by Holly Taylor
Repeat not thy secret to a maiden.
Saplings of the leafy elm,
Which will draw me from my prison,
Repeat not thy secret to a babbler.
The Wild Hunt with their horns are heard.
Full of lightning, the air,
Briefly it is said; true are the trees, false is man.
False is man, Gwydion thought to himself. Very false indeed.
BY THE EARLY morning hours, the gutted candles were flickering feebly in Uthyr’s chambers. A huge bed with an oak frame and a thick mattress stood against the wall, covered with a blue silken bedspread with the Hawk of Gwynedd embroidered on it in silver thread and brown silk. Bearskin rugs were scattered on the polished floor. The fire in the large fireplace had burned down to glowing embers, casting its light fitfully over the three men gathered there.
Gwydion sat cross-legged on the stone hearth, cradling a gold cup of barely touched wine in his hands. Amatheon reposed on Uthyr’s most comfortable chair, for he had declared that the youngest never got anything good and dared his brothers to prove him wrong. Uthyr himself sat on a low stool, drawn up close to the hearth. The three brothers had talked far into the night, and dawn was now not far away.
Uthyr stirred slightly. “And so, soon after I received the Ruler’s Torque, King Rhodri just left. Didn’t say good-bye to anyone. Just left.”
“I’m sorry for that. Deep down he is a good man, I think,” replied Amatheon.
“He was jealous of my mother and your father. You can’t blame him, really. I think he truly loved her,” replied Uthyr.
“Rathtyen did love Rhodri, I think. As much as she could,” said Amatheon.
“Not enough for him.” Uthyr sighed, and glanced at Gwydion, who was sitting quietly, half turned on the hearth to gaze into the fire.
Gwydion’s hands were clasped tightly around the cup that he held. They are getting close, he thought. Too close. Any minute now they will start talking about how Rathtyen died of grief. Start talking about how Da died. About how—not even to himself would Gwydion finish that thought. He swallowed hard and turned to Uthyr, desperate to change the subject.
“And Ygraine?” he asked. “How is she?”
Uthyr chuckled. “Oh, fine, fine. She threw her brush at me this morning.”
“Ah,” Amatheon smiled. “The same as ever.”
“Yes, well,” Uthyr shifted on the stool and touched his ear thoughtfully. “Of course, she’s a little slower, what with the birth being only a day or two away. The brush barely nicked my ear.”
“That must have truly made her mad,” Gwydion smiled, scratching his beard.
“Why do you grow that thing if it itches?” Uthyr asked curiously. Amatheon’s eyes gleamed.
“I like it,” Gwydion replied defensively.
“The birth,” Uthyr said, after a pause. “Have you seen nothing?”
Gwydion hesitated. Was Uthyr’s child truly the one? He could not be sure. He trusted Uthyr completely, but there was nothing to be gained by speaking out of turn. “Were you expecting something?” he hedged.
“Sometimes,” Uthyr said hesitantly, “I put my hand on Ygraine’s belly and touch the baby growing there. And sometimes, I think I feel something very . . .”
“Something? What?” Amatheon asked, leaning forward to stare intently at Uthyr.
Uthyr closed his eyes and was silent. Then he spoke in a hollow tone. “I see a throne in the shape of an eagle. It is all of gold. And there are eight steps leading up to it. Each is inlaid with precious stones—one is of topaz, one of amethyst. One of emerald, and one of pearl. One of ruby, one of onyx, one of opal, and one of sapphire. They glitter in the golden light that floods the room. But the room is empty.”
Amatheon said nothing, his face carefully still. Gwydion was also silent, looking at his half brother without expression.
“You know something,” Uthyr said flatly. “You both do. I just described the throne room of the High King’s at Cadair Idris that has been shut up now for over two hundred years. And you both just sit there and look at me as though you cannot imagine what I am talking about.”
Gwydion sighed and placed his hand on his brother’s arm. “Uthyr, if I truly knew, if I had truly seen, if there was anything I could tell you, I would. But there is not. The child isn’t even born.” Gwydion paused. “But brother, I tell you this. Trust no one. Tell no one what you have told us. It could be dangerous—for all of us.”
“I have told no one,” Uthyr answered. “Not even Ygraine. I thought that perhaps it was nothing. Only fancies.” He looked Gwydion square in the face. “If you tell me it is dangerous, then it is. I will say nothing.”
“It’s late,” Amatheon said, rising. “We should all get some sleep.”
“Yes,” said Uthyr, “And the Calan Llachar hunt will begin soon. Why don’t you both sleep here? You can bed down in front of the fire. To tell you the truth, I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”
“I think we’ll just stay here, then,” said Gwydion, as he rose from the hearth.
“Arday will be disappointed,” Amatheon said, his eyes glinting in amusement.
Uthyr and Amatheon laughed, and even Gwydion smiled sourly. Gwydion stretched and laid down on the rug as Uthyr threw another bearskin over him. Silently, Gwydion began murmuring the Dreamer’s Prayer, calling on the Shining Ones to protect him and enable him to dream true.
Annwyn with me lying down, Aertan with me sleeping.
The white light of Nantsovelta be in my soul,
The mantle of Modron about my shoulders,
The protection of Taran over me,
And in my heart, the fire of Mabon.
If malice should threaten my life,
Then the Shining Ones between me and evil.
From tonight till a year from tonight,
And this very night,
And forever.
Awen.
With that, Gwydion fell asleep. And dreamed.
HE WAS STANDING in a forest clearing. The trees were fresh and green. Even the bark seemed to glisten in the light of the sun that streamed through the trees, bathing the forest in a golden glow. The ground beneath his feet was covered with marigolds and the delicate white flowers of the rowan tree. They made a carpet of silver and gold on the forest floor.
In the distance, he heard the sound of a hunting horn. It echoed, again and again, shattering the still air. He heard the baying of hounds, coming closer. He heard a rustle in the leaves overhead. Looking up, he saw a young eagle, terror in its eyes.
“Are they hunting you, little one?” Gwydion asked, lifting his arm out to the young bird. “I will not harm you. I will save you from them.”
To his surprise, the eagle flew to him and perched on his shoulder, its talons digging into his flesh. He could feel the bird trembling as it pressed itself against his neck.
“Do they hunt you? Hush, I am here.” He gently lifted the bird from his shoulder and cradled it in his hands, stroking its blue and brown feathers. “I will not let them hurt you.”
The horns, the baying, came closer. The eagle shifted restlessly, but Gwydion held the bird firmly. “No, no, young one. You are safe with me. They will bypass us.”
He sent a thought to the baying hounds, telling them to pass by, that there was no one there. But instead, the baying became even more insistent. He could hear horses now, crashing through the trees.
Suddenly the hounds leapt into the clearing. Gwydion gasped in surprise, for all the hounds were white, with red ears. They seemed to grin at him, surrounding Gwydion and the young bird that he held in his hands.
“This eagle is under my protection,” Gwydion said sternly. “You may not touch him.” The hounds backed away a little then continued to circle, panting and baying for their master.
And then their master was there, his white horse stepping delicately into the clearing. The horse wore no saddle or bridle. The rider’s chest was bare, and his breeches were made of deers
kin. His leather boots were studded with topaz gemstones. He had the face of a man but his eyes were the topaz eyes of an owl, staring at Gwydion, unblinking. Most alarming of all, he had antlers growing from his forehead, like a stag. The rider seemed to glow in the light of the sun.
Oh gods, thought Gwydion. Oh gods.
“Yes, gods are here,” uttered the rider. “I am Cerrunnos. I know you, Dreamer.”
Gwydion swallowed hard. “I know you, Cerrunnos. Lord of the Wild Hunt, Protector of Kymru.” Gwydion managed a bow, of a sort, careful to keep the eagle out of reach.
Another horse, black as midnight, stepped into the clearing, and Gwydion gaped at the woman on the mare’s back. Slender and lithe, her skin was tanned and smooth. Her midnight hair cascaded down her back. Her shift was a glowing white, the length of the skirt barely reaching her calves. A silver belt sparkling with amethysts circled her slim waist. Her boots were leather, studded with amethysts, and her amethyst eyes studied Gwydion, cool and serene.
“Goddesses greet you too, Dreamer. I am Cerridwen.”
Again, Gwydion bowed. “Mighty Cerridwen. Queen of the Wood. Protectress of Kymru. Your beauty stops my heart and stills my tongue.”
Cerridwen laughed. “Strong words from a man who has vowed never to care for a woman!” She shrugged, as Gwydion looked up quickly, stricken. “It matters not to me, Dreamer. But we will trouble you for that eagle. He is ours.”
Gwydion took a deep breath. “I cannot oblige you, Lady. I have sworn to protect him from the Hunt.”
“No one can be protected from the Hunt,” Cerrunnos said bluntly, his owl eyes as bright as topaz. “The Hunt comes for all.”
Gwydion took another deep breath. “He trusted me, you see. And so I cannot give him to you.”
“If you do not, Dreamer, do you know what happens to your world? Without a High King you are all doomed.”
Gwydion glanced down at the eagle he still cradled in his arms. Lightly he stroked the bird. And then he raised his head, looking at the god and goddess squarely. “He does not want to be High King. He wishes to be free.”
“All men wish to be free. But in this world, it cannot be. The High King has his duty. It is not for you to help him to shirk it,” Cerrunnos replied.
“If he is High King, will he be happy?”
“It is not for him to be happy, Dreamer,” said Cerrunnos. “And neither is it for you. He must be who he was born to be.”
“Listen, Dreamer, and listen well,” Cerridwen said. “For this is the first of your tasks. You must protect him, hide him, see to it that he suffers no harm.”
“There are traitors among the Kymru,” Cerrunnos said. “Understand this. Hide him well. And remember that those you can trust are few.”
“Who? Who can I trust?” Gwydion asked.
“That is for you to discover,” Cerrunnos said sternly.
“Can’t you—”
“Next,” Cerridwen interrupted, “your task will be to find Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings, hidden by Bran long ago. But you may not begin this task without the aid of those who will be revealed to you.”
“When?” Gwydion asked.
“In good time,” Cerrunnos said. “Now, give the eagle to us. He is ours. It is not for him to be free. It is for him to be what he was born to be, until his turn on the Wheel is done.”
Cerridwen’s voice rang like silver bells through the clearing. “Men do not ask for pain, for grief, for sorrow. But it is their lot to bear it. Men ask for happiness and perhaps it comes to them, in some measure. This young eagle that tries to escape us runs only from himself. We are the Wild Hunt. We are the Protectors of Kymru. And we will see to it that this eagle does his duty. It is for this that he is born.”
Her voice lowered, and it seemed to Gwydion that there was some pity in it. “And for you, Dreamer, a different lesson. You know only duty. You depend on no one, and in this way you protect yourself. I tell you that someone will come to whom you will open your heart. You will fight it, but in the end, you will win by losing the battle. It will happen after many years of pain, and toil, and hardship. They will be long years. There will ultimately be a measure of happiness, however, even for you, who seems to care so little for it. But who longs for it deep within.”
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
Gwydion 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 marketplac
e. 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.