by Holly Taylor
Gwydion himself, his gray eyes demanding their attention, dressed in a tunic and trousers of black leather, the bedroll on his back containing the Spear of Fire, said sternly, “Remember, we are a poor family down on our luck, and we—”
“—are not to draw any attention to ourselves,” Arthur said in a bored tone, completing Gwydion’s customary sentence.
“Correct,” Gwydion said sternly. “You must remember—”
“—that our descriptions are circulating through all of Kymru,” Gwen finished.
“There may be wyrce-jaga here—” Gwydion went on. “—as well as soldiers. Be careful. Do your business quietly,” Arthur interjected, with a solemn wink at Gwen.
“And keep your hands on your packs at all times. That is most important,” Gwen said. “We did not go through all this to get the Treasures to lose them now.” She grinned impudently at Arthur as she continued reciting Gwydion’s customary speech. Arthur grinned back. Rhiannon smothered her smile by turning it into a cough.
Gwydion frowned, but for a moment, she thought she saw a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “It is especially dangerous,” he said coldly, “now that Arianrod has reached Eiodel. She has surely told them that we carry all the Treasures and she will have guessed that we are making our way toward Cadair Idris.”
“So,” Gwen interjected, finishing Gwydion’s usual warning, “you must be very careful.”
Gwydion did not answer, but turned on his heel and stalked through the gate, making for the marketplace in the middle of town. Gwen followed and Arthur came next, with Rhiannon behind them. Rhiannon’s low laughter floated through the late-morning air. In spite of the stiffness in his stride, Gwen was sure that if she could see Gwydion’s face, he would be smiling.
At the marketplace they made their purchases of foodstuffs without incident. As always, Gwen was puzzled by the behavior of the townsfolk. There was no way they could possibly know who the four travelers were who had entered their town. Yet, as the folk of Kymru always did, they somehow seemed to know that Gwen and her companions were on a matter of urgency. Customers ahead of them at the booths seemed to melt out of the way as they approached. But they were always surrounded by the people, and kept from the prying eyes of Havgan’s solders who were stationed throughout the square.
Everything went smoothly until they began to leave the marketplace. And then it all seemed to fall apart at once as a group of soldiers blocked their way.
“Hold there,” the soldiers barked. “Hold for the preosts of Lytir!”
Gwydion stopped in his tracks and motioned for the others to do the same as two preosts made their way across the road, dressed in robes of bright yellow, and the wooden amulets of Lytir hanging around their necks on chains of gold. The two men were solemn and haughty, their plump hands tucked inside their flowing sleeves, their faces set in determined piety.
The preosts had almost passed them when Gwen saw Gwydion’s shoulders stiffen slightly. She glanced around to see what had alarmed him, and met the eyes of the Captain of the guard. The man’s blue eyes were narrowed in suspicion, as he looked at the four of them as if ticking off in his brain the descriptions he had surely received—descriptions of them all, from Arianrod herself.
She watched in dismay as the Captain’s suspicions reached a certainty. The man opened his mouth, and then her view of the Captain was cut off, replaced by the sight of a dozen burly backs belonging to the men of Degannwy.
“Ho, preost!” one of the older men shouted good-naturedly. “Tell me, boyo, why does your god seem to hate for you to work?”
The crowd laughed as more and more people began to edge in front of Gwen and the others, pushing them back to the rear.
“Holy Lytir,” one of the preosts began, his voice haughty, “does not disdain work. It is for the thralls to work the earth, for the Lords to work the thralls, and for our mighty King to work the Lords. But the preosts of Lytir do the most glorious work of all—to praise the name of God.”
“Hard work, indeed, preost,” one of the other men called out.
“Very hard!” a woman shouted. “Hard to praise your god when your mouth is full of our food!”
The crowd murmured agreement, and, as one, took another few steps toward the preosts. The Captain, still searching the crowd for the four people he thought he had seen and recognized, made no sign to his soldiers. The preosts began to look frightened, but continued to stand their ground.
“It is written, people of Degannwy,” the second preost announced, “that ‘great is the fear of Lytir; the earth trembles before him.”
“Someone trembles now,” another townsman said with a grin, “but I don’t think it is Lytir. Tell me, preost, is it true that your god welcomes martyrs?”
“Captain!” the first preost barked. “Are you going to let these folk threaten us?”
For a moment, it looked as though the Captain would do just that. His eyes scanned the crowd, and he was clearly considering abandoning the preosts to go after Gwen and her companions.
“Of course, he is,” a woman called out. “Why risk his neck for the likes of you?”
At this the Captain gave the crowd a startled look, as though seeing them for the first time. So busy had he been trying to look through them, that he had not really noticed them. In that moment he realized that practically the entire population of Degannwy was staring at him, surrounding him and the preosts, bent on doing more, perhaps, than distracting him. The Captain decided to deal with the more obvious threat. “Stand back!” he barked. “Stand back and let the preosts through to their duties.”
The townsfolk stared sullenly at the Captain and the preosts, and for a moment all was still. Then Gwen and her companions were at the fringes of the back of the crowd, just moments from the gate. One man murmured to them quietly, “Go now. We will take care of this.”
Gwydion grasped the man’s forearm in gratitude. “How can we repay you?”
“Remember the people of Degannwy when Kymru is free again. Now, go.”
As they made their way through the gate, Gwydion grasped Rhiannon’s arm to pull her along. “Go see what’s happening,” he hissed.
Rhiannon’s eyes took on a glazed look as Gwydion hurried her along while she Wind-Rode back to the center of town. Just as they reached the trees a quarter of a league outside the gates, Rhiannon halted. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment as she shook her head as though to clear it.
“The crowd backed off,” she said with a tiny smile. “But the preosts are still a little pale. The Captain has begun searching the town.”
“But won’t, as we know, find anything,” Gwydion said.
“How did they know who we were?” Gwen asked. “The townspeople, I mean?”
“They didn’t, Gwen,” Rhiannon said absently as she settled her pack more firmly on her back.
“Then why?”
“The Kymri guard their own,” Arthur said, his dark eyes quiet. “They always have.”
Suldydd, Cynuddu Wythnos—late afternoon
RHIANNON WALKED THROUGH the woods of Coed Aderyn silently. There, she remembered, was the spot where she had snared the rabbit on Calan Morynion, the year that Gwydion had come to her. And there was the place where she had killed her first deer, and skinned it. It had taken her many hours to do that, for, when she first came to these woods, she was inexperienced. But she had learned. She had learned to live here, to feed herself and her child, to exist in a sort of shadow-life, cut off from the world.
And there, in front of her at last, was the clearing she had first noted when just a little girl. And there was the pond, fed by the waterfall that played over the rocks. And behind the waterfall, she knew, was the cave. Her cave. The place she had come to so many years ago to nurse her child and her wounds.
She stopped by the pool, staring down into it, seeing her wavering reflection. Without a word to the others, she set down her pack and loosened her hair from its braid. The others—Gwydion, Arthur, and Gwen—did not speak.
She ran her fingers through her now-loosened hair, then knelt down beside the pond. Though the day was somewhat cool, she rolled up the sleeves of her linen shirt, and plunged her hands into the cold water.
She murmured the prayer to Nantsovelta beneath her breath,
“O vessel bearing the light,
O great brightness
Outshining the sun,
Draw me ashore,
Under your protection,
From the shortlived ship of the world.”
How glorious it was, she thought, to fear water no more. How wonderful to like to plunge her hands into the coolness, to want to dive in and discover the depths and the mysteries that lay there. How magnificent it was to know this freedom from fear. And how sad it was to think of the years wasted. But she would not be sad. Not today.
She rose from the pond and faced the others. And she smiled, as she had not smiled in some time. “Home,” she said, drinking in the forest, the water, the warm sunlight that dappled the clearing, and the quickening air.
“Yes,” Gwydion agreed, gravely, as he reached out and laid a light hand on her hair. “You are home.”
And for a moment she ached for him, for she knew that he was thinking of his own home, of Caer Dathyl, closed and shuttered, surrounded by Coranian soldiers. They had passed near Caer Dathyl on their way back to Mynydd Tawel after Arthur had retrieved the Sword of Taran and rescued them from the Coranian soldiers. And Arthur, whose hatred of Gwydion had been so intense for so long, had offered to go just a little way out of their path, so that Gwydion might look on his home. But Gwydion had refused, saying only that they did not have the time. Yet Rhiannon had seen the telltale beat of the pulse at his throat when he had said it. And she had known how much he had longed to return to Caer Dathyl.
So now she reached out and tentatively laid her hand on his arm. “You will return to your home, one day. I swear it.”
Unexpectedly, Gwydion smiled. “You will see to it, of course. I would back you against a contingent of Coranian soldiers any day.”
“As well you should,” she said, relieved that he had not seen fit to leap away from her touch. Maybe they could be friends. Even though he did not, had never, wanted her for a lover, they had been partners, working together for some years now for the freedom of Kymru. And if that partnership were all she had ever had from him, all she would ever have, well, her life then would be well spent. Better, she knew, than it would have been if he had never found her, if she had continued to hide away, fearing to be hurt again.
She caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned to face the waterfall.
“He’s here,” she said with a smile, and nodded at Arthur.
Arthur did not move at first as the old man stepped out from the cave behind the waterfall. It was only when the man stepped over the rocks and stood within the clearing, his arms spreads wide, that Arthur dropped his pack and ran into Myrrdin’s arms.
WHEN RHIANNON STEPPED inside the cave, the first thing she did was to sink to the ground in front of the hearth, holding her chilled hands out to the crackling fire. A pot of stew bubbled over the flames, as well as a smaller pot that steamed fragrantly. Chamomile tea, she thought as she went to the familiar cupboard and pulled out five clay mugs. Wrapping a rag around the handle of the pot, she poured the tea into the mugs and set them down in front of the others as they gathered around the rough, wooden table.
She noticed that Myrrdin’s trunk, the one carved for him by his father many, many years ago, sat against one wall. Fresh rushes covered the floor. The light of the fire played off the walls, which glittered with rock crystal. Rough, wooden shelves held books and a few pieces of crockery.
Myrrdin, his white beard clipped short, smiled. His dark eyes were kind as he gestured for her to sit on the bench next to him. “You are looking well, child,” he said gently.
“As are you, uncle,” she replied with a fond smile. “By the way, Neuad especially charged me to remember you to her when next I saw you.”
“Did she now?” Myrrdin said dryly. “I had hoped she would have forgotten me.”
“Not in the least,” Rhiannon said. “Why, when she spoke of you her whole face lit up.”
“Wonderful,” Myrrdin said sourly.
“Come, uncle, you don’t fool me. You are not as displeased as you let on.”
“You are wrong,” Myrrdin said, a little too sharply. “Why, the girl is less than half my age!”
“She is not a girl, Myrrdin,” Rhiannon pointed out. “She is a woman.”
“To me she will always be a girl.”
“We’ll see about that soon enough, won’t we?”
“What do you mean by that?” Arthur broke in. “Is Neuad coming here?”
“They are all coming here, Arthur,” Gwydion said. “And, much as I am enjoying this beautiful moment discussing Neuad and her foolishness, I think this is the time for Myrrdin to give us all the news.”
“Who do you mean? Who is coming here?” Arthur demanded fiercely.
Gwydion turned to Arthur and studied the young man for a few moments. At last, he said quietly, “I am sorry, Arthur, that I have not taken the time to discuss our next moves with you.”
Rhiannon was astonished. Never had she heard Gwydion apologize to Arthur for his high-handed way of doing things. It underlined to her, once again, how the power had shifted, since that night when Arthur had returned to Mynydd Tawel with the Sword of Taran in his hands.
“Apology accepted, uncle,” Arthur said firmly, but without rancor. “Now, tell me.”
“I have sent for the key leaders of the Cerddorian to join us here in Coed Aderyn. King Rhoram and his people from Haford Bryn in Prydyn; Prince Lludd and his folk from Coed Ddu in Ederynion; King Owein and the rest from Coed Coch; and your sister, Queen Morrigan, and the folk formerly in Mynydd Tawel. They are journeying here now, in small groups, and will begin to arrive in a few weeks.”
“Why?”
“We must get into Cadair Idris. To do that, we must bring the Treasures to the Doors and use them to gain entry. And to do that, we must distract Havgan and the Coranians. Havgan’s fortress of Eiodel is just a few steps away from Cadair Idris. Cadair Idris is always guarded.”
“And is even more so now,” Myrrdin said quietly. “The guard has been doubled in the last week.”
“Arianrod,” Rhiannon said bitterly.
“Yes,” Myrrdin said. “She came to Havgan’s fortress last week. And offered her help to him.”
“In return for what, exactly?” Arthur asked.
“For what she had always wanted—power,” Rhiannon said, studiously not looking at Gwydion.
“I refused her, you see,” Gwydion said quietly to Myrrdin, “at Mynydd Tawel. And she was determined not to be left behind there anymore.”
So, Gwydion had refused Arianrod after all. Rhiannon thought that very strange. A fact that Gwydion was apparently aware of, since he looked at her so pointedly.
“Yes,” Gwydion said, answering her unspoken question. “I did, indeed. I take it you did not think so?”
“I didn’t think about it at all,” Rhiannon lied airily. “Who you sleep with is your business.”
“So it is,” Gwydion agreed. “So it is.”
Llundydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening
DUDOD WALKED AWAY from the marketplace with a casual air. After many years of serving his now-dead brother, Anieron, Dudod was well schooled in the ways of deviousness. For he was not casual at all, now. He was fully aware that he was being followed.
The man who followed Dudod was, for the moment, unidentifiable. He wore a cloak with the hood well pushed down over his forehead, his features left in shadow. The man’s hands were those of an old man, but the man’s walk was vigorous. He had been following Dudod for the last hour as the Bard had made his way through the marketplace in the center of Brecon, one of the most important cities in the cantref of Ceredigion in Prydyn.
As Dudod had done for
his brother, now he did for his son, Elidyr, who was now the Master Bard of Kymru and faced with the backbreaking task of knitting together the broken network of Dewin and Bards that had spanned the country. The network had been broken almost beyond repair earlier this year, when the Coranians had raided Allt Llwyd. Many key men and women had been captured then. And much damage had resulted to internal communications.
It was this damage that Dudod had come to Brecon to repair. He had done his job well. Now all of Prydyn was once again functional, and Elidyr would again receive messages at his refuge with King Owein in Coed Coch.
As Dudod always did when he thought of the damage done, he thought of his dead brother, who had cut out his own tongue rather than betray secrets to the enemy. Anieron had died at the hands of the Arch-wyrce-jaga, Sledda, not many months ago. As he always did, Dudod swore to himself that he would exact revenge from that one-eyed night crow. He would see to it that Sledda suffered mightily before he died.
But now was not the time to brood over his future plans for vengeance. Brecon was his last stop, and, from here, he was to go to Coed Aderyn. It was to that forest, on the border between Prydyn and Gwytheryn, that the others were to make their way. It would be from there that the Cerddorian of Kymru would receive their orders to create the diversion necessary for the others to get into Cadair Idris. And Dudod would be there to see it all. He would kill this man who followed him as soon as he had the chance. And then he would leave Brecon as quickly as he could.
Casually, he made his way down one of the busy streets, whistling, stopping occasionally to make an infinitesimal correction to the folds of his cloak, to his boots, to the lacing of his tunic. He didn’t want to go too fast for his follower. And he did not. For every time he contrived to glance behind him, the man was there, not bothering to mask that he was following. Bad sign, that. A sign that Dudod must take this man out as soon as possible, for when those who followed did not mind being spotted, things were very bad, indeed.
Dudod turned down a narrow side street, still whistling. The man who followed him was just a few paces behind. Now was the time to act.