Night Bird's Reign (29 page)

“For the enemy is coming,” Macsen said.

“Coming for you all,” Lleu said.

Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon

T
WO DAYS LATER,
as he was riding by Coed Aderyn, his horse began to slow. “What are you doing?” Gwydion asked. Elise tossed his head and snorted.

Oh, yes, they were nearing a wood. “Thank you,” Gwydion said politely. He had mentioned to Elise that he wanted to go slowly through any wood for he thought it likely Rhiannon would be hiding in one. Forests were, after all, the best hiding places.

His plan was simple. Ride through and Wind-Speak for Rhiannon. She was a telepath as well as a clairvoyant, and she would not only hear him, she would be able to respond. Of course she would be warned that she was being looked for. But there was also a chance that she would answer. She might be very tired of hiding and need only an excuse to come out—an excuse that would allow her to keep her dignity. Although her dignity was not of the slightest importance to him, he assumed it would be of importance to her. If she did not answer, and was warned, that would be all right, too. For she might run again, and she would be less careful in her panic. She might even be careless enough to allow her trail to be followed.

And so he began to call, casting his Wind-Speech as far as he could.
“Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. It is the Dreamer who calls you. I have dreamed of you. In the name of the Shining Ones I charge you to return to the world, for a mighty task awaits you.”
A bit pompous, he thought. But it got the point across. And offered a challenge that she might respond to.

He halted Elise, and waited. But there was no answer. Slowly, he rode on.

R
HIANNON WAS HUNTING
when she heard the call. The words echoed in her head, and the stag she had been stalking bounded away before she could bring it down. Curse the Dreamer, she raged. She ran for cover beneath a twisted hedge. If he were Wind-Speaking, perhaps he would be Wind-Riding as well. He might see her.

Fuming, and, she had to admit, frightened, she crouched down. Delicately, she began to Wind-Ride, hoping to spot him. If she were careful, he would sense nothing. She would be careful. It was what she was best at, after all.

She pulled her awareness from her body, and her spirit rose up to hover over the trees. She felt his presence some miles to the south. Silently she flew toward him and, within moments, she caught sight of him.

He had a short, dark beard that he was absentmindedly scratching as he rode. She wondered irritably why he grew that thing if it itched. His gray eyes were alert, but they did not see her as she hovered at the very edge of his awareness.

She studied his face. It was stern and cold, set within the harsh cast of his ruthless will. Yet he was handsome, she’d give him that. And she was sure he could be charming, if he chose to be. Just long enough, no doubt, to trap his prey.

She pondered what he would do if she answered. He seemed to be calling in a general way, perhaps not really even expecting a reply. She would love to shock him.

She almost did. She almost answered, almost told him what she thought of his ridiculous, pompous message. But at the last moment, her native caution stopped her.

What in the world had she been thinking? She must be mad. Come out of hiding after all these years? Never. One day she would send Gwenhwyfar back into the world, because she had to. But she, personally, would not go. Not for all the mighty tasks, not for all the Shining Ones. Not for anything.

Slowly, delicately, she withdrew back into her own body. And remained hidden under the brush until Gwydion was far, far away.

Gwyntdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening

T
HREE WEEKS LATER,
just as dusk was descending, Gwydion reached the city of Arberth, the capital of the Kingdom of Prydyn. The countryside outside of the gates to the city was given over to acre upon acre of grapevines. It was spring so the vines were barely budding.

The city walls were rectangular, with the longer western side perched on the very top of the ragged cliffs leading down to the sea. As he neared the eastern side of the city he could faintly hear the sound of the surf pounding the shore to the west, creating a ceaseless, wordless harmony to the far-off, lonely cry of the gulls.

As the city watchmen took their places, torches were just being lit in the circular towers that rose from the four corners of the city walls. As he rode up to the gate the two men who were just closing it for the night stopped and let Gwydion ride through. He had put on the Dreamer’s Torque a league or so back so that people would be sure to recognize him. That recognition would get him through the city gates and the gates of Caer Tir, the King’s fortress, with no questions asked. He nodded absently to the two men, but did not stop.

He continued down the main road, riding by Nemed Collen, the sacred grove of hazel trees. The grove was dark and silent. The twisted branches of the trees were wrapped tightly together, as though for protection.

Elise cantered down the almost deserted road, for most people had already gone to their homes for the evening meal. All along the road the torches were being lit. Gwydion fidgeted in the saddle. He was uncomfortable returning to Arberth, and didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to. The last time he came here was for Isalyn’s funeral. It was hard to believe that she had died nine years ago. It felt like longer than that. Memories of her were hazy and distant, for he avoided thinking of Isalyn whenever possible. He hadn’t loved her and she had known it—known it and resented it and clung to him in spite of it.

Elise’s hooves clicked sharply on the cobbled road. The city was quiet and he could clearly hear the seagull’s mournful cries as they settled in for the night. He rode up to Caer Tir just as the doors, made of iron covered with gold leaf, were closing for the night. The huge head of a snarling wolf, the symbol of Prydyn, was carved on the doors. Outlined in black onyx with emerald eyes, the wolf seemed to glare at him.

The doorkeeper stopped as he was closing the doors, staring at Gwydion. Slowly, the man smiled. “Gwydion ap Awst. I knew you’d show up again, one day.”

Gwydion grinned. “Right as always, Tallwch.”

Tallwch hadn’t changed much since the last time Gwydion has seen him, nine years ago. He had brown hair, cut ruthlessly short and steady brown eyes. His face had, perhaps, a few more lines, but otherwise he looked much the same. Tallwch had been Gwydion’s friend during those months he had been forced to stay here with Isalyn. As the gatekeeper, he had seen Gwydion come and go on his many trips out to the countryside to get away. The two men had struck up a casual friendship, for Gwydion had seen the sympathy in the man’s eyes, though they never spoke of it. Often Gwydion and Tallwch and Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s counselor, would stay up far into the night playing tarbell, swapping stories, drinking wine. He had never seen a man for holding his liquor like Tallwch ap Nwyfre.

“What are you doing here?” Tallwch asked.

“Can’t you guess, since you’re so clever?”

“Ho, ho,” Tallwch said flatly. “You always were a funny man.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Most folks are in the Great Hall. Come on, we’ll stable your horse and go on in. Unless you want a bath first.”

“You saying I need one?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” Tallwch looked at Gwydion critically. “But then, it probably wouldn’t help, either.”

“It’s nice to have friends.”

They led Elise to the stables, which were just to the right of the gates. Gwydion made sure that the horse was comfortable in his stall before he grabbed his saddlebags. As they crossed the cobbled courtyard in front of the Great Hall, Tallwch took the saddlebags from him and hailed a passing servant. “Boyo, take this to the guest house, would you?” he asked, relinquishing the bags.

Dusk had deepened into night. Dimly, he heard the sound of merriment from within the Great Hall, penetrating the thick stone walls and heavy oak doors. “Sounds like a party,” Gwydion commented.

“Just mealtime, like always. Rhoram likes it noisy. It keeps him from having to talk to the Queen.”

Gwydion stopped and stared at Tallwch. “When did this start?”

“Not long after they were married. Truth is, he never got over losing Rhiannon.”

“Losing her? I thought he had tired of her?”

“So did he. Well, we all make mistakes don’t we? Ready to go in?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Gwydion said. The noise from the hall was rising in volume. Tallwch opened the door and they entered into the Great Hall of Caer Tir.

The din assaulted his ears fiercely. The hall was filled to the brim with laughing, shouting men and women. Uthyr’s hall was casual, too, but never as chaotic as this.

Table after table filled the hall, set up for the evening meal. People sat at the long benches or on the tables themselves, and even (in a few cases) underneath them. Bright banners hung the walls. Over the fireplace hung a huge banner of a wolf’s head, worked in black on a green background and fringed with gold.

In the corner to his left, Gwydion saw a wrestling match in progress. Two men grappled with each other to the shouts of the crowd gathered round them. A fire roared in the huge fireplace in front of which people played pipes and harps, laughing and singing, although Gwydion couldn’t imagine how they could hear themselves above the din. Directly in front of him a dice game was in progress. He peered through the crowd, trying to locate people he knew.

Over on the dais at the far right of the hall he saw Queen Efa sitting at the King’s table. She was a slender, petite woman with dark red hair and large brown eyes. Her gown was autumn green, embroidered lavishly with emeralds and gold thread. The man sitting next to her was her brother, Erfin ap Nudd, the Lord of Ceredigion. The two sat in splendid isolation as they chatted amicably together.

Gwydion peered ahead of him and recognized the woman who was shooting dice with such skill. It was Achren ur Canhustyr, Captain of Rhoram’s
teulu,
the PenCollen of Prydyn. This was one of the people that Gwydion now knew would help in the search for the sword.

Achren’s black hair was braided tightly back from her face and her dark eyes were sparkling with mirth. Her wide mouth was stretched in a grin at the continuous complaints of her companions that the dice were loaded. Gwydion had not seen her in some time, but the passing years seemed to have touched her lightly. Her slender, strong body, dressed now in black riding leathers, looked in as good a shape as ever. Her habit of eyeing everyone in sight, of always knowing what was going on around her, of seeming to have eyes in the back of her head, had also not changed. As she threw the dice she spotted Gwydion through the crowd, although he had only been standing there for a few brief moments.

Instantly she handed the dice to another warrior and was by his side. “Gwydion ap Awst. What a surprise,” she said calmly.

“I wouldn’t think so, Achren. Your people are too well trained for that. I assume you heard I was coming about a league away.”

“Two leagues,” she grinned, but the smile did not reach her dark eyes.

“Where’s Rhoram?” he asked.

Achren jerked her thumb at the crowd grouped around the wrestlers. And there he was, in the forefront, laughing and calling out bets (and insults, as the spirit moved him). His clothes were rich—a black tunic over an emerald undershirt. His breeches were black and tucked into long, black boots. The King’s Torque of gold, studded with emeralds, hung around his neck. He wore an emerald ring on his right hand. He was smiling, but Gwydion was shocked by his appearance. His sunken blue eyes glittered like a man with a high fever. His movements were sharp and restless. His skin was stretched tightly over his prominent cheekbones, and the tendons on his hands stood out far too sharply.

“Is he ill?” Gwydion gasped.

“In a manner of speaking,” Achren said dryly, but Gwydion saw the fear in her eyes. “I do so hope you keep that question to yourself.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Achren jerked her thumb to the spot where Queen Efa sat.

“Oh. Well.” He remembered something Tallwch had recently said to him. “We all make mistakes, don’t we?” he said inanely.

Achren, her eyes cool and hard looked him up and down, and her wide mouth quirked. “Very astute. Homespun wisdom is the best, isn’t it?”

He had forgotten that Achren’s tongue was sharp when she was annoyed. Remembering that Achren and Rhiannon had been good friends once, Gwydion said abruptly, “I’m looking for Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. What can you tell me?”

“Why?”

“I had a dream. She must be found.”

Achren studied him thoughtfully. “After the meal we’ll talk, if you wish.”

“Yes,” he said, “let’s talk later.” He studied Rhoram for a moment longer. “I guess I’d better go say hello. Who’s that lad standing next to him?”

“Geriant.”

“Little Geriant?”

“Not so little anymore, is he?” Achren asked.

Geriant was Rhoram’s oldest child by his first wife, Queen Christina of Ederynion. At seventeen, he was no longer a boy, but a young man. Like his father, he had golden hair and deep blue eyes. Unlike his father, he looked healthy, happy, and strong.

“Come on then,” Achren said. “I’ll take you to him.” She began pushing her way though the crowd. Gwydion looked around for Tallwch and saw him standing with the musicians at the fireplace. Tallwch raised his goblet and nodded to Gwydion.

He followed Achren. As they came up to the King the wrestling match ended. Rhoram had called a draw and his warriors shouted and complained. “I said a draw,” Rhoram shouted. “I can’t wait any longer—I’m famished.” The crowd moaned and hissed. Rhoram laughed. Then he saw Gwydion.

The laughter died and was replaced with a genuine smile of welcome. For a brief moment, Gwydion saw a glimpse of the man Rhoram had been long ago.

“Gwydion. Gwydion,” Rhoram said, coming up to him and slinging his arm around Gwydion’s shoulders, giving him a brief hug. “You are welcome here.”

Rhoram turned to face the crowd. “This is my honored guest, Gwydion ap Awst, who has come to visit his old friend.” Rhoram grinned, “He’s the Dreamer, so get out of his way, or he’ll have a dream about you!” The crowd began catcalling bets as to which unfortunate would be the first to figure in Gwydion’s ominous dreams.