Night Bird's Reign (40 page)

She wondered now where she would spend the night. On this journey she had not dared to sleep alone in the wilds. So every night she had invoked the law of hospitality, and gone to a nearby house for shelter. In every place the people were kind, attentive to her needs, and unquestioning, as the law demanded. Grateful, she had repaid them in the only way she could—she had played her harp and sung for them.

But tonight she was doubtful that she should even stop here in this tiny village. She was almost at Caer Dathyl; indeed, she would be there tomorrow. She was half inclined to keep riding for another league or so and camp for the night. And even more than half inclined to turn her horse around and go back to Arberth. For the nearer she came to Caer Dathyl and Gwydion, the greater her misery became.

Sighing, she made to remount when someone touched her arm. She jumped and turned to confront a young boy perhaps thirteen years old. He had auburn hair and dark eyes. He was slender, slightly built, and deeply tanned.

“Your pardon,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s all right,” she said evenly.

“My Uncle offers you the hospitality of our house for the night.”

She hesitated. “I thank your Uncle, but I am not staying the night here. Please tell him I am grateful but I cannot stay.”

“He said that if you were to refuse I was to ask if Hefeydd’s harp was being cared for properly now.”

“How did—” She halted. “Who is your uncle?” she asked carefully.

“My Great-uncle, actually. Come. He is waiting.”

In a daze she followed the boy. Who was he? There was an air about him—something that did not belong in this mountain village. And his Great-uncle—who in the world could that be? There were few people who knew about her father’s harp. She thought of one person in particular. Oh, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. For Myrrdin was dead. Wasn’t he?

The boy led her to a tiny hut at the edge of the village. An old man stood in the doorway, looking out at her. “Rhiannon,” the old man said tenderly.

“Myrrdin. Oh, Myrrdin.” She threw herself into his waiting arms and he held her gently as she began to weep.

The boy stabled her horse and returned with her saddlebags in tow. Bashfully, he handed her a tiny square of linen to wipe her eyes, and Myrrdin helped her to a bench before the crackling fire.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Oh, I think you do, child. Here, drink this.” Gratefully, she took a mug of ale from his hand and drank. As she tried to calm herself, she looked closely at the boy who was stirring a kettle of soup that boiled over the fire. There was something about that boy. Something elusive, but familiar.

“Gwydion must have found you,” Myrrdin said quietly. “Where is Gwenhwyfar?”

“Arberth.” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and went on. “I left her there with Rhoram.”

“I see.” She thought that he probably did. He always had. “And now you are going on to Caer Dathyl. Does Gwydion know you’re coming?”

“I doubt it. When he and I met we—ah, had words. Have you spoken to him? Is he at Caer Dathyl?”

“He is at Caer Dathyl. And no, I have not spoken to him. We never speak. It is safer that way.”

“I can’t believe you are alive! What happened? Why the secrecy?”

“That is for Gwydion to say.”

“Myrrdin, I have left my woods, left my daughter, left the man I love who begged me to stay—to come to Caer Dathyl and join Gwydion in doing what must be done. I can assure you that Gwydion ap Awst will tell me exactly what he is up to. He can tell me tomorrow or you can tell me tonight. Whichever you prefer. I prefer to know now.”

“You two didn’t hit it off, I take it.”

“No. And you weren’t surprised, I take it.”

“Certainly not. I expected it.” He thought for a moment then gestured for the boy to stand beside him. “This is Arthur. Arthur, this is Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, a woman of the House of Llyr. You have heard me speak of her.”

Arthur gave a credible bow, all things considered. He was too bashful to look directly at her, staring instead at his feet.

Arthur, she thought. Now who in the world—of course. “Arthur ap Uthyr. Uthyr’s son,” she said incredulously. “Alive. He never died either. Myrrdin, you left Y Ty Dewin to raise Uthyr’s son in secret. How did Gwydion ever get you to do that? No, never mind.” She was thinking out loud now, on the trail of a mystery. “And why hide him? Why pretend he was dead? Why unless he was in danger. In danger because he is more than the heir to Gwynedd. But he was tested. I heard that. Gwydion himself was there—” She stared at the boy, who lifted his eyes to hers and blushed. “Oh. Of course Gwydion was there. May I be one of the first to bend my knee to the future High King of Kymru?”

Myrrdin laughed heartily. “Oh, very good.”

“And you Arthur? You don’t seem very pleased,” she said curiously, for his young face had become grim and set at Myrrdin’s words.

“I’m not,” he mumbled.

“Why?”

He looked up at her. His dark eyes set and stubborn. “I don’t like being used. Uncle Gwydion does that to everyone who will let him. And I won’t let him.”

“Hmm. I said the same thing to Gwydion not very long ago.”

“And what did he say?” Arthur asked eagerly.

“That I was selfish. That it wasn’t his idea and if he had a choice he’d never lay eyes on me again.”

“And will he?” Myrrdin asked intently.

She turned to him, looking into his dark eyes. He knew. He knew she had almost made up her mind to run back to Arberth and give herself up to an even more profound prison than the one she had constructed for herself all these years. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

“Will you play Hefeydd’s harp for us?” Myrrdin asked gently.

“How did you know I had it?”

“Because you have changed, and changed a great deal or you wouldn’t be here. And how could you have done that and yet left his harp behind?”

Arthur brought her saddlebags over to her. Under Myrrdin’s gaze she retrieved the harp and unwrapped it. The smooth, satiny oak of the frame gleamed in the firelight.

“Play a song for me,” Myrrdin said. “Play Taliesin’s song of Cadair Idris.”

Rhiannon stared at him in surprise. “Why that song?”

“I have a fancy for it. Come, indulge an old man.”

Hesitantly, she played the sorrowful, opening chords. And then she sang,

The court of Lleu Lawrient lies

Stricken and silent beneath the sky.

The thorns and blighted thistles over

It all, and brambles now,

Where once was magnificence.

Harp and lordly feasts, all have passed away.

And the night birds now reign.

After she finished, the room was quiet. Arthur, his head bowed and his fists clenched, said nothing. Myrrdin stared into the fire. Rhiannon stilled the strings of the harp and sat silently, her eyes blinded by tears. At last, Myrrdin stirred and caught both their gazes with his suddenly stern and compelling eyes.

“Who asks what we want for ourselves? Does the Wheel of Life ask? Do the Shining Ones? Do the seasons wish to know if we are happy? I tell you that the night birds reign in Cadair Idris. I tell you that the court of the High King is no more. And I ask you, both of you, if this means anything to you. Anything at all.”

Arthur paled, but he did not speak. Rhiannon answered, “I left my child. I left everything I hold dear. It means something to me.”

“So you say. But you were almost ready to turn back. And I tell you that you cannot. You have left your woods. And tonight I have heard you play your father’s harp. And so I know—you can’t turn back. Because you’ve come too far.”

“Myrrdin,” she said, the words tumbling out, “I dread tomorrow. I dread seeing Gwydion again. Letting him hypnotize me, rooting around in my soul for his precious clue. I hate him. I do. How can I go anywhere with him? He already despises me. He’ll gloat because he will think he has beaten me.”

“Hate him then, if it makes you feel better. He’ll care nothing for that. As for gloating, he would consider it a waste of time.”

This was not the understanding and sympathy she sought. Offended, she said indignantly, “You treat it as if it was nothing important.”

“It isn’t,” he said simply. “And you know it. Child, do you think our meeting was by chance? Do you think you would be led so far and allowed to turn back now? As for Arthur,” he turned to look at the boy who gave him back stare for stare. “As for Arthur, his time hasn’t come yet to decide.”

“I have decided. I have told you,” Arthur said stubbornly. “Over and over.”

“Oh, so you have. So you have. I forget sometimes,” Myrrdin said, smiling slyly at the boy.

Arthur unwillingly smiled back and shook his head. He turned to Rhiannon. “You see how it is? He never listens to a word I say.”

“Don’t worry about it. He does that to everybody. And he’s set in his ways. He’s very, very old, you know.”

“Come, enough compliments for one night,” Myrrdin said. “It’s time to eat.”

They ate and talked and even laughed a little, although Arthur was inclined to brood at first. Rhiannon spoke kindly to him and even teased him a bit so that, by the time the meal was through, they were friends. Arthur insisted that she take his bed, he could do very well by the fire, he said. He colored when he offered, and she thanked him kindly pretending not to notice his blush.

“Good night, child,” Myrrdin said and gently kissed her forehead. “It has been a pleasure to see you after so many years. I know we shall meet again.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, we shall. And perhaps you will play your harp for me again.”

“Da’s harp, you mean.”

“No, it is your harp now. Good night, my dear.”

Meriwydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—late afternoon

T
HE NEXT DAY
Rhiannon arrived in Caer Dathyl. The late afternoon sun shone on the cold, gray stones of the fortress as she reined in her horse and dismounted. The fortress was built in the shape of a circle, with the round three-story Dreamer’s tower jutting out defiantly toward the sky. She assumed that Gwydion was in the tower now, and, having seen her ride up was gloating over his victory.

She started up the stone steps to the huge, closed, golden doors of the fortress. The left-hand side was etched with the sign for the rowan, one vertical line slashed by two horizontal ones, all outlined in glittering opals. The right-hand side was covered with a glowing representation of the constellation of Mabon, also outlined in opals. Her heart in her throat, she raised her hand to knock.

But before she could do so, the doors opened slowly. It was not Gwydion, whom she had expected but rather Dinaswyn. Her face was proud and cold, as though carved from the same stone as Caer Dathyl itself. Her gray eyes, so like Gwydion’s, glittered and her silvery hair was braided and wound about her head. She was wearing a plain gown of black with a linen shift beneath it of bright red.

“Welcome, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg. Welcome to Caer Dathyl,” Dinaswyn said in a cool voice. With a formal gesture, she held out a golden goblet jeweled with opals that flashed in the sunlight.

Rhiannon took the cup and sipped. “My thanks, Dinaswyn ur Morvryn var Gwenllian,” she said, just as coldly.

“You wish to see Gwydion,” Dinaswyn stated.

“I do,” Rhiannon replied evenly.

“Then come with me.” Well, Rhiannon had not expected a warm welcome from Dinaswyn—no one in his or her right mind ever expected that. She shrugged and followed the former Dreamer through the entrance hall and out into the central courtyard. In the center of the circular courtyard stood a grove of rowan trees forming yet another circle. The rowan trees were bright with clusters of red berries, and birds flew ceaselessly about them.

“He is in the grove,” Dinaswyn said, her manner still cool and formal.

“Not in his Tower then?” she asked.

“Nemed Cerdinen, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, is where he goes when his tasks weigh most heavily upon him, when his cares press heavily, when things are going ill for him.”

“I see. And was that your habit, too, when you were Dreamer?”

“It was. Both Gwydion and I have spent much time in that grove, thanks to you.”

“Ah. Still angry after all this time?”

“You were a fool, Rhiannon. You could have been Ardewin but you threw it away. You defied your fate.”

“No, I defied you. Fate, it seems, has caught up to me at last.” She wasn’t going to be pushed around by Dinaswyn. If she took a humble line now, she’d never hear the end of it. So she lashed out on a sore spot with deadly accuracy. “And really, Dinaswyn,” she went on, “you shouldn’t hang on to your anger like that. It’s bad for your health. And I’m sure Gwydion wouldn’t want anything to happen to you—he relies on you so.”

Dinaswyn stiffened. “More than he knows,” she said quietly.

Rhiannon carefully searched Dinaswyn’s cold face, and saw now what few people had ever bothered to see. She saw the ghost of a woman who had, perhaps, once loved and laughed; a woman who had, somehow, sustained a wound from which she had never recovered. Unaccountably, Rhiannon was seized with pity. Impulsively, she put a warm hand on Dinaswyn’s arm in silent sympathy.

She had expected Dinaswyn to snatch her arm away. But Dinaswyn did not. Swiftly, she covered Rhiannon’s hand with her own cold one. “Go to him,” she said urgently. “He needs your help badly. He is tired and discouraged and angry with himself for failing with you. And, Rhiannon, please remember that what he has become isn’t entirely his fault. Be patient.”

“I can’t promise that I will always succeed in that. But I promise to try.”

Dinaswyn did not smile, that was not her way, but her cold, gray eyes warmed slightly. She nodded toward the bright rowan trees. “Go.”

Rhiannon entered the tiny grove. In the middle of the circle of trees, on a carpet of green moss, Gwydion ap Awst sat brooding, his back to her. He wore a simple tunic and trousers of black and his knees were drawn up beneath his chin. His hands were clasped around them and his head was bent. He sighed as she came up behind him. Without turning around he said, in a weary tone, “Dinaswyn, I asked not to be disturbed.”