Cry of Sorrow (61 page)

“Then you are truly the one born to find the Stone of Nantsovelta. It is accepted. Have you Y Pair, the Cauldron of Earth, Buarth Y Greu, the Circle of Blood?”

“I have,” Gwen said, pulling the Cauldron from the pack at her back and setting the golden, glowing bowl next to the Stone.

“And what, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon, have you learned in the seeking?”

And Gwen answered boldly, for at last she knew the truth. “To forgive,” she said, putting a hand out to her mother. “To love.” Rhiannon grasped Gwen’s hand, and the two stood together.

“Then you are truly the one born to find the Cauldron of Modron. It is accepted. Have you Y Honneit, the Spear of Fire, Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge?”

“I have,” Gwydion said, stepping forward with the Spear in his hand. He placed the glowing opal-trimmed Spear next to the bowl.

“And what, Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon, have you learned in the seeking?”

“That fear, Bloudewedd, is the killer of the spirit. It must be acknowledged and faced with courage and truth.”

“Then you are truly the one born to find the Spear of Mabon. Have you Y Cleddyf, the Sword of Air, Meirig Yr Llech, Guardian of the Stone?”

“I have it,” Arthur said firmly, unbuckling the Sword from his belt and laying it before the Doors next to the Spear.

“And you, man who would be High King, what have you learned?”

“That no eagle can fly with broken wings.”

“Then you are wise, indeed, Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine,” the voice said softly. “And truly the one born to find the Sword of Taran. It is accepted.”

On the horizon thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed. The wind keened, and the grass bent and rustled. Far overhead, from the west in the darkening sky came the sound of a hunting horn. “Cerrunnos and Cerridwen hunt tonight,” the Doors said. “Tonight is Calan Gaef, and the Otherworld lays very close to this one. You have the signs. You may enter here.”

And the Doors, closed for so many, many years, opened silently inward. Darkness pooled beyond the Doors. Gwydion turned to face the men and women who clustered around the steps.

“Drwys Idris bades us enter, my friends,” Gwydion said. “And so we must.”

Gwydion, Rhiannon, Gwen, and Arthur each took up their Treasures and, one by one, they all entered Cadair Idris, stepping into the darkness. When Myrrdin, the last one to enter, walked in, the mighty Doors swung closed. And Cadair Idris was once again silent, waiting. Only the sounds of the wind, and of thunder, could be heard on the plain outside the mountain.

T
RYSTAN AND
C
AI
withdrew slightly from the fight at the crossroads, taking momentary refuge behind a small hill. Both men were splashed with blood, but they moved easily, for none of the blood was their own.

“Any time now,” Cai panted, “and we can leave. Cynfar says that they are inside the mountain. He says that Gwydion has ordered us to withdraw.”

“If we can get Angharad and Achren to pay attention to that order,” Trystan retorted. “I believe that they are having too much fun.”

“Well, they have had enough fun for one day. I, for one, will not risk the wrath of the High King if we do not withdraw. We were ordered not to sacrifice the lives of our people needlessly.”

“But the Cerddorian have enjoyed it mightily, my friend,” Trystan pointed out. “After all these years of striking in the shadows, it is a joy to fight in the open air again.”

“I feel it in my bones, Trystan, that we should leave. The storm is almost upon us. And I do not think we would be wise to be here when Taran’s Wind and Mabon’s Fire come to the crossroads.”

“We have done well,” Trystan said. “Almost a third of Havgan’s forces killed.”

“And only a fraction of ours. I will have Llewelyn sound the retreat.”

“As you will, friend Cai. As you will.”

T
HE
D
OORS CLOSED
behind them without a sound. The silence within the mountain was heavy and oppressive, and the darkness was complete.

“Gwydion,” Myrrdin called. “Some light here, boyo.”

But before Gwydion could even begin to call fire, there was indeed light. All at once, the hallway where they stood became as bright as day. The walls glittered with signs, spirals and circles etched on thin sheets of silver and gold. Jewels sparkled in the golden light. A low exclamation of wonder came from their throats as the light dazzled them. The glow extended down the hallway, as, somehow, light after light from some unknown source flashed on. In the distance, a deeper golden light beckoned them on.

Owein shouldered his way to the front of the hallway, his sword drawn. He bowed to Arthur, then said, “I beg, High King, that you let me go first. There may be things within this mountain that would harm you. And that must not, for all the world, happen.”

At his words, Queen Morrigan, Prince Lludd, and King Rhoram came to stand beside Owein, their swords also drawn. At Arthur’s nod, the four rulers led the way down the long corridor, toward the golden light.

When they reached the end of the corridor, they stood on either side of a closed, golden door, their swords at the ready. Gwydion came to stand before the glowing door, and turned his back to it. He lifted his hands and spoke. “Behold Brenin Llys, the High King’s hall, a sight that has not been seen outside of dreams for over two hundred years. Behold, Arthur ap Uthyr, your inheritance.”

So saying, Gwydion turned and put his hands on the door. With the merest touch, the door opened, and the sight that met their eyes stunned them into silence. The hall of the High King was sheathed in gold, and golden light spilled out into the corridor. The walls, the pillars, the floor were covered with gold. Eight steps led to a raised dais. Each of the steps was covered with a precious stone—amethyst and topaz, emerald and pearl, ruby and onyx, opal and sapphire.

On the dais sat a golden throne. The armrests were molded in the shape of eagle’s heads, their outstretched wings forming the high back of the throne. A huge torque made of twisted silver and gold rested on the throne. There were no jewels in the necklet—only four empty places to show where jewels had once rested, surrounding a figure eight studded with onyx.

A yew tree, the tree of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, stood behind the throne. By its side stood a hazel tree for Aertan, Weaver of Fate. The yew branches, covered with tiny evergreen needles, bent over the golden chair, and the branches of the hazel that spread from its twisted trunk were covered with spiny, yellow flowers.

Within the center of the hall a golden fountain bubbled, the water somehow clean and fresh. A large, four-sided cup stood on the rim of the fountain. Eight alcoves were carved into the walls, four on each side of the throne.

“Here,” Gwydion said, pointing to the alcove to the left of the door, “was the place where the rulers of Rheged would stand.” The recess held a hawthorn tree, covered with tiny, white flowers. The banner on the wall behind the tree was of a rearing white horse with eyes of fiery opal on a field of red.

“Owein, Rhiwallon,” Gwydion gestured, “this is your place.”

The two men sheathed their swords and took their places within the niche. Sanon, whose rightful place should be with her father and brother, pushed determinedly through the others and came to stand, somewhat defiantly, next to Owein.

But King Rhoram smiled at his daughter and Owein. “Well, boyo, kiss her. What do you think she’s waiting for?”

Gentle laughter greeted Rhoram’s remark, and Owein, red-faced, softly kissed her.

The next alcove held a birch tree, and its shining white trunk glowed. The banner behind the tree was a white nightingale with sapphire eyes on a field of blue. “Elidyr, Talhearn, Esyllt, Susanna, and Dudod,” Gwydion called. “This is the alcove of the Bards.” They took their places in the alcove and Gwydion moved on.

The next alcove held a banner of a black wolf with emerald eyes on a field of green. The hazel tree’s wavy, thin trunk was twined and bent.

“No need to tell us, Gwydion,” Rhoram said briskly. “This is the one for Prydyn.” Rhoram and his son, Geriant, took their places in the bay. At Rhoram’s gesture, Rhodri came to stand with them.

The next alcove held a rowan tree with bright red berries hanging in clusters from its branches. The banner behind the tree was a black raven with opal eyes on a red field. “The Dreamers,” Gwydion said, and Cariadas and Dinaswyn stepped into the niche.

Gwydion passed the throne and came to stand before the alcove on the far side. The banner was a rearing silver dragon with eyes of pearl on a field of sea green. The tree was ash, and the whitish-gray, smooth bark glowed. “The Dewin belong here,” Gwydion said, and Elstar, Neuad, Cadell, and Myrrdin went to stand in the niche. Rhiannon began to follow, but Gwydion stopped her. “Your place is with me,” he said.

In the next alcove the smooth bark and the shining dark green leaves proclaimed the tree to be an alder. The banner behind the tree was a brown hawk with sapphire eyes on a field of blue. “Gwynedd,” Gwydion called, and Queen Morrigan and her mother, Ygraine, took their places.

An oak tree stood in the next alcove, and the banner behind the tree was a brown bull with emerald eyes on a field of green. “Druids,” Gwydion said, and Sinend and Sabrina came to stand in the bay.

On the wall of the last alcove was a banner of a white swan with pearl eyes on a field of sea green. It held an aspen tree and the leaves shivered momentarily as Prince Lludd of Ederynion took his place in the niche.

At last, only Gwydion, Rhiannon, Gwen, and Arthur were left standing in the center of the hall, next to the fountain. At Gwydion’s gesture, they each put down their Treasures next to the water.

Arthur, casting a look at the fountain, exclaimed, “There’s something in there!” He reached out to put his hand in the water, and Gwydion leapt toward him, gripping Arthur’s arm and shoving him back.

“No!” Gwydion cried.

“What is it?” Rhiannon called. “What’s in the fountain?”

“A sword,” Arthur spat. “Why can I not touch it? Do you want it for yourself?”

“The sword,” Gwydion said, between clenched teeth, “belongs to the High King. Which you are not.”

“Not yet,” Arthur challenged. “But soon.”

“We hope,” Gwydion said shortly. “After we celebrate Calan Gaef, you will begin the Tynged Mawr. And if you pass the test, if you are still alive, you may take the sword in the fountain. It is called Caladfwlch, and it means Hard Gash. It was fashioned for High King Idris by Govannon, the First Archdruid of Kymru, he who fashioned the four Treasures. If you take the sword before the Tynged Mawr, it will kill you.”

For a moment, Arthur said nothing as he gazed at the pool. Then he lifted his dark eyes to his uncle’s face. “Once again, Dreamer, I have misjudged you.”

“It happens often enough, Arthur,” Gwydion said.

“You would do well, sometimes, to wonder why.”

“I know why,” Gwydion said softly. “But it is not always possible to change.”

“You think not?” Arthur said, just as softly. “I think otherwise.”

“You are young,” Gwydion replied.

“And like not to be any older if I fail the Tynged Mawr. It could kill me.”

“It could,” Gwydion admitted. “But it is not likely. My heart says that you are the one. And always have been.”

“But have you seen, in your dreams, beyond this moment?”

“No,” Gwydion admitted. “I have not.”

“Then let us celebrate Calan Gaef, and then to this Great Fate,” Arthur said. “For I am anxious to see the end of this waiting.”

“Very well.” Gwydion went to the yew tree and stripped off a few branches, piling them at the bottom of the steps leading to the throne. He then went to the hazel tree and did the same, piling the branches next to the yew. From the bag at his belt he took a small jar of wine, a piece of bread, a container of salt, and a honeycomb wrapped in clean linen. Gwydion stood on the first step and began to speak.

“This is the Wheel of the Year before us,” he called. “One flame for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.” As he pointed to the top of the arch of each alcove, gouts of flame sprouted up, burning brightly. “Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Awyr, Calan Llachar, Alban Haf, Calan Olau, Alban Narth, and Calan Gaef, which we celebrate tonight. We gather to honor Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, and his consort, Aertan, Weaver of Fate, who together rule Gwlad Yr Haf, where the dead await their next turn on the Wheel.”

“We honor you,” the people gathered in Brenin Llys intoned.

“Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather in Gwlad Yr Haf to witness the calling of the dead to a new life. Taran, King of the Winds; Modron, Great Mother of All. Mabon, King of Fire; Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. 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.”

“We celebrate this time,” Gwydion said, calling on Druid’s Fire to ignite the branches of yew and hazel, “around the yew branch, which is the Tree of the Dead. It is the end of the old year, and the beginning of the new. Annwyn and Aertan now walk the Summer Land, and choose who shall be reborn. These spirits who are remembered will surely be sent back to us. Let us call out now the names of the dead whom we beg will be sent back for the next turn of the Wheel.”

“Anierion, Master Bard,” Dudod called.

“Uthyr, King of Gwynedd,” Ygraine said.

“Olwen, Queen of Ederynion,” said Lludd, the dead Queen’s son.

“Urien, King of Rheged,” Owein cried.

“Ellirri, Queen of Rheged,” Prince Rhiwallon said.

“Elphin, Prince of Rheged,” Sanon called out, her arm entwined firmly in Owein’s as she did so.

“Cynan, Ardewin!” Myrrdin called, naming the Ardewin who had been killed by Havgan when the Coranians first came to Kymru.

“Now let us remember the names of the heroes and heroines of Kymru, that they may return to us if there is need,” Gwydion called.

“Taliesin, Fifth Master Bard,” Arthur cried. “Guardian of the Sword!”

“Mannawyddan, Fifth Ardewin,” Rhiannon called. “Guardian of the Stone.”