Night Bird's Reign (49 page)

“Don’t stray too far,” Gwydion warned. “I have been Wind-Riding for the past hour or so and have seen no one. Nevertheless, be wary.”

“Could I perhaps persuade you not to Ride in our direction?” Angharad asked with a grin as she took Amatheon’s hand.

“But of course, Angharad,” Gwydion said airily. “Your wish is my command.”

The two had returned some hours ago and one by one Trystan’s companions had fallen asleep in blankets before the fire.

Overhead the waning moon continued to rise in the night sky. Stars glittered coldly and thickly across the heavens. Trystan walked the perimeter of the camp, taking care to keep the campfire in his peripheral vision, but not to look directly at it, for it would ruin his night vision if he stared at the flames for long.

Movement near the campfire halted him and he crouched down, his hand on his knife. But it was only Gwydion sitting up. The Dreamer freed himself from his bedroll and sat looking into the fire. Trystan wondered if Gwydion had dreamt something and, if so, what it might be. A flicker of movement and Rhiannon, too, sat up.

“Did you dream?” Rhiannon asked, softly so as not to wake the others.

Gwydion nodded. “It is of no matter. An old dream. One I have had many times before.”

“But one that still has the power to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?”

“I can see it in your eyes,” she said quietly. “Tell me.”

For a moment Gwydion hesitated. Then, to Trystan’s surprise, he answered her. “I am at Cadair Idris. It is night and the three High Kings come from their graves to stand before the Doors. They each draw a ghost of Caladfwlch from their scabbards and lay them on the ground. Arderydd, the High Eagle comes and tries to take them.” Gwydion halted.

“And then?” Rhiannon prompted.

“And then the shadows of the plain rise. They moan and twist together. They cry out, threatening the eagle. I leap in front of the shadows, to try to protect the eagle. And then . . .” Again, Gwydion fell silent.

“And then?” Rhiannon pressed.

“And then the shadow reaches for me. It reaches into my chest and tears my heart. It is so cold. The pain is like nothing I have ever known. It is a pain that makes me wish for death to stop it.”

“I am sorry,” she said, gently laying her hand on his arm.

“Don’t be,” he replied harshly, as though already regretting the moment of intimacy. “I neither need nor want your pity.”

“Don’t start,” she warned him.

“Of course pity is what you do best, isn’t it?” Gwydion went on implacably. “Or is that running away?”

It seemed to Trystan that the slap she gave him would have wakened the dead but the others never moved from their sleep. Gwydion grabbed Rhiannon by her shoulders so hard that his fingers sank into the flesh of her arms. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He looked down at her and she looked up at him. For a moment neither one of them moved. Trystan saw Gwydion bend his head toward her. But he halted before even beginning the kiss he had in mind. He drew back, his face suddenly stern and unyielding. Rhiannon pulled away from him and he let her go. She turned away, going back to her blankets, turning her back to him.

So it was only Trystan that saw Gwydion did not take his eyes from her until morning.

Suldydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—late morning

A
S THEY JOURNEYED
west for the next few hours they saw the shores of the River Rhymney in the distance. Trees clustered the banks, their leaves of gold and flame blazing in the early afternoon sun.

Millponds branched off from the river and mills dotted the banks, for Rheged was a land of golden grain, and the mill wheels turned constantly to grind the grain to flour. Occasionally they saw a cluster of houses near the river and crossed near field after field of rich grain. A number of the people they saw in the distance were winnowing grain. Using large baskets they threw handfuls of wheat into the air to separate the kernels from the chaff, the kernels, being heavier, fell back to the bottom of the baskets, the chaff floating to the top.

They saw a woman and her young children picking rushes by the shore for use in making candlewicks, for beeswax candles were another staple product of Rheged. Beehives dotted the plain, rising from the grasses like golden towers, bees buzzing gently in the cooling breeze.

Trystan spotted the tall, slender marker that stood in splendid isolation in the middle of the plain. The dark stone stood silently. The sides of the tower were carved with whorls and circles, while tiny figures did their deadly dance of battle in between. Yellow corydalis twined around the base of the obelisk, seeking, perhaps, to brighten the midnight stone.

They drew near to the marker and silently dismounted, coming to cluster at the stone’s slender base.

“Tell us,” Cai said, not taking his eyes from the stone. “Tell us exactly how it happened.”

“Cadwallon and Caradoc were the twin sons of Rhys, the first King of Rheged,” Gwydion began. “Their mother was Ellylw, the daughter of Govannon, the first Archdruid of Kymru. The twins had been very close as young boys. If one began a sentence, the other one had finished it. They were inseparable and their love for each other was pure and strong. Cadwallon, the elder by only a few moments, was destined to be King of Rheged, yet any jealousy the two boys were capable of remained dormant. Until the day that they met Eilonwy, the daughter of Gwydd, the second Dreamer.”

The wind blew mournfully past the stone and the sun overhead seemed to draw back, paling slightly, taking some warmth from the golden afternoon.

“For they both loved her passionately the moment they saw her. And she returned the love of Cadwallon, but not that of Caradoc. Caradoc was devastated when Eilonwy agreed to become Cadwallon’s wife. He convinced himself that the only reason she had done so was because Cadwallon would be King. If not for that Eilonwy would have loved him, Caradoc, and they would have been happy forever. So thinking he began to brood. He left Llwynarth for he was not willing to see his brother and his new bride so happy. He lived alone in a manor some leagues away from the city, and did not come often to see the couple. But then he took thought and realized that there was a way he could be King, in spite of his brother. So he rode to Ederynion and presented himself to the Rulers of that country, and caught the eye of Gwenis, their daughter and heir. He charmed her, he wooed her, and he won her. But he was not in love with her, although Gwenis understood this to her sorrow far too late.

“As the years went by the two brothers had children. Cadwallon and Eilonwy had two little girls, while Caradoc and Gwenis had two little boys. Eventually Rhys of Rheged died, and Cadwallon took his place as King. His mother, Ellylw withdrew from Rheged in sorrow, and went to live with her brother who was now Kymru’s Archdruid in Caer Duir. Seven years later the King of Ederynion died, and Gwenis became Queen, so Caradoc was at last King.

“And still it was not enough. He had his wife’s love, but did not want it. He had sons, but did not care for them. He had the rule of a country, and it did not bring him joy. He began to try to persuade Gwenis to let him lead a force into Rheged. He pressed her, saying that he was truly the elder but the malice of his mother’s serving woman had prevented it, for she had switched the two babies at birth, declaring Cadwallon the elder, though this was not so. And Gwenis, although she did not believe him, pretended that she did, for she still hoped to win his regard. Against her better judgment she gave him what he wanted, and called the muster, charging her husband to lead them into Rheged and take back what was rightfully his.”

“I am surprised High King Macsen didn’t do something then,” Achren said. “He was Gwenis’s brother and surely he knew what was happening.”

“He did know,” Amatheon put in.

“And he did indeed do something,” Rhiannon said. “He—”

“Do you two mind?” Gwydion interrupted acidly. “Every time I try to tell a story of the Battles of Betrayal, you two jump in.”

“I told you,” Amatheon said earnestly, “we had a teacher that was very taken with the Battles. She would drone on about them all the time.”

“Until we could drone on just as well as she,” Rhiannon said. “But of course you want to be the center of attention, Gwydion. I must have forgotten that, though how I could do that is puzzling. Forgive me, and do go on.” Rhiannon’s tone was just as acidic as Gwydion’s, clearly showing she had not at all forgotten about Gwydion’s behavior last night.

Gwydion shot Rhiannon a hard look but did not chose to answer her. Instead, he continued with the story. “Caradoc took his army across the border into Rheged and they were met right here by Cadwallon and his army. The two lined up against each other a half league apart here on this plain. Caradoc had his Captain ride forward, declaring that his cause was just, declaring him to be the elder, declaring him to be the true King of Rheged. Cadwallon’s answer was to throw back his head and laugh in contempt at this claim. Enraged, Caradoc gave the order to fight.

“The two armies began to gallop toward each other, weapons drawn, fierce battle cries on their lips. They engaged with a fierce clatter. Men and women began to fight and began to die. Suddenly, a wall of flame leapt up from the ground itself. Druid’s Fire burned bright blue and orange and the heat seared the warriors, causing them to halt and retreat as quickly as they could. The wall of fire lowered, but still burned. From the west hundreds of black-cowled Druids poured onto the plain. They were led by two shrouded figures. One remained at the head of the Druids that now clustered on the side of the battlefield. The other marched forward to stand between the two armies as the flames sank and died to embers. The figure pulled back its hood, and the twins gasped. For it was Ellylw, their mother, and her face was stern and implacable. The figure that led the Druids also pulled back his hood and they saw it was their uncle, Sandde, the Archdruid.

“Ellylw walked forward in the sudden silence, stepping over dead warriors until she stood before Caradoc. He remained on his horse looking down at his mother who stood at his stirrup. ‘My son,’ she said softly, ‘what do you do here?’ And Caradoc tried to tell her that he was truly King of Rheged, but he faltered before her clear gaze; she who knew best of all that his story was a lie. She spoke gently to him as he fell silent, of his days as a boy at his brother’s side. She spoke of the love they once had for each other, of the love she knew still lived, though quenched and silent, as the Druid’s Fire now was, but ready to spring up again, as the Fire still was. Caradoc listened to her, his face bitter at first. But as she spoke, reminding him of times past, his face changed. Tears gathered in his eyes and began to spill down his white, drawn face. At last he dismounted from his horse. He discarded his helmet, his sword, his spear and his shield. He took the dagger from his boot and plunged it into the ground. He took his mother in his arms and gently kissed her forehead. Then he walked forward, unarmed, defenseless, skirting the dead and the dying, walking toward his brother’s army.

“And Cadwallon, seeing his brother coming, leapt from his horse, instantly discarding his own weapons. Crying out his brother’s name he swiftly crossed the plain and the two eagerly threw themselves into each other’s arms, laughing and crying at once. Caradoc begged his brother’s pardon, offering himself up as prisoner to be killed or whatever Cadwallon willed. But Cadwallon refused, saying that the best place for his brother was back in Ederynion with the wife and children who loved him so. And Caradoc agreed that this was where he belonged, consenting to return home and saying that now he would truly love the family that loved him. He needn’t look any further for his happiness. Their mother joined them there and embraced them both, and the tears of all three mingled on their faces. Caradoc, true to his word, returned home, his heart released at last from its frost.”

“And whose idea was the monument?” Angharad asked.

“Macsen’s,” Amatheon replied before Gwydion could answer. “For with Macsen’s power as High King the Druids raised this stone from the bowels of the Earth that very day. And carved it, too, with the power of their minds amplified through Macsen.”

“Who was, no doubt, holding the sword we seek at the time,” Achren mused.

Gwydion nodded. “Yes, for all High Kings must do that for their powers to succeed.”

“Then let us do what we must to find this sword, then,” Trystan said. “For my turn has come and I am ready to take it.”

Rhiannon, Gwydion, and Amatheon knelt and joined hands as they did so. Then Achren, Cai, and Angharad clustered around them, laying their hands on their shoulders, leaving space for Trystan to come forward.

Trystan took a deep breath. Cai and Angharad gazed back at him with sympathy, for they knew the feeling he would soon experience. Achren waited patiently, knowing her turn would soon come. Trystan walked forward, and placed his hands on the shoulders of the three Y Dawnus.

And the darkness swallowed him whole.

H
E SAW TWO
armies spilling across the plain, one from the north, the other from the south. Hundreds of warriors with their antlered helmets galloped to form two lines that stretched across the plain. Their hair was braided and bound for battle. The tunic and breeches of those from the south were red and white, while the clothing of those from the north was sea green and white. The warriors in red wore the badge of the rearing stallion, while those in green wore the badge of the white swan. Each man and woman, no matter which side they were on carried bows with quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders, as well as short spears, small shields, and swords.

Men and women seemed to be taunting each other, shouting the kind of cries that were preludes to battle. But Trystan could not hear them, for everything was silent. The silence in his ears seemed to press against him, thundering in his head.

Overhead the sky was clear, the bright blue unmarred by even the smallest cloud. The sun beat down almost mercilessly over the plain, as though Mabon, King of the Sun and Lord of Fire was himself displeased. As well he might have been for he was the god most revered in Rheged and that land had been invaded with no cause.