Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  The young man glanced at Gwydion. At the Dreamer’s nod, he answered, “I am Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, Prince of Gwynedd.”

  Rhoram’s eyes widened. The boy thought to have died all those years ago had not. Rhoram’s quick mind pieced together why. “Then you are even more welcome, High King,” Rhoram said quietly, sinking to his knees.

  Arthur gestured frantically for Rhoram to get up, but Rhoram stayed where he was. The other Cerddorian, seeing that Rhoram was kneeling, sank to their knees also, though they did not know why.

  “Who are you that my father bows to you?” Geriant asked as he came near.

  “This is Arthur ap Uthyr,” Gwydion replied, his voice carrying over the valley. “Your High King.”

  Instantly Geriant and Sanon were on their knees. Rhiannon walked over to Arthur and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

  “If you don’t wish them to bow to you, Arthur,” she said gently, “tell them to stand up.”

  “Please,” Arthur said hoarsely. “Stand up.”

  “See how easy that was?” Rhoram teased as they rose to their feet. “Practice. Practice, boyo, is the key to success.”

  Arthur smiled tentatively.

  “Where did you travel from?” Sanon asked.

  “We came from Coed Coch, leaving there ten days ago,” Gwen replied.

  “Oh.” Sanon said nothing for a moment. Then she went on, her voice hesitant. “Were they all well there?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said, obviously mystified at the question.

  “Everyone? Even—even Owein?”

  Gwen’s brows shot up in surprise. “Um, yes. Even Owein.”

  It was Gwydion who stepped into the momentary silence, taking pity, apparently, on Sanon’s bright red face. “Gwenhwyfar,” he said sternly. “I believe you have something to ask your da.”

  Gwen jumped slightly at Gwydion’s tone, then she, too, reddened, clearly telling Rhoram that his daughter had a crush on the Dreamer … Oh, well, he thought, she’ll grow out of it. Young girls fell in and out of love all the time. He wondered how Rhiannon felt about the situation. Her face was impassive, but he thought there was a hint of exasperation in her eyes. What a time these four must be having, he thought, and struggled not to laugh.

  “Behold, King Rhoram, one of the House of PenBlaid comes to you with a request, as was foretold by Bran the Dreamer,” Gwydion intoned.

  “Da, I need—” Gwen stopped. She was silent for a moment, her head cocked as though she heard something that others could not. Then she continued, her words steady and sure. “In the name of the High King to come, surrender your ring to me.”

  The words. The exact words foretold so many years ago. Without hesitation he pulled the ring from his finger and laid it in Gwen’s open palm. Gently he closed her fingers over the ring.

  “My daughter has spoken the words foretold. The ring of the House of PenBlaid is now hers to do with as she will.”

  Slowly, Gwen uncurled her fingers, looking down at the ring.

  “Put it on,” Gwydion said quietly.

  Gwen put the ring on her forefinger. Instantly the emerald began to glow. “West,” she said.

  “We must go,” Gwydion said, shouldering his bundle.

  “What?” Rhiannon exclaimed. “We just got here. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Uncle Gwydion,” Arthur jumped in. “One night here isn’t going to hurt us.”

  “I want to spend some time with my family,” Gwen said, a mulish look around her mouth.

  Again, Rhoram struggled not to laugh. Surely Gwydion was the most foolish man alive. Did he think that if they spent the night, Rhiannon would come to Rhoram’s bed? “Dreamer,” he said solemnly, “you must stay. Tonight is Calan Olau. You must celebrate with us. We have no Druid, and so the Dreamer must help us honor Mabon of the Sun. What better homage for you to give the one whose Treasure you carry?”

  “You are clever, Rhoram ap Rhydderch,” Gwydion said. “Yes, we have the Spear. And we have the Stone.” Gwydion took off his gloves and showed Rhoram the red, angry flesh of his hands. “This is what the Spear did to me. I have been burned by Mabon’s Fire. And you are right, for that gift it is only right to honor him. And I will honor him for another reason. Because Rhiannon ur Hefeydd was gravely wounded protecting me, but she did not die. And that is a greater gift than the Spear itself.”

  Rhiannon’s shocked face told its own tale. Never had Rhoram seen two such foolish people. But it would come out right. He hoped.

  Before anyone could say a word, one of Rhoram’s Dewin came running up to him. The woman panted out her message without preamble. “Word from Aidan and Cadell. They were almost captured in Arberth, but they got away.”

  “Thank the gods,” Rhoram breathed.

  “They are free now only because of Ellywen ur Saidi.”

  Achren’s face went white as she put a hand on the Dewin’s arm, whipping the woman around to face her. “Ellywen the Druid?” she demanded.

  The woman nodded. “Please, Achren, you’re hurting me.”

  Achren slowly released the woman’s arm. “You are sure of this message?”

  “I am sure. Cadell himself passed it on. They escaped from Arberth three days ago and are making their way here.”

  Achren shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Ellywen of all people. After what she did to capture Cian, she lets Aidan and Cadell go? There must be a trick in it somewhere. Are they sure they are not being followed?”

  “Aidan is sure. He said to tell you this specifically.”

  “Aidan would know,” Rhoram said thoughtfully. “Then we must believe them. It is lucky, after all, that you did not kill her those months ago, Achren.”

  “I did not kill her because it seemed the worst thing I could do to her,” Achren replied shortly. “It was not mercy.”

  “Cadell said she spoke of Anieron’s death,” the woman said, her eyes filling with tears. “And that Ellywen said she would spend the rest of her life in penance for that.”

  “Then it will be the only valuable thing she has ever done,” Achren said shortly. “My King, I reserve the right to kill Ellywen should she be lying.”

  “Done, Achren.”

  THE STARS GLITTERED coldly overhead as Gwydion stepped up to the stone altar. He wore a robe of black, and the Dreamer’s torque of fiery opals gleamed around his neck.

  The grove of hazel trees was small, barely enabling Rhoram’s Cerddorian to gather there. The greenish tree trunks twisted around each other in clumps, and the dark green leaves were still in the calm night.

  Eight unlit torches were placed around the rough-hewn stone altar. A small bowl on the surface of the stone held wild grain, and next to it lay a loaf of bread. In the center of the grove, rowan wood was piled high in a circle.

  Arthur stood next to Rhiannon. He had been uneasy since this afternoon when they had all bowed to him. That was something he thought he would never get used to. When he had declared he would avenge the Master Bard, he had not thought of all that his declaration had meant.

  He had sworn to see it done, in the name of the High King. And he had named himself as that man. And now, though his thirst for vengeance had not cooled, his instincts to run had once again returned. It had not been that long ago when he had understood that to refuse his task meant punishment for Gwydion. And he had so wanted Gwydion to suffer, as a way to pay back his uncle for Arthur’s own suffering.

  Because of Gwydion, he had been taken from his mother and father when just a little boy. He could not even clearly remember his mother’s face, retaining only a blurred image of beauty, of dark eyes and auburn hair. Once, and once only, his father had visited him. They had only spent a few hours together, but the bond between them had been strong. And then, soon after, his father had died, and Arthur had grieved for so very long, was still grieving for that loss. Da, he thought, oh Da, I can’t do what they ask of me.

  As though she understood his thoughts, Rhiannon, who stood on his right, put her arm acros
s his shoulders and whispered to him. “Never mind all that now, Arthur. Tonight we honor Mabon of the Sun.”

  King Rhoram, who stood on Rhiannon’s other side, gave Arthur a searching look, then smiled. “It’s not so terrible, lad. The hardest part is picking the right people to do your job for you.”

  Gwen, who stood on Rhoram’s other side with Geriant and Sanon close by, shushed them. Achren, who stood behind these three, her dark eyes alert for any sign of danger, grinned at Gwen’s insistence that they all give Gwydion the kind of attention Gwen gave him. Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s counselor, coughed to hide his laughter.

  “This is the Wheel of the Year before us,” Gwydion began. “One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.” As he named each festival, he gestured, and, one by one, the torches burst into flames. “Alban Elved, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Eiler, Calan Llachar, Alban Heruin, and Calan Olau, which we celebrate tonight.”

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

  Gwydion continued, “Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to honor the bringer of the harvest. Taran, King of the Winds. Modron, Great Mother of All. 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.”

  “We honor the Shining Ones,” the folk in the grove said in unison.

  Then Gwen spoke the ritual question. “Why do we gather here?”

  “We gather to honor Mabon,” Gwydion replied. “For behold, he has gone to the depths of Gwlad Yr Haf and returns with the harvest in his hands. In the long night of the year—”

  The Cerddorian replied, “All the land was bare and cold.”

  “In the dawn of the year,” Gwydion continued.

  “Buds burst on the trees, shoots sprouted from the ground.”

  “In the noon of the year,” he intoned.

  “Flowers bloomed, grain grew, the land was fruitful.”

  “Now is the time of harvest,” Gwydion continued. “Ripened fruit falls into our hands. The golden wheat falls beneath the scythe. For Mabon has returned victorious. Behold, the grain Mabon has given.” Gwydion picked up the bowl and threw the grains into the pile of rowan wood. As he did so, the wood burst into flames. And, within the flames, they saw fantastic shapes. Fiery horses galloped across bright fields. Honey dripped from golden honeycomb. Warriors brandished burnished spears in triumph. Flowers blossomed from fiery buds into flame-colored roses.

  Arthur saw Gwydion look at Rhiannon out of the corner of his eye. Rhiannon smiled at the Dreamer. Arthur was shocked to see Gwydion smile in return.

  Gwydion then picked up the loaf on the altar, gesturing for some of the warriors to begin passing baskets of broken loaves among the crowd. When everyone had a piece, he held up the loaf, saying, “The light of Mabon, King of Fire, shines on us at night. The light of Mabon, Lord of the Sun, shines on us by day. From him comes our bread.”

  “All hail Mabon!” the people cried as they began to eat the bread. Then they sang the celebration song.

  “Greetings to you, sun of the season,

  As you travel the skies on high,

  With your strong steps on the wing of the heights,

  Victorious hero, bringer of harvest.

  Sweet acorns cover the woods,

  The hard ground is covered with heavy fruit.

  Grain has ripenedgolden.

  Greetings to MMabon, bringer of harvest.”

  Within the grove people began to dance. Gwen ignored Arthur and made directly for Gwydion. But Arthur saw his uncle hold out his gloved hands and excuse himself from dancing. Rhoram gestured for Rhiannon to join him in the circle and she did so.

  Arthur stepped to the fringes of the grove. He did not know how to dance very well and hoped he would not be asked. Gwydion made his way to him. Without preamble the Dreamer said quietly, “I had a dream of you, the day before you were born.”

  “I am not interested in your dreams, uncle,” Arthur sneered. He did not think he wanted to hear what Gwydion had to say.

  “I was in a forest,” Gwydion went on, as though Arthur had not spoken. “I heard the sounds of the Wild Hunt. And the young eagle they were chasing came to take refuge on my shoulder. I promised the eagle I would save him. When the Hunt found us, Cerrunnos and Cerridwen demanded that I give the eagle to them. But I said no, he wanted to be free.”

  “Then what?” Arthur asked in spite of himself, as Gwydion paused.

  “Cerridwen said that all men wish to be free, but that in this world it cannot be. And I recognized the truth of that. I, myself, was not free. And never have been.”

  Gwydion paused. “Then I asked them, will the eagle be happy in the chains they brought for him? And they said it was not for him to be happy. It was for him to be who he was born to be … They said that the only way to save Kymru was to give the eagle to them.”

  “And you did,” Arthur said flatly.

  “I did,” Gwydion agreed, turning his silvery gaze onto his nephew. “And they said that I must protect you from the traitors in our midst. They said that they would see to it that, when the time came, the eagle would lead Kymru to take back its own. Then they said one last thing. They said that no man can keep another from the pain of his destiny. No man can keep another from his truth.”

  Gwydion took a deep breath and said the words Arthur thought he would never hear. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what you did?”

  “No. For what must be.”

  Chapter 20

  Maen and Ogaf Greu

  Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru

  Gwinwydden Mis, 499

  Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—afternoon

  Eight days out of Haford Bryn, in the city of Maen, Gwen’s nerve broke.

  She knew with every fiber in her shaking body that she could not do this thing they asked of her. She could not go into Ogaf Greu, to the caves where she had stayed with her father’s people. She could not go back. She could not go beneath the earth. Not again.

  And Ogaf Greu is where they said she must go. It was in the song, they said:

  Down the cavern’s twilight road

  In the [and of wine.

  The maze of blood awaits.

  In Ogaf Greu—the caves of blood—had long been rumored a path, Cyfnos Heol, the Twilight Road. It was said that those who took that path beneath the earth never returned to the light of day.

  It did not matter how often she reminded herself that there had been no one within memory who had found that path. No one she had ever known had disappeared in Ogaf Greu during those days she and her father’s Cerddorian had lived there. It did not matter that the path itself was unknown, only rumor of it was whispered. Because she knew it did exist. And she knew that she was expected to find and take that road. And she knew that she could not do it.

  She could not. For, if she did, she would never return.

  The others could say what they liked—that the Song of the Caers spoke of the White One who took the Twilight Road. And they could point out that her name, Gwenhwyfar, meant White One. They could say that she had been named by the Wild Hunt as the one to take Cyfnos Heol. They could say that none but she could retrieve Modron’s Cauldron from the depths of the earth and take it up into the bright world.

  They could say all these things, but it made no difference. Because she could not do it. She could not.

  “DONE, THEN,” GWYDION said to the man in the stall. “Two pots to you for the bread, the cheese, and the ale. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “And with you, boyo,” the older man said with a grin. “Always a pleasure to help a fellow countryman.”

  At Gwydion’s signal, Arthur unloaded the pots from his pack and handed them over to the man.

  “Have much trouble with the local so
ldiers?” Gwydion asked casually.

  “Oh, there are checkpoints whichever way you take to leave town. On market days, like today, they make everyone go through the same checkpoint and they are extra careful. Though what they think they will find here in Maen, I don’t know,” the man replied. “It’s usually pretty quiet here.”

  “Is it?” Gwydion asked, his brows raised. “That’s not what I have heard.”

  “Well,” the merchant said with a smile, “by Kymric standards it is pretty quiet. Of course, sometimes things do happen to the Coranians here.”

  “A shame, that,” Gwydion said with a grin.

  “So it is,” the man agreed, handing Arthur the supplies. “Take good care, though, at the checkpoint today. Seems one of those wyrce-jaga is here. And things seem to get out of hand when they are around.”

  “Thanks for the information, friend,” Gwydion said, his face serious. “And we will be careful. Come, boyo, let’s be on our way.”

  Arthur, his hands full, hurried to catch up to Gwydion. “What’s so awful about a wyrce-jaga being here?” he asked, taking in Gwydion’s frown.

  “Don’t ask foolish questions, boy,” Gwydion replied in a distracted tone as they neared the center of the marketplace. A wyrce-jaga here in Maen! That was all they needed, he thought. Things were going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

  “At last!” Rhiannon called out in a shrewish tone as she saw them coming. She folded her arms and scowled. “I thought you’d never be done fussing over your trading. Every place we stop you absolutely have to take forever. Once a merchant, always a merchant. I remember my da used to say that you were so cheap—”

  “It’s important to get the best deal possible, I always say,” Gwydion replied absently, his thoughts still focused on the wyrce-jaga. He laid a hand on Rhiannon’s arm and said, in a low tone, “There is a wyrce-jaga here, at the checkpoint.”

  Rhiannon sucked in her breath sharply.

  “But what makes you think we couldn’t pass right through?” Arthur asked again. “We look all right. We act right. Just a merchant family down on their luck. This wyrce-jaga has no way of telling that we are anything other than that.”