Cry of Sorrow (47 page)

The Dreamer stood stiffly, clutching the leather strap of his bundle, and the look on his face could have burned water. Rhoram smiled, then let Rhiannon go. He walked up to Gwydion, grasping the man’s arms. “You are welcome here, Gwydion ap Awst. Most welcome.”

“Really,” Gwydion said flatly.

Rhoram smiled even wider, then turned to the young man who stood next to the Dreamer. He clasped the man’s hand. “I am Rhoram ap Rhydderch. You are welcome to Haford Bryn. And you are?”

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.”

T
HE 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 across 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?”