Cry of Sorrow (32 page)

The late-afternoon sun felt good on Gwydion’s face as he took a deep breath of fresh air. They were in a tiny clearing in the forest that began just a few feet from the city walls. He judged they had come about half a league or so. The woman gestured them away from the wooden trapdoor set in the ground. She closed the door, then set some of the loose brush over it. When she was done, she turned to them.

“The cart and the horses have been procured as you wished. And the goods, as well,” she said, her eyes staring at Arthur with frank curiosity.

“Well done, Angharad,” Gwydion said. “A nice little tunnel you’ve got there.”

“We like it,” Angharad said dryly. “And I will be sure to tell them it meets the Dreamer’s approval. And, dare I hope, the approval of your companion?”

Arthur bowed as Myrrdin had taught him to do. “You are Angharad ur Ednyved, Captain of the Cerddorian of Ederynion.”

“I am. And you are?”

“The son of an old friend of mine,” Gwydion broke in before Arthur could speak.

Angharad’s brows rose. “Indeed? Well, son of an old friend of the Dreamer’s, have you a name?”

Arthur shot Gwydion a quick glance but did not answer, much to Gwydion’s surprise. Perhaps the stakes for which they were playing had finally sunk into Arthur’s brain.

“For the moment he does not,” Gwydion said quietly.

“Trusting as ever,” Angharad said shortly.

“The enemy is everywhere,” Gwydion sighed. “You know that.”

“So I do. It sounds like an interesting journey ahead of you. And it makes me wish more than ever that I could accompany you,” she said thoughtfully. “You may not know this, son of an old friend, but there is no better warrior than I in all of Ederynion.”

“I would like to say that she is bragging,” Gwydion said to Arthur with a faint smile, “but she is not. Nonetheless, Angharad, you cannot come with us. It is only to be the four so named on this journey.”

“Then let us go,” Angharad said, “to the other two.”

“They are both here? And well?” Gwydion asked, trying to mask his anxiety and, apparently, not succeeding, to judge by Angharad’s amused look.

“Emrys is with them now. The younger one sulks a great deal.”

“I’m used to that,” Gwydion said, shooting a look at Arthur.

“I don’t sulk,” Arthur shot back, scowling.

Angharad laughed. “So, this son of an old friend causes you a little trouble. He is, then, a boy—pardon me—a young man, after my own heart.”

“Somehow I knew you’d be amused,” Gwydion said sourly. “Why is it that all my friends laugh at my troubles?”

“You have no friends, Gwydion ap Awst, only tools,” Angharad said. “Dreamers cannot afford anything more. Come, the others are waiting.”

H
IS EYES WENT
to her first, drawn to her as the moon draws the tides. She was thinner, and her face was more strained than when he had seen her last. Her green eyes were shadowed, but she rose when he walked through the door of the woodcutter’s hut and smiled at him.

“Rhiannon,” he said as he took her hands, bringing one hand to his lips without thinking. But he stopped short in surprise at himself, then lowered her hands. Unable to look at her—and yet, somehow unable to relinquish her hands—he glanced around the tiny room.

Emrys, Angharad’s Lieutenant, leaned against the uncovered window, a bright dagger in his hands. He nodded at Gwydion and Arthur, then spoke to Angharad as she came in behind them, “All’s quiet.”

Movement in the corner of the room caught Gwydion’s eye. A young woman stood up from a stool tucked away in one shadowy corner. Her long, blond hair tumbled over her shoulders. She wore a leather tunic and trousers of brown, and her blue-eyed gaze was frankly curious.

“Gwydion ap Awst,” Rhiannon said, pulling her hands from his grasp, “you remember Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram, my daughter.”

“I do. It has been many years since I last saw you, Gwenhwyfar, and you’ve changed since then.”

“I was a little girl, then,” Gwen said haughtily. “But I am grownup now.”

“So you are. I would introduce you to my companion,” Gwydion said, gesturing to Arthur, who stood behind him as though rooted to the floor, “but some introductions must wait a while longer.”

“Why?” Gwen asked.

“Because,” Rhiannon said swiftly, “some names are not to be bandied about without careful thought.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Gwen shot back. “I asked him.”

Now Gwydion knew what brought the shadow to Rhiannon’s green eyes. He noticed that Arthur was now gazing at Gwen with frank dislike at her rudeness to Rhiannon.

“This, I think,” Angharad said to Emrys, “is our sign that it is time to leave. Good journey to you all. May you find what you seek.”

“Thank you, Angharad, and Emrys, for your help in getting us this far,” Rhiannon said. “And for your company. A safe journey back to Coed Ddu to the both of you.”

“Thank you, Rhiannon,” Angharad said, gesturing for Emrys to follow her out the door, “and good wishes to you. With companions like these, you’re going to need it.” The two Cerddorian left the hut, melting silently into the shadows of the trees.

Gwydion shrugged off his pack, dumping it unceremoniously on the rough table jammed against the wall.

“I didn’t think you were so old,” Gwen said frankly.

“Old?” Gwydion asked in surprise. Arthur snorted, laying his own pack down on the table. “Oh,” Gwydion said, gesturing to his white hair. “It’s flour. It will wash out.”

“I see,” Gwen said, coming to stand next to him, examining his hair closely.

“How was your journey?” Gwydion asked Rhiannon as she sank down on one of the stools.

“Well enough,” Rhiannon said, her eyes cutting to her daughter. “All things considered.”

“Well?” Gwen asked impatiently, gesturing to Arthur. “Who is this? Or do I not get to know?”

Arthur flushed, looking at Gwen with hard, dark eyes. “I am Arthur,” he said.

“Fine. Arthur what?”

Arthur took a deep breath. “Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine.”

“The Prince of Gwynedd who was supposed to have died all those years ago?”

“The very same.”

“Well, you don’t look dead to me. Why the secrecy?”

“Ask my Uncle Gwydion,” Arthur shot back, his eyes bright with anger. “It was his idea.”

“I’m sure he had a very good reason,” Gwen replied sharply.

Gwydion raised his brows, glancing over at Rhiannon. Something in Gwen’s voice, in the way she defended him, surprised him.

“You are,” Rhiannon murmured softly, “a very handsome man.”

“Uh-oh,” Gwydion murmured, eyeing Gwen. Then he did a double take, looking back at Rhiannon. “You think I’m handsome?”

She looked away, a half smile on her face. Arthur turned from Gwen and crossed the room to take Rhiannon’s hand. “Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” Arthur said quietly. “I hope you are well. It is—it is good to see you again.”

“And good to see you again, Arthur,” Rhiannon smiled, as Arthur drew her hand to his lips and formally kissed her fingers.

Gwydion abruptly stood and, going to the door, shut it tightly. He turned, leaning against the door, to survey his companions.

“Rhiannon, you heard Anieron’s cry,” he said quietly.

Tears shimmered in her green eyes. “Do you think he is still alive?”

“Of course,” Gwydion said, his gray eyes cold. “Havgan has no mercy.”

“We heard that Cariadas is safe with Owein in Coed Coch.”

Gwydion smiled. “I heard that also, thank the Shining Ones.”

“The Y Dawnus who survived the march—Angharad says they were taken to Afalon.”

“Where is that?” Gwen asked.

“It’s the island in the center of Llyn Mwyngil, the lake west of Cadair Idris, in Gwytheryn,” Arthur replied, his glance withering with contempt. “Anyone knows that.”

Gwen bristled at the insult. “I meant—” she began. But Gwydion raised his hand for silence and, for a wonder, Gwen subsided.

“The Bards and the Dewin were taken,” Gwydion said. “And Anieron is lost to us. The Smiths and their families have disappeared. From some hidden place they are forced to make enaid-dals, soulcatchers, collars for the Dewin and Bards that make them blind and deaf. The Coranians have captured a testing device and can now know for certain who is Y Dawnus. Havgan makes his next move, consolidating his hold on this land in his quest to defeat the Kymri utterly. And we four,” he said softly, his eye traveling around the room to the three who stood there, “are going to stop him.”

“How?” Gwen asked eagerly.

“By finding the Four Treasures. By finding the Stone of Water and the Spear of Fire. By finding the Cauldron of Earth and the Sword of Air. With these Treasures in our hands, we will go to Cadair Idris, and we must be there by Calan Gaef, the festival of the new year.”

“And what do we do when we have these Treasures?”

“With them the Doors of Cadair Idris will open. And with them Arthur will be tested and, should he pass the test, the Tynged Mawr, he will be High King of Kymru. And he shall drive the enemy from this land.”

Gwen turned to Arthur, looking him up and down doubtfully. “You? High King?”

Arthur flushed. “Yes,” he said flatly. “What of it?”

Gwen shrugged. “You don’t look like a High King.”

“And you don’t look like a Princess,” Arthur shot back.

“And just what do I look like?”

“Like a spoiled brat.”

“Children,” Gwydion said patiently. “I’m not finished.”

“I’m sorry, Gwydion,” Gwen said softly. “Please go on.”

Rhiannon rolled her eyes at Gwen’s tone, but did not speak.

“Before any of us were born, we were marked as the four who would find these Treasures. To Rhiannon, the task to find the Stone. To me, the task to find the Spear. To Gwen, goes the Cauldron, and to Arthur, the Sword.”

“Just how,” Arthur said sharply, “do you intend to find these Treasures?”

“The song, a song written by Taliesin himself, has been found. And in the song are we named. And this is how they will be found. The Stone is in Ederynion, so here we look first. Next, the Spear in Rheged, then the Cauldron in Prydyn. And last, the Sword in Gwynedd. And it is by the rings that we shall find the Treasures.”

“What rings?” Arthur asked.

“The rings given to each ruler hundreds of years ago by Bran the Dreamer.”

“My da has his emerald ring,” Gwen said. “If I had known we needed it, I could have brought it with me.” She shot Rhiannon a hard look. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it was not time to take it,” Rhiannon said with an edge to her voice. “Each ring will come to our hands at the proper time.”

“The ring of Ederynion,” Arthur cut in, “who has it?”

“Queen Elen in Dinmael.”

“You mean Elen who is held captive by the Coranians?” Arthur asked. “You can’t be serious. We have to get to her to get the ring?”

“Too hard a task for you?” Gwen asked sweetly. “Well, I’m sure your uncle will think of something.”

“Getting the ring will be my task,” Rhiannon said shortly, “and I will be the one to think of something.”

Gwydion sighed inwardly. “We will be disguised as merchants, a family down on their luck whose comfortable livelihood was destroyed during the war. For the last few years we have managed to eke out a living, but times are getting harder. Therefore, we have brought horses and a wagon, filled them with the goods we have left, and are now traveling to another home.”

“What home?” Rhiannon asked.

“Well, the location will change, depending on where we are, of course. But it will be your brother’s home. He has agreed to take us in, though I naturally foresee difficulties—your brother never did think I was good enough for you.”

“And just what does this nonexistent brother of mine think you were not good enough for?” Rhiannon asked, her brows raised.

“To marry you, of course. You will be my wife. And you two,” he went on hurriedly, gesturing to Arthur and Gwen, “are our children.”

For a moment no one spoke as they eyed each other. From the look on Gwen and Arthur’s faces, the idea held little merit. Rhiannon’s eyes were fastened on Gwydion in an expression he could not read.

“And that is your plan?” Arthur asked. “The plan that you made, once again, without consulting any of us?”

“You wanted me to make sure we were all in agreement?” Gwydion asked with withering sarcasm. “Of course. How simple that would have been.”

“You always tell me what I will do. You never ask. Not me, not anyone. I will not be a part of this,” Arthur said, his eyes flashing, “if we must rely on you alone.”

“Why not?” Gwen asked harshly, whipping around to face him.

“He can’t be trusted, that’s why! He’d sacrifice any of us for his precious plans!”

“How dare you say that!” Gwydion cried, moving to stand before Arthur. “I gave up almost everything I cared about to see that you were safe!”

“And made my da and mam give me up!”

“There was no other way! Do you think you would be alive right now if I hadn’t?”

“Stop this,” Rhiannon cried, springing to her feet. “All of you.”

They were silenced, looking at each other with strained, white faces.

“From now on our lives will depend on each other,” Rhiannon went on. “And unless we trust one another, we’re dead. We don’t have to like each other, we just have to depend on each other.”

“Depend on you for what?” Gwen demanded. “To leave when you feel like it?”

“I didn’t leave you because I wanted to, I left you because I had to!”

“Enough! I will tell you all this,” Gwydion said evenly. “I will not spend the next months listening to everyone squabbling at each other. Gwen, you will show proper respect to your mother.”

“I will do as I please!”

“You will grow up,” Gwydion said shortly. “And Arthur, you will not sneer at everything I say.”

“I, too, will do as I please!”

“Then I must show you both otherwise. Tonight the four of us will have a ceremony to honor the gods and goddesses whose Treasures we seek.”

“Why?” Arthur asked suspiciously.

“Because,” Gwydion said as his gaze traveled from Rhiannon’s tense face, to Gwen’s flushed cheeks, to Arthur’s scornful eyes, “this group needs all the help we can get.”

T
HE STARS GLITTERED
coldly in the night sky. The beams of the full moon glided over the trees, spilling into the tiny clearing, forming a silvery pool in the center. At the perimeter of the clearing, the four of them stood silently, waiting for the signal to begin.