by Holly Taylor
He said nothing, drinking in the sight of her as a man who has been thirsty for long and long will drink a draught of clear, cool water. Then he smiled, then he grinned, and then he grabbed her and swung her around in wild abandon. Then Dafydd Penfro and Achren were there, demanding their turn to greet her.
After the tumult died down a little Rhoram said, “Come. You two shall sit at my table.” He took her hand and then grabbed Gwen’s hand and led them up to his table. People she knew called greetings to her. She flushed and smiled and returned their greetings as best she could.
As she neared the table Queen Efa stood stiffly. As though this happened every day Rhoram calmly said, “My dear, you remember Rhiannon ur Hefeydd?”
“I do indeed,” Efa said, her voice cold. “You are welcome here in my hall.”
In her hall. Oh, yes. Rhiannon donned a honeyed smile and said sweetly, “How kind of you. I hardly dared think I would find such a warm welcome here.”
“Yes, strange isn’t it?” Efa replied, with a smile as poisonously false as Rhiannon’s own. “Come, we shall squeeze you both in somehow.”
After some shifting Rhiannon and Gwen sat among the company. Efa was on Rhoram’s right, but Rhiannon sat on his left. Gwen sat directly across from her father between Sanon and Geriant. The three young people had their heads together, talking swiftly. Where had Gwen been all this time? What was it like to live in a cave?
Queen Efa ate little and said less. But Dafydd Penfro, obedient to Rhoram’s sharp look, was attentive to the Queen; and eventually even Efa relaxed a little.
Achren leaned forward and asked Gwen if she knew how to hunt. “Mam taught me some, and I’m pretty good with a spear,” Gwen answered.
“Know anything about swords?” Achren asked.
“No.”
“Want to learn?”
“Oh, yes,” Gwen said, her face shining. “I’d love to.”
“Achren,” Efa said coolly, “I hardly think that this is a proper thing to teach an eleven-year-old girl.”
“Why not? She should know how to defend herself, don’t you think?” It was hard to tell just what Achren might have meant by that, but her dislike of the Queen was clear.
Rhoram stepped into the breach. “Sanon doesn’t much care for it herself. But you and Geriant should have a fine old time. Achren taught him, too. And I have a few tricks to teach.”
Achren snorted. “Nothing you didn’t learn from me.”
“Ha! You talk as though I never win when we duel.”
“I let you win, sometimes, to cheer you, “Achren grinned.
“You see, daughter,” Rhoram said to Gwen with a mock grimace, “an old man is not respected in his own house. It’s terribly sad, isn’t it?”
“You’re not old,” Gwen protested. “Or, well, not very, anyway.”
Everyone laughed at that, for Gwen’s qualifying statement was said with a great deal of earnestness. Gwen blushed, but the laughter was friendly, and she was not ashamed, only startled.
“I must talk to you,” Rhiannon whispered urgently to Rhoram under cover of the laughter. Rhoram acted as though he hadn’t heard her. He leaned forward, “How about a song, Sanon? Maybe you and Gwen both know some of the same tunes?”
Sanon leapt up, grabbing Gwen’s hand. “Come on. We’ll think of something.”
“Geriant, keep an eye on them will you?”
“Sure, Da,” Geriant said good-naturedly, and ambled after the girls who had scampered over to the hearth.
Rhoram glanced at Dafydd Penfro. Rising, Dafydd offered his arm to the Queen. “Shall we get a good place for the show?” Efa nodded and reluctantly allowed him to lead her to a chair before the hearth.
“Come,” Rhoram said to Rhiannon. They slipped out of the hall, stopping just outside the doors. They heard the sweet voices of Sanon and Gwen raised in song.
I have been a multitude of shapes
Before I assumed a constant form.
I have been a sword.
I have been a tear in the air.
Rhoram turned to her and took her hands in his. He kissed them gently. “How long will you stay?”
“I can’t. I can’t stay at all. I must go. Tonight.” The words came with difficulty, but she said them. She had promised.
Rhoram stared at her. “Is it—is it something I have done? Have I made you uncomfortable here?”
She laughed, a little wildly. Uncomfortable? Oh, gods, he had no idea.
“What did Gwydion ap Awst say to you?” he demanded.
“He said he needed my help. So,” she went on, taking a deep breath, “I go from here to Caer Dathyl to see him and take up my task. And I’m leaving Gwen here.”
“Ah. And does Gwen know this?” Rhoram asked carefully.
Oh, Rhoram had always been so quick to understand her. How could she had forgotten that? “No.”
“You should have told her.”
“I couldn’t find the words to explain.” Within the Hall the song continued,
I have been the dullest of stars,
I have been a word among letters,
I have been a book in the making.
I have been the light of lanterns.
“Rhiannon,” Rhoram said softly. “Look at me.”
Hesitantly, she raised her eyes to his glittering, jewellike gaze.
“Rhiannon, I must tell you two things. The first is that I still love you. I was a fool to let you go.” Briefly, she closed her eyes at the words she had wanted to hear for so long. It was her daydream turned nightmare, for the words had come too late. She had already come to the crossroads and chosen her path.
He went on, “The second thing is that you mustn’t fear me, cariad. I demand nothing from you. So tell me, for I am your friend now and always. Explain why you do this thing.”
“Years ago,” she began, hesitantly, “I refused to do my duty. I threw away the chance to become Ardewin.”
“Because I begged you.”
“Because I wanted to. And then, when things went wrong I ran away. I stole Gwen out of vengeance.”
“You couldn’t bear to part with your daughter. You loved her.”
“I wronged her. I can’t change that. But I can try to make it right, by returning her to her real home. And I can repay my debt to Kymru. I refused my duty before. I won’t do it again. Or there will be nothing left of me.”
“Will you come back?”
“No.” It was, perhaps, the hardest thing she had ever said.
“I see.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for years. But like all dreams, it turns bitter when it comes true. You come back only to leave me again.”
“Rhoram—”
“No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not blaming you. I brought it on myself by letting you go so long ago.”
I have been a sword in the grasp of a hand,
I have been a shield in battle.
I have been a string in a harp.
Disguised for nine years,
In water, in foam.
“Rhoram, how could I stay? You have a wife,” she said sharply.
“So I do, so I do. If you want to call her that. Of course, she doesn’t love me and never did. But she loves being the Queen.”
“Rhoram, Rhoram. I beg you. Please don’t do this to me. I can’t stay.”
“I know.” He said nothing for a long time. He looked up at the sky and the full moon washed over his face. Finally, he turned to her. “Tell me then, what can I do to make it easier for you?”
Oh, truly she was the beloved of Rhoram ap Rhydderch. Who but one that loved her so would let her go her own way at the crossroads? “Take care of Gwen,” she whispered.
“I will.”
“I must say good-bye to her now.”
“Won’t you at least stay the night?”
“I can’t.” She swallowed hard. “If I do I will never leave.”
“I wish—never mind, you know what I wish,” he tried to smile but it d
ied before it reached the corners of his mouth. Gently he framed her face with his hands. “Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, I claim a kiss from you before you go.”
The wasted years fell away as their lips touched. All the passion, all the longing, all the terrible, wonderful love returned in full force. His arms tightened around her as she sank deeply into his kiss. A low moan escaped him, and she pulled herself away, gasping. His hands instantly dropped from her, and he stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he offered hoarsely. “I didn’t think it would be like that.”
“Some things never change, do they?” she said breathlessly.
“No, they don’t. I’ll—I’ll go get Gwen.”
After he went back inside the hall she sat down on the steps. Her legs were shaking and her heart was choking her. How could she leave? But how could she not?
At last Rhoram returned, holding Gwen’s hand. “Oh, Mam,” she said, “did you hear me?”
Swiftly she pulled herself together and stood. “Yes, indeed,” she said, her voice as steady as she could make it. “You have a beautiful voice. You and Sanon sound well together.”
“Oh, she’s wonderful. I’m going to love it here. How long can we stay?”
“I’m—I’m glad you like it here, little one. Because—” She stopped. Oh, what a coward I am, she thought. What a fool.
“Your Mam and I have had a long talk, Gwen. And we’ve come to an agreement we think you will like. You’ve lived with your Mam for a long time. And now, it’s time to live with me,” Rhoram said gently.
Gwen quickly turned to Rhiannon. “You’re leaving me here? Why?”
“I must. I must go to the Dreamer. He has laid a task on me that I must do.”
“You’re deserting me?” Gwen’s voice rose.
“No,” Rhiannon said pleadingly. “I’m leaving you with your father.”
“You planned this from the start,” Gwen accused. “You knew it all along. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Gwen, don’t take it this way, please. If I had a choice—”
“You have a choice! How can you do this? How can you leave me alone?”
“I wish I knew,” Rhiannon whispered.
“I hate you! I hate you!” Gwen screamed.
Rhiannon flinched as Gwen began to sob. “I do. I do hate you. You don’t care anything about me. You just leave me because I’m in the way.”
She reached out to take Gwen in her arms but was pushed away. Rhoram put his arm around Gwen’s shoulders as she sobbed and Rhiannon watched helplessly.
“I’ll take care of her, Rhiannon. Do what you must do,” he said softly.
Oh, gods. How could she leave them both, these two that she loved so much? But she must. She must. She turned and ran toward the stables, Gwen’s sobs echoing in her ears.
Addiendydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—dusk
ONE MONTH LATER, Rhiannon arrived in the tiny village of Dinas Emrys, sick at heart and weary beyond endurance.
She reined in her mount by the village well, hauled up the bucket, and watered her horse as the sun slowly sank behind the purple mountains. The people in the village were already at their evening meal, and the tiny square was deserted. She could hear faint laughter as families and friends gathered for the evening. The sound made her feel more lonesome than ever.
Her exit from Caer Tir had taken its toll on her. There were dark circles beneath her swollen eyes, for she slept poorly. She often thought she heard Gwen’s sobs again in the dead of the night. The cries echoed within her and the misery she carried made her heart feel as heavy as stone.
She wondered now where she would spend the night. On this journey she had not dared to sleep alone in the wilds. So every night she had invoked the law of hospitality, and gone to a nearby house for shelter. In every place the people were kind, attentive to her needs, and unquestioning, as the law demanded. Grateful, she had repaid them in the only way she could—she had played her harp and sung for them.
But tonight she was doubtful that she should even stop here in this tiny village. She was almost at Caer Dathyl; indeed, she would be there tomorrow. She was half inclined to keep riding for another league or so and camp for the night. And even more than half inclined to turn her horse around and go back to Arberth. For the nearer she came to Caer Dathyl and Gwydion, the greater her misery became.
Sighing, she made to remount when someone touched her arm. She jumped and turned to confront a young boy perhaps thirteen years old. He had auburn hair and dark eyes. He was slender, slightly built, and deeply tanned.
“Your pardon,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She took a deep breath. “It’s all right,” she said evenly.
“My Uncle offers you the hospitality of our house for the night.”
She hesitated. “I thank your Uncle, but I am not staying the night here. Please tell him I am grateful but I cannot stay.”
“He said that if you were to refuse I was to ask if Hefeydd’s harp was being cared for properly now.”
“How did—” She halted. “Who is your uncle?” she asked carefully.
“My Great-uncle, actually. Come. He is waiting.”
In a daze she followed the boy. Who was he? There was an air about him—something that did not belong in this mountain village. And his Great-uncle—who in the world could that be? There were few people who knew about her father’s harp. She thought of one person in particular. Oh, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. For Myrrdin was dead. Wasn’t he?
The boy led her to a tiny hut at the edge of the village. An old man stood in the doorway, looking out at her. “Rhiannon,” the old man said tenderly.
“Myrrdin. Oh, Myrrdin.” She threw herself into his waiting arms and he held her gently as she began to weep.
The boy stabled her horse and returned with her saddlebags in tow. Bashfully, he handed her a tiny square of linen to wipe her eyes, and Myrrdin helped her to a bench before the crackling fire.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Oh, I think you do, child. Here, drink this.” Gratefully, she took a mug of ale from his hand and drank. As she tried to calm herself, she looked closely at the boy who was stirring a kettle of soup that boiled over the fire. There was something about that boy. Something elusive, but familiar.
“Gwydion must have found you,” Myrrdin said quietly. “Where is Gwenhwyfar?”
“Arberth.” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and went on. “I left her there with Rhoram.”
“I see.” She thought that he probably did. He always had. “And now you are going on to Caer Dathyl. Does Gwydion know you’re coming?”
“I doubt it. When he and I met we—ah, had words. Have you spoken to him? Is he at Caer Dathyl?”
“He is at Caer Dathyl. And no, I have not spoken to him. We never speak. It is safer that way.”
“I can’t believe you are alive! What happened? Why the secrecy?”
“That is for Gwydion to say.”
“Myrrdin, I have left my woods, left my daughter, left the man I love who begged me to stay—to come to Caer Dathyl and join Gwydion in doing what must be done. I can assure you that Gwydion ap Awst will tell me exactly what he is up to. He can tell me tomorrow or you can tell me tonight. Whichever you prefer. I prefer to know now.”
“You two didn’t hit it off, I take it.”
“No. And you weren’t surprised, I take it.”
“Certainly not. I expected it.” He thought for a moment then gestured for the boy to stand beside him. “This is Arthur. Arthur, this is Rhiannon ur Hefeydd, a woman of the House of Llyr. You have heard me speak of her.”
Arthur gave a credible bow, all things considered. He was too bashful to look directly at her, staring instead at his feet.
Arthur, she thought. Now who in the world—of course. “Arthur ap Uthyr. Uthyr’s son,” she said incredulously. “Alive. He never died either. Myrrdin, you left Y Ty Dewin to raise Uthyr’s son in s
ecret. How did Gwydion ever get you to do that? No, never mind.” She was thinking out loud now, on the trail of a mystery. “And why hide him? Why pretend he was dead? Why unless he was in danger. In danger because he is more than the heir to Gwynedd. But he was tested. I heard that. Gwydion himself was there—” She stared at the boy, who lifted his eyes to hers and blushed. “Oh. Of course Gwydion was there. May I be one of the first to bend my knee to the future High King of Kymru?”
Myrrdin laughed heartily. “Oh, very good.”
“And you Arthur? You don’t seem very pleased,” she said curiously, for his young face had become grim and set at Myrrdin’s words.
“I’m not,” he mumbled.
“Why?”
He looked up at her. His dark eyes set and stubborn. “I don’t like being used. Uncle Gwydion does that to everyone who will let him. And I won’t let him.”
“Hmm. I said the same thing to Gwydion not very long ago.”
“And what did he say?” Arthur asked eagerly.
“That I was selfish. That it wasn’t his idea and if he had a choice he’d never lay eyes on me again.”
“And will he?” Myrrdin asked intently.
She turned to him, looking into his dark eyes. He knew. He knew she had almost made up her mind to run back to Arberth and give herself up to an even more profound prison than the one she had constructed for herself all these years. “I don’t know,” she said finally.
“Will you play Hefeydd’s harp for us?” Myrrdin asked gently.
“How did you know I had it?”
“Because you have changed, and changed a great deal or you wouldn’t be here. And how could you have done that and yet left his harp behind?”
Arthur brought her saddlebags over to her. Under Myrrdin’s gaze she retrieved the harp and unwrapped it. The smooth, satiny oak of the frame gleamed in the firelight.
“Play a song for me,” Myrrdin said. “Play Taliesin’s song of Cadair Idris.”
Rhiannon stared at him in surprise. “Why that song?”
“I have a fancy for it. Come, indulge an old man.”