by Holly Taylor
Myrrdin continued to content himself with sitting by the fire in his tiny hut. If Neuad or Edwy saw him and recognized him, they might involuntarily betray who he was. And that must be avoided at all costs. He was, after all, supposed to be dead these many years. Still humming under his breath, he waited and watched as the warriors and their prisoners entered the village.
So it began. With impeccable timing, the sheep began to swarm over the road from all directions, breaking into the six warriors and their two prisoners just as they came to a halt beneath the spreading branches of the oak tree. The Coranians began pushing at the sheep with their shields, trying to fend them off. One or two warriors wobbled on their feet, almost thrown off balance by the press. Seeing their moment, Neuad and Edwy began to edge away from their captors.
At that moment, two men of the village began to shout, each accusing the other of trying to hog the road.
“You there. Onnen!” one of the men shouted. “Your sheep are blocking my way! And not for the first time, you weasel!”
“Stow it, Cryn,” Onnen bellowed. “I know what you’re trying to do—steal my sheep. I’ll have you before the law for this!”
A few of the women ran up from where they stood by the well, still carrying buckets of water. One of the women, tall and raw boned, began to shout. “Leave my man be, Onnen, or I’ll drench you! That will cool you down somewhat!”
“You wouldn’t dare, Marwen!”
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Marwen picked up her bucket and threw. Some of the water did, indeed, splash on Onnen. But most of it inexplicably drenched the Coranian warriors.
Two dogs now entered the fray, snarling and barking. One woman reached Marwen and grabbed her by the hair, flinging her to the ground. “You leave Onnen alone or I’ll cut your heart out!” the woman shrieked.
Onnen and Cryn ran to the women and tried to break up the fight. But somehow the two men fell to wrangling instead and, in their struggle, hurled themselves straight at the Captain, bowling him off his feet.
At that moment, with the warriors completely distracted from their prisoners, Arthur dropped from the tree branches and cut Neuad’s bonds. Neuad, quick as lightning, grabbed Arthur’s knife and plunged it into Edwy’s heart. The Bard fell to the ground, his dying moan of agony drowned out by the shouting.
After a moment of shock, Arthur recovered his wits and grabbed Neuad’s hand, then the two were off and running, ducking behind the huts, disappearing into the mountains.
MANY HOURS LATER, Myrrdin finally heard footsteps coming up the back path. About time, he grumbled to himself. He had not tracked them with his Wind-Riding for he had been concerned that the fracas in the village not end in bloodshed for the villagers. After Arthur and Neuad had escaped, Myrrdin had gone charging out of the hut, shouting imprecations at the villagers, breaking up the fight, soothing the Coranian Captain, and mourning, with as much sincerity as possible, the death of Edwy. He had no idea why Neuad had killed the Bard, but he was sure Neuad had her reasons.
The Captain had, at last, left the village with his men, taking the body of Edwy with them. At first the Captain had been enraged, calling on his men to take the heads of everyone in the village. But the number of men and women who had stolidly faced the Captain and his five men had dissuaded him. Myrrdin had offered the Captain food in compensation for the trouble they had caused, explaining all the while what a sorry accident it was. And so the Captain had allowed himself to be mollified, and the warriors had left some hours ago. As near as Myrrdin could tell from the Captain’s comments, the man had no idea that he had captured a Dewin and a Bard. Just who he thought they were, why he had taken them prisoner, was not clear.
Well, Myrrdin thought with a sigh, he was about to find out. He had told Arthur not to bring Neuad back here. But the boy had quite obviously ignored that request.
The door leading into the hut from the sheep byre opened, and Arthur entered, followed by Neuad. Her tunic and trousers of brown leather were torn and stained, and her golden hair was tangled. There were lines of care on her face now, and her cheekbones stood out starkly. She was thin, far too thin. But her blue eyes lit up with the same glow he remembered from long ago when she saw him.
“Myrrdin,” she said, wonder in her soft voice. “You’re alive!” She ran to him, and before he could stop her (and he didn’t think he even wanted to), she had her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. Without conscious volition, his arms came up and encircled her slim body. After a moment he realized that though he might be sixty-two years old, his body had forgotten that important fact, and he pulled her arms from his neck and set her away from him.
“Neuad, child,” he said, deliberately reminding them both that he was old enough to be her father, “how glad I am to see you.”
“And I to see you, Ardewin,” she breathed, her heart in her eyes.
“But you have not, Neuad,” he said sharply. “I am not the Ardewin, and have not been for many years. Nor have you seen this boy. You saw an old man and his grandnephew. And that is all you saw. Do you understand?”
She shook her head, “I—”
“Do you understand?” he asked, harshly.
She glanced at the boy who stood so quietly by the door, then back at Myrrdin. Her eyes held questions that she would not ask. But then her gaze went to Arthur again. As her eyes widened, Myrrdin saw that she did, indeed, understand. She had, after all, been the Dewin for King Uthyr and Queen Ygraine for many years, and their echoes were clear on their son’s face for those who had eyes to see.
At last she turned back to Myrrdin, then nodded. “Yes, I understand. An old man and his grandnephew helped me to get away.”
“Good,” he smiled.
“This is my story to everyone?” she inquired delicately.
“To everyone,” Myrrdin said grimly. “Including my sister.”
“Dinaswyn does not—”
“No. Only the Dreamer. And so it must remain for a time yet.”
“But Ygraine? Morrigan?” she asked, naming Arthur’s mother and sister. At the question, Arthur turned his face away, the scar on his cheek whitening as he set his jaw.
“No one,” Myrrdin repeated.
Neuad nodded, then abruptly sat down on the rough bench against the wall.
“You are tired, my dear,” Myrrdin said gently. “Hungry and thirsty, no doubt, also. Arthur, will you get our guest something to drink?” There was no use using another name for the boy. It was too late for that.
Arthur, his young face tight and set, nodded, crossing the tiny room to the wooden cupboard next to the hearth. He poured a measure of ale for Neuad into a plain wooden cup, then sat next to her on the bench, holding the drink up to her.
Smiling—oh, gods, she did have such a beautiful smile—she took the cup. Arthur’s face relaxed a little as she murmured her thanks. Myrrdin ladled the stew into trenchers of bread and set them on the table, gesturing for Neuad and Arthur to eat.
Neuad ate ravenously, not speaking until Myrrdin had filled up her trencher twice. At last she slowed, then smiled apologetically at them both. “Please excuse my rudeness. I haven’t been eating too well lately.”
“When did they take you?”
“Three days ago, on the border of Is Gwyrfai and Rosyr. We were coming back from Dolbadarn.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Spying out the town. Taking stock. They just finished a temple there a few weeks ago. The Master Bard and the Ardewin sent word that they wanted to know how the defenses stood. So Edwy and I went. We were only a day away from Mynydd Tawel when we were taken.”
“Why did they take you? Did they know who you were?”
Neuad shook her head. “No.”
“Then why did they take you?”
She shrugged. “We had no excuse to be where we were. They thought we were Cerddorian. They were taking us to Tegeingl, to Madoc.”
“To Catha, you mean,” Myrrdin corrected. “Madoc has no power there but what
Catha gives him. And the General gives him precious little.”
“Madoc would have recognized me, though. I was Uthyr’s Dewin for thirteen years. If worse had come to worse, I could have committed suicide by Wind-Riding, killed myself simply by not returning to my body.”
“Why did you kill him?” Arthur asked suddenly.
“Edwy? I watched him. I knew that when we got to Tegeingl, he would start talking.”
“But if you hadn’t killed him, we could have rescued you both!” Arthur exclaimed. “And there would have been no danger of him giving anything away.”
Neuad shook her head. “But if we had been recaptured—and it was a possibility—he would have broken. There are too many people in Mynydd Tawel, too many Cerddorian in Gwynedd, to take that risk. Edwy was a Bard, and he knew a great deal—enough to be dangerous, since he couldn’t be trusted. Trust is too important among the Cerddorian to be taken lightly.”
“Why are you one of them?” Arthur asked.
Neuad glanced at Myrrdin in bewilderment, but he kept his face noncommittal. She turned back to Arthur. “Do you mean, why do we fight for our freedom?”
“Yes.”
“Because the Dreamer told us to. He promised that, one day, the High King would come back to us.”
“Gwydion!” Arthur spat. “You trust him?”
“Why not? He is the Dreamer.”
“He plays his own game. He uses people. He throws them away and doesn’t care. He lets them die, if it suits him.” Arthur’s brown eyes held the sheen of tears.
“King Uthyr chose to stay and face the enemy,” Neuad said gently. “I have heard tell that, when Gwydion and Rhiannon came to warn him, the Dreamer begged Uthyr to leave Tegeingl, begged him not to fight.”
“But did the Dreamer tell King Uthyr that he would die?” Arthur challenged.
“He didn’t have to. Uthyr already knew.”
Arthur turned his face away, but Neuad gently took him by the chin and made him look at her. “You look so very much like him,” she said softly. “And like your mother, too. Those are her eyes. Tell me, where did you get that scar?”
The scar on Arthur’s face whitened. He jerked his head away, but answered her question. “A bird attacked me. Two years ago.”
“A bird?” Neuad’s brow rose. “What kind of bird?”
“Yes, Arthur,” Myrrdin said gently. “Tell her what kind of bird.”
“An eagle,” Arthur said sullenly.
“Not—” Neuad began.
“Yes,” Myrrdin said. “Arderydd. He came to the boy on the mountain. And marked him.”
“And still,” Neuad said softly, “you question why we fight? And still, you don’t believe the words of the Dreamer? Oh, Arthur, is it nothing to you that we live in bondage? Nothing to you that we want to be free?”
Myrrdin leaned forward slightly. He knew the boy better than anyone else in the world, but still he did not know how Arthur would respond.
But Arthur did not answer.
CAI AP CYNYR, Captain of the Cerddorian of Gwynedd, scanned the surrounding mountains from his perch on the top of Mynydd Tawel. It was foolish, he knew. There was nothing he could see with his eyes that the Dewin could not see better while Wind-Riding. But still he had come up here to the very top of the highest mountain in Eyri, looking for signs of their return. Neuad and Edwy were long overdue.
Susanna had contacted the other band of Cerddorian, in Coed Arllech, led by Isgowen ur Banon, the Lady of Arfon. But neither Isogwen nor her people had seen or heard from the Dewin or the Bard.
The dying rays of the sinking sun edged the surrounding mountains in bold relief, their purple hues fading to black. Soon he would have to go back down and join the others. The wind ruffled his shoulder-length brown hair and caused his dark cloak to billow around him. It stung his tanned, lined face and he narrowed his brown eyes, as he searched for signs that they were returning. But there was nothing to see.
Perhaps Neuad was dead. If he could still weep, he would have. But he could not. He had wept too many tears at the deaths of his wife and son to have any left now. Two years had passed since the battle when Nest and Garanwyn had lost their lives. Yet still the wound was as raw and fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
Poor Neuad was so young and so beautiful. She had been a good friend to him for many years. She had been the Dewin in Tegeingl while he had been Uthyr’s Captain. He had not really known just how lucky he was in the old days. A wife and son whom he loved. A King who had been his friend. Men and women under his command, companions for many years.
And now? His King was dead. His wife and son were dead. Many of his friends had died in the final battle—the battle in which Uthyr had not allowed him to fight. He had done what Uthyr wanted. He had taken Queen Ygraine away. He had served and protected Morrigan, Uthyr’s daughter. He had gathered the survivors together to continue their fight from these mountains. But it had gained him nothing. All love and laughter had gone out of the world two years ago, never to return.
Until lately. It had been coming for a long time. It was hard to face the fact that he loved again. But love again, he did. He loved someone with hair of red-gold. He loved someone with beautiful blue eyes. He loved someone with a voice as rich as cream, with a wide smile and ready laughter. Someone—
“Ygraine says it’s time to come down. It’s too dark to see anything now.”
Quickly he turned. He should have heard her coming. It was true that she always moved softly and gracefully. And it was true he had been preoccupied. But there was no excuse. He was silent for a moment, taking her in. Her red-gold hair was loosed from its braid and tossed about by the breeze. Her wide blue eyes smiled at him, and her mouth quirked in amusement. She wore a simple tunic and trousers of brown leather. Her cloak of dark green streamed behind her in the wind.
“Cai?”
“Yes, Susanna?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” he snapped. “Yes, of course, there’s something wrong. Neuad and Edwy.”
“Maybe they will send us word tonight,” she said, her voice soothing. “I could hear Edwy, if he called. So could Gwrhyr. And Dinaswyn could receive a message from either one of them. You don’t know that they are in trouble.”
“Of course, they are in trouble, Susanna,” he said impatiently. “Let’s not pretend about that.”
“All right, I won’t.” Her voice was patient, but her blue eyes were beginning to snap. “But standing up here on the mountain won’t help them, will it?”
Cai shook his head, then motioned for her to go ahead of him. On the way back down, he never once took his eyes from her.
THE EVENING MEAL over, Cai waited for the rest of them to settle around the fire. Small fires glowed here and there among the trees that lined the mountain slope. Soon the men, women, and children who sheltered here would retire to the caves that pockmarked the mountain. There was no danger from lighting fires. For one thing, this valley within Mynydd Tawel was thoroughly sheltered by the surrounding mountains. For another, the Bards and Dewin who lived here were on watch. They would be able to spot a potential intruder many leagues away—even at night.
Duach, Uthyr’s former doorkeeper, was already here. Duach was now the Lord of Dunoding since his father had been killed in the invasion. Dywel, the Gwarda of Ardudwy, was the next to come to the fire. Dywel’s gray eyes were fierce, and the lines that bracketed his mouth were deep, as they had been since word had first come that his brother, Bledri, had betrayed King Urien and Queen Ellirri in Rheged.
“No word from Neuad yet, uncle?”
Cai looked up to see his nephew settling down beside him. Though only twenty-three, Bedwyr had been Uthyr’s Lieutenant in Tegeingl. Bedwyr’s handsome, strong face always reminded Cai of his own brother, Bedrawd, another loved one who had been lost in the fighting. His nephew’s brown eyes were steady as Cai shook his head.
Gwrhyr, Susanna’s son, came up then and sat down at Cai’s feet. The boy had
the red hair and freckled face of his Druid sire, Griffi, who had died in the last Battle of Tegeingl. But Gwrhyr’s eyes were blue, like his mother’s. He was fourteen, tall and gangly. He had just recently come to Mynydd Tawel from the hidden place where the Bards and the Dewin lived. Susanna had requested the Master Bard to let Gwrhyr come to her, and Anieron had acquiesced, knowing how much Susanna needed to see her son.
Cai smiled at the boy, for Gwrhyr reminded him of his own dead son. He was fond of Gwrhyr, in spite of the fact that the boy clearly thought Cai should be his new father. And Gwrhyr was not subtle about it.
“Did you know that mam was the one who dressed the mutton tonight? I thought it was very good, didn’t you?” Gwrhyr asked, his young face eager.
Bedwyr hid a smile, but Cai gravely answered, “I thought it very good, indeed.”
“She’s really a very good cook. I—”
At that moment Morrigan arrived, followed closely by her mother, Ygraine. Morrigan was fourteen now. Her slender body was beginning to fill out, straining here and there against her tunic of forest green. Her rich, auburn hair was tangled, and as always, there was a smudge of dirt on her face. Her dark eyes held laughter and mischief. They were so like Uthyr’s eyes that Cai sometimes had to look away until the tightness in his throat eased. On her hand she wore the sapphire ring of Gwynedd, the ring that Uthyr had given her the day he had sent her away to safety.
“Did you hear how good I was at target practice today?” Morrigan asked as she sat down cross-legged on the ground. It was hard to remember sometimes that this girl was the Queen of Gwynedd.
“I’m afraid I did not,” Cai said, trying to keep his face stern. “And it is very bad form to brag.”
“She did do quite well,” Bedwyr said with a smile.
“See? It’s not bragging if it’s true,” she pointed out. “Is it, mam?” she continued, turning to her mother.
Ygraine sat down on a log, as stiff and straight and formal as if she sat at the high table in Caer Gwynt. The former Queen of Gwynedd’s auburn hair was braided and wound around her head. Her gown of dark blue was spotless, and her dark eyes were cool and watchful. As always her smooth face showed nothing of what she was thinking. “Morrigan, I told you to wash your face.”
