Cry of Sorrow (53 page)

“Then, uncle, if I should not return, what will you do?”

“We will hide the Treasures again, and wait for another.”

“And another will come.”

“I think not, boyo. I think not.”

Arthur turned away and gazed up at the mountain again. And began to climb.

H
E ONLY LOOKED BACK
once. Many hours later, as he was halfway up the mountain, and the path curved to the west, he looked back. Far below, he saw the tiny figures of the three whom he had traveled with for so many months. He halted, out of breath, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. The three raised their hands, and the rings flashed light from their fingers—the opal on Gwydion’s hand blazed fire, the pearl on Rhiannon’s hand glimmered whitely, the emerald on Gwen’s finger flickered. He raised his own hand, and the sapphire gave out an azure glow. Then he turned away, and followed the path, out of their sight, around the mountain.

T
HE SOUND OF
trickling water caught his ear. It would be good to drink; he was hot and dusty from his climb. He stepped off the path, to follow the sound to the stream, and the winds drove at him fiercely, tumbling him to his knees. Crawling, the wind roaring in his ears, he regained the path and the winds died down.

“I just wanted a drink of water,” he croaked, his throat dry and dusty. He rose to his feet. “That’s all I wanted,” he muttered, as he continued up the path. The day was hot and the air was thin. His breath labored in his chest. But he stumbled on, keeping his eyes on his feet as they dragged him up the path.

The path led to a narrow fissure. He slipped between the rocks, through an opening so narrow that he left much of the skin on his arms behind him. He wriggled through as best he could, and the path continued. He glanced up at the sky. It was late afternoon now. Soon it would be dark. He had a torch thrust into his belt, and flint and tinder in his pouch. That would help, providing, of course, that the winds would let him light a fire. Somehow, he didn’t think they would. Water had been denied him. Fire would probably be denied him, too.

He followed the path, which now led through a narrow canyon. His scraped and bleeding shoulders touched either side of the rocks that rose sheer from each side of the path. How many, he wondered, had made it this far? Not many, he thought. Because for the others, the winds would have blown when they stepped onto the path. But, for him, the winds blew only if he stepped off of it. So far, anyway. That could change at any moment. And probably would.

As if the winds heard him, they began. They swooped from the sky, down the sheer rocky face, and began to pound him. He fell to his knees, the wind roaring in his ears. Grit and dust blew into his eyes, blinding him. He crawled forward, unwilling to stop, unable to go back without the Sword.

The winds pushed at him, thrusting him back. Doggedly, he continued forward, leaning into the wind, gasping for breath.

Suddenly, as if the memory lay waiting only a hand span away, he remembered the day he almost died, the day Taran’s storm had come to Dinas Emrys, so many years ago. He had been on the mountain that day, herding the sheep back to the byre. But one ewe had gone astray, and he had gone back up to look for her. He had found her, caught in a bush, struggling to get free. And then the storm had broken. Not a storm, really. Because the sky was clear and there was no rain. But the winds had tried to kill him, to push him off the mountain. And they had. Only at the last moment he had grabbed onto the branch of a low bush. He had dropped the ewe, and she had gone tumbling down the sheer cliff face. And he had hung on, grimly, knowing that if he could hold on long enough, Myrrdin would find him.

He remembered how his strength had ebbed that day, just as it was ebbing now. He remembered that he felt his grip loosening, and he knew that he would die. And he remembered how his hand had slipped from the branch, how, just at that last moment, he felt a hand on his wrist, and had opened his eyes to see Myrrdin above him, hanging on to him, pulling him to safety.

But today Myrrdin was not here. And the winds were going to kill him. Taran’s Winds. Taran did not want the Sword to be found. Taran wanted to kill him. And he would. For the winds were pushing him against the rock faces, tearing more skin from his body. Blinding him. Pushing him back.

From far, far away, he heard the sound of an eagle’s cry. Fierce, proud, the sound came down to him, carried by the winds.

The eagle called out to him. Somewhere, high overhead, an eagle rode the winds, going where they led. Soaring on the wings of the wind. Not fighting against them. Using them, to get to his prey.

And he knew what he had to do. He stopped trying to go forward. He halted on his hands and knees as the winds rushed about him. Slowly, he stood up. For a moment he fought to stay on his feet. But then he let go. He let the winds push him to the ground. He let the winds tumble him back. He rolled with the winds, going where they wanted him to go.

And so he returned to the narrow fissure, fetching up hard against the rocks. Then the winds died. He rubbed the grit and dust from his eyes, blinking tears to wash them away. He stood up, bleeding and bruised. And he waited in the suddenly still air.

A slight breeze tugged at him. He turned with it, and saw, just next to the fissure, a thin, dark gap in the rocks. He stepped forward and released his hold on the rocks, confident that the winds would let him go.

And they did.

He reached the gap and squeezed through. He found himself in a peaceful glade. There was thick, green clover beneath his feet. A gentle stream meandered through this unlikely glade, surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs. Trees lined the perimeter—and he knew them, and why they were there. The long, drooping branches of the white birch trees were studded with tiny yellow flowers and light green catkins. The rowan trees with their rounded crowns spread their branches to the sky. They were covered with white flowers and studded with tiny red berries. The ash trees with their low hanging branches were covered with clusters of long, purplish flowers. And the gnarled oak trees with their thick trunks hung heavy with acorns. A single yew tree wept evergreen needles over the huge, black stone that lay in the center of the clearing.

Of course, for who else would guard the resting place of the Lady Don but the gods themselves? Birch for Taran of the Winds. Rowan for Mabon of the Sun. Ash for Nantsovelta of the Waters. Oak for Modron, the Great Mother. And, finally, yew, for Annwyn, the Lord of Chaos.

Llyr, the First Dreamer, would have planted these trees here, long ago, when his people had first come to Kymru, fleeing the destruction of Lyonesse, that proud island that had sunk beneath the sea twelve generations ago. The Lady Don had died in that terrible time, her body lost in the vast ocean. But Llyr had raised this stone in memory of her.

The mirrored obsidian of the stone seemed to wink at him in the fading light. The ring on his finger pulsed brightly, bathing the glade in an azure glow. Slowly, Arthur approached the rock, and he sank to his knees beside it. He reached out and touched the stone. It was so cold. He thought for a moment of the Lady Don, and her fight against the Druids who had killed her husband. He thought of the legend that her youngest child, Llyr, had been created a whole man outside of her body, in a fashion that no one now understood, aided by the magic of the Danaans who had sheltered her.

The Sword of Taran was in this glade for Arthur to find. The ring on his finger told him that. It was here, but where?

There was not a breath of wind. Nothing to guide him. Nothing except the glow of the ring on his finger. He rose to his feet, and reached out to the yew tree. But the ring’s glow faded slightly when he did so. Ah, the stone itself, then. Once again, he touched the cool stone, and the ring glowed so brightly that he had to squint through the glare to see.

He braced his feet, pushed his fingers beneath the stone, and pulled. But the stone did not move. The Sword was there, beneath the stone. He knew it. But how could he get to it if the stone would not move?

And then the winds came.

They hurled down the rocky cliffs, and the branches on the trees began to dance. The air filled with the tiny flowers that flew from the branches in the violent wind. Arthur was pushed to his knees, gasping. The wind seemed to cut his skin from his bones. And he cried out, then.

“Taran!” he shouted. “Taran of the Winds, help me!”

The winds pushed at him, flattening him to the ground. And then he saw it. The winds had made their way beneath the stone, lifting one end of it. A few inches from his face, he saw a bright glitter. His hand shot out beneath the stone, and he grabbed for the bright twinkle of metal. With the rasp of metal on rock, he pulled out the object and the winds died. The stone sank back into its place.

In the silence, Arthur rose to his feet, the Sword of Air in his hands. He held the blade upright before his eyes. He had it. Y Cleddyf, the Sword. Meirig Yr Llech, Guardian of the Stone. The handgrip was made of silver mesh, chased with gold. The hilt of silver was fashioned like a hawk with widespread wings and sapphire eyes. The hawk’s claws held the knob at the end, on which was the figure eight, the symbol of infinity, studded with onyx. The scabbard was gold, etched with a dizzying array of silver circles and chased with sapphires. Slowly, he pulled the Sword from the scabbard. The blade itself shown brightly, images of a serpent etched on either side of the blade.

He lifted the Sword to the sky, and whirled it over his head. Once, twice, three times. “Taran,” he called, laughing. “I have found it!”

“So you have, boyo.” The voice was rich and musical. “You have at last.”

“Who—?” Arthur began. And then he knew as a shimmer of light condensed beside the Stone and he saw the shade of a man long dead.

The man wore a robe of blue trimmed in white. Around his neck was the ghost of shimmering sapphires.

“Taliesin,” Arthur breathed. “Fifth Master Bard of Kymru.”

“Yes,” the ghost said gently. “I am Taliesin ap Arthen var Diadwa. And I greet you in the name of Lleu Lawrient, my High King.”

“But why are you here? Have you come from Gwlad Yr Haf just to greet me?”

The ghost’s green eyes, full of joy and sorrow, glinted, and his white-blond hair gleamed. “No, for my spirit has never journeyed to the Land of Summer. I have waited here for you for over two hundred years. Glad I am you have come, so that I may, at last, go home.”

“How could you have done this thing?” Arthur asked, awed.

“Bran the Dreamer asked it of me in the name of Lleu. He asked all of us to hide and guard the Treasures until the time they would be needed again. He asked this in the name of Kymru. How, then, could we refuse?”

And Arthur was ashamed then, for he had, in one way or another, refused in his heart to do the one thing for Kymru that he knew she needed.

“Yes,” Taliesin said gently, reading his thoughts, “but you will do it nonetheless. And that is all that is asked of you. Is it too much?”

“No,” Arthur whispered. “No.” He sank to his knees, the sword held upright before him. “I pledge to you that I will carry this Sword for Kymru.”

And Taliesin sang, his rich voice a balm to Arthur’s shame.

“S
HALL THERE NOT
be a song of freedom

Before the dawn of the fair day?

Shall this not be the fair day of freedom?”

“Anieron’s song,” Arthur whispered. “The one he sang before he died. Taran’s last gift to him.”

“Mourn not Anieron, Master Bard. He dwells with those he loves in the Land of Summer, where I will soon end my journey. He waits, and watches for the fair day of freedom, which is at hand. You will avenge his death,” Taliesin said, his voice stern.

“I will,” Arthur replied, his head bowed.

“Then go from this place. Your friends need you.” Then Taliesin was gone.

A
RTHUR MADE HIS
way through the narrow gap in the rocks, turning one last time to look at the peaceful glade. The clover was studded with the flowers that had blown from the trees. As he looked, the wind stirred the trees gently, as though the branches themselves were bowing to him.

As he wriggled through the gap, and his feet touched the Dark Path, he heard a voice in his head, urgent but controlled. Gwydion.

Arthur, I know you can hear me, but can’t answer
.

He stood stock-still, his heart beating uncomfortably. He had never heard the undertone of terror in his uncle’s voice before.

When you find the sword, you must return to Mynydd Tawel with it immediately. Take the other Treasures and go to Myrrdin in Coed Aderyn. He will help you
.

What was he saying? What had gone wrong?

We were captured as we waited for you. They come at us now with enaid-dals. Somehow they knew we would be here. You must go. Now
.

How could he? How could he leave them?

I know you will not want to. But you must remember that you, alone, are the important one. Rhiannon, Gwen, and I have done what we set out to do, and the Treasures are yours now. Return to Mynydd Tawel and reclaim them from Dinaswyn. Go now and—

Gwydion’s Mind-Speech was cut off. For a panicked moment, Arthur thought the Dreamer was dead. Strange how, after so many years of wishing for just that, his heart was filled with sorrow and dread. No, Gwydion was not dead. He had been collared, along with Rhiannon, and Gwen. They were to be taken, no doubt, to the island of Afalon to die.

Then he realized that, no, they would not be so lucky as all that. Instead they would be taken to Havgan, the Golden Man. Havgan would kill them, but he would take his time. Again and again Havgan had announced that Gwydion and Rhiannon would be found and would die. And Gwen would not be spared.

Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. Gwydion would die in as great an agony as Havgan could devise. Rhiannon, with her flashing green eyes and lovely smile, would be gone. And Gwen, she who argued with him and exasperated him, whose golden hair he thought so beautiful, would be dead.