by Holly Taylor
Gwydion grinned. “I’ll back you against a blizzard any day.”
For the first time in a long time Dinaswyn laughed. Gwydion was surprised at how pleased he was to hear that sound. “I suggest, my dear aunt that you think of a good excuse to be in Tegeingl just now,” he went on.
She frowned thoughtfully. “The Calan Morynion celebration is coming up in a few weeks time. As the most important woman there, I would lead the festival. Everyone at Tegeingl would say that I had really come to push myself to the forefront of the celebration, assuming it was the pride of a crotchety old woman shunted into the background before her time that brings me there.”
“I like it,” Gwydion said decisively.
“You should. It has the merit of being true,” she said with a bitter smile.
“There’s more to you than that.”
She cocked her head at him. “Too smart for your own good, or for mine. Do me one favor in return.”
“What?” he asked warily.
“When the time comes, when the test is truly upon us, don’t forget me. Use me. Promise.” Her gray eyes blazed and her voice held an urgency that he had never heard from her before. “Help me to make my life mean something. And my death.”
“I promise that I will give you a task,” Gwydion replied steadily. “But I will not let it lead to your death.”
“That’s my business, Gwydion,” she replied cool as ever. It was enough to make Gwydion think he had imagined the fire he had seen in his aunt’s eyes just a moment ago. “Write your letter then, nephew,” she continued. “I leave tomorrow.”
She turned and made to leave the room. But she stopped at the doorway, her hand on the door handle. Without turning around she said, “Good night, Gwydion. I wish you interesting dreams.”
GWYDION FORCED HIMSELF to relax and sip his wine. He glanced at the stairs that led up to his sleeping chamber. Soon he must go up those stairs to sleep, possibly to dream.
But for now his task must be to keep his promise to his brother. As the first step, he must write a letter to Uthyr that only his brother would understand. Finding ink and parchment buried under a mound of books, he sat at the table and began to write.
My dearest brother:
How long it has been since I have last seen you. The years seem to fly by too swiftly, leaving a cold trail of unfulfilled promises behind.
I often find myself remembering that terrible storm that frightened us so when we were children. And I remember so clearly that evening by the birch tree under the waning moon. How I wish that we could go back to that time together.
Blessing to you, brother, from
Gwydion
That should do it, he thought. He was quite sure that in a month and a half, in the month of Bedwen, the month of the birch, in the week of Lleihau, the waning moon, Uthyr would meet him at the blasted oak in Coed Dulas. That same oak which had been struck by lightning during a storm long, long ago, while he and Uthyr had watched with horrified eyes, on the day that Uthyr had saved Gwydion’s life.
He again perused the stairs that headed upward toward the bedchamber. Time to dream, he thought, as he folded up the letter, sealing it with wax from the candle. When he was done, he extinguished it. The dying fire glowed feebly, and the shadows multiplied.
He mounted the steps to the sleeping chamber. In the middle of the chamber lay a simple pallet, and next to it a small brazier burned. The roof was clear glass, allowing Gwydion to look up at the stars that wheeled overhead and at the waning moon. He discarded his robe and lay down naked on the pallet. He gazed at the stars that filled the winter night, trying to calm his breathing and clear his mind.
His gaze rested on the constellation of Ystwyth. It wound like a river of molten silver, flowing through the night sky. As his eyes followed the winding road of the huge constellation he thought of the twists and turns and winding paths he took to ensure that he did what was required of him. He wondered if it would ever be enough. In musing about these things, he fell into a troubled sleep.
HE WAS ALONE in a tiny clearing within a dark wood. The trees hovered threateningly over him, their limbs blocking out the sky. Here and there bright beams of sunlight laboriously made their way through the branches, splashing small bits of light at his feet. The twisted trunks cast black, silent shadows that stained the ground, doing their best to obliterate the little sunlight that got through their heavy guard. The forest was utterly silent. No birds sang and no small animals rustled through the undergrowth.
He was naked and he shivered, for the air was cold beneath the trees. He lifted his hands to call fire to warm him, but nothing happened. Frantically he tried to Wind-Ride, to send his spirit up over the trees in an effort to find his way out of this dark prison. But his spirit remained fettered to his chilled body. He tried to Mind-Speak, calling out with his mind for help to anyone who might be close enough to hear. But he could not. Even his mind-voice was trapped. All his powers had deserted him, and he stood naked and defenseless under the brooding, malevolent trees.
Suddenly a streak of silver light shot down from the sky and into the forest itself. The silver light transformed, coalescing into the form of a dragon. The forest was silent as the dragon looked at him with large, green eyes. Sunlight dappled her silver scales, and he saw that around her sinuous neck hung a silver torque with a pendant of luminous pearl.
“Come,” she said, speaking directly to his tired mind. Wearily, he managed to scramble onto her back. She shot from the ground and up through the trees.
And then they were out into the clean, crisp air, hovering far above the forest. He saw the dark forest beneath him, spreading like a stain on the green land. Ahead of him he saw a lake, glinting deep blue in the shining warm light of day.
Gently she landed by the lake and he dismounted, looking up at her. She lowered her head and gave him a mighty shove dumping him in the cool, clear water. He came up sputtering and he heard her laughter in his head, like the sound of silver bells. He grinned then, sharing in her laughter. He swam with delight, diving to the bottom of the lake and shooting to the surface to breathe the clean air. He cavorted in the water, feeling a joy he had never felt before. At last he made his way to the shore.
The dragon was gone. In her place was a man in Dreamer’s robes of black and red. The man’s long, auburn hair was clasped at the nape of his neck with a band of opals. His gray eyes, so like Gwydion’s own, shone silver.
Gwydion’s breath caught in his throat, for he knew this man. Bran ap Iweridd, the Dreamer to High King Lleu, held a book in his hands. The book had a binding of purple and gold and Bran held the tome out to Gwydion. Gwydion reached out, knowing that the book held the clue he had so desperately sought. But as his hands touched the book the scene melted, the book faded. He saw the brief image of an alder tree, silhouetted against a waxing moon. And then everything went dark.
HE WOKE ON his pallet with a start. It was night outside and he could tell that only a few moments had passed since he had fallen asleep. Cursing himself for a fool—for he recognized the book—he jumped up and hastily donned his robe, rushing down the steps to his study.
He located the book instantly. It was an innocuous book, a brief history of Kymru written for schoolchildren. But as the book was written when Bran himself was a child, and ended with the death of High King Macsen, Gwydion had rarely given it a second glance. Now he cradled the book in his hands, sitting by the hearth. He gestured absently and every candle in the room lit up. He opened the book but stopped, for he felt a bump in the binding, something that should not have been there.
He set the book down on the hearth, its cover open. Gingerly he gave the binding a twist. The parchment that was glued to the leather of the back cover split slightly to uncover a differently colored parchment beneath. Hardly daring to breathe, Gwydion gently pulled out the second parchment.
The handwriting was somewhat faded, but Gwydion had no trouble deciphering the message.
I gave a secret to my d
aughter,
So secret that she did not know.
And to her grandson she did give it,
A secret those Dreamers did not know.
And to his granddaughter he did give it,
This secret that they did not know,
In her granddaughter lies the secret,
A secret that she does not know.
Of course. Bran had planted in his daughter’s mind a clue, a piece of subconscious information she had carried without being aware of it. And that information had been passed down from generation to generation through a process that only those of the House of Llyr possessed. The question was who was it in this generation that, all unknowingly, carried Bran’s clue to the location of the sword?
He located and pulled out the Book of the Blood, the charts that traced the bloodlines of the House of Llyr. Referencing the poem, he saw that Bran had given the message to his daughter, Dremas, the next Dreamer. And she had passed it on to her grandson, Amatheon, the Eighth Dreamer. He, in turn, had passed it on to his granddaughter, Darun, the Tenth Dreamer. Darun had two granddaughters still alive. One was Arianrod, who was here in Caer Dathyl right now. He hoped with all his heart that she was the one who held Bran’s message, for the other granddaughter was Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. And Rhiannon had disappeared from the face of Kymru years ago, and since then there had not been the slightest whisper of her whereabouts.
Even the fact that the animal in his dream was a silver dragon did not reveal which of these two women held Bran’s message. Although the silver dragon was the emblem for the Dewin, it was a creature that accurately described both women.
It galled him that his quest for the sword should be dependent upon a woman. But that it should be dependent upon those two women galled him even more. For Arianrod was vain and selfish, and Rhiannon was childish and irresponsible. Rhiannon had fallen in love with the King of Prydyn, and refused to accept the task of Ardewin, the task for which she had been born, later disappearing in a fit of pique and taking her infant daughter with her.
He hoped he was not going to have to search the length and breadth of Kymru for her. The last dream image of the waxing moon and the alder tree clearly told him that he must begin the search for the sword by the fourth week of Ysgawen Mis, the month of the alder tree. It was now winter, and Ysgawen Mis was in the fall, but that would barely be enough time if he must accomplish the task of finding Rhiannon—a task at which all of King Rhoram’s men had failed eleven years ago.
He sighed. He had successfully avoided Arianrod until now. But this would not get any better for waiting. He would have to test her now, tonight, and hope that she was the one.
HE DESCENDED THE stairs of the tower with Druid’s Fire cupped in his hand to light the way. At the first level he turned left down the dark, rounded corridor. He passed Dinaswyn’s rooms. No light shown beneath the door as he crept silently by. He came to the door of Arianrod’s chambers and stopped. Light glowed beneath the door. He hoped she was alone. It would be awkward to get her attention if she had a man with her.
He knocked and within a few moments the door opened. The chamber, shaped like an arc, was lit with dozens of candles. On the far wall was a large, four-poster featherbed, with a headboard rounded to fit against the wall. Hangings of sheer, rose-colored silk wafted around the bed, drifting to the polished oak floor. Her rose silk bedcover shimmered in the candlelight, reflected in the ornate mirror that adorned the wall over the headboard. Large wardrobes covered another wall, filled, Gwydion knew, with countless gowns, presents from her many lovers. A large dressing table and chair were against the last wall, and the table was covered with small glass bottles and carelessly strewn jewels.
Arianrod herself glowed in the candlelight like a precious gem. Her honey-blond hair, thick and wavy, hung like a shimmering curtain down to her thighs. It was the kind of hair that any man would ache to run his hands through. And Gwydion had, often enough.
Over her high cheekbones, her almond-shaped amber eyes glinted at him beneath dark eyebrows. Light glimmered off her night robe of ivory-colored velvet, open low in the front to reveal that she wore nothing underneath. A necklace of beaded amber encircled her slim neck and long, golden earrings hung from her delicate ears. Her lily-scented perfume wafted toward him.
“Gwydion,” she said in her honeyed tone, and her wide, full mouth smiled lazily. “Still awake? You work too hard, cariad.”
He wondered if he should just go ahead, submit to temptation, and take her now without any further talk. Get it done, so he could get rid of her and move on to more important things.
He mused about what she had really wanted from him in the beginning, many years ago. He understood that she had wanted him for a lover because he was the Dreamer, one of the most powerful men in Kymru. Arianrod craved power for the security she thought it would bring, craved it to replace all that she had lost as a child when her parents had sailed away for Corania, never to return.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said flatly when he did not answer her.
“I have, yes.”
“Why?”
“Arianrod, we have more important things to talk about.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a dream I had.”
“Ah, and you need me for something. Of course, why else would you be here? After all, using people is what you do best.”
Oh, she always knew just where to put the knife. And never hesitated to use it. And knew just when to twist it. Just like his mother.
He ignored the jibe, as he had learned to do long ago. “I dreamed of Bran. He planted a clue, a subconscious memory into his descendants. You are one of the two women who might hold that clue.”
“And the other?”
“Is Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.”
“Rhiannon! That fool,” Arianrod said contemptuously. “You won’t find that she holds anything important. Go ahead, then, Gwydion, search for the memory.”
She crossed the room and settled herself on the chair before the dressing table.
He came to stand before her and gently placed his hands on either side of her head. “Close your eyes,” he said quietly and she did so. “You are on a plain covered with wildflowers. Overhead the sky is clear, the golden sun spills down. A stream of clear, cool water runs across the plain, forming a pool at your feet.”
As he spoke soothingly, Arianrod’s head began to droop and her breathing slowed. He continued. “Before you is a rowan tree, with open branches that reach to the sky. It is covered with knots of tiny white flowers. Clusters of red berries glow within the branches. You approach the tree, for this is the tree of the House of Llyr, your House. You stretch out your hand to touch the bark and find that your hand sinks into the tree itself. You step forward, entering the hollow trunk. You descend down, down into the earth until you reach the roots of the tree.
“And there you see a well, filled with cool water. You stretch out your hand and cup the water in your palm. You drink. And as you drink, what do you see?”
He waited, but Arianrod said nothing. Her breathing was slow and even. He lifted her hand and let it go. It stayed in the air, as it should. He sighed. Arianrod did not hold the memory he sought, for it was obvious that she saw nothing, that she had no message for him. He brought her back slowly, having her climb the trunk of the tree and back to the plain.
“Wake up,” he commanded, his hands still cradling her head.
Arianrod started awake, her eyelids fluttering. “Well?” she asked expectantly. “What did I say?”
“Nothing,” he said shortly. “You do not hold the memory.”
Her eyes glinted. “I see,” she said. “So, you must find Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Well, that will be interesting. Maybe you can get her to fall in love with you. Then you can use her any way you want.”
“I didn’t ask to have to find her,” Gwydion said, stung.
“But you must, surely, look forward to using her,” she taunted. “Since you are done with me.”
“Arianrod—”
“Come now, Gwydion. You and I, we understand each other. Don’t we?”
“I understand you. I’m not at all sure you can return the compliment.”
“Oh, but I can. I know what you are. And what you want.”
“No you don’t.”
“I believe that I do. What’s the matter, Gwydion,” she went on with a smile. “Afraid I’ll stab you in your bath?”
At this his clenched his hands into fists, to keep himself from striking her. No one talked about that. No one reminded him of what happened all those years ago. Swiftly he leapt toward her and grabbed her wrist. His face was drained of all color, twisted with pain. His gray eyes blazed. “Never speak of him to me again. Do you understand?” He shook her. “Do you understand?”
She laughed, for she did not fear him. Enraged, he lifted his hand to strike her, but caught himself. He had never struck a woman in his life, and he would not do so now. He rushed from the room and stumbled down the hall to his tower. He mounted the stairs, shaking. He made his way into the study and slowly sank into his chair. Unbidden, the memories flooded over him. Unwillingly, fighting every step of the way, he thought of his father, whom he had loved. And he thought of his mother and what she had done to them both.
HOW MANY TIMES when Gwydion was a young boy had he seen his father? He could count the times on one hand. For whenever Awst would come home to Caer Dathyl he only stayed a few days before Celemon’s anger, her emotional outbursts, her jealousy drove her husband away again.
Gwydion clearly remembered the time when he was only six years old. He hadn’t seen his father for over a year. Waking up early, he roused his younger brother, and the two of them made their way to the kitchens to see if the cook would give them a little something before breakfast. They had stumbled into the busy kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep. Awst had been there, sitting on the hearth. They hurled themselves into their father’s waiting arms, shouting for joy. Gwydion remembered the feel of his father’s strong arms about him, the love and pride and joy in his father’s face. Gwydion had felt safe, loved, and truly happy.
