Night Bird's Reign (45 page)

Someone hailed the woman and she turned from river. Five warriors came to her from the south. Four men carried the body of the golden-haired woman, while one man cradled the dead child in his arms. The auburn-haired woman wept at the sight, her hand reaching out to the little girl, grief etched on her beautiful face.

Again the scene changed. The fires were gone—indeed, Cai could not even tell where they had been, for clover once again grew thickly on the ground. A single horseman descended the hills toward the river. He wore a tunic and trousers of black. Around his neck a massive torque of gold and opals glittered with a fiery light. His hair was rich auburn and secured at the nape of his neck with an opal clasp.

The man dismounted at the riverbank and stood still for a moment, looking at the rock from which the woman had leapt. At last he turned and made his way to the willow tree closest to the rock. He took something from his saddlebag wrapped in a black cloth. He laid his hand on the tree and the bark split beneath his fingers, showing a shallow hollow within the trunk. The man placed the bundle in the tree then again laid his hand over the gap. The bark drew tightly together over the hollow, sewing itself up as though the fissure had never been.

The man nodded, satisfied, and turned to mount his horse. But as he did, he stopped for a moment, and looked Cai full in the face. The man’s silvery gray eyes bore into Cai with a power that Cai shivered to see. But the man smiled a sad and wise smile.

Then the darkness descended again, and Cai knew no more.

H
E REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS
slowly. At first he could not understand why he was laying full length on the ground or why his companions were kneeling beside him, anxiously scanning his face as he opened his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Amatheon asked, his blue eyes dark with concern.

“I hope to be,” Cai said hoarsely. He sat up, aided by Trystan and Gwydion. He did not feel that it was wise to rise to his feet just yet—not with his head splitting in two the way it was. In addition he felt a low ringing in his ears and his stomach was queasy.

“Just give me a few moments,” he said hollowly, closing his eyes against the pain in his head.

“What did you see, Cai?” Achren asked, apparently too impatient to give him his few moments.

“Achren,” Rhiannon pointed out, “Cai just asked for a few moments. I assumed he meant a few moments of silence.”

Achren snorted. “Don’t be such a baby, Cai.”

Cai sighed. He liked Achren very much, in spite of the fact that she was tough as old boots and expected everyone else to be the same. “You’ll understand better when it happens to you,” Cai said, gingerly holding his head in his hands. He thought that his head might very well burst, but then the pain subsided to a dull ache. At last he lifted his head and eyed them all as they clustered around him.

“Can you talk yet?” Gwydion asked as he handed a dripping water skin to Cai.

Cai gratefully took a drink of cool water from the River Mawddoch.

“Here,” Rhiannon said, handing him a small bottle of some unidentifiable liquid.

“What is it?” Cai asked even as he swallowed a portion of the contents.

“A tisane of feverfew. It will help your headache.”

“If you have done playing doctor, Rhiannon,” Gwydion said, “perhaps we can get on with it.”

“I am a doctor,” Rhiannon flared. “I don’t know what you meaning by ‘playing,’ but—”

“Please,” Cai begged, his head still aching. “Not now.”

Rhiannon subsided with a flush on her cheeks, her green eyes hard as emeralds. Gwydion merely looked at her coolly then turned back to Cai.

“I saw the Battle of Naid Ronwen,” Cai said quietly.

“Everything?” Angharad asked. “Even—”

Cai nodded. “Everything; even when Ronwen jumped into the river with Sabra in her arms. I saw Queen Gwynledyr come down from the hills with her warband. Eadwulf, coward that he was, he ran, leaving his companions behind. But Gwynledyr rode him down and killed him. She took her torque back, and rode away without a backward glance. And she wept when they brought back the bodies of Ronwen and Sabra. I saw it all.”

“And what might that mean?” Trystan asked Gwydion. “What clue is there in that?”

“I don’t know,” Gwydion answered with a frown.

“Oh, that wasn’t the clue,” Cai said wearily. “It was what I saw next.”

“And what was that?” Achren asked impatiently.

“I saw a man ride up to the willow tree over there,” Cai went on, pointing to the trees on the riverbank. “I think it was Bran—he wore the Dreamer’s Torque.”

“Ah,” Gwydion said with satisfaction. “Of course. What did he do?”

“He took something from his saddlebag. I couldn’t tell what, it was wrapped in cloth. Then he placed it in the tree trunk.”

Amatheon had risen to his feet and was inspecting the tree Cai had indicated. “I don’t see any kind of hole in this trunk,” he said, baffled.

“He Shape-Moved,” Cai said. “He opened the trunk then closed it when he was done.”

Gwydion, the only one of them able to Shape-Move walked over to the willow tree. “About here?” he asked Cai, placing his hand on the trunk.

“A little lower down and to the left,” Cai replied.

Gwydion placed his hand where Cai indicated, and the bark of the tree parted like water beneath the Dreamer’s palm. He reached in to the trunk and grasped something, pulling it out into the light. Before he examined his find he again placed his hand on the trunk, then sealed up the fissure he had made.

He walked back to them, Amatheon by his side, as he gently held something in his hands. The cloth had disintegrated long ago and the thing he held flashed brightly in the sun. Cai rose to his feet with the rest of them, his headache subsiding, and joined the others as they crowded around Gwydion.

The thing Gwydion held in his hands was flat and made of bright, untarnished gold. It was formed in an arc, and sapphires winked on the rounded side. On the upper right-hand side the words “Seek the” glimmered, outlined in emeralds. On the lower, pointed portion of the arc was a cluster of pearls outlined with rubies in a second, tinier arc. Words were etched in the golden arc and they were silent as Gwydion read them out loud:

Death comes unannounced,

Abruptly he may thwart you;

No one knows his features,

Nor the sound of his tread approaching.

“Bran’s words surely?” Rhiannon asked softly.

“No doubt written at High King Lleu’s death,” Gwydion said quietly. “How Bran suffered at the death of his friend.”

“This must be a piece of the broken circle that the poem mentions,” Trystan said.

“Then there are three more of these,” Angharad put in.

“With a chance for a headache for the rest of you,” Cai said, “at the other battlefields.”

“We can only hope, then, that when we have assembled the full circle it will mean something to us in terms of the location of the sword,” Amatheon said.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Gwydion said absently as he gently held the arc in his hands. “We’ll understand it, when the time comes.”

M
EANWHILE, FAR AWAY
to the northwest, a hawk circled the sky above the mountains of Eryi. The huge bird rode the winds, occasionally emitting a fierce cry.

And then the call came, and the hawk almost dropped to the ground with the sheer force of it.

It was time. Time to go south, to journey to the special place. He did not know who or what called him there. He did not yet know what he was to do there, once he reached it. But he knew he was born to do this, and so did not hesitate.

He circled the sky once, twice, three times. And then he flew south, the wind beneath his wings.

Chapter Eighteen

Ymris and Ynad Bran Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru Collen Mis, 494

Addiendydd, Disglair Wythnos—early afternoon

T
hree days later they crossed the border into Ederynion and the following day they drew near to Ymris, the chief city in the cantref of Arystli.

And during those four days, Angharad and Gwydion had argued, and argued, then argued some more.

To the south loomed Coed Ddu, the Dark Forest, which stretched throughout most of the southern portion of cantref Arystli. Scarlet leaves of oak and rowan blazed in the distance, offset by evergreen firs and alders. Yellow birch and aspen dappled the forest with splashes of gold. Overhead the sky was clear, and there was a crisp breeze blowing that danced through the long, brown grasses of the plain that unfurled before them.

Angharad rode in front of the group with Gwydion the better to continue their “discussions.” Rhiannon and Amatheon rode behind them, with Cai, Trystan, and Achren bringing up the rear of the party.

Angharad clenched her teeth and reminded herself that to lose her temper would be counterproductive. But she was precariously close to doing it anyway.

For Gwydion still refused to go just a few leagues out of their way to Ymris itself, claiming that they did not have the time. But Angharad continued to insist that they go to the city and acknowledge the Lord of Arystli, Alun Cilcoed. Angharad continued to point out that Queen Olwen herself, if she knew, would demand it.

“It would be in insult to one of Olwen’s most important Lords,” Angharad said again, for what seemed like the hundredth time, “to come so near and not pay our respects.”

“We are not going out of our way to visit Alun Cilcoed of all people,” Gwydion said flatly. “I wonder,” he went on in an abstracted tone as he raised his eyes to the sky, “just how many times I am going to have to say that.”

“I told you, he’s nothing like his brother.”

“Llwyd Cilcoed is a toad,” Gwydion said, “and, no doubt, comes from a family of toads. When I was visiting Olwen, Llwyd was rude and overbearing.”

“Now who does that remind me of?” Rhiannon put in with exaggerated innocence. “Let me see . . .”

“Ha, ha,” Gwydion said tonelessly.

Rhiannon, Angharad knew, was on her side in this debate. Not because she thought visiting Alun Cilcoed was important, but because she never missed an opportunity to annoy Gwydion. Cai, Trystan, and Achren all sided with Gwydion, saying that Alun would not be insulted if he weren’t even aware that they were in the area.

And Amatheon—well, Amatheon did not join into the debate at all. Angharad knew full well why. He was interested in her. He teased Rhiannon and paid her extravagant compliments, but he watched Angharad almost all the time. Yet he was also loyal to his brother and to Gwydion’s wishes. So Amatheon kept his silence—unwilling to commit himself to either side in this ongoing debate.

“If anyone could tell me just what Olwen sees in that Llwyd Cilcoed I would be most grateful,” Gwydion went on.

But Angharad would not answer him, though she knew exactly why Olwen was attracted to Llwyd Cilcoed. She wondered why no one else seemed to understand. For Llwyd bore a resemblance to Kilwch, Olwen’s dead husband—the husband she had not valued until he was dead, the husband she had not known she loved until it was too late. Since he died Olwen looked for Kilwch in every man she saw, searching for a way to say how sorry she was. And she had found it in Llwyd Cilcoed.

This was something Angharad knew, but she would tell no one. For Olwen was both Angharad’s Queen and her friend, and Angharad would not speak of private matters to others. Besides, Gwydion was only trying to distract her from the matter at hand. And she would not be distracted. She opened her mouth for another try, when help came in a manner she had not expected.

“I hear Alun Cilcoed is very rich,” Rhiannon said idly.

“Yes, he is,” Angharad replied, turning slightly in the saddle to glance back at Rhiannon. “Most of the trees we use in producing paper in Ederynion come from his forest of Coed Ddu. He has a large paper-production yard just outside the gates of Ymris. And you know how much in demand parchment from Ederynion always is.”

“I suppose he must have a very large fortress, then,” Rhiannon went on. Her green eyes were gleaming as she met Angharad’s confused glance, then she cut her eyes to Amatheon, who was suddenly listening intently.

“Huge,” Angharad replied, still wondering just what Rhiannon was getting at. Whatever it was, Trystan, Cai, and Achren seemed to have already understood it—they were all trying to hide their grins.

“Too bad, then, that we won’t stop there. I hear Alun is known for his hospitality. Besides being able to sleep in a bed I have no doubt that he would supply us with privacy. Perhaps even giving each one of us our own sleeping chamber.”

“Really?” Amatheon asked his blue eyes alight as he glanced up.

“Honestly, Rhiannon,” Gwydion said absently as he carefully scanned the countryside, “you and your preoccupation with sleeping in a bed. I had no idea you were so fragile.”

“And I had no idea you were so paranoid,” Rhiannon replied sharply. “As if an occasional chance to sleep in a bed is hurting something. You know perfectly well that the Laws of Hospitality—”

“Are you really going to rant about that this entire trip?”

“I might,” she said sweetly, baring her teeth in a smile.

Amatheon went on, as though nobody else had spoken. “Our own rooms?” he asked Angharad.

“I don’t see why not,” Angharad replied.

“Gwydion,” Amatheon said eagerly, “I think it would be wise to stop and pay our respects to Alun Cilcoed. I really do.”

Gwydion halted his horse and the rest followed suit. He eyed his brother suspiciously. “Now you want to stop to see Alun Cilcoed? I hardly think—”

Gwydion stopped. He looked at Amatheon’s face. His eyes cut to Rhiannon and he scowled, opening his mouth to say something that would, no doubt, have been rude. But then he halted again as he followed Rhiannon’s gaze—for she was watching Angharad and Amatheon with a half smile on her face. Then it dawned on him. He glanced at Rhiannon who sat her horse with an air of innocence.

“Thank you, Rhiannon,” he said shortly. “Thank you very much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rhiannon said airily.