Night Bird's Reign (50 page)

At last the warriors were ready and they faced each other, their weapons gripped firmly, their horses rock-steady as they waited for the signal. A man rode to the front of the line of the northern warriors. On his head he wore a helmet fashioned of silver in the shape of a swan with outstretched wings. The swan’s eyes were two emeralds that seemed to glitter viciously under the golden sun and the entire helmet was studded with luminous pearls.

A second man rode to the front of the southern line. He wore a helmet of bright gold covered with gleaming opals and fashioned like the head of a fierce stallion. The stallion’s eyes were fiery opals that flashed fire at the swan.

A herald rode forward from the northern line and spoke some words Trystan could not hear. The man in the golden helmet laughed, throwing his head back to the sky. The man in the pearl-encrusted helmet stood in his stirrups and shouted something. Then both lines were on the move, leaping forward to shed each other’s blood. They engaged fiercely, and the blood began to flow, soaking into the once pristine ground.

Then a bright blue and orange line of fire sprung up from the very bowels of the Earth and the two armies halted, confused and frightened. Horses bolted and men could not control them. Brown robed Druids poured onto the plain, pooling like a shadow on the edge of the battle. One robed figure detached itself from its fellows and made its way to the center of the line of fire. Then the figure threw back its hood.

Her hair was rich gold, streaked with veins of bright silver and tumbling down her slender shoulders. Her eyes were like the blue of cornflowers but the expression in them was anything but flower-like. This woman was intensely determined. She would not be stopped, would not be turned aside. The warriors would bend to her will, and that was the end of the matter.

She walked forward toward the northern line and the man in the pearl helmet sat stiffly on his horse and watched her come. The two spoke for a long while and then the man leapt from his horse, tears streaming down his face, into the woman’s arms. He threw down his weapons and walked forward, past the woman, across the plain, heading straight for the golden-helmed man.

When the man with the helmet of gold saw the first man coming, he instantly leapt from his mount, also divesting himself of his weapons. The two men met in the center and threw their arms about each other. They wept, their tears mingling together. The woman walked forward and joined them and they swept her into their embrace.

The woman said something to the two men and motioned them back from the spot they were standing. She signaled again, to the shadowy pool of brown-robed Druids. For a moment no one moved. Then Trystan felt a shaking beneath his feet. Men, women, and horses were tumbled about as the shivering plain struggled to give birth.

A crack appeared just at the spot where the two men had stood only a moment before. It yawned wider still, and from the depths of the Earth a huge, black stone rose, breaking through the Earth’s crust, reaching for the sky. When it was as tall was three men, the stone halted and the Earth stilled.

At another gesture from the Druids the stone seemed to shape itself under the hammer of an unseen hand. Tiny whorls and circle appeared, covering the monument. Small figures of warriors sprang into being, brandishing their weapons up and down the side of the stone. Then the stone shimmered and solidified, the final surface glittering like dark glass. As one the warriors turned west, for they knew that this was Macsen’s work, their High King and they bowed in reverence.

Then the scene shifted. The warriors, horses, and Druids were gone. A lone rider crossed the plain. His long auburn hair was bound at the nape of his neck with an opal clasp. Around his neck he wore an ornate torque of opal and gold. He came to a halt at the base of the stone and dismounted, looking long at it, unmoving.

At last his shoulders heaved with a sigh, and he turned to his horse, reaching into his saddlebags. He drew out something wrapped in a dark cloth and held it gently in one hand. With the other he gestured and a tiny fissure appeared in the base of the stone itself. He deftly slipped the slender bundle into the stone. He stepped back and, at his gesture, the stone neatly knit together again.

He turned away from the obelisk and remounted his horse. He sat his horse for a moment then looked over at the place to the side where Trystan stood. The man looked at him for what seemed like a very long time with his silvery, sad eyes. Then the man smiled. And the plain faded away.

W
HEN
T
RYSTAN OPENED
his eyes he was laying on the ground. Amatheon supported his head and shoulders while Rhiannon held a cup to his lips. He drank greedily, knowing that the contents would help prevent his head from splitting in two. Eventually.

He sat fully up, still cradling the wooden cup in his hands, his head bent. At last he looked up carefully at the others who clustered around them.

“Where?” Gwydion asked.

“In the base of the stone itself,” Trystan rasped.

“And Bran?”

“Smiled at me. He did not weep this time. But his eyes were sad.”

“He missed Lleu,” Gwydion said softly.

“And always would.”

Gwydion rose and went over to the base of the stone. “Show me exactly where.”

Trystan supported by Amatheon and Cai rose and went to stand next to Gwydion. “There,” he pointed, his voice still shaking and his knees weak from his enforced Walk between the Worlds.

Gwydion bent down, gently placing his hand on the place where Trystan had indicated. A gap appeared in the stone and Gwydion reached in and pulled out something that glittered in the sunlight.

It was in the shape of an arc, as the other two pieces were. It was made of gold and the curved border was rimmed with sapphires. At the top of one straight side ‘eye of’ was written in tiny emeralds. The pointed portion, like the others, shone with pearls outlined with tiny rubies. As with the others, a poem was incised in its golden surface. Gwydion read it aloud:

The sun rises when the morning comes,

The mist rises from the meadows,

The dew rises from the clover,

But, oh, when will my heart arise?

“Poor Bran,” Rhiannon said quietly. “Poor man.”

Gwydion did not answer, only went to his saddlebags and pulled out the other two pieces. He placed the three pieces together, with the piece from Gwynedd on the upper left, the piece from Rheged on the upper right, and the piece from Ederynion on the lower right. The three pieces were clearly forming three-quarters of a circle. The center of the upper portion now read: “Seek the eye of.” But just what the object that the pearl and rubies at the center was forming, they could not be sure.

“One piece left,” Trystan murmured.

“Mine to find,” Achren said. “At Galor Penduran.”

“The battle where Llyr our first Dreamer lost his life, where his wife, Penduran grieved,” Amatheon said. “I do not envy you the sight of that, Achren. Not at all.”

S
OME LEAGUES TO
the southeast a horse galloped across a plain in Ystlwyft. He ran freely, the wind rushing through his mane, the sun shining above, and the field glistening at his hooves.

Then, all at once, his heart gave a mighty leap and he came to a dead stop, his head cocked. For he had heard a call, a call he did not understand, but could not ignore.

It was time. It was time to go northwest, to journey to the special place.

He did not hesitate, for that was not in his nature. He reared high; reaching for the sky, neighing fiercely then leapt forward, the leagues between him and his goal melting away as he ran.

Chapter Twenty

Llyn Mwyngil, Gwytheryn and Galor Penduran, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Collen Mis, 494

Gwaithdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—late morning

E
ight days later they neared Llyn Mwyngil, the huge lake that lay southwest of Cadair Idris. It had been on the shores of this lake, Achren recalled, that Bran had found the dying High King, Lleu Silver-Hand; had, perhaps, spoken to Lleu in those last moments. If so, history had not recorded what had been said, for which Achren was profoundly grateful—it was only right that some things remained private.

The lake before them glistened beneath the cold sun, the waters shimmering like a handful of azure sapphires. Off the far northern shore of the lake a large island rested. The isle was covered thickly with apple trees as far as could be seen. The time for the apple harvest had come and gone, and there were no apples left on the trees or on the ground, though no man had taken the fruit. Only the animals ate the apples there—the Kymri left Afalon strictly alone, for it was said to be a holy place. It was the chosen place of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and his mate Aertan, Weaver of Fate, and no man or woman willingly encountered those two. Only the High Kings visited that isle, and even they had done so only at great need.

Behind them, to the east from where they had come, the long, now yellowing grasses of the plain were stirring beneath the hand of a chill wind. The sky overhead was a clear, crisp blue. It was so clear that Achren could still see the peak of Cadair Idris far to the northeast, and the topaz glow of Coed Llachar, the forest that abutted the deserted hall of the High Kings. The mountain had remained in sight as they had ridden across Gwytheryn over the past days, although it was many leagues away and they had not attempted to approach it. No one had even hinted that they wanted a closer look, for there was something about the cold, shuttered mountain that touched the heart, bringing a shroud of sorrow and loss to subdue the spirit. And that was something no one was eager to sample more closely without cause.

Within just a few days, Achren knew, they would cross out of Gwytheryn and into Prydyn, reaching the fringes of Coed Aderyn where the battlefield of Galor Penduran lay. And there she would likely see things that she had no wish to see. For that battle was surely the most heartbreaking of all the Battles of Betrayal. She was not looking forward to doing what she must do. But she would do it, for she had never turned away from her sworn duty.

And this was indeed a sworn duty, for her King had given his word that Achren would do whatever the Dreamer required of her. She had Rhoram’s honor to uphold—a cause dear to her.

Life had been much better ever since the Dreamer had visited Arberth. It had been Gwydion’s presence, his questions about Rhiannon, which had forced Rhoram to confront the truth of what he had become. It was that which had given Achren the impetus to shake Rhoram from his grief, to mock him back into life. Since that moment the Rhoram she had known years ago had returned.

He laughed again. He was enjoying life again with the old zeal—pursuing women, wine, and song without the underlying sadness he once had. And for that alone Achren was grateful to the Dreamer. For she had sorely missed the old Rhoram and was happy to have him back, once more interested in the world around him.

She knew he would wish to hear of everything—every word, every gesture, every expression—that her companions gave on this journey and so she had stored it all to tell him. When she returned they would spend many evenings drinking fine wine in the Great Hall and talking about this journey and other things until dawn surprised them.

At least, Achren thought, as she glanced ahead at her companions, the journey was now almost blessedly quiet, since Gwydion and Rhiannon were, once again, barely speaking to each other.

The silence had the merit of making it easier to concentrate. And quiet was necessary, for the land dipped without warning in this part of Gwytheryn. Achren was keenly aware that such terrain made them highly susceptible to ambush. The long grasses could easily conceal any number of warriors, and it was difficult to see what was beyond the next rise. Since Duir Dan they had all ridden warily, their weapons close at hand, their eyes sharp, their bearing alert. They were a formidable group, for four of them were the finest warriors in all of Kymru. The remaining three were exceptional in another way, for they were all adept at Wind-Riding; they now scouted ahead and behind, able to send their awareness many leagues away to scour the countryside for signs of trouble.

The sound of singing drifted toward them from somewhere up ahead. Gwydion called a halt, his hand lifted. “Amatheon?” he called.

Amatheon, who had been responsible for scouting ahead to the west, blinked, pulling his awareness back from the Wind-Ride. “Yes?”

“Who is that ahead? Why didn’t you warn us?” Gwydion asked sharply.

“It’s just a farmer and his family,” Amatheon said with a careless shrug.

“Doing what?”

“Plowing.”

The singing continued, a cheerful song, sung without instruments in a rich and powerful voice.

“Is it a caller?” Cai asked.

“Indeed,” Amatheon answered. “Singing the oxen along.”

“I didn’t think anyone lived around here,” Angharad said.

“Very few people do,” Gwydion said absently as he urged his horse forward to crest the rise ahead of them. “Most think the place haunted, since the death of Lleu so close by.”

“And so it is,” Amatheon said with a shiver. “Can’t you feel it?”

“What have we to fear from Lleu?” Trystan asked softly. “For does he not know our errand?”

They crested the hill and saw a field stretched out before them. Half of the field was plowed, the newly turned earth glistening in dark russet furrows. Two huge oxen pulled a plow guided by a middle-aged man with dark hair. The plow’s leather harness was strapped around his strong shoulders and his step was light as he guided the blade of the plow into the earth.

The caller, the man who sang ahead of the oxen, beckoning the animals forward, was an older man with long, silver hair. He had a smile in his voice as he sang in a rich, pure tone.

Saplings of the green-topped birch,

Which will draw me from the fetters

Repeat not they secret to a youth.