by Holly Taylor
Angharad made to dismount her horse but Amatheon was already there, lifting her from the saddle and setting her on the ground, his hands spanning her slim waist. The others tried to hide their grins, but Angharad didn’t really mind that at all. She felt like grinning herself, for her night with Amatheon had been truly wonderful. He had been passionate, as his brother had been, but he had also been tender and loving, for his deepest feelings were involved. And this was as unlike Gwydion as could be. Their lovemaking had been the best she had ever had—and she had had many men. But never one like Amatheon.
“Thank you,” Angharad said to Amatheon after he helped her down.
“Yes,” Achren said, her generous mouth twitching, “if you hadn’t helped her down she might have fallen.”
Rhiannon laughed. “Her experience on a horse being so limited,” she explained.
Amatheon, his eyes alight, smiled. “Tease me all you want to,” he said cheerfully, “I can take it.”
“You should,” Cai said as he dismounted. “Since you can certainly dish it out.”
Trystan, still on his horse, batted his lashes at Amatheon. “Maybe you could help me down too?”
Amatheon, a grin on his face, pulled Trystan from the saddle to the ground. Trystan rolled and instantly got to his feet with an answering grin. The two men squared off, each going into a wrestler’s stance.
“I bet my saddle on Trystan,” Achren said.
“Done,” Cai replied promptly.
“Pardon me,” Gwydion said acidly as he got down from his horse, “but does anyone happen to remember what we are doing here? I ask just out of curiosity.”
“Oh, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said as she, too, dismounted, “you’re such a killjoy.”
“Apparently someone’s go to do it,” Gwydion said shortly. He fixed Amatheon and Trystan with his silver eyes and the two men straightened up, an innocent look upon their faces.
“We weren’t doing anything,” Amatheon said ingenuously. “We were just waiting for you to get on with it.”
“Than wait no more,” Gwydion said.
“Tell us about this place,” Cai said seriously. “What exactly happened here? And when?”
“It happened in the year 275,” Rhiannon replied as Gwydion opened his mouth to answer. “Ten years after High King Lleu was murdered. It was called the Battle of Ynad Bran. Known as the fourth Battle of Betrayal.”
Gwydion gave Rhiannon a hard look at her interruption and she smiled sweetly at him. “Perhaps,” she said graciously, “you would care to take it from here?”
“I would,” Gwydion said shortly.
But Angharad thought she saw the faintest gleam of humor in his eyes. It was a sight rarely seen, and it surprised her.
“It began in 260,” Gwydion said as the others gathered around the grave. “That was the year when Sulia, the Queen of Ederynion, died; the year her husband, King Llywelyn, became unhinged by grief at her loss. King Llywelyn called his three daughters to him after the funeral. There was Regan, the eldest, mistress of Bran the Dreamer. There was Gwladas, the second daughter, wife to King Peredur of Rheged. And there was the youngest, Luched, who was not yet married.”
Gwydion gazed down at the barrow as a slight breeze shook the aspens. “Regan and Gwladas, mindful of the riches they could still get from their father, spoke effusively of their love for him when he asked. But Luched was forthright and honest. She said that she loved her father as meat loves salt. Which is to say that they complement each other. But King Llywelyn took this to mean that she did not love him. In a rage, he exiled her from Ederynion, declaring that she was an untrue daughter.
“Luched traveled to Cadair Idris and told High King Lleu what her father had done. Lleu and Bran, along with many others, tried to get Llywelyn to change his mind, but he was adamant. Lleu offered Luched a place in Cadair Idris. After a very short time Dylan, Lleu’s younger brother fell in love with Luched and, with Lleu’s blessing, the two were married.
“In Ederynion King Llywelyn was becoming increasingly erratic. He became forgetful; sometimes thinking for days at a stretch that his wife was still alive and his mind began to wander more often. His advisors pled with Regan and Gwladas to help him, but they did nothing. The advisors begged Llywelyn to allow Luched to return, but he refused.
“Five years later Lleu was murdered,” Gwydion went on. “Dylan and Luched left Cadair Idris and went to live at Caer Dathyl, at Bran’s invitation. Regan was highly displeased by this and threatened to leave if Bran did not revoke his invitation. But Bran refused to change his mind and Regan left Caer Dathyl, taking their son, Cacamri, with her. Apparently, Bran, who had been disenchanted with her for some time, was relieved to see her go.”
“And his son?” Trystan asked.
“Was more like his mother than his father,” Gwydion replied. “So Bran did not object when she took him. He objected only when Regan wanted to take their daughter, Dremas, also. For Dremas was to be the next Dreamer, and Bran refused to let Regan take her. So Regan, along with her son, went to Ederynion and took over the government of that land, for by this time King Llywelyn was incapable of ruling in any effective way. She dismissed her father’s Captain and installed a man of her own choosing. She got rid of all Llywelyn’s advisors and replaced them with men and women loyal to her.
“She ruled in her father’s name for five more years, until 275. That year her sister, Gwladas came to visit. Gwladas was not happy in her marriage. Regan played on her sister’s unhappiness, seeking to get her cooperation in a scheme to murder their father. For Regan was tired of waiting for the rule of Ederynion to be wholly hers. If Gwladas would help her, Regan would make Gwladas her co-Ruler, and could leave her husband for good. Why Gwladas ever believed her sister, I’ll never know.”
“Her plan,” Rhiannon clarified, “was to have Gwladas murder their father. And ensure that Gwladas alone took the blame.”
“True,” Gwydion continued. “The sisters arranged for Llywelyn to take part in a hunt. Cacamri prepared and gave to Gwladas a skin of wine laced with poison. During the hunt Gwladas gave it to Llywelyn to drink. Llywelyn fell very ill, but made it back to Dinmael before he collapsed. At last he repented of his treatment of Luched and sent word to her, via the Bardic network. Luched, Dylan and Bran came to Dinmael as quick as they could and arrived so swiftly that Llywelyn was still alive.
“It was there that Bran discovered the truth of the matter. He caught Regan taking the Torque of Ederynion from her father’s dying throat. Then he found the poisoned wineskin, and tricked Gwladas into confessing. Regan, Gwladas, and Cacamri fled, but not before Cacamri tried to stab his father. But Dylan saved Bran’s life and the three murderers got away in the confusion, taking with them Regan’s warriors as well as Gwladas’s men.”
“Was Bran wounded?” Achren asked.
“His lover and his son had just murdered the King of Ederynion,” Trystan mused, “and his own son had tried to kill him. I’d say he was wounded.”
“Yes,” Gwydion agreed. “He was.” He paused and the breeze chose that moment to shake the aspens again, and they shivered as though in sympathy with Bran’s pain. “Bran, Dylan, Luched and her father’s loyal warriors followed the three, and brought them to bay here, at the fringes of Coed Ddu. The teulu’s fought through the afternoon as Luched led the battle against her sisters. She killed Mael, Regan’s Captain, and that ended the battle. Regan, Gwladas, and Cacamri were brought before Luched, Dylan, and Bran for judgment.”
“Bran would not plead for the lives of his lover and his son,” Rhiannon said quietly.
“No, he would not,” Gwydion said just as quietly. “It was Bran himself that upheld the law, for according to it, patricide is punishable by death. When Bran pronounced it, Gwladas and Cacamri pled with Bran to change his mind. But Bran was adamant, for it was indeed the law. So all three were condemned.”
“How did he justify that?” Cai wondered.
“He said that the only way the punishment
could be remitted was via a High King. And with Lleu dead, there was no High King,” Rhiannon said.
“I suppose you think him wrong,” Gwydion said to Rhiannon, intently watching her face.
Surprised, she turned to him. “No, I don’t,” she said. “He was right. And how it must have hurt him to say it.”
“I didn’t think you would understand,” Gwydion said, his voice low.
“Didn’t you?” she replied.
The two eyed each other for a few moments. At last Gwydion held out his hand and she took it. Amatheon squeezed Angharad’s hand, then stepped forward and joined hands with Gwydion and Rhiannon.
Achren, Cai, and Trystan surrounded the three Y Dawnus. Then they all turned to her, waiting for her to join them, to complete the circle, to receive the message that Bran had sent them from the past.
She stepped forward and joined them, gently laying her hands on Amatheon’s shoulders. Suddenly darkness veiled her eyes, and she was falling, falling, falling into long ago.
A BRIGHT LIGHT almost blinded her after the darkness and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus. She was standing at the fringe of the forest, and the gravesite was gone, the spot unmarred and covered with green grass.
She raised her eyes and beheld a fierce battle taking place in front of her. Men with badges showing a silver swan on a field of sea green fought desperately with each other. Although they clearly gave out their battle cries, Angharad could hear nothing. Weapons clashed and rang, but all was silent as she watched.
Two women and a young man were standing in the center of the field, the battle raging around them. The first woman was tall and slender, and her auburn hair had come loose from its braid and flowed down her slim shoulders. Around her neck was an ornate torque of silver and pearls. Her eyes were dark and cunning, and she stood imperiously, unafraid, a dagger gripped tightly in her hand. The second woman was heavier, with brown hair and her gray eyes were fearful and full of tears as she cringed away from the battle. The young man’s hair was auburn and his eyes were gray, filled now with fierce battle-fever as he, too, crouched, ready to fight.
The second woman cried out then and pointed and Angharad followed her movement, although she could not hear what the woman said. She was pointing at a third woman who had stepped to the front of the opposing battle line. This woman also had auburn hair, but it was braided tightly and wound around her head. She had eyes of silvery gray and her expression was determined as she faced the warrior who had stepped up in front of her in challenge.
The two fought for only a few moments, and then the silver-eyed woman stepped forward, going under the warriors’ guard and thrusting her sword into his chest. The man’s back arched in agony and he fell, blood spurting from his wound.
Then, on either side of the woman, two men appeared. One had golden hair and a fierce expression. The other had long, auburn hair and cold, gray eyes. Around his neck he wore an ornate torque of opals and gold. He raised his hand and shouted something, pointing to the woman who wore the silver torque.
The warriors guarding the two women and the young man rose from their battle-crouch at the man’s words. They were surrounded by the warriors led by the silver-eyed woman and surrendered their weapons.
The man with the opal necklace stepped forward past the warriors and stood in front of the three. The woman with the silver torque looked at the man with contempt, while the second woman sank to her knees. The young man stood frozen in fear.
The silver-eyed woman stepped up then and went straight to the woman with the torque. She pulled the torque from the woman’s neck, her face implacable. The man with the golden torque spoke again, and the brown-haired woman collapsed in a huddle at his feet. The young man dropped to his knees, clearing pleading. But the man with the golden torque shook his head.
The woman whose neck was now bare simply looked at the man, her face twisted with hatred and pride. She spat at the man and the woman who now wore the torque gestured to one of her warriors. Swiftly the man stepped forward and plunged his blade into the woman’s chest. She sank to her knees, both hands gripping the blade, never taking her eyes off the man with the golden torque. And the man watched implacably, unmoving as she died.
The man with the golden torque watched, did not move, did not speak, did not look away: even as tears gushed from the young man’s eyes, even as the young man sank to his knees in supplication, even as a warrior stepped forward and speared the young man, even as the young man fell forward and died.
Then, at the silver-torqued woman’s gesture another warrior plunged his blade into the brown-haired woman, and the three were dead. All the while the golden-torqued man stood, unmoving, his eyes glittering, his head held high.
Then the scene changed abruptly. The field was lush and green, cleansed of the taint of battle. The gravesite was back, but the aspens were small, clearly newly planted. Alyssum had begun to grow between the stones, but the growth was sparse.
The man who had watched the deaths so stoically crossed the field on a golden horse. He halted the horse before the grave and dismounted, looking at the stones, his head bowed. Around his neck glittered a torque of gold and opals.
He turned and took something from the saddlebag that was wrapped in black cloth. He knelt down at the foot of the grave and stretched forth his hand. The earth parted slightly, forming a hole. In this cavity he placed whatever object he was carrying, then stepped back. At his gesture the earth mended itself, covering the hole.
He stood for a moment, looking down at the grave, his face still hidden from her. At last he raised his head and stared right at her as she stood at the foot of the grave. She saw that tears were streaming from his silvery eyes and down his grieving face. Yet he gave her a brief smile before the darkness took her again.
SHE OPENED HER eyes to see Amatheon bending anxiously over her.
“Relax, Amatheon,” Gwydion was saying. “You know she’ll be fine.”
“Eventually,” Angharad croaked.
Rhiannon handed her a small cup. “For the headache,” she said.
Gratefully, Angharad drank. She looked up and caught Cai’s sympathetic gaze. “Now I know what it was like for you,” she whispered.
“Tell us,” Gwydion said as Achren and Trystan helped Angharad to her feet.
“I saw the battle, of course,” she said carefully. If she didn’t do everything carefully just now her head would split in two. “Bran just looked at the three of them as they were executed. He never even turned his face away.”
Achren raised her brow. “A cold bastard.”
“I don’t think so,” Angharad replied. “The scene shifted, then, and Bran came back to stand before the grave. And he grieved. Who knew that a man could come to such grief as the grief I saw in his face and still live?”
“And what did he do with our message?” Gwydion asked softly, after a moment.
“He buried it, at the foot of the stones.”
Gwydion went to stand before the grave. He stretched out his hand and the earth parted, just as Angharad had seen Bran do. Something glittered in the dirt, for the cloth that had covered it had long since rotted, and Gwydion reached down and picked it up.
Like the first piece they had found, this piece was gold and the curved arc of one side was rimmed with sapphires. On the lower left, lined in emeralds, were the letters “ovelta.” A cluster of pearls outlined with rubies formed a second arc on the pointed portion. A poem was incised on the piece and Gwydion read it aloud:
Woe that I ever was born
And my father and mother reared me,
That I did not die with the milk of the breast
Before losing my heart’s brother.
“Poor Bran,” Amatheon said quietly. “He had been grieving for Lleu, still, even as this new grief came to him.”
“Bran would always grieve for Lleu, I think,” Gwydion said, “first and foremost.”
“Forever,” Angharad agreed.
FAR TO THE north, on the sh
ores of Llyn Wiber, a swan glided over the cool, clean water. Her feathers gleamed whitely in the sunlight and the water sparkled and shone beneath the sun’s golden rays.
And then the call came and the swan halted on the water, her head reared back in surprise.
It was time. Time to fly south, to journey to the special place. She did not know why she had to do this thing, only that it must be done, that the call could not be ignored.
She spread her huge wings and launched herself skyward with a cry of farewell to the other swans gathered there. She set her course south, and flew.
Chapter Nineteen
Commote Maenor Deilo and Duir Dan Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru Collen Mis, 494
Meriwydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late morning
Trystan rode at the rear of the party, lost in thought, for he knew they were coming closer to Duir Dan and knew that the next part in this quest was in his hands.
They had crossed the border from Ederynion into Rheged earlier that morning and rode now across the smooth plain. The seemingly endless flat expanse was covered with long grass, some brown and withered, some so bright a green it was like spying a nest of precious, glowing emeralds. Haycocks dotted the plain, glistening in golden mounds. A slight wind blew, swooping down over them, stirring the grasses into patterns whose meanings were elusive, impenetrable.
Gwydion led the party, as always, flanked by Amatheon on his left and Cai on his right. Cai was regaling the two brothers with some story, apparently having to do with Uthyr and his latest hunting expedition. It seemed to involve a wild pig, a bet, and a great deal of mud. Gwydion was actually laughing; something he so rarely did that it still astonished Trystan that the Dreamer even could.
Just ahead of him Angharad rode in the middle, with Achren on her left and Rhiannon on her right. Their conversation had to do with Amatheon and his skill in the art of love-making as compared to Gwydion’s. As near as Trystan could tell, Angharad seemed to be saying that while Gwydion might have more finely honed skills, Amatheon was more enjoyable due to the fact that there was, according to Angharad, love involved—something conspicuously absent in Gwydion’s bed.