Night Bird's Reign (7 page)

The glade was silent. “Now,” said Cerridwen, “give him to us. The Hunt will train him, and protect him through you, our tool in the waking world. We will see to it that, when the time comes, he will lead Kymru in her time of need, as he must.”

Gwydion slowly raised the bird and placed him in Cerridwen’s outstretched hands. She snapped gold and silver jesses to the eagle’s talons. The bird shivered, then was still. Cerridwen gazed deeply into the eagle’s eyes. “You belong to Kymru, to the Hunt. Remember.”

“Farewell, Dreamer,” said Cerrunnos. “You have done what you must do. No man can keep another from the pain of his destiny. Dream well and true, for the storm is coming.” And with that, they were gone.

Chapter Three

Tegeingl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 482

Calan Llachar Eve

G
wydion stood in Nemed Gwernan as night began to fall. The huge grove of alder trees was filled with the exultant, expectant people of Tegeingl—over a thousand men, women, and children waiting for the Calan Llachar Eve ceremony to begin. Warriors lined the perimeter, each one holding a torch, bathing the clearing in fire. The light flickered off the smooth bark of the trees, and the shining dark green leaves turned black as night deepened its grip.

To Gwydion it seemed as if the trees themselves were huddled around the people of Tegeingl, as though the people needed their protection tonight. And perhaps they did. Never had a festival made him uneasy before. He tried to dismiss these thoughts, but he was tense and wary. He knew his uneasiness was, in part, due to his dream the night before. The rest of his uneasiness could probably be attributed to the fact that he was well on his way to being very drunk indeed.

He had refused to join the hunt for the stag earlier that day. After his dream the thought of hunting anything at all fairly turned his stomach. Instead, he had remained in Caer Gwynt, sitting by the hearth in the Great Hall, slowly drinking goblet after goblet of rich, blood-red wine, wondering dully why he couldn’t seem to get drunk enough to pass out. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the eagle in Cerridwen’s hands, with chains on its talons and hopelessness in its eyes.

And an accusation. An accusation he deserved. For he had promised the eagle to protect it from those that hunted it. But he had not. He had surrendered the eagle to the Wild Hunt. In doing so, had himself betrayed the animal.

He knew what it was to be betrayed. He knew what it was to trust in someone and to have that trust destroyed by a faithless heart. He knew the bitter taste of treachery, and yet he had meted it out himself in his dream.

And so he drank.

How was it, he thought, as he had sipped his wine, that Amatheon could seem to live with what had happened to Da so much better than Gwydion himself could? How could Amatheon rise above it all, retaining his calm, his good nature, and his warm heart? Gwydion did not know how this could be, except that it had always been that way, even from the time they were children. Gwydion supposed that perhaps, when he was very young, his heart had been warm and merry. Perhaps. If so, he did not remember. But it might have been so—before the damage had been done.

He remembered the icy pain in his heart that the shadow had dealt him in his first dream, and wondered, yet again, what thing the darkness would do that could cause his heart to be any colder than it already was.

He had not really thought it possible.

Later, when the hunt had returned, he had refused to go with the men to cut down the tree for the festival. Amatheon had given him a keen glance but Uthyr had only shrugged and led thirty men to the forest outside the town walls to cut down the tree.

When the men had returned, carrying the seventy-foot alder tree across their shoulders, they set it up in the marketplace. At last giving in to Amatheon’s urging Gwydion had gone to see them set up the tree. With much straining and swearing, they had maneuvered it into position and dropped the trunk into the hole that had been dug for it. The women of the city had moved in to decorate the tree, hanging long ribbons of orange and purple—the colors of Cerrunnos and Cerridwen. Then Uthyr himself had climbed up and set the crown of orange marigold and white rowan flowers at the topmost branch.

Amid the laughter, the teasing, the bright noise, Gwydion had stood silent and withdrawn. The rumor that the Dreamer had been having dreams that were not to his liking traveled swiftly through the town. People were uneasy, and gave swift glances to Gwydion that he did not see. But no one had the nerve to brave his forbidding aspect and they left him alone, asking no questions.

Now the lights of hundreds of torches flickered over the faces of the people in the grove. The feast was over, the stag had been eaten, jokes had been told and songs had been sung. The crowd waited patiently for Griffi to begin the ceremony of Calan Llachar Eve, celebrated at the time of the new moon in the month of Gwernan when winter was truly gone and spring had begun.

Four fires made up of different woods had been laid out in the four quarters of the huge clearing. Gwydion stood now, along with about two hundred other people, at the unlit fire made of rowan wood on the south side of the grove. Later, when bidden by Griffi, he would light the fire as part of the ceremony.

The unlit fire on the north side of the clearing consisted of birch wood. The Bard, Susanna, would light that fire, which symbolized the element of air. She stood there now, talking quietly to Cynan. She had not spoken one word to Gwydion since the night before, but her eyes had followed him, questioning his preoccupied silence.

At the east of the grove another unlit fire was laid, this one made of the wood of the ash tree, the symbol of water. Amatheon stood there, waiting to light this fire. Surrounded by people, Amatheon joked and laughed with Duach, Uthyr’s doorkeeper, but his eyes were wary. Gwydion wondered if he, too, felt the undercurrent in the air and thought he probably did for Amatheon was very good at that.

Finally, to the west, Uthyr stood next to the pile of oak wood, the symbol of earth, that he would light. A glint of golden hair, ruddy in the torchlight, alerted Gwydion that Madoc had chosen to stand at Uthyr’s fire. Gwydion noticed that his old friend, Greid, the Master Smith of Gwynedd, was also at Uthyr’s fire. Greid’s powerful shoulders strained against his tunic. His short, gray hair bristled and his dark eyes flickered in the firelight. Uthyr was talking to Greid, but for a moment he looked Gwydion’s way, catching his eye. A small smile flashed across Uthyr’s face then was gone.

In the center of the massive grove a large, flat stone had been set. On it now stood four tall vessels, flickering gold in the torchlight. Small, delicate rowan flowers and orange-yellow marigolds were strewn across and around the base of the standing stone.

Gwydion shifted slightly, unintentionally jostling the people packed around him. Arday was one of these. Obviously undeterred by her lack of success in cornering Gwydion the night before, she stood quite close to him, glancing at him often. She had tried, at first, to engage him in conversation, but his clipped replies had finally had an effect and she had at last begun to talk to Nest, Cai’s wife, who stood on Gwydion’s other side. Cai joined his wife, kissing her in greeting and nodding pleasantly to Gwydion and Arday.

At last, Griffi made his way through the crowd and up to the stone altar. Eight unlit torches were stacked next to the stone. One by one, Griffi picked up a torch, closed his eyes briefly, and the torch burst into flame. Each time he did this, small children oohed and aahed. As each torch was lit, Griffi set them in brackets around the stone until it seemed surrounded by a wheel of fire.

“This is the Wheel of the Year before us,” Griffi intoned as he gestured to the burning torches. “One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.” He pointed at each torch, traveling clockwise around the circle. “Alban Haf, Calan Olau, Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Awyr, and Calan Llachar, which we celebrate now.”

Griffi lifted his hands, his voice loud in the hush. “We gather here tonight to honor Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood and Cerrunnos, Leader of the Wild Hunt. We honor these two Shining Ones, the Protectors of Kymru.”

“We honor them,” the crowd responded as one.

Griffi went on. “Let the rest of the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to witness the Hunt. Taran, King of the Winds. Modron, Great Mother of All. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”

“We honor the Shining Ones,” the crowd responded.

Then Uthyr spoke the first of the ritual questions, his voice deep and assured, carrying effortlessly across the wide grove. “Why do we weep tonight?” he asked.

Griffi responded, “We weep for Cerrunnos who is dead. For Cerridwen killed a mighty stag as she hunted in the forest. And as the noble beast fell with her arrow through its dying heart, the enchantment lifted and she saw that she had killed Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. And Cerridwen wept for what she had done. We sorrow also.”

“The Master is dead, and we weep in sorrow and anguish. Shall we weep forever?” Uthyr called out.

“Behold,” Griffi replied. “Cerridwen called upon the four greatest of the Shining Ones to watch over the body. First she called on Mabon the Bright, the King of Fire, and he came.” Griffi gestured to Gwydion and the unlit pile of rowan wood. Gwydion stared at the pile of branches, and a sunburst of flames hovered in mid-air. Some people gasped at the sight, as the blue and orange flames lowered onto the pile of wood. As the fire took hold and roared hungrily, Gwydion heard voices in his mind.
“Show-off,”
Susanna and Amatheon Wind-Spoke in chorus.

“Taran, King of the Winds, came at her call,” Griffi went on, gesturing at Susanna and the fire of birch wood. She lit the fire with her torch and it blazed up instantly.

“Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters, came at her call.” Griffi gestured to Amatheon who touched his torch to the ash wood, the flames crackling loudly in the stillness.

“And she called on Modron, Great Mother of All,” continued Griffi, gesturing to Uthyr to light the oak fire.

As the fires burned and crackled, Griffi continued. “And so these Shining Ones guarded the dead Lord of the Hunt as Cerridwen left the forest and traveled through sky, and stars, and deepest night to Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, where the dead await rebirth. And there she spoke with Aertan, Weaver of Fate, mother of Cerrunnos. And Cerridwen begged the Shining One for a way to return Cerrunnos to life. And Aertan answered Cerridwen’s plea.

“Then did Cerridwen return to the forest, to carry out the commands of Aertan. She laid the body of Cerrunnos beneath the alder tree. And she hung the tree with marigold and the flowers of the rowan. And she played her harp and her song of sorrow caused ivy to twine and grow about the body. And behold, Cerrunnos returned to life and seeing Cerridwen, he loved her, and claimed her for his own. The two became one. And now they ride the land of Kymru, and lead the Wild Hunt together.”

“Blessed be to Cerridwen and Cerrunnos,” the people responded.

Four of Uthyr’s warrior stepped forward. Each picked up a golden vessel from the altar as Griffi joined Amatheon at the fire of ash. One warrior went to each fire, passing the vessel to each person gathered there. Each man or women reached into the container and pulled out a piece of bread. Some looked at the bread eagerly, some with trepidation. The ones who chose the burned pieces would have to jump through the flames.

Gwydion heard a shout and looked over to see that Greid had chosen the burned piece from the vessel that was passed around the Uthyr’s fire. He held the burned piece aloft, waving his hand and laughing.

Another shout and Gwydion saw that Susanna herself at her own fire had chosen the burned piece from their vessel. She gave a graceful bow to the crowd.

As the bowl came to Arday on Gwydion’s left, he heard more commotion—Duach had picked the burned piece at Amatheon’s fire. The golden-haired doorkeeper held the burned piece aloft, a grin on his cheerful face.

Arday reached into the golden bowl and pulled out a piece of bread, holding it up for all to see that it was unburned, and passing the bowl to Gwydion with a sigh of relief. He reached in and pulled out a piece that he did not need look at to know it was unburned.

He passed the golden bowl to Cai, who reached in and pulled out the burned piece. Laughing, he held it up for all to see.

A hush spread over the crowd. He looked over to Uthyr’s fire and saw Greid take his leap through the flames.

And then it was Susanna’s turn. It was silent in the grove as she leapt through the fire. Everyone cheered and she waved briefly at the crowd.

At Amatheon’s fire Duach lightly jumped through the fire.

Then it was Cai’s turn. Uthyr’s Captain leaped, landing safely on the other side of the flames.

It was in that moment that Gwydion saw figures flicker into being beside each fire. He recognized them, instantly, although he did not understand how he knew them. But the knowledge was there, already in his soul.

The figure by Uthyr’s fire was a woman, her long, black hair held back from her face by a golden tiara sparkling with emeralds. She wore a robe of forest green, trimmed with bands of brown, the color of fresh-turned earth. A cloak of bull hide was fastened to her slim shoulders with golden clasps. He knew it was Arywen, Archdruid to the murdered High King Lleu.

The glowing figure by Susanna’s fire was clothed in a robe of silver trimmed with bands of sea green. He held a golden staff in his hands, and a cloak of white swan feather cascaded down his back, fastened at his broad shoulders with pearl clasps. Patience and wisdom were carved into his calm face. Gwydion knew it was Mannawyddan, Lleu’s Ardewin.

The figure that materialized by Amatheon’s fire had alabaster blond hair and wise eyes of light green. He wore a robe of deep blue, trimmed with bands of white. In his hand he held a golden branch hung with tiny bells, and his cloak was made of the feathers of songbirds—thrushes, sparrows, robins, and bluebirds. He was Taliesin, the Master Bard of Lleu.