by Holly Taylor
“No doubt,” Achren said gloomily. “And no doubt I will hear about it every day until next Alban Nerth.”
“But surely you won wherever you stopped for that day,” Trystan said. “I know I did.”
“Of course I did!” Achren exclaimed. “Do you think I don’t know my business?”
“He didn’t say that,” Angharad jumped in. “He said—”
“I heard him,” Achren replied shortly. “And since when does Trystan need you to defend him?”
Both the women’s hands flew to the daggers at their waists. Rhiannon swiftly got to her feet. “I think,” Rhiannon said quietly, “that a brief rest might be in order. After all, you have both traveled far and are no doubt tired.”
Angharad jerked her head at Rhiannon. “Who is she who thinks she knows so much about what does or does not wear out a Captain of Kymru?”
“She’s a civilian,” Achren answered. “She doesn’t know any better. But she’s a friend of mine, so don’t be rude.”
“I, rude?” Angharad asked in astonishment.
“Some might think so,” Achren said with a grin.
“Come, come, ladies,” Trystan said with a warm smile. “Let’s begin again, shall we?”
“What’s that about?” Achren asked with her brow quirked.
“He thinks he’s charming,” Angharad explained seriously.
“Ah, charming.” Achren slowly stood up and leaned over the table toward Trystan. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I am a woman first,” she said quietly. “For, above all, I am the Captain of Prydyn and if you annoy me with your insistence of calling me a ‘lady’ I will wipe the floor with you.”
Trystan rose and planted his hands on the table, his smile gone. “And do not make the mistake of thinking that I won’t hurt a woman,” Trystan said. “If you annoy me further you will find that out for sure.”
“Don’t even think about it, Trystan,” Angharad said, her green eyes flashing. “If you take her on you take me on as well.”
Cai rose at that. “I hardly think that this is constructive,” he began.
But the three other captains turned on him as one. “Shut up!” they exclaimed.
At that, Cai’s face hardened and his brows drew together. In a dangerously quiet tone he said, “Do not even consider angering me. You would not want to see what happens if you do.”
Finally, with a sigh, Gwydion rose, the last one of them to have remained seated. “While this has been very amusing, perhaps if you gave me a few moments of your precious time we could accomplish something.” He did not raise his voice, yet they all slowly sank back into their seats nonetheless.
“Now,” he said when they were all seated and the room was silent, “let me tell you—” But what he saw in the doorway halted him, and the words died on his lips. The others swiveled in their chairs to face the doorway, and Gwydion noted dimly that each of the Captains had their hands on their daggers. A formidable group indeed.
But the figure in the doorway raised his hands in mock surrender. “I give up,” Amatheon said, pretending to cringe in fear.
“Amatheon!” Gwydion exploded. “What in the name of the Shining Ones are you doing here?”
“Interesting question,” Amatheon said as he sauntered into the room. “One I would like an answer to as much as you.” He bowed to Rhiannon and placed a kiss on her palm. “Welcome back, lady, to the land of the living.” Something in his voice, in his eyes, apparently put Rhiannon at ease and she did not take offense. Instead, she smiled faintly.
But before she could speak Gwydion rapidly crossed the room to stand before his younger brother. Amatheon wore riding leathers of silvery gray and his dark hair was pulled back and secured at the nape of his neck with a silver clasp. His Dewin’s torque of silver and a single pearl glittered at his throat. His blue eyes were weary with travel but he smiled at his brother.
“Amatheon,” Gwydion began his voice even but not concealing his anger, “what are you doing here?”
“I tell you, brother, I do not know. I know only that I had to come.”
“And I know only that you have to go!” Gwydion exclaimed.
“Not smart, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said.
Gwydion turned on her. If she was going to defend his brother—
“Even Amatheon does not know why he has come. If that is so, might he not have been called here by a power greater than you? There are powers greater than you, you know,” she said in an acerbic tone. “Or have you forgotten that?”
“I have not forgotten that,” Gwydion said between clenched teeth. “Very well, brother. Be seated.”
Amatheon pulled a chair to the table next to Rhiannon and smiled at her in a way that Gwydion did not like at all. He remembered that the two of them had gone to Y Ty Dewin together and had once been good friends.
“As I was saying before I was interrupted,” Gwydion said in a voice that would freeze fire, “let me tell you why I have asked you to come here. The Shining Ones have commanded me to find Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings of Kymru.”
He braced himself for the inevitable questions. For it was obvious that the sword was needed only because there would be a High King to wield it. Of those in the room there were four that knew who that High King was: Gwydion himself; Rhiannon, for she had stopped at Myrrdin’s hut and managed to piece together the truth; Amatheon, for he had been present the day of Arthur’s birth; and Cai, who had aided Gwydion the night he had taken Arthur away. But the other three, Achren, Trystan and Angharad had no idea who that High King was and Gwydion was sure they would ask.
But they did not. He waited for them to, however, until Achren said, “No, Gwydion, I am not going to ask who the High King is.”
“No point to that,” Angharad chimed in.
“Because you won’t tell us anyway,” Trystan said.
“Which is just like you,” said Cai, attempting to further conceal his knowledge.
“Well,” Gwydion said, clearing his throat, “in that case, I’ll just go on.”
“Please do,” Rhiannon invited him sweetly.
Gwydion scowled. “Some months ago I had a dream. And in that dream I saw a dragon, the symbol of the Dewin. And then I saw Bran, the Fifth Dreamer. Bran held out a book, and when I awoke I took that book and found in the lining a parchment that had been hidden there.” Gwydion picked up the parchment and read:
I gave a secret to my daughter,
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 this secret,
A secret that she does not know.
“And just what did that piece of nonsense mean?” Achren demanded.
“It meant that Bran had left a clue, a memory in the mind of his daughter. And this unconscious memory was so powerful that she passed it to her grandson and so on, all unknowing. As I traced the family tree I realized that the poem pointed to one of two women, Dewin in the twelfth generation of Llyr—Arianrod or Rhiannon. Naturally I tested Arianrod, but the memory was not in her.”
“That must have made her well and truly mad,” Angharad murmured. Rhiannon tried to hide her smile behind her hands, but Gwydion saw it. He raised his brow but both women looked at him in exaggerated innocence.
He went on. “So I knew I must find Rhiannon to get that memory. I did not know, at that time, who else was needed to accomplish the task of finding the sword. That understanding came later, as I stopped at Cadair Idris and spoke to the Guardian of the Doors. She, too, had a message for me from Bran given her when he bound her to the mountain. And the message was that I must ask the guidance of the High Kings themselves.”
They were silent as Gwydion described his night at Galor Carreg, the burial mounds of the High Kings. “At last they came, and they gave me a poem. This is what they said
:
On winter’s first day
Shall the trees
Face the Guardians.
On winter’s first day
Shall the trees
Do battle.
The alder tree, loyal and patient,
Formed the van.
The aspen-wood, quickly moving,
Was valiant against the enemy.
The hawthorn, with pain at its hand,
Fought on the flanks.
Hazel-tree did not go aside a foot
It would fight with the center.
And when it was over
The trees covered the beloved dead,
And transformed the Y Dawnus,
From their faded state,
Until the two were one,
In strength and purpose,
And raised up that which they had sought.
On winter’s first day,
The one who is loved shall die.
And tears will overwhelm
The lonely heart.
“I knew then,” Gwydion went on, “that I would need the four Captains of Kymru. For they are the trees referred to in the poem. Cai is PenGwernan, the head of the alder. And Angharad is PenAethnen, the head of the aspen. Trystan is PenDraenenwen, the head of the hawthorn, and Achren is PenCollen, the head of the hazel. And, somehow, you would all be vital to finding the sword.”
“And the Y Dawnus identified in the next to the last stanza?” Cai prompted. “That would be?”
Gwydion had no intention of telling them that the High Kings had said another Y Dawnus was to come, compelled without knowing why. For he was acutely conscious of the song’s last stanza—that one who is loved shall die. He was horribly afraid that he knew who that would be. “That would be Rhiannon and myself,” he said, looking hard at Amatheon. “And no one else.”
But Amatheon merely smiled and did not answer.
“My quest for Rhiannon was successful and she has agreed to help us,” Gwydion said, inclining his head in Rhiannon’s direction.
“And her message from Bran?” Achren asked.
“Has yet to be heard.”
“Then how can you be sure she holds it?” Cai asked.
“Because she was almost killed to prevent her from sharing it,” Gwydion said.
“Obviously you won the fight,” Achren said to Rhiannon in a conversational tone.
Rhiannon nodded. “I used the move you taught me years ago.”
“I told you it would work,” Achren pointed out.
“So you did,” Rhiannon said with a smile.
“Are you ready, Rhiannon?” Gwydion asked.
“I am.”
“Amatheon,” Gwydion said, “be prepared to write down what she says.”
Amatheon picked up fresh parchment, ink and quill from the table and signaled to Gwydion that he was ready.
Gwydion left his chair and came to stand next to Rhiannon. “Face me,” he commanded, and gently placed his hands on either side of her head. “You are on a plain with wildflowers at your feet,” he began, his voice low and soothing. He guided her with his words across the plain into the rowan tree and to the well beneath the tree, the well of memory. “You stretch out your hand and cup the water in your palm. You drink.” He took a deep breath for this was the moment. “As you drink, what do you see?”
“I see a man,” Rhiannon answered, her voice dreamy. “He is dressed in black and opals. His smile welcomes me, but there is such sadness there I think my heart will break for him. Such sadness, such loss. And yet there is wisdom, payment for the grief, the sorrow he has endured.”
“What is he saying to you?” Gwydion asked, his voice even. He motioned for Amatheon to write.
Seek Hard Gash
At the Battles of Betrayal.
Y Dawnus, joined together,
Guarded by alder and aspen,
By hawthorn and hazel,
Shall walk the corridors of time
And piece together
The broken circle.
Then shall the Guardians go
Horse and hawk,
Wolf and swan,
To their appointed places.
Thus will Trees and Y Dawnus,
Guardians and the dead
Meet together
On winter’s first day.
Gwydion brought Rhiannon back slowly, having her ascend the tree trunk and taking her back to the plain. “Wake up,” he commanded.
She opened her eyes. “Well?” she asked. “Did I have it? The message?”
“You did indeed,” Gwydion answered and, nodding to Amatheon, he had his brother recite the poem.
“Hard Gash,” Trystan mused. “Caladfwlch.”
“Yes,” Gwydion said. “To be sought at the Battles of Betrayal.”
“Which are?” Cai asked.
“There are four,” Rhiannon said quietly. “The first is the Battle of Naid Ronwen, Ronwen’s Leap, where Queen Gwynledyr of Gwynedd killed her husband for his betrayal and where Ronwen, her husband’s mistress, jumped to her death, taking her little girl with her.”
“The second is the Battle of Galor Penduran, “Amatheon said, “Penduran’s Sorrow, where King Pryderi led an army against his father, High King Idris, and killed Llyr, the first Dreamer.”
“The third is the Battle of Duir Dan,” Rhiannon continued, “Druid’s Fire, where the twin brothers, King Caradoc of Ederynion and King Cadwallon of Rheged battled. They were finally stopped by their mother, who led an army of Druids to halt the battle.”
“The last is the Battle of Ynad Bran, Bran’s Justice, where he rightly condemned his mistress and son to death for their murder of King Llywelyn of Ederynion,” Amatheon said. He looked back at the others. “Rhiannon and I had a history teacher at Y Ty Dewin who was very big on battles. We had to memorize everything about them.”
“I see,” Trystan said with mock gravity.
“So we must journey to each of these places,” Angharad said. “Naid Ronwen in Gwynedd, Ynad Bran in Ederynion, Duir Dan in Rheged, and Galor Penduran in Prydyn.”
“These are the places I saw in my dream,” Gwydion murmured, and wondered how he could not have realized this sooner. For this was the dream he had had the night he had given Arthur over to Myrrdin’s care; the dream where, in raven’s shape, he had visited the sites of these battles, tasting the grief of those who had participated in the campaigns. He periodically still had that dream, but was never able to deduce its meaning. The others were looking at him, and he shrugged. “Just a dream that I now understand,” he said.
As one they stared down again at the poem that Amatheon had written out from Rhiannon’s memory.
“What of the part about the Y Dawnus?” Trystan asked. “It says that they are joined together, guarded by what must be we Captains. Who does the Y Dawnus refer to?”
“Again, it must refer to Rhiannon and myself,” Gwydion said in a tone that brooked no argument. But from this group, argument was to be expected.
“How can you be so sure?” Angharad asked. “Suppose you two are not the proper Y Dawnus?”
“We must be,” Gwydion insisted. “For we are the two that have been brought together from Bran’s messages to me.”
“It does not say that here are only two,” Rhiannon said.
Gwydion ignored her and braced himself for Amatheon to put in a word but his brother still remained curiously silent, merely frowning down at the poem.
“What does it mean to walk the corridors of time?” Trystan asked. “Isn’t that something only the Dreamer can do?”
“Normally, yes,” Gwydion admitted. “But somehow, in this case, I will only be able to do that with the help of another Y Dawnus—and the Captains.”
“How do you know it is you who will walk in the past?” Rhiannon put in. “It might be me.”
“It is a Dreamer’s gift,” Gwydion said tightly. “Nobody else could possibly do it.”
“I might just surprise you.”
You already have, Gwydio
n thought. “The broken circle, now. I have no idea what that is.”
“A message of some kind, I expect,” Trystan said. “But what kind I do not know.”
“I see we haven’t much time,” Rhiannon said. “It says here we must confront these Guardians on Calan Gaef, the first day of winter. That’s only five weeks away.”
“Indeed,” Gwydion said. “We must hurry.”
“Who are these Guardians?” Cai asked. “The horse and hawk, the wolf and the swan. These are the symbols of the four kingdoms. Could that mean our Rulers?”
“I think not,” Gwydion said with a frown. “I think it refers to the animals themselves.”
“Going to what appointed place?” Achren asked. “It says that the trees—which means us—shall bend them to our will. But what do they guard? The sword itself? Or a clue to its whereabouts?”
“Who can say at this point?” Amatheon put in. “No doubt it will become clear to us as we search.”
“That is a search,” Gwydion said sharply, “that you will not be taking part in.”
“But I will, brother,” Amatheon said quietly. “For why else was I called here?”
“I do not believe for one moment that you were ‘called’ here,” Gwydion lied. For, in his heart, he thought that Amatheon had indeed been compelled to come to Caer Dathyl as he had said. In his heart he knew that his brother was meant to accompany them. But how—in the name of all the gods—how could he possibly let his brother come? For the last stanza of Rhiannon’s poem was burned into his brain:
One winter’s first day,
The one who is loved shall die.
And tears will overwhelm
The lonely heart.
Was his heart not already lonely? And whose death would surely overwhelm him? Whose death if not Amatheon’s? No, he could not let his brother come with them. He could not.
“You do not believe I was called here?” Amatheon asked incredulously. “You think that I am lying?”
“I did not say that—” Gwydion began.
“How could you believe that?” Amatheon went on, his blue eyes wide with shock and distress. “How could you?”
Gwydion floundered, for he did not mean to hurt Amatheon. But then he hardened his heart. He was going to save Amatheon’s life, no matter what. Even at the expense of his brother’s love. But he had reckoned without Rhiannon.
