Night Bird's Reign (3 page)

Dinaswyn stirred up the fire in the brazier, then turned to Gwydion. “All right. Tell us.”

Gwydion looked up from the depths of his goblet. In the fitful light from the burning brazier Ystafell Yr Arymes, the Chamber of Prophecy, seemed to have more shadows than could be accounted for. The clear light of the waning moon streamed through the glass dome overhead. The jewels, which studded the four round windows of clear glass set around the circular chamber, gleamed in the vagrant lights of moon and fire. There were sapphires for Taran of the Winds around the north window; and pearls for Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters to the east. Opals for Mabon, King of Fire framed the south window; while emeralds for Modron, the Great Mother surrounded the west. The jewels winked and glimmered slyly, as though holding a secret. The floor shimmered and shifted as light played over the onyx of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and the bloodstone of his mate, Aertan, Weaver of Fate.

As he gathered his thoughts, he looked up at the three people who waited to hear the dream.

Dinaswyn’s face was impassive. Around her slim, proud neck the Dreamer’s Torque glittered. Thick strands of gold intertwined to form a massive collar. The center clasp was formed of two circles, one inside the other; both studded with fiery opals. Firelight and moonlight turned her high cheekbones into sharp, hard angles. Her gray eyes, so like Gwydion’s, were cool and watchful. Yet in them he saw that she understood the power of the precognitive dreams that reached through time and space into the mind of the Dreamer. She understood, for as the Dreamer of Kymru she had guided her country for many years. Distantly, he wondered that he, the student, should have this dream, while she, the teacher, had not.

Amatheon, Gwydion’s younger brother, looked at him calmly, with an encouraging smile on his fresh, young face. Amatheon wore the Dewin’s torque, strands of silver clasped with the shape of a pentagon from which a single pearl dangled. As he always did, Gwydion saw echoes of his beloved father in his brother’s face, in his clear, blue eyes. But he would not think of that now. His father’s death was still too raw, too painful to dwell on for long.

Lastly, Gwydion looked at Arianrod, his beautiful cousin. She was vain, selfish, and powerfully sensual. As he well knew, her long, thick, honey-blond hair was silken to the touch, and her almond-shaped amber eyes promised many things, all of which she could and would deliver—if she chose. He had shared her bed now for a few years, and he knew that he wasn’t the only one—which had never bothered him, for she had touched his body, but not his heart. Never, never would he allow any woman to have that kind of power over him, not after . . .

He shied away from that thought, as he always did. Now was not the time to think of his festering wounds that would never heal. Now was the time to tell of the dream. Gwydion sank back on his pallet and began to speak.

G
WYDION FELL SILENT
, staring into the brazier. The only sound was of the quill racing across the Book of Dreams, as Amatheon recorded the threat to the unknown High King.

“Interpretation?” Amatheon asked crisply, his pen poised.

Gwydion looked up quickly. “Guess,” he said bitterly.

“Interpret the dream,” Dinaswyn said, her tone clipped

Gwydion took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He raised his head and looked up at the night sky, past the uncaring stars that glittered through the clear ceiling of the shadowy chamber.

“The eagle. It was Arderydd. The symbol of the High King.” Gwydion shifted restlessly on his pallet and got to his feet. He began to pace the room. “Which means a new High King. They said it was time.”

“Which means war,” Arianrod said in a hollow voice. “High Kings are only born for warfare.”

“And born to be betrayed,” Gwydion said, his throat tight. “All three of the High Kings were betrayed to their deaths.”

He fell silent for a moment, thinking of those betrayals. Idris had died from wounds received in battle against his own son. Macsen had died in Corania where he had gone to fetch his bride, killed by Coranian oath-breakers. Lleu Silver-Hand had been murdered by his wife and her lover.

He closed his eyes briefly; his throat tight, for he still suffered from the raw wounds of betrayal himself.

“But who is the betrayer that endangers this High King to be?” Amatheon asked. “Who would wish him ill?”

“Who can tell?” Gwydion asked wildly. “Any one of Dinaswyn’s fellow Great Ones might perceive a High King to be a threat to their way of life, for now they are answerable to no one. Or, if it comes to that, any one of the Rulers of the four kingdoms might have cause. They, too, are used to doing things their own way. Perhaps they would wish ill to one who would rule them.”

“Was there nothing in the shadow that you could identify?” Dinaswyn pressed.

Gwydion shook his head. “Nothing. It was a figure made of darkness and it threatened the eagle. But who—or what—the figure stands for, I cannot tell.”

“Do you think it one person, or many?”

“I think . . . I think that it is one person. But I cannot be sure.”

“Than we leave it for now. If the Shining Ones had meant for us to understand who the shadow is, they would have sent some detail to help you. Perhaps they still will. We move on, then, to the identity of the High King.”

“Yes, who?” asked Amatheon curiously.

Gwydion continued to pace. “I don’t know.”

“For something that important, there must be a clue. There must be something,” Dinaswyn insisted.

“I tell you, there was nothing,” Gwydion said impatiently, still pacing.

“Color?” Dinaswyn asked.

“Color.” Gwydion paused, frowning, trying to remember. And he did. And as he did, he hesitated. Two out of the three people in the room he would trust with his life. But the third . . .

“Arianrod,” Gwydion said sharply, “go to bed.”

Arianrod bristled. “Why?”

“Because you aren’t doing any good here,” Gwydion said pointedly.

“I see,” Arianrod said, her voice beginning to rise. “You are getting almost as good as Aunt Dinaswyn in sending people away.”

“Arianrod,” Dinaswyn began. Her face was impassive but her voice strained, for the bone of contention between them was old and much gnawed over.

“Wait and see, Gwydion, what your welcome is the next time you are begging for a place in my bed,” Arianrod went on, as though Dinaswyn had not even spoken. “If you are expecting . . .”

“As always I expect nothing from you,” Gwydion said swiftly. “Not even the common courtesy to do as I ask.”

Fuming, Arianrod left the chamber, slamming the door behind her.

Amatheon whistled and shook his head. “You are a brave man, Gwydion. There aren’t many who would give up the chance to spend their nights with Arianrod.”

“I didn’t give up the chance,” Gwydion said absently. “She’ll take me back.”

“Because it’s not really you she’s angry with,” Dinaswyn said quietly. “It’s me.”

“And that will never change,” Gwydion said.

“Unless you somehow produce her parents for her, safe and sound after all these years,” Amatheon said. “And I don’t believe you can do that.”

“I sent them away,” Dinaswyn said, “to Corania, as my dream demanded that I do. I cannot help it if they didn’t come back.”

“True, Aunt,” Amatheon said. “So when will you stop trying to make it up to Arianrod?”

“We have wandered far from our task here,” Dinaswyn said sharply. “The question was, who is to be the next High King of Kymru?”

“I know who,” Gwydion said quietly. “The eagle was brown. And his tail feathers were blue. Bright, sapphire blue.”

“Blue and brown. The colors of Gwynedd,” Amatheon said slowly.

“Uthyr of Gwynedd’s son?” Dinaswyn inquired.

“Uthyr doesn’t have a son!” said Amatheon.

“Not yet. But Ygraine’s time will be soon. Their first child is due within the week,” Dinaswyn replied.

Gwydion stopped pacing. “My brother’s son,” he whispered. “The High King.”

“Maybe,” Dinaswyn said cautiously.

“Maybe? You just said . . .”

“You have to be careful with these things,” she said mendaciously. “Dreams are rarely so straight-forward. You should know that by now.”

“Dinaswyn,” Amatheon said abruptly. “Did you dream at all tonight?”

She stiffened as she turned to face her youngest nephew, rage in every line of her body. She stared at him, but she did not speak.

“Did you?” he asked urgently.

“Amatheon . . .” Gwydion began.

“Did you?” Amatheon pressed.

Slowly the fury drained from her as she looked into Amatheon’s blue eyes. “No,” she said finally. “I did not dream. The dreams have passed on tonight, in Gwydion’s first night alone in the Chamber of Prophecy. Gwydion is the new Dreamer of Kymru. My work is done.”

“Done?” Gwydion was stunned. “But I have another year of training yet!”

“No,” she said. “You don’t. The dream was yours. And so is the burden that goes with it. You are the Dreamer now.” She fumbled at her neck, releasing the catch on the torque. The necklace came off and she clutched it tightly for a moment. Firelight washed across the golden surface and glittered on the double circle of blazing opals. She thrust the necklace into Gwydion’s unwilling hands. “It’s yours, now. Take it. Take it all.” Her head held high and her face a frozen mask, she left the chamber.

“It’s too soon,” Gwydion whispered, staring after Dinaswyn as she made her way down the stairs. “I’m not ready.”

“Be ready,” Amatheon said.

Addiendydd, Lleihau Wythnos—dusk

T
HE LAST RAYS
of the setting sun filtered through the trees surrounding the clearing and the songs of the birds began to quiet for the night when Gwydion reined in his horse and dismounted. Behind him Amatheon did the same.

“I take it we are stopping here,” said Amatheon.

Gwydion said nothing. Amatheon sighed. For four days now they had been on the road to Tegeingl. In all that time his brother had barely spoken.

Amatheon had been patient, for that was his nature. But there was also a time for action. He was done waiting. Tonight he would get Gwydion to talk to him. He would not learn anything he didn’t already know, for he knew his brother very well. But maybe Gwydion, hearing his fears spoken aloud, would find some peace in that. Amatheon had a feeling that peace would always elude his older brother, and his heart ached with that knowledge.

Silently they set about making camp, their movements economical and smooth. The day had been warm and both men wore tunics laced up the front with no shirt beneath. Gwydion’s tunic of black with red lacing, the colors of the Dreamer, reached just below his upper thighs. His breeches were black and tucked in to black leather calf-length boots. His shoulder-length dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a strip of leather. His cheekbones stood out stark and hard, and the shadows under his silvery eyes showed that true, restful sleep continued to elude him.

Amatheon was dressed similarly, but where Gwydion wore black and red, he wore sea green and silver, the colors of the clairvoyant Dewin.

“You realize, of course, that we don’t have to do this. Camp out, I mean,” Amatheon said somewhat irritably. By the Law of Hospitality any farm hold, any village, any manor would take them in, feed them, treat them as honored guests, shelter them for the night, and send them on their way with full saddlebags—and no questions asked. Of course, they would no doubt be recognized, but their hosts would preserve the laws with the polite fiction that they did not know who their guests were. But every night they had slept under the stars at Gwydion’s insistence.

“What’s the matter, brother? Your bones getting old and brittle? Need a soft bed?”

“You’re just jealous,” Amatheon said smugly. “Because you’re older. And always will be.”

Gwydion did not answer, but set about scraping a pit for the fire. The clearing was small, surrounded by birch, rowan, and ash trees. Amatheon spread a cloth over a small, flat rock, and began cutting bread and cheese.

“Don’t really understand why you build a fire,” Amatheon said, “when you won’t even cook anything over it.”

“I told you,” Gwydion said absently, “that I hate to cook.”

“What you mean is that you don’t know how. I, on the other hand, am an excellent cook, and if you had brought anything else except dried meat, I’d show you.” The conversation had the comfortable ring of familiarity. They had said the same thing every night since leaving Caer Dathyl.

Gwydion gathered small branches and heaped them into the hollow. Holding his hands over the pit, he briefly closed his eyes, his breathing deep and slow. Then a small, flowerlike flame appeared in the middle of the branches. Shaped like a rosebud, it grew larger until the petals of fire burst from the glowing rose as the flame blossomed and the fire took hold.

“I do love watching you do that,” Amatheon said casually.

“Druids Fire-Weave all the time,” Gwydion pointed out. “It’s hardly new for you to see that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Amatheon. “But they don’t have your sense of style. You get that from Da, I see.”

Gwydion did not answer. Amatheon had not thought he would.

Twilight descended as Gwydion tended the fire, feeding small branches into the crackling flames. As he leaned forward to feed more branches, the firelight crawled hungrily over the double circle of opals hanging from the Dreamer’s Torque, symbol of Mabon, Lord of the Sun.

Amatheon’s torque of silver with its pendant of pearl glowed in the dusky twilight, the symbol of Nantsovelta, Lady of the Moon.

Slight rustles in the forest spoke of small animals making their ways back to their homes, or beginning their nightly hunt for food. Far off, a wolf howled at the ebon glory of the night sky. Gwydion continued to stare into the fire as if it held all the answers to his questions. He scratched his short beard absently.

“You always scratch that thing,” said Amatheon.

“It itches.”

At least it was an answer. “Why grow it then, if it itches?”

Gwydion shot a look to his brother, his gray eyes gleaming. “It does what it’s supposed to do.”