Night Bird's Reign (54 page)

“Hawk of Gwynedd,” Cai said softly, “you know me. I am Cai ap Cynyr, Captain of Gwynedd. Uthyr ap Rathtyen var Awst is my lord and my master. In the name of Uthyr PenHebog, he who is the Head of the Hawk, I command you to step aside.”

For a moment there was silence. Then the bird spread his wings and cried out. He launched himself into the air and came to rest in the branch of a tree.

After discarding his weapons Trystan stepped forward and addressed the golden horse. “Horse of Rheged, I am Trystan ap Naf, the Captain of Rheged. In the name of Urien ap Ethyllt var Gwaeddan, the PenMarch, the Head of the Horse, I command that you step aside.”

The horse bent his proud head and moved back away from the well.

Then Angharad came forward, also laying her weapons on the ground at her feet. “Swan of Ederynion, you know me. I am Angharad ur Ednyved. My lady is Olwen ur Custennin var Elwen, she who is the PenAlarch, the Head of the Swan. In her name I command you to step aside.”

The swan hissed, snaking its graceful neck toward Angharad. Then it, too, backed away from the well.

Achren, her spear and her daggers on the ground, addressed the wolf. “Wolf of Prydyn, I am Achren ur Canhustyr, Captain of Prydyn. My master is Rhoram ap Rhydderch var Eurneid. He is the PenBlaid, the Head of the Wolf, and in his name I command you to step aside.”

The wolf growled, then slowly backed away from the dark water.

Gwydion and Rhiannon started forward toward the well.

H
E WAS WATCHING
through the bushes, careful not to betray his presence. He saw the Captains call off the animals that guarded the well, one by one. He saw Gwydion and Rhiannon step forward, for they knew, now, that the water held that which they sought. He wondered, as he had often done during the last months, just what battle would transpire today. And who would die.

The buzz of the arrow was the only warning he had. He knew in that split second where the arrow was headed. And he knew he could not let it reach its destination. So he leapt up and stepped in the arrow’s path.

And that was when he felt the burning pain in his gut. He looked down to discover that the arrow was protruding from his side, to discover that blood spurted from his wound and splashed the leaves.

To realize, indeed, just who was going to die that day.

T
HE FOUR ANIMALS
—the hawk, the swan, the horse and the wolf—suddenly tensed and cried out. The hawk screamed, the swan hissed, the horse whinnied, and the wolf howled. Gwydion and Rhiannon halted, sure that the animals were ready to attack.

And they did. They leapt into the forest. Gwydion and the others could just make them out through the trees as they closed in on a man who held a bow in his hands. The man tried to run, but the horse cut off his retreat. He turned to run the other direction, but the wolf was waiting for him. He turned again, and the hawk and the swan fell on him from above. The bird’s cries mingled with the man’s screams. The horse reared up and lashed out with his hooves, breaking the man’s bones. Then the wolf leapt forward, snarling, tearing the man’s throat out.

Suddenly the clearing erupted as men poured from the shelter of the dense undergrowth, launching themselves at Gwydion and Rhiannon.

As one the four Captains, the best warriors in all of Kymru, leapt for their weapons. Cai rolled and grabbed his daggers. As he rose he stabbed the first assailant in the gut with his left hand and slashed the throat of another with his right.

Angharad darted for her sword, grasped the hilt and swung it up in one, fluid motion. The blade caught one man in the stomach and he fell. She continued to turn, kicking out behind her with her right foot, catching another man in the jaw. As he flew back she reached forward with her blade and buried it in his guts.

Trystan leapt toward his weapons and grasped his spear. Rolling to the left he brought the point up and impaled an attacker. He raised his foot and pushed the dead man off the spear shaft to the ground. He whipped around and plunged the spear into another man’s back. The man arched in agony then swiftly died as Trystan yanked the spear out.

Achren, too, had leapt for her weapons but she found her way blocked. She lashed out with both feet, diving into the man who stood in her way. The air rushed out of the man’s lungs as he went down. Still rolling Achren grasped a rock and brought it against the side of the man’s head as he began to rise. His head cracked open and he collapsed. She grabbed a dagger from the dead man’s belt and turned, slashing up, burying it in the stomach of the next assailant.

Eight men were down in a matter of moments, and the last two were still running toward Gwydion and Rhiannon. The two Y Dawnus stood their ground, each taking a dagger from their boots.

But suddenly the two men halted, frozen in their tracks. The first man had Achren’s dagger and Trystan’s spear through his back. And the second man had Cai’s dagger and Angharad’s sword in his guts. They both fell, dead.

For a moment the clearing was silent as they started at the bodies of the ten dead men who littered the once peaceful glade.

That was when Gwydion heard a sound, a faint call, a cry of agony. For many years—indeed, until he died—he would hear that cry echo in his soul. For he knew that voice as he knew the beat of his own heart.

The bushes rustled and a figure staggered out into the clearing. He lifted his arms toward Gwydion, pain in every line of his bloodied, suffering body.

“Brother,” he rasped as Gwydion rushed forward and caught him, gently lowering him to the ground.

“Amatheon,” Gwydion gasped.

Rhiannon put her hands to the wound and closed her eyes. Gwydion watched her face hopefully as she concentrated. But she opened her eyes from the Life-Reading and shook her head. The damage the arrow had done to Amatheon was too great to turn death aside.

“I came back,” Amatheon whispered. “I didn’t want to be left out.”

Gwydion tried to speak but could not.

“I heard the arrow. I knew it was for you. I had to stop it.”

“Oh, Amatheon,” Gwydion rasped. “Oh, my brother.”

“I am glad you weren’t hurt,” Amatheon said. “But I am sorry to leave you. And to leave Angharad.” He looked up and caught sight of her flame-colored hair. She sank to the ground, taking his hand in hers.

“Cariad,”
Amatheon whispered.

“Beloved,” Angharad replied softly. “Farewell.” Tears steamed down Angharad’s face, but her green eyes were steady as she gazed down at Amatheon.

Amatheon’s bright blue eyes, now growing dim, fastened on Rhiannon. “Take care of my brother,” he gasped. “Take care of him.”

“I—” Rhiannon began, but Amatheon did not wait for her answer. He turned back to Gwydion. “Good-bye, brother.”

“Good-bye,” Gwydion replied steadily. His eyes were dry, for this was a disaster beyond simple tears. This was a blow too strong for the conventional signs of grief.

He watched as Amatheon’s blue eyes dimmed, as his spirit fled his body and began the journey to the Summer Land. He watched as his brother left him irrevocably alone. He watched as a piece of his heart withered and died.

Now he knew why the shadows in his dreams always tore out his heart.

Now he knew, because now it was happening in the waking world.

His nightmare had come true.

C
AI,
T
RYSTAN, AND
Achren came forward to join Angharad beside Amatheon’s dead body. Gently Achren pulled Rhiannon to her feet, while Cai and Trystan helped Gwydion to stand.

Angharad leaned forward and gently kissed Amatheon’s cold forehead, smoothing back his dark hair. Achren reached out and gently closed Amatheon’s eyes. Without speaking, the four positioned themselves around Amatheon’s body. Achren and Angharad took his arms while Cai and Trystan grabbed his legs. They lifted him gently and carried him to the well and laid him down beside the dark water.

Angharad went to her pack and pulled out a square of white linen. She returned and knelt again by Amatheon’s body. She gently laid the cloth over Amatheon’s now lifeless, cold face.

Then the four of them rose and recited the death song of the Kymri:

In Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer

Still they live, still they live.

They shall not be killed, they shall not be wounded.

No fire, no sun, no moon shall burn them.

No lake, no water, nor sea shall drown them.

They live in peace and laugh and sing.

The dead are gone, yet still they live.

They stood silently for a time after the song was done, each in their grief, although no one’s—even Angharad’s—was as profound as Gwydion’s. Yet still he could not weep. He thought it would be long and long before he did. He thought that his heart would remain cold and dead forever. There were still those that he loved who still lived. There was Uthyr, his half brother. There was Cariadas, his daughter. There was Myrrdin, his uncle. Only those three still had the power to touch him. Only those three, and nobody else now that Amatheon was gone.

Suddenly it seemed to him as if his father was dying again. The pain was back that he had felt on that awful day that he had discovered his father’s body, when he knew that one who loved him was gone, forever beyond his reach. But then he had had Amatheon to help him bear it. And now Amatheon was gone.

It was enough that there were three others whose loss could hurt him so. There would never be more.

Never.

“G
WYDION
.”

He would not answer. If he didn’t they would leave him alone. That was all he wanted now, was to be left alone.

“Gwydion.”

The voice—insistent, implacable—would not leave him be.

“Gwydion.”

“What?” he answered at last, only to stop the sound of his name on her lips.

“The sword,” Rhiannon went on. “Remember the sword.”

“What of it?” he asked dully.

“We must find it.”

“We?”

“The verse, Gwydion. Remember the verse:

Until the two were one

In strength and purpose,

And raised up that which they had sought.”

“The Shining Ones will wait a long time until we are one,” he muttered.

“Gwydion—”

“No,” he said harshly. “Leave me be. Haven’t you done enough?”

Rhiannon drew back from him, shocked. “What have I done?”

“You let him come!” Gwydion shouted. “Back at Caer Dathyl, you told him he could come!”

“I didn’t kill him!” she cried. “You did! You sent him away! If he hadn’t been forced to sneak back, if he hadn’t been hiding, he might still be alive!”

“You killed him!” he screamed back at her. “You killed him!”

“Gwydion,” Cai said stepping in front of Rhiannon. “Stop. Stop this now.”

Gwydion turned away but Trystan was there. “Gwydion,” Trystan said quietly. “It wasn’t her fault.”

Again, he turned away, only to face Achren. “She didn’t kill him.”

Again, he turned, and Angharad was there. “And neither did you.”

He halted, staring at her, unable to speak.

Angharad’s face was drawn and her mouth set with grief, the tracks of tears on her cheeks. But her green eyes were steady as she looked at him. “He was killed by the person who has tried to stop us all along from retrieving the sword.”

“Will you let that person win?” Cai asked.

“Will you let the sword remain hidden?” Achren asked.

“Will you fail?” Trystan asked softly.

The silence in the glade was complete as Gwydion stood there, surrounded by his companions. The four Guardians were gone, and it seemed to Gwydion that the five men and women that stood here in this clearing with him were the only living things left in Kymru.

He did not count himself, for much of him had died today.

Duty was all he had left, really. The Shining Ones had given him the duty to find the sword. He would finish what the gods had started. He would finish it. Because duty was all he had, all he had ever had.

Wordlessly he made his way to stand before the well. The dark water was still and silent. He turned his head to look back at Rhiannon. At first she did not move. Her emerald eyes were filled with grief at Amatheon’s death, with rage at Gwydion’s accusation, with the fear that there was truth to it.

“Rhiannon,” Cai said gently when she did not move to stand before the well. “He needs you.”

“He needs no one,” she said bitterly.

“He does, although he does not know it,” Achren said softly.

“I do not care,” Rhiannon said between gritted teeth.

“Think of it not as Gwydion’s need, then,” Trystan said. “Think of it as Kymru’s need. The sword, Rhiannon. We must have the sword.”

“Do not let Amatheon die for nothing,” Angharad said with a catch to her voice. “Do not let it be meaningless.”

All the while Gwydion held her with his eyes and did not let her look away. At Angharad’s words she flinched. At last she stepped forward and came to stand beside him. They both knelt down by the still water. He reached out and took her hands in his.

H
E SAW A
figure step into the clearing. The man had long, auburn hair that hung lankly around his shoulders. He wore an ornate torque of gold and opals around his neck. He was dressed in worn, dusty, black riding leathers. An old bloodstain covered the breast of the tunic, as though someone had lain his head on the man’s chest to die. He carried a sword sheathed in a scabbard decorated with runes of gold and silver. The hilt of the sword was fashioned like an eagle with outstretched wings. The eagle had eyes of bloodstone and wings studded with onyx. Light flashed off the emeralds, pearls, sapphires, and opals that were scattered across the hilt.

The man came to stand on the other side of the well, and stood looking down into the water for some time, his head bowed, his face hidden. At last the man released the sword. It plunged cleanly into the water with a bell-like sound that rang through the clearing.

Then the man lifted his head and looked straight at Gwydion and Rhiannon. Tears spilled down Bran’s drawn, set, grimy face. He gazed at them both then lifted his hand to them—in salute, in farewell, in the knowledge that they shared calamitous grief.