Night Bird's Reign (6 page)

Bards were facile with words and the fact that Susanna was having trouble alerted Gwydion that she had something to say that he probably didn’t want to hear. “It’s just that what?” Gwydion asked impatiently.

Susanna took a deep breath. “People like you, and like Dinaswyn, you have your dreams. And you have your Book of the Blood to tell you who should mate with who, and when. You command men and women of the House of Llyr to mate with kings and queens. And, sometimes, like with your father and Queen Rathtyen, they find love. And sometimes they don’t, they just grit their teeth and do what needs to be done so that they can carry on the bloodlines. And the Dreamers never seem to care about the people that they order around. I was just hoping that Rhiannon would be happy living with Rhoram and bearing his child. And I was hoping that when the time came for her to leave Rhoram and return to Y Ty Dewin she would be able to bear it. I want her to be happy, because she always seemed so sad.”

Was Susanna really telling him that he should care about people’s love lives? He was supposed to be concerned about this along with all the other duties of the Dreamer? Susanna wanted him to care if some woman was happy? “She is doing her duty. Most of us can never ask for, or have, anything else,” he said shortly.

“You know, Gwydion, you are one cold bastard.” Susanna stood, looking down at him. “Even if you are the Dreamer of Kymru. Or maybe because of it.”

As she swept away from the table, somebody called out, “A song, Susanna. A song!” The shout went up around the hall. Susanna smiled tightly, as someone brought her harp.

“Chose a song, Gwydion,” she called her smile mocking. “What song shall I sing for the mighty Dreamer? Do we not all live to serve you?”

But he would not be mocked—not by Susanna, not by anyone. “I call for Bran’s Song,” he said.

Susanna’s smile faded away. The hall grew hushed as people wondered why the Dreamer should ask for that song. Into the sudden stillness, Susanna sang.

Saplings of the green-topped birch,

Which will draw me from the fetters,

Repeat not thy secret to a youth.

Saplings of the oak in the grove,

Which will draw me from my chains,

Repeat not thy secret to a maiden.

Saplings of the leafy elm,

Which will draw me from my prison,

Repeat not thy secret to a babbler.

The Wild Hunt with their horns are heard.

Full of lightning, the air,

Briefly it is said; true are the trees, false is man.

False is man, Gwydion thought to himself. Very false indeed.

B
Y THE EARLY
morning hours, the gutted candles were flickering feebly in Uthyr’s chambers. A huge bed with an oak frame and a thick mattress stood against the wall, covered with a blue silken bedspread with the Hawk of Gwynedd embroidered on it in silver thread and brown silk. Bearskin rugs were scattered on the polished floor. The fire in the large fireplace had burned down to glowing embers, casting its light fitfully over the three men gathered there.

Gwydion sat cross-legged on the stone hearth, cradling a gold cup of barely touched wine in his hands. Amatheon reposed on Uthyr’s most comfortable chair, for he had declared that the youngest never got anything good and dared his brothers to prove him wrong. Uthyr himself sat on a low stool, drawn up close to the hearth. The three brothers had talked far into the night, and dawn was now not far away.

Uthyr stirred slightly. “And so, soon after I received the Ruler’s Torque, King Rhodri just left. Didn’t say good-bye to anyone. Just left.”

“I’m sorry for that. Deep down he is a good man, I think,” replied Amatheon.

“He was jealous of my mother and your father. You can’t blame him, really. I think he truly loved her,” replied Uthyr.

“Rathtyen did love Rhodri, I think. As much as she could,” said Amatheon.

“Not enough for him.” Uthyr sighed, and glanced at Gwydion, who was sitting quietly, half turned on the hearth to gaze into the fire.

Gwydion’s hands were clasped tightly around the cup that he held. They are getting close, he thought. Too close. Any minute now they will start talking about how Rathtyen died of grief. Start talking about how Da died. About how—not even to himself would Gwydion finish that thought. He swallowed hard and turned to Uthyr, desperate to change the subject.

“And Ygraine?” he asked. “How is she?”

Uthyr chuckled. “Oh, fine, fine. She threw her brush at me this morning.”

“Ah,” Amatheon smiled. “The same as ever.”

“Yes, well,” Uthyr shifted on the stool and touched his ear thoughtfully. “Of course, she’s a little slower, what with the birth being only a day or two away. The brush barely nicked my ear.”

“That must have truly made her mad,” Gwydion smiled, scratching his beard.

“Why do you grow that thing if it itches?” Uthyr asked curiously. Amatheon’s eyes gleamed.

“I like it,” Gwydion replied defensively.

“The birth,” Uthyr said, after a pause. “Have you seen nothing?”

Gwydion hesitated. Was Uthyr’s child truly the one? He could not be sure. He trusted Uthyr completely, but there was nothing to be gained by speaking out of turn. “Were you expecting something?” he hedged.

“Sometimes,” Uthyr said hesitantly, “I put my hand on Ygraine’s belly and touch the baby growing there. And sometimes, I think I feel something very . . .”

“Something? What?” Amatheon asked, leaning forward to stare intently at Uthyr.

Uthyr closed his eyes and was silent. Then he spoke in a hollow tone. “I see a throne in the shape of an eagle. It is all of gold. And there are eight steps leading up to it. Each is inlaid with precious stones—one is of topaz, one of amethyst. One of emerald, and one of pearl. One of ruby, one of onyx, one of opal, and one of sapphire. They glitter in the golden light that floods the room. But the room is empty.”

Amatheon said nothing, his face carefully still. Gwydion was also silent, looking at his half brother without expression.

“You know something,” Uthyr said flatly. “You both do. I just described the throne room of the High King’s at Cadair Idris that has been shut up now for over two hundred years. And you both just sit there and look at me as though you cannot imagine what I am talking about.”

Gwydion sighed and placed his hand on his brother’s arm. “Uthyr, if I truly knew, if I had truly seen, if there was anything I could tell you, I would. But there is not. The child isn’t even born.” Gwydion paused. “But brother, I tell you this. Trust no one. Tell no one what you have told us. It could be dangerous—for all of us.”

“I have told no one,” Uthyr answered. “Not even Ygraine. I thought that perhaps it was nothing. Only fancies.” He looked Gwydion square in the face. “If you tell me it is dangerous, then it is. I will say nothing.”

“It’s late,” Amatheon said, rising. “We should all get some sleep.”

“Yes,” said Uthyr, “And the Calan Llachar hunt will begin soon. Why don’t you both sleep here? You can bed down in front of the fire. To tell you the truth, I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”

“I think we’ll just stay here, then,” said Gwydion, as he rose from the hearth.

“Arday will be disappointed,” Amatheon said, his eyes glinting in amusement.

Uthyr and Amatheon laughed, and even Gwydion smiled sourly. Gwydion stretched and laid down on the rug as Uthyr threw another bearskin over him. Silently, Gwydion began murmuring the Dreamer’s Prayer, calling on the Shining Ones to protect him and enable him to dream true.

Annwyn with me lying down, Aertan with me sleeping.

The white light of Nantsovelta be in my soul,

The mantle of Modron about my shoulders,

The protection of Taran over me,

And in my heart, the fire of Mabon.

If malice should threaten my life,

Then the Shining Ones between me and evil.

From tonight till a year from tonight,

And this very night,

And forever.

Awen.

With that, Gwydion fell asleep. And dreamed.

H
E WAS STANDING
in a forest clearing. The trees were fresh and green. Even the bark seemed to glisten in the light of the sun that streamed through the trees, bathing the forest in a golden glow. The ground beneath his feet was covered with marigolds and the delicate white flowers of the rowan tree. They made a carpet of silver and gold on the forest floor.

In the distance, he heard the sound of a hunting horn. It echoed, again and again, shattering the still air. He heard the baying of hounds, coming closer. He heard a rustle in the leaves overhead. Looking up, he saw a young eagle, terror in its eyes.

“Are they hunting you, little one?” Gwydion asked, lifting his arm out to the young bird. “I will not harm you. I will save you from them.”

To his surprise, the eagle flew to him and perched on his shoulder, its talons digging into his flesh. He could feel the bird trembling as it pressed itself against his neck.

“Do they hunt you? Hush, I am here.” He gently lifted the bird from his shoulder and cradled it in his hands, stroking its blue and brown feathers. “I will not let them hurt you.”

The horns, the baying, came closer. The eagle shifted restlessly, but Gwydion held the bird firmly. “No, no, young one. You are safe with me. They will bypass us.”

He sent a thought to the baying hounds, telling them to pass by, that there was no one there. But instead, the baying became even more insistent. He could hear horses now, crashing through the trees.

Suddenly the hounds leapt into the clearing. Gwydion gasped in surprise, for all the hounds were white, with red ears. They seemed to grin at him, surrounding Gwydion and the young bird that he held in his hands.

“This eagle is under my protection,” Gwydion said sternly. “You may not touch him.” The hounds backed away a little then continued to circle, panting and baying for their master.

And then their master was there, his white horse stepping delicately into the clearing. The horse wore no saddle or bridle. The rider’s chest was bare, and his breeches were made of deerskin. His leather boots were studded with topaz gemstones. He had the face of a man but his eyes were the topaz eyes of an owl, staring at Gwydion, unblinking. Most alarming of all, he had antlers growing from his forehead, like a stag. The rider seemed to glow in the light of the sun.

Oh gods, thought Gwydion. Oh gods.

“Yes, gods are here,” uttered the rider. “I am Cerrunnos. I know you, Dreamer.”

Gwydion swallowed hard. “I know you, Cerrunnos. Lord of the Wild Hunt, Protector of Kymru.” Gwydion managed a bow, of a sort, careful to keep the eagle out of reach.

Another horse, black as midnight, stepped into the clearing, and Gwydion gaped at the woman on the mare’s back. Slender and lithe, her skin was tanned and smooth. Her midnight hair cascaded down her back. Her shift was a glowing white, the length of the skirt barely reaching her calves. A silver belt sparkling with amethysts circled her slim waist. Her boots were leather, studded with amethysts, and her amethyst eyes studied Gwydion, cool and serene.

“Goddesses greet you too, Dreamer. I am Cerridwen.”

Again, Gwydion bowed. “Mighty Cerridwen. Queen of the Wood. Protectress of Kymru. Your beauty stops my heart and stills my tongue.”

Cerridwen laughed. “Strong words from a man who has vowed never to care for a woman!” She shrugged, as Gwydion looked up quickly, stricken. “It matters not to me, Dreamer. But we will trouble you for that eagle. He is ours.”

Gwydion took a deep breath. “I cannot oblige you, Lady. I have sworn to protect him from the Hunt.”

“No one can be protected from the Hunt,” Cerrunnos said bluntly, his owl eyes as bright as topaz. “The Hunt comes for all.”

Gwydion took another deep breath. “He trusted me, you see. And so I cannot give him to you.”

“If you do not, Dreamer, do you know what happens to your world? Without a High King you are all doomed.”

Gwydion glanced down at the eagle he still cradled in his arms. Lightly he stroked the bird. And then he raised his head, looking at the god and goddess squarely. “He does not want to be High King. He wishes to be free.”

“All men wish to be free. But in this world, it cannot be. The High King has his duty. It is not for you to help him to shirk it,” Cerrunnos replied.

“If he is High King, will he be happy?”

“It is not for him to be happy, Dreamer,” said Cerrunnos. “And neither is it for you. He must be who he was born to be.”

“Listen, Dreamer, and listen well,” Cerridwen said. “For this is the first of your tasks. You must protect him, hide him, see to it that he suffers no harm.”

“There are traitors among the Kymru,” Cerrunnos said. “Understand this. Hide him well. And remember that those you can trust are few.”

“Who? Who can I trust?” Gwydion asked.

“That is for you to discover,” Cerrunnos said sternly.

“Can’t you—”

“Next,” Cerridwen interrupted, “your task will be to find Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings, hidden by Bran long ago. But you may not begin this task without the aid of those who will be revealed to you.”

“When?” Gwydion asked.

“In good time,” Cerrunnos said. “Now, give the eagle to us. He is ours. It is not for him to be free. It is for him to be what he was born to be, until his turn on the Wheel is done.”

Cerridwen’s voice rang like silver bells through the clearing. “Men do not ask for pain, for grief, for sorrow. But it is their lot to bear it. Men ask for happiness and perhaps it comes to them, in some measure. This young eagle that tries to escape us runs only from himself. We are the Wild Hunt. We are the Protectors of Kymru. And we will see to it that this eagle does his duty. It is for this that he is born.”

Her voice lowered, and it seemed to Gwydion that there was some pity in it. “And for you, Dreamer, a different lesson. You know only duty. You depend on no one, and in this way you protect yourself. I tell you that someone will come to whom you will open your heart. You will fight it, but in the end, you will win by losing the battle. It will happen after many years of pain, and toil, and hardship. They will be long years. There will ultimately be a measure of happiness, however, even for you, who seems to care so little for it. But who longs for it deep within.”