of tiny silver bells. As he stepped up to the altar, he shook the branch. The clear, ringing sound carried through the grove and up into the silent trees.

In his deep, powerful voice, Anieron began the festival. He gestured to the eight unlit torches. “This is the Wheel of the Year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.”

As he gestured and named each one, Elidyr lit the torches. “Calan Llachar,” Anieron intoned, “Alban Haf, Calan Olau, Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, and Alban Awyr, which we celebrate tonight.”

Again, Anieron shook the branch and the bells sang. “We gather here to honor Taran, King of the Winds, who woke the Great Mother from her enchanted sleep that the earth might be fruitful.”

“We honor him,” the crowd murmured softly, the sound of hundreds of hushed voices was like that of a rushing wind.

Anieron continued, “Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the Great Awakening. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”

Again, the crowd intoned as one; “We honor the Shining Ones.”

In the sudden silence the clear, piping voice of Cynfar, the youngest son of Elidyr and Elstar, sounded like the bells themselves as he spoke his part in the ritual. “Why do we mourn? Why are we afraid?”

Anieron answered, “We mourn because Modron, the Great Mother, cannot be found. We are afraid because the spring cannot come.”

“How can Modron be found?” the boy continued. “How can Spring begin?”

“Behold,” Anieron said solemnly, “Taran, King of the Winds, is searching for Modron, his beloved. He sends the winds to look the world over. And, at last, Modron is found. She sleeps in the sacred grove and cannot awake. The winds bring this news to Taran, and he flies to her. See how the winds rustle the trees of the grove, and the leaves speak with the wind.” Anieron shook his branch of bells. “See how the sounds of the air have awakened Modron.” Strangely, just at that moment, a slight breeze began. It gently shook the birch trees that began to sway slightly. The rustling of the trees sounded a mournful sigh.

Gwydion felt a faint prickling on the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could feel it. Something was terribly wrong. That breeze . . .

He gazed searchingly at Anieron, but the old man’s face was bland as he tossed the seeds from the bowl onto the ground, then poured wine over the seeds. “The Earth has awakened and spring has come! Blessed be to Taran, King of the Winds.”

“Blessed be to Taran!” the crowd shouted. The breeze blew harder; turning into a steady wind that tossed the branches wildly. The birch fire flickered, dancing on the wind. Gwydion looked around but he saw no concern on anyone else’s face.

“Strange about the wind, don’t you think?” he murmured to Cariadas.

She looked at him blankly. “What wind?”

Gwydion’s breath caught in his throat as he realized that he was seeing something that no one else was seeing. Then he looked again at Anieron’s face, and he knew that the Master Bard was seeing it also.

Anieron began the Alban Awyr song, and the crowd joined in gleefully.

Spring returns, the air rings with the songs of the birds.

The blameless nightingale, the pure-toned thrush,

The soaring wood lark, the swift blackbird.

The birds sing a golden course of fame and glory

In the countless woodland halls. Spring returns!

After the song was over, the Bards began to dance around the fire. Some began to tell the first stories in the great storytelling contest that would go on all night. Gwydion looked around for Anieron and saw him disappearing into the trees. Swiftly, Gwydion took off after him. Coming out of the grove he saw Anieron standing alone, looking to the northwest, toward Gwynedd.

The wind began to blow even harder, whipping Gwydion’s robe and flattening the long grass in wild patterns. Gwydion grabbed Anieron’s arm. “The wind—”

“Taran’s Wind,” Anieron said dreamily, not taking his eyes off the northwest.

“What’s happening?” Gwydion asked frantically.

“Can’t you feel it? There’s a storm over Gwynedd. Taran of the Winds himself rides the sky tonight.”

A
LONE IN THE
tiny cottage, Myrrdin paced restlessly. The fierce wind shook the house. The storm had seemed to come up out of nowhere. One moment Myrrdin had been waiting for Arthur’s return so they could celebrate Alban Awyr together. Then the next, the storm had begun. There was no rain, no lightning, and no clouds, only the wind—shrieking, moaning, and wildly clawing at the earth.

Arthur really should have been back by now with the sheep. Myrrdin went to the back door thinking, for the hundredth time, that he had heard Arthur returning. He looked out and saw that the sheep had indeed come back. They bawled anxiously, huddled next to the closed byre door. With a sigh of relief Myrrdin slipped out the back door, struggling against the wind to shut it firmly behind him. The night sky was clear, and the waxing moon had risen, spilling its silvery beams over the harsh mountainside. Yes, the sky was clear. No storm clouds, but the wind blew more fiercely than ever.