Cry of Sorrow (22 page)

“And here,” said Bran, lifting a ring of fiery opal. “These are made from the jewels of the High King’s torque. You have come in time to watch us as we now set within them the key.”

“The key?”

“Recognition of the one who, in time, will claim them. The opal is for the Spear. When claimed by the right man, the opal will guide him to that Treasure. Watch now, and listen.” Cupping the ring in his hands, he closed his eyes. “You have been made to guide the Knowledgable One to Erias Yr Gwydd, the Spear of Kymru. This is his face, and this is his soul. On his hand, you will be his guide.” The opal ring flared briefly in Bran’s hands, then subsided, leaving a fiery afterimage in the shadows.

Bran nodded to Mannawyddan, who cupped the ring of pearl in his thin hands, then began to recite. “You have been made to guide the Great Queen to Gwyr Yr Brennin, the Stone of Kymru. This is her face, and this is her soul. On her hand, you will be her guide.” The pearl glowed, shining through the Ardewin’s now translucent hands, then faded.

At Bran’s nod, Arywen cupped her ring of emerald, then spoke, “You have been made to guide the White One to Buarth Y Greu, the Cauldron of Kymru. This is her face, and this is her soul. On her hand, you will be her guide.” The emerald flared in a verdant burst of light, then dimmed.

Bran gestured to Taliesin, who cupped the ring of sapphire. “You have been made to guide the Great Bear to Meirig Yr Llech, the Sword of Kymru. This is his face and this is his soul. On his hand, you will be his guide.” The sapphire shone a glittering blue, then subsided.

“These, then, are the rings that you and the others must gather,” Bran commanded.

“From where?” Gwydion asked.

“You do not recognize them?” Bran asked. “These are the rings that will be given to each of the royal houses of Kymru. The pearl will go to the House of PenAlarch in Ederynion. The emerald will be given to the House of PenBlaid in Prydyn. The opal goes to the House of PenMarch in Rheged. The sapphire will be taken to the House of PenHebog in Gwynedd. To each of these rulers in my time, I will give a ring. And I will give them the words that will allow you and the others to claim them.”

“And the words are?” Gwydion asked.

“You will know them, when the time comes.”

For a moment Gwydion considered losing his temper, for it would not be easy to gather these rings. The pearl was on Queen Elen’s hand, and she was a captive of the Coranians. The opal was now in the grasp of Morcant Whledig, thanks to Princess Enid’s treachery. The emerald, at least, was in King Rhoram’s hands. And the sapphire was in the keeping of Morrigan, Uthyr’s daughter. He would have to get these rings—in two cases, snatching them out of the enemy’s hands. His silver eyes—eyes so like Bran’s—blazed into the face of his ancestor. But what he saw there halted him. Bran knew the difficulties. And he did as he had dreamed. Gwydion could do no less.

“Very well,” Gwydion said quietly. “And the Song of the Caers?”

“Ah,” Taliesin said with a smile. “My best song.”

“Your most obscure song,” Gwydion retorted, “since I can find no one who has ever heard of it.”

Taliesin whipped around to face Bran with an accusing stare.

Bran shrugged. “It had to be protected.”

“My very best song, and it has been forgotten!”

“Not forgotten. Just in hiding. Now, Taliesin, I’m sorry, but—”

Taliesin continued to mutter. “All those hours of work. And no one sings it.”

“Artists,” Arywen said, her tune musing, “are so unreasonable.”

“Come, come, Taliesin,” Mannawyddan said quickly, “no doubt, when the Treasures are restored, the song will be sung again. Sung by all the Bards throughout Kymru, as part of the story of triumph over our enemies. And, of course, all your other songs are, no doubt, very, very popular in Gwydion’s time. Isn’t that so, Gwydion?”

“Um, yes,” Gwydion said, anxious to get the conversation back to his need. “That is so. But what is this Song of the Caers? Can you tell me how to find it? And quickly?” He couldn’t stay here much longer. Already he felt the pull to return.

“It can’t be found, Gwydion,” Bran said quietly. “It can’t be written down. That’s how I protected it. But it is still sung, though the singer may not know it. Taliesin will give you the tune. You must carry it back with you. It will be recognized. Now, give him the tune, Taliesin. Then, Gwydion, you must go. You have tarried here almost too long.”

Taliesin, throwing off his sulk, began to hum. A complex tune, it seemed to burn itself into Gwydion’s mind, as though pulling at a memory already there, striking chord after responsive chord deep within.

The tune completed, Gwydion turned to Bran. “I must go. Yet, one word more. You have never dreamed of the outcome. I heard you say so. You do not know if we will succeed. Have you—have you no word of hope for me? For us? Have you seen nothing?”

Bran was silent for a moment. The shadows seemed to press down on the four Great Ones as they stood on the dais, looking down at him with pity in their eyes.

“I have seen nothing,” Bran said at last. “Hope is all I have. I would give that to you, if I could.”

G
WYDION OPENED HIS
eyes to meet Rhiannon’s anxious gaze. Anieron, Elstar and Elidyr still stood, looking down at him. He hadn’t been gone long. The candle had barely burned down at all.

Rhiannon put her arm beneath his shoulders and helped him to sit up. Short as the dream had been, he was weak and lightheaded. He felt drained. Empty. But not quite empty. For the tune was still with him.

He hummed the tune, and it echoed against the cavern walls, rising up to the roof. And now it was no longer familiar to him. He did not know the song any longer. But Bran had said there was one who would recognize it. He looked up at Anieron, for, surely, the Master Bard would know it. “Recognize it?” he asked.

Anieron shook his head. “No. It means nothing to me.”

Nothing! Even the Master Bard did not know that song. But Bran had said—

“I know that tune,” Rhiannon said quietly. She hummed the melody. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“The words!” he cried, grasping her arm. “What are the words?”

She shook her head. “I never heard the words. I didn’t know the tune had any.”

No words. Oh, gods. Now what?

“But,” Rhiannon went on, “the one who used to hum that song to me surely knows them.”

“Who?” Gwydion asked. “Who?” “Uncle Dudod.”

“Who is—”

“On his way back here. He will be here tomorrow.”

Alban Awyr—afternoon

T
he tangy sea breeze rushed through Rhiannon’s hair as she walked the deserted beach. Occasionally she stooped to pick up a shell, delighting in their delicate tints, in their unexpected curves and sharp angles. Delighting, too, in these moments away from Gwydion.

She had not spent much time with him over the years. For most of the two years from the time between the invasion of Kymru and Gwydion’s latest dream, she had been waiting in the cave in Coed Aderyn for Gwydion to return from one trip or another. Of course, she knew why he left her on her own so much. It was obvious how much he disliked her.

She knew he despised her—he always had. For the millionth time she told herself that she didn’t care about that. She told herself that she hated him just as much as he hated her. And she willed herself to believe it. Again.

She had known him for so long, yet after all this time she still did not really know how she felt about him. He drew her to him, like a moth to a flame. But she was no moth—she was a woman who knew the ruin a man could make of a woman’s heart—if she let him. She knew what loving someone as dangerous as Gwydion ap Awst could do. For Gwydion was aloof, cold, separate from the rest of the world. She had decided long ago that tearing down his walls would not be worth her time—deciding that the man who hid behind them would be no prize. And often she wondered, even after all this time, if she had been wrong.

From behind her she thought she heard the faint sound of her name carried on the wind. She turned, and two girls came rushing up.

“Rhiannon,” Cariadas panted. “We thought you might like some company.” The second girl, Sinend, said nothing, but smiled shyly.

The sight of these two girls tugged at her heart. They were close to the age of her own daughter. And she missed Gwenhwyfar so. “Thank you both. That was thoughtful. I would like your company.”

Cariadas grinned. “You’re just being polite, aren’t you?”

“No, indeed. You remind me of—” she stopped, her throat suddenly tight. Her fingers brushed over the bracelet at her wrist. It was a leather band on which a heart of white, polished ash wood dangled.

“Of whom?” Cariadas asked.

“Of her daughter,” Sinend said quietly.

“How did you know?” Rhiannon asked.

Sinend shrugged, looking down at the sand.

“She won’t tell you this herself,” Cariadas said in a confidential tone, “but Sinend’s very smart about people. She always seems to know what they are thinking. Tell Rhiannon what you said about my da, Sinend.”

Sinend reddened and looked away. Cariadas turned to Rhiannon. “Sinend says that my da can’t take his eyes off you. You do like him, don’t you? He sure likes you.”

“I’m sorry?” Rhiannon asked blankly. “What did you—”

“He watches you all the time. Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I didn’t. And I think, Cariadas, that you would do better to keep that observation to yourself.” Rhiannon’s tone was cold. “As well as your wild guesses, which have no basis in reality.”

“Oh, I’ve made you mad,” Cariadas said, her face falling. “I’m sorry.”

Rhiannon got a grip on herself. “I’m not mad, Cariadas. Truly. But I am surprised by what you say, and I don’t believe it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to make of it.”

“Really? It doesn’t seem that mysterious to me,” Cariadas said, her voice gleeful. “And it would be so nice to see da happy.”

“Cariadas,” Rhiannon began firmly, but the voice in her head stopped her.

Well, well. Who have we here? And where have you been, my sweet niece?

Uncle Dudod! Where—

Just over the dune, my dear
.

With a cry of joy, she ran down the beach toward the man who was dismounting from his horse, ran toward the only real father she had ever known, ran toward Dudod’s waiting arms.

W
HEN THEY ENTERED
the cave, Rhiannon’s hand in Dudod’s, Sinend and Cariadas trailing behind them, Anieron and Gwydion were already there to greet them.

“So, brother,” Anieron said, his light tone fooling no one, “once again you have returned unscathed. It is less than you deserve after cutting it too fine. But, then, you always do.”

Dudod grinned. “They almost had me, true. But luck was with me.”

“Luck is always with you,” Anieron replied, gripping Dudod’s shoulders. “But for the sake of the gods, Dudod, don’t let your luck run out.”

“The Weaver is not so fond of me that she will cut my thread so soon. Hard to believe, isn’t it? When everyone else loves me so?”

“Dudod,” Gwydion said abruptly, “we must meet with you in private—Anieron, Rhiannon, and I. Now.”

Dudod’s brows raised at Gwydion’s commanding tone. “Now?”

“It is vital.”

“Gwydion,” Rhiannon said, exasperated, “give him a few moments, will you? He was almost captured only a few days ago. And he has ridden far. He’s worn out.”

“The day Dudod is worn out is the day they bury him. And not before.”

“I’m telling you, Gwydion—” she began, her tone dangerous.

“Thank you, Rhiannon,” Dudod said smoothly, “for your concern. It is appreciated, of course. And you are right, I am a little weary. Dreamer, I believe I will have to meet with you later. I need to rest. And tonight is Alban Awyr, and I don’t want to miss that. I will meet with you after the festival.” Dudod moved off, with Anieron following.

“You have such a way with people, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said, turning on him. “He’s not as young as he used to be. And you pressured him the moment he got here. He has the song. And he will still have it later tonight.”

“Your support, as always, touches my heart,” Gwydion said bitterly. “Do you think I am playing a game here? Do you think we have all the time in the world to search? If the Treasures are not found and the boy isn’t inside of Cadair Idris before the year is out, our chance is lost forever. Forever. Do you understand?”

“Do you understand that a few hours won’t make any difference? You may be perfect, but the rest of us have human needs. Little things like rest, like food, like companionship. Things you wouldn’t understand.”

His face whitened with anger. “There is much you think I don’t understand. And you are wrong. But, then, you are so often wrong about me.”

Without another word, he turned and stalked down the tunnel.

L
ATER THAT EVENING
, Rhiannon stood between Dudod and Gwydion, waiting for the Alban Awyr ceremony to begin. She wore the customary Dewin’s robe of sea green, and silver ribbons were woven through her long black hair. Around her neck she wore her Dewin’s torque of pearl. Her green eyes sparkled with the joy of seeing her uncle again—safe and sound, as always, though she had come close to losing him.

Every few moments she reached out and lightly touched Dudod’s arm, to reassure herself that he was really here. And whenever she did that, Dudod would turn to her and smile. He understood her need for reassurance, and did not begrudge it. Dudod had always been kind to her.

Unlike some people she knew. For Gwydion virtually ignored her. After greeting Dudod coldly, he had turned all his attention to his daughter. And what had he meant this afternoon when he said she was wrong about him? If there was one man she understood only too well, it was Gwydion ap Awst.

Gwydion, dressed in a black robe trimmed with red, his Dreamer’s torque of opals and gold flashing fire, held his daughter’s hand, an abstracted frown on his handsome face. His eyes often cut to Jonas, a Bard who had recently come to Allt Llwyd. There was nothing particularly remarkable about Jonas, as far as Rhiannon could tell, nothing he had done that would bring that frown to the Dreamer’s face. Jonas was a slight, tense little man, and his eyes were filled with pain and sorrow.