Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  Dudod grinned. “They almost had me, true. But luck was with me.”

  “Luck is always with you,” Anieron replied, gripping Dudod’s shoulders. “But for the sake of the gods, Dudod, don’t let your luck run out.”

  “The Weaver is not so fond of me that she will cut my thread so soon. Hard to believe, isn’t it? When everyone else loves me so?”

  “Dudod,” Gwydion said abruptly, “we must meet with you in private—Anieron, Rhiannon, and I. Now.”

  Dudod’s brows raised at Gwydion’s commanding tone. “Now?”

  “It is vital.”

  “Gwydion,” Rhiannon said, exasperated, “give him a few moments, will you? He was almost captured only a few days ago. And he has ridden far. He’s worn out.”

  “The day Dudod is worn out is the day they bury him. And not before.”

  “I’m telling you, Gwydion—” she began, her tone dangerous.

  “Thank you, Rhiannon,” Dudod said smoothly, “for your concern. It is appreciated, of course. And you are right, I am a little weary. Dreamer, I believe I will have to meet with you later. I need to rest. And tonight is Alban Awyr, and I don’t want to miss that. I will meet with you after the festival.” Dudod moved off, with Anieron following.

  “You have such a way with people, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said, turning on him. “He’s not as young as he used to be. And you pressured him the moment he got here. He has the song. And he will still have it later tonight.”

  “Your support, as always, touches my heart,” Gwydion said bitterly. “Do you think I am playing a game here? Do you think we have all the time in the world to search? If the Treasures are not found and the boy isn’t inside of Cadair Idris before the year is out, our chance is lost forever. Forever. Do you understand?”

  “Do you understand that a few hours won’t make any difference? You may be perfect, but the rest of us have human needs. Little things like rest, like food, like companionship. Things you wouldn’t understand.”

  His face whitened with anger. “There is much you think I don’t understand. And you are wrong. But, then, you are so often wrong about me.”

  Without another word, he turned and stalked down the tunnel.

  LATER THAT EVENING, Rhiannon stood between Dudod and Gwydion, waiting for the Alban Awyr ceremony to begin. She wore the customary Dewin’s robe of sea green, and silver ribbons were woven through her long black hair. Around her neck she wore her Dewin’s torque of pearl. Her green eyes sparkled with the joy of seeing her uncle again—safe and sound, as always, though she had come close to losing him.

  Every few moments she reached out and lightly touched Dudod’s arm, to reassure herself that he was really here. And whenever she did that, Dudod would turn to her and smile. He understood her need for reassurance, and did not begrudge it. Dudod had always been kind to her.

  Unlike some people she knew. For Gwydion virtually ignored her. After greeting Dudod coldly, he had turned all his attention to his daughter. And what had he meant this afternoon when he said she was wrong about him? If there was one man she understood only too well, it was Gwydion ap Awst.

  Gwydion, dressed in a black robe trimmed with red, his Dreamer’s torque of opals and gold flashing fire, held his daughter’s hand, an abstracted frown on his handsome face. His eyes often cut to Jonas, a Bard who had recently come to Allt Llwyd. There was nothing particularly remarkable about Jonas, as far as Rhiannon could tell, nothing he had done that would bring that frown to the Dreamer’s face. Jonas was a slight, tense little man, and his eyes were filled with pain and sorrow.

  In the old days, this festival would have been celebrated by the Bards in their college of Neuadd Gorsedd beneath the stars, in the sacred grove of birch trees. In the old days this festival would have been joyfully celebrated throughout Kymru, people openly laughing and singing. But now the Kymri must celebrate in secret.

  The round cavern, situated in the center of the extensive caves of Allt Llwyd, was full of men, women, and children. All the Y Dawnus here had gathered to honor Taran, King of the Winds. Each person carried a birch branch—branches that had been scavenged from the countryside by night at the risk of their lives.

  At the north end of the cavern, a stone altar rested. A golden bowl full of seeds and a silver goblet of wine were laid on top of the stone. Eight unlit torches had been placed in brackets around the altar. In the very center of the cave burned a huge bonfire made of birch wood.

  At last Anieron entered the cave with Elidyr behind him. The Master Bard wore a magnificent mantle fashioned with the feathers of songbirds—thrushes, nightingales, and sparrows. He carried a branch made of gold, hung with dozens of tiny, golden bells. As he stepped up to the altar, he shook the branch. The clear ringing sound echoed throughout the cavern, swirling up to the shadowy roof.

  In his deep, powerful voice, Anieron began the festival. He gestured to the eight unlit torches. “This is the Wheel of the year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.” As he gestured and named each one, Elidyr lit the torches. “Calan Llachar, Alban Haf, Calan Olau, Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, and Alban Awyr, which we celebrate tonight.”

  Again, Anieron shook the branch, and the bells sang. “We gather here to honor Taran, King of the Winds, who woke the Great Mother from her enchanted sleep that the earth might be fruitful.”

  “We honor him,” the Kymri murmured softly, the sound of their hushed voices like that of a gentle breeze.

  Anieron continued, “Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the Great Awakening. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”

  Again the Y Dawnus responded, “We honor the Shining Ones.”

  In the silence, young Sinend spoke, her shy voice carrying throughout the cavern. “Why do we mourn? Why are we afraid?”

  And Anieron answered, “We mourn because Modron, the Great Mother, cannot be found. We are afraid because spring cannot come.”

  “How can Modron be found?” the girl continued. “How can spring begin?”

  “Behold,” Anieron said solemnly. “Taran, King of the Winds, is searching for Modron, his beloved. He sends the winds to search the world over. And, at last, Modron is found. She sleeps in the sacred grove and cannot awake. The winds bring this news to Taran, and he flies to her. See how the winds rustle the trees of the grove, and the leaves speak with the wind.” Anieron shook his branch of bells. “See how the sounds of the air have awakened Modron.”

  It was then that the wind began. A gust of air swooped through the cavern, setting the bonfire to dancing. “See now how Taran is with us,” Anieron proclaimed, his voice ringing through the cave. “With us now and forever.” The wind whipped around the people, carrying with it the tang of the sea, the smell of hope, the hint of freedom.

  Gwydion stepped forward and lifted his hands. The wind whipped his black robe. “Taran has not forgotten us as we do him honor. One day we will reclaim Kymru from the enemy! And Taran’s winds will blow them back to the sea!”

  At Gwydion’s words, the wind blew harder, then softened, streaming over the people like a benediction, then dying down gently.

  “Taran is, indeed, with us,” Anieron agreed. “And blesses us this night.” He reached into the golden bowl on the altar and tossed the seeds onto the floor of the cave, then poured wine over the seeds. “The earth has awakened, and spring has come! Blessed be Taran, King of the Winds. See now how he blesses us. See now how, when we have regained our land, Modron will return!”

  “Blessed be Taran!” the crowd shouted.

  Anieron began the Alban Awyr song, and the crowd joined in gleefully.

  “Spring returns, the air rings with the song of birds.

  The blameless nightingale, the pure-t
oned thrush,

  The soaring woodlark, the swift blackbird.

  The birds sing a golden course of fame and glory

  In the countless woodland halls. Spring returns!”

  AFTER THE SONG was over, the Bards began to dance in a ring around the fire. Behind them, the Dewin formed another ring, dancing in the opposite direction.

  Some Bards began to tell the first stories in the great storytelling contest that would go on all night. “This story is a true story, and I had it from Dyved who had it from Cenred. Whoever doesn’t believe me had better go from this company than hear the story unbelieving. There was once an old man who lived all alone on Mynydd Gwyr, the highest peak in Gwynedd. By night he was a mighty hawk …”

  Another began to recite one of Taliesin’s songs:

  “I have been a speckled snake on a hill,

  I have been a viper in the Llyn.

  I have been a bill-hook crooked that cuts,

  I have been a ferocious spear.”

  Rhiannon noticed that Cariadas was saying something earnestly to Gwydion, but she could not hear what in all the noise.

  Rhiannon turned to Dudod, who had started off for the ale barrel, already humming. “Oh, no,” she said, playfully grabbing his arm. “Time for our meeting, Uncle.”

  “Just give me a few minutes,” Dudod protested. “I want to have a little fun.”

  “No time for that. Remember, Gwydion said we must slip away right after the ceremony to meet with Anieron.”

  “Gwydion never lets anyone have fun,” Dudod grumbled. “What would it hurt him to at least dance and sing a little? But, no, it’s get right to work.”

  Rhiannon opened her mouth to reply, but the light pressure of someone’s hand on her arm made her turn around. Gwydion bowed. His gray eyes were alight with some emotion she could not identify.

  “Dance with me,” he said. Without even giving her a chance to reply, he grabbed her hand and led her into the ring.

  SOME HOURS LATER, Rhiannon followed Gwydion down the tunnel to Anieron’s chambers. Dudod had gone on ahead an hour or so before. But Gwydion had refused to leave the celebration, insisting on dance after dance with her. Rhiannon had noticed that Cariadas had been watching them, a self-satisfied grin on her impish face.

  “Did you and Cariadas have some kind of bet?” she asked curiously as they neared Anieron’s chambers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since when do you like to dance?”

  “How would you know if I like to dance or not? We’ve never celebrated a festival with a group of other people before.”

  “Well, I …” she floundered.

  “We’re here. Try to restrain your curiosity for just a little while, will you? We have more important things to discuss,” he said coolly.

  He lifted the curtain that hung across Anieron’s chamber and went in, dropping it behind him. Rhiannon yanked it up again and entered, muttering under her breath.

  Anieron and Dudod looked up from the map spread across the rough floor. Both men sat cross-legged on cushions, tankards of ale by their elbows. Dudod cradled a harp in his arms and was idly strumming it.

  “What did you say, my dear?” Dudod asked.

  “Nothing,” Rhiannon answered sourly.

  Gwydion shot an amused glance, then turned to Dudod. “Rhiannon says you know the words to an old tune. You must write them down for us. It is the tune that holds the key to the Treasures.”

  “What tune?” Dudod asked.

  “It’s called the Song of the Caers.”

  “Oh, that one.” Dudod shrugged. “All right.” He reached for the quill and parchment Anieron handed to him. He stared down at the paper, quill in hand, unmoving.

  “Dudod?” Anieron asked in concern. “What’s wrong? Don’t you know it?”

  “Yes,” Dudod snapped. “I know it. Just give me a minute, will you?”

  Rhiannon looked at Dudod in surprise. Anieron’s brow raised, but he said nothing. Gwydion tapped his foot impatiently. And Dudod brought the quill to the parchment, but again wrote nothing.

  “I can’t,” Dudod said at last, laying down the quill. There was no anger in his voice, only bewilderment.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Rhiannon asked, puzzled.

  “I mean that I can’t. It won’t let me write it down.”

  “Well,” Gwydion said dryly after a moment of silence, “at least we know we have the right song.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Dudod complained.

  “I do,” Gwydion said quietly. “It was something Bran the Dreamer said to me when I Time-Walked. He said that he had to protect the song and keep it from being written down. Tell me, where did you learn that song?”

  “Why, I got it from my da, Cyvarnion, who got it from his mam, Feldelma, the ninth Master Bard.”

  “Who got it from …?”

  “Who got it from Beli, who got it from Selyf, who got it from Merfryn—”

  “The son of Mannawyddan, the fifth Ardewin,” Gwydion finished. “And one of Taliesin’s dearest friends. One of the Great Ones of Lleu Lawrient.”

  “But why did da teach the song to you and not to me?” Anieron asked.

  Dudod grinned. “He always liked me best.”

  “Ha, ha,” Anieron said flatly.

  “Sing the song, Dudod,” Gwydion said quietly.

  Dudod, with a last wicked grin for his brother, began to play and sing. The haunting melody, written in a minor key, twisted and danced around the tiny chamber.

  “I will praise the Brenin, the heir of Idris,

  Who will extend his dominion over the shores of the world.

  “Complete was the prison of the Queen in Caer…Dwyr.

  Under the gravestone

  In the land of glass

  The serpent líes coiled.

  Beneath the water lies the seeker,

  Pearls and silver glimmering, shimmering.

  The Great Queen went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Dwyr.

  “Fast was the trap of the woman in Caer Erias.

  Within the dark forest

  In the land of honey

  The hill of oak stands.

  Within the storm lies the blaze

  Opals and gold gleaming.

  The Knowledgable One went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Erias.

  “Sorrowful was the exile of the King from Caer Tir.

  Down the cavern’s twilight road

  In the land of wine

  The maze of blood awaits.

  Within the center líes the circle

  A ridge about its edge and emeralds.

  The White One went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Tir.

  “Many were the girl’s tears for the dead of Caer Çwynt.

  Down the dark path

  In the land of mountains

  The black stone looms.

  Beneath the seeker lies the guardian

  Sapphire of sky and silver of storm.

  The Great Bear went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Gwynt.

  “I will praise the Brenin, the heir of Idris,

  Who will extend his dominion over the shores of the world.

  “The enemy congregates like dogs in a kennel,

  From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge.

  They know not the course of the wind, or the water of the sea.

  They know not the spark of the fire, or the fruitfulness of the earth.

  I will beg the Brenin, the High One,

  That I be not wretched, a prisoner in my own land.”

  “Well,” Gwydion said when Dudod fell silent. “That seems clear enough.”

  “Oh, right,” Rhiannon said, her voice sharp with sarcasm. “No problem at all. It’s a wonder that the Treasures haven’t been found before this.”

  “Now, now, don’t be impatient,” he went on, his tone maddeningly calm.
“If we take it bit by bit, I think we will find that it contains all the clues we need. Now, Dudod, chant the first stanza again, please.”

  “Complete was the prison of the Queen in Caer Dwyr.

  Under the gravestone

  In the land of glass

  The serpent lies coiled.

  Beneath the water lies the seeker,

  Pearls and silver glimmering, shimmering.

  The Great Queen went into it;

  Except four, none returned from Caer Dwyr.”

  “It’s about Ederynion, isn’t it?” Anieron asked. “Caer Dwyr is the Queen’s fortress in Dinmael. And Queen Elen is certainly imprisoned by the enemy.”

  “Yes,” Gwydion said. “And the ‘land of glass’ clinches it—the glass blowers of Ederynion are masters of that craft. And Ederynion belongs to Nantsovelta of the Waters. And she is the goddess of the Stone. So, it tells us where and how to find the Stone—Gwyr Yr Brenin—which means ‘Seeker of the King.’“

  “‘Beneath the water lies the seeker,’“ Rhiannon said suddenly. “The Stone is in a lake? But what lake?”

  “That will doubtless become clearer to us later. The ‘Great Queen’ who must retrieve the Stone is you, Rhiannon,” Gwydion said sketching a bow. “Rhi—meaning ‘great,’ and Annon—Queen.”

  “But how do I find it?” Rhiannon asked. Now was not the time to mention how she felt about water, how much she feared and loathed it.

  “One other thing I learned when I Walked-Between-the-Worlds. As the legend says, the Great Ones took the jewels from Lleu’s torque and made rings of them. They gave each ring to the ruling houses of Kymru. This is what the Protectors meant when they said to let the rings be our guide. The ring given to the House of PenAlarch was a pearl. We must retrieve that ring. What the legend does not say is that the ring itself will guide you. When you put it on your finger, you will know which direction to go.”

  “Just one little problem with that, Gwydion. Elen has the ring. And she is a prisoner of the Coranians. Exactly how will I get ahold of it?” she asked tartly.

  “We’ll think of something. Do you think we have come so far, you and I, to be turned back by a little problem like that? Now, Dudod, the next verse, please.”

  “Fast was the trap of the woman in laer Erias.