Night Birds' Reign

by Holly Taylor

  HE WAS A black raven with blood-red eyes. He surveyed the smoking battlefield below him. Bodies littered the landscape and he fluttered down to rest in the branches of a weeping willow tree, drawn here by the smell of death.

  He saw a woman with her victorious warriors behind her standing on the bank of the river that bounded the battlefield to the east. She stared at the rushing waters and wept soundlessly, tears streaming down her beautiful face, with a look of regret even in her victory.

  Unable to bear the grief on her face, he launched himself into the air with a cry and instantly found himself on the fringes of another battlefield beside a dark forest. He came to rest in the branches of a newly planted aspen tree that surrounded a freshly turned grave. Stones were piled to one side, waiting to be placed on top of the grave when it was filled. A league or so away a huge bonfire burned, fueled by the bodies of the dead warriors that had fallen in battle that day. He heard the harsh sound of a man weeping and the sound tore at his heart.

  Again he shot up into the air, unable to bear the sounds of grief. And again he found himself at the scene of yet another battle. Bodies littered the plain, their blood soaking into the rich earth. Patches of Druid’s Fire still burned blue and orange above the ground. Two men wept in each other’s arms as they surveyed the smoking battlefield.

  Their wracking sobs grated on Gwydion’s senses, and the smell of death clung to him. So, for the third time he flew, trying to get away from the stench of grief and sorrow.

  And again he was not successful. He found himself alighting on a yew tree that had been freshly planted over a newly dug barrow. This battlefield was the worst of all. There were dozens of fires set to consume the dead warriors’ bodies. The men in the victorious army wept without ceasing as they gathered the bodies and fed them to the flames. Smoke stained the sky above the battleground. A man, his tunic and trousers dirty and bloodied, his head bowed and his shoulders shaking with grief, knelt next to the fresh barrow, his hand resting lightly upon the newly turned earth. The man lifted his grief-stricken face and shouted his raw sorrow to the uncaring, smoky sky.

  Gwydion, laying before the pallet in the tiny hut in Dinas Emrys wept in his sleep, wept for the grief and sorrow he had seen in these places of death, wept until he could weep no more and the tears dried on his drawn, sleeping face. Wept for their sorrow—and for his own.

  Three days later word reached the man that Arthur of Gwynedd was dead. He would have liked to believe that for he had his suspicions about the boy from the start.

  Still, it could be true. And the fact that Myrrdin had announced an incurable illness and subsequently disappeared could also be true.

  But he could not be sure. So he would watch the Dreamer carefully. Watch him until the Dreamer thought he was no longer watched.

  And then the man would watch some more.

  Part 2

  The Dreamer

  Alas for one who gives love to another

  If it be not cherished;

  It is better for a person to be cast aside

  Unless he is loved as he loves.

  The Song of Fand

  Chapter Seven

  Caer Dathyl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Helygen Mis, 494

  Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late evening

  The fortress of Caer Dathyl brooded in solitary splendor at the summit of Mynydd Addien. Proud and silent, the keep rose up like a fist out of the snowy mountain itself. The light of the waning moon glittered over the snow-covered walls. A single, round tower arched out of the stone walls, like the head of an eagle when it sights its prey. This was the Awenyddion’s Tower, the tower where the Dreamers dreamed their dreams and suffered their nightmares.

  Gwydion sat by the hearth in his study on the second floor of the Tower, sipping wine out of a golden goblet studded with opals, staring into the flames of the crackling fire. The firelight played harshly off Gwydion’s handsome face, carving deep lines around his stern mouth and brow. His keen gray eyes glittered like ice, and the dark hair at his temples and within his closely cut beard was touched here and there with silver.

  The restless flames tossed light and shadow over the round chamber, illuminating portions of the room one moment, wrapping them in darkness the next. The room had no windows, for it was completely lined with row on row of bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by the study door, the stairway to the upper-level sleeping chamber, and the small fireplace. The round, low ceiling was hung with clusters of small, silvery globes representing all the constellations that glittered in the sky over Kymru. The door to the study was carved to represent the four phases of the moon, each outlined in glowing silver—Disglair for the full moon and Lleihau for the waning, Tywyllu for the dark of the moon and Cynyddu for the waxing.

  Large wooden chairs brooded silently at each end of the long table in the center of the room. The table was covered with books—some open, some stacked high, others hanging precariously near the edge where Gwydion had thrown them in exasperation after repeatedly failing to ascertain the whereabouts of Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings of Kymru.

  Again and again he would remind himself that, when the time was right, the Shining Ones would put the proper clues in his path. But this thought always failed to comfort him. He was tired of being a pawn in the hands of the gods who made him wait and wait and wait while he inured himself at Caer Dathyl, trusting no one, reading his books, living with his nightmares.

  He had read every book in this library—and every book in the three colleges—that pertained to Bran’s movements just after the murder of High King Lleu. By now Gwydion felt that he as an authority on Bran the Fifth Dreamer. But this brought him no closer to understanding exactly what Bran had done with the sword.

  Bran had found Lleu dying on the battlefield at the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. At that time Lleu still had Caladfwlch. Although it was known that Bran had spoken to the dying High King, it was not known what the two men said to each other. All anyone knew about the location of the sword was that it was no longer there by the time his murderers returned the next day to inter Lleu in Galor Carreg.

  When Bloudewedd, Lleu’s wife, and Gorwys, Bloudewedd’s lover had murdered Lleu and taken over Cadair Idris, they had also taken the other Great Ones prisoner. They put Arywen, the Archdruid, Taliesin, the Master Bard and Mannawyddan, the Ardewin into the cells located beneath the throne room. They had collared the three Great Ones with enaid-dals, and the necklaces had effectively cut off their ability to use their gifts to free themselves. Bloudewedd and Gorwys had thought themselves safe.

  But the next morning they had awakened to find that the Great Ones were gone. For Bran had freed them, fueling Gwydion’s suspicions that there was more than one way into Cadair Idris. Worse still for Bloudewedd and Gorwys, they discovered that the Four Treasures were missing also. These Four Treasures—the Spear of Fire, the Stone of Water, the Sword of Air, and the Cauldron of Earth—were the implements needed to make a new High King, and their loss was a blow to Gorwys.

  The four Great Ones each went to rouse the four kingdoms. Arywen went to Queen Siwan of Prydyn. The Queen was more than willing to march on Cadair Idris, for Gorwys was her husband, and Bloudewedd was her own sister. Taliesin went to Gwynedd and enlisted the aid of King Meilir. He, too, was eager to avenge Lleu, for his Queen was Lleu’s younger sister. Mannawyddan went to Ederynion and returned with King Llywelyn. And Bran went to Rheged where it was easy to convince King Peredur, Arywen’s longtime lover, to lend his aid. At the appointed time these Great Ones returned to Gwytheryn at the head of an army.

  Gorwys, knowing they could not win, nonetheless marched with his tiny following from Cadair Idris to meet them on the plains of Gwytheryn. After a battle that lasted mere moments, Gorwys was captured. Bloudewedd opened the Doors of Cadair Idris and flew to stand with her lover.

  The two were brought before the four Rulers, and the four Great Ones. There, Bran pronounced their doom. Bloudewedd was not to be allow
ed to die. Her spirit was to be infused in the Doors of Cadair Idris, thus allowing the previous spirit, that of Gilveathy the Traitor, to be released. Gorwys, too, was not to be allowed to go to the Land of Summer. Instead, Bran set his spirit to guard the shores of Kymru, charging him to rise and ride the length and breadth of Kymru to warn the Kymri should danger approach.

  King Llywelyn alone dared to protest such measures, saying that death was punishment enough without binding the spirit beyond death. But Bran answered quite gently that he had promised Lleu he would not kill the High King’s murderers. He had smiled softly when he said it, but even Llywelyn did not dare to question Bran’s decision further.

  The Rulers then asked Bran the location of the Treasures. Surely, they said, they could now be returned to Cadair Idris. But the four Great Ones shook their heads, saying only that the Treasures were safer where they were. And Bran proclaimed that the Doors to Cadair Idris were to remain closed and none would be allowed to enter there unless they came with the Four Treasures in their hands.

  The four Great Ones then took Lleu’s Torque that Gorwys had worn and removed the pearl, the sapphire, the emerald and the opal. They had the Master Smith make rings for each jewel and gave them to the Rulers as thanks for their support. The pearl went to King Llywelyn and the sapphire to King Meilir. The emerald was given to Queen Siwan and the opal to King Peredur.

  And in all that information there was not one clue to the location of the sword.

  Gwydion had even traced Bran’s later years, hoping to find something. Ten years afterward, Bran’s mistress Princess Regan of Ederynion and their son were involved in a plot to murder King Llywelyn. Bran was forced to sentence the two to their deaths. Taliesin, Arywen, and Mannawyddan all died before Bran. In every case Bran visited them on their deathbeds. He insisted on being left alone with each of them just moments before the end. When Bran died in Caer Dathyl his daughter, Dremas, at his insistence, was left alone with him just before he died. But what was said or done in those last few moments remained a mystery.

  Yes, Gwydion was an authority on Bran. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to get him any closer to the information he was seeking.

  Gwydion sighed as he sipped his wine. If only he wasn’t cut off from the ones he loved. If only he could see Uthyr, talk to Myrrdin, be with Amatheon, spend time with Cariadas, his loneliness would not be so hard to bear.

  But he could do none of those things. Not now.

  He had seen his older brother rarely in the last eight years since taking Arthur away. Ygraine, still so bitter, would never even acknowledge Gwydion’s presence in the few times he had journeyed to her court. Her cold, midnight eyes would look right through him, as though he was beneath her notice. She never even allowed him to speak to her daughter, Morrigan.

  Like her mother, Morrigan had dark eyes and auburn hair. Her tiny features were a pitch-perfect replica of Ygraine. But the warmth in her eyes, her ready smile—these things she had inherited from her father. In those times when Gwydion had allowed himself to go to Tegeingl, he had watched Morrigan watching him in fascination, torn between her father’s love for Gwydion and her mother’s hatred, contenting herself with an occasional shy smile when she thought her mother wasn’t looking.

  But it wasn’t Ygraine’s hatred that made Gwydion stay away from Tegeingl. It was Uthyr himself that stopped Gwydion. For when he looked in his brother’s eyes the complete absence of reproach broke Gwydion’s heart. It shamed him that his brother gave him so much, and he had given Uthyr nothing at all, except pain.

  Nor could he see Myrrdin although his uncle was only one day’s ride away. For Gwydion did not even dare to ride through Dinas Emrys, did not even dare to Wind-Speak to Myrrdin. He occasionally felt he was being watched. What the watcher—or watchers—hoped to gain was not clear. He could not be sure that they had completely believed the story of Arthur’s death. And, if not, he did not dare risk drawing their gaze to the one place he most wanted them to avoid.

  He rarely saw his younger brother now, for Amatheon was still with Hetwin Silver-Brow in Rheged. Occasionally Amatheon would get leaves from his duties to visit Caer Dathyl. But those times were few and far between.

  On six occasions in the past eight years, the Archdruid, Cathbad had visited Gwydion and made the tedious journey to Caer Dathyl. Gwydion was grateful for the visits and always sincerely welcomed Cathbad. When Gwydion was a boy, Cathbad had been the Druid at the court of Gwynedd and he had always been kind to Gwydion when they had met at Caer Gwynt. Cathbad was good company—wise and serene, as well as always ready with a good story or two to wile away the hours.

  Though Gwydion did not truly believe Cathbad had ulterior motives for his visits his innate caution always came to the fore. He was very careful never to mention his nightmares, never to breathe a word of the true state of affairs, never to so much as hint that a High King had been born to Kymru.

  He was less sure about Anieron’s motive. The Master Bard was always appallingly well informed and he, too, would occasionally come to Caer Dathyl. Although Anieron had never even bothered to hint that he had questions, Gwydion sometimes worried that Anieron did not ask him anything because the Master Bard already knew everything there was to know.

  He frowned, staring into the fire. The flames reminded him of the red-gold hair of his daughter, Cariadas. He missed her so much. She had been tested four years ago and he had seen what he had expected—that Cariadas would be the next Dreamer of Kymru. She was nine years old now, and studying clairvoyance at Y Ty Dewin. She would remain there for the next two years and after that she would be sent to the Bards to learn telepathy, then to the Druids to learn psychokinesis. Then she would return to Caer Dathyl and learn precognition from Gwydion himself.

  Maybe her dreams would be better than his had been. He hoped they would be, for her sake.

  But now he must find a way to keep his promise and allow Uthyr to see his son again. Although he knew he was still being watched, he had thought of a way he could elude these potential spies, and still keep his promise.

  He frowned, thinking of how best to get a message to Uthyr. He dared not relay a telepathic message, however innocuous, for it would have to filter through to Susanna, Uthyr’s Bard. Though Susanna had been one of the people that had helped him to spirit Arthur away, he did not completely trust her. First, she was a Bard and he did not trust Anieron. Second, she was a woman. And there was no telling what a woman might do. Women were so unreasonable. He should know—he lived with Dinaswyn and Arianrod, two of the most unreasonable women in Kymru.

  His aunt, Dinaswyn, had never gotten over being supplanted. It wasn’t his fault that he had become Dreamer so early in his life, leaving her feeling displaced and useless. He had done all he could to lessen the sting but she was not the Dreamer any more, and he could not pretend that she was. He had no idea why the Shining Ones had chosen to send the dreams to him, but he was hardly in a position to argue with them. It was just like a woman, he thought sourly, to blame something on a man that wasn’t his fault.

  Arianrod, his cousin and sometime lover, was a far worse problem. She still lived at Caer Dathyl at Dinaswyn’s insistence, although often she would travel to other courts, seeking new men, seeking diversion, seeking things that she was not perhaps even aware she was looking for. But she always returned to Caer Dathyl, and to Gwydion’s bed.

  And that was the problem.

  He always told himself that when she returned he would end it. But when he saw her again he always succumbed to the temptation to take refuge from his pain and loneliness, in her glorious body. He knew that it was wrong, because he did not love her. He could not, he thought, truly love any woman. For to do so he would have to trust them first and that was impossible. He knew that he was using Arianrod, and the knowledge made him wince inwardly, ashamed.

  Yet she, too, played a part in the wrong. She knew that he did not love her. And he did not think she had ever loved him. He often wondered why it was then that sh
e would not just let him go.

  Arianrod had returned to Caer Dathyl just a few days ago. So far, Gwydion had been able to avoid her—no mean feat in a fortress this size. But this would not last. She was sure to try to force a confrontation. And this time his mind was made up.

  He twisted his thoughts away from Arianrod. For now he had to think of a way to get a message to Uthyr. And he had to be careful. Ah. Of course. Dinaswyn was the key. He Wind-Spoke to her. “Dinaswyn?”

  “Coming,” she replied quickly. A shade too quickly, he thought. She must have been hoping for such a summons.

  He heard light footsteps on the stairs, and then Dinaswyn opened his study door. The passing years had contented themselves with bleaching the color from her face and hair, for while her skin was unlined, her hair now shone silver in the firelight. Her gray eyes, cool and watchful, surveyed him calmly. She was wearing a long, white robe, and her feet were bare.

  “Found what you were looking for?” Dinaswyn inquired in a cool tone, gesturing to the book-laden table.

  “No,” he said, just as coolly. “Did you expect me to?”

  “As I don’t know what you are looking for, I hardly know what to expect.”

  Yes, he thought, trust Dinaswyn to pry. “I’m not sure myself, really,” he lied. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

  Her gray eyes hardened. “I see.” Gwydion thought she probably did indeed.

  “Dinaswyn, I wondered if you might do me a favor.”

  “Tell me how I may serve you, my dearest nephew.”

  Gwydion sighed inwardly. All conversations with her were like this. “Will you take a letter to Uthyr at Tegeingl for me?” he said mildly.

  “That’s it? A letter?” she asked in surprise. “Why?”

  “Because I miss him,” Gwydion said shortly.

  “Gwydion, you never do things for sentiment’s sake.”