The winds that had plagued him at the caer were gone, replaced by a high keening that Gwydion could just barely hear. He felt drawn to it, climbing even higher, until his lungs burned with a lack of oxygen. The winds he heard were higher still, sounding like raw power. They carried no voices but their own. Gwydion turned back into a human, and as he began to fall, he called out to them.
The winds heard him and answered his call, wrapping him in an icy gale. He felt like a mote being tossed about by dust devils, being thrown hundreds of feet upwards and then forced even further down. His fear was tempered by the exhilaration of it all.
He continued to talk to the high winds until they knew his voice, and carried it within them. He released them finally, and began falling towards the clouds below. He spent a minute wondering what might happen if he kept his current shape, but just before he hit the clouds, he shifted back to an eagle. He skimmed along the top of the storm, unwilling to get caught up in it again. After a while, he saw a break, and dipped down to a bright snow filled world. It took a few minutes to get his bearing, but was soon flying back into the snow, heading for Caer Dathyl.
In his chambers, he grabbed his harp and began to play, hiding away from all the winds for a while. He didn’t even think about what he was playing at first, but soon began to wonder what his next moves were, and he began playing the story of Pryderi and his pigs.
The story was not told as often in Gwynedd as he thought it must be in Dyfed, but he was still familiar with it: Pryderi ap Pwyll was given a herd of pigs by Arawn, the Lord of the Dead, the first domestic pigs ever seen in Glencairck. Arawn warned him not to let any of the pigs out of his possession until the herd had at least doubled in size, and Pryderi agreed. It seemed like an easy enough condition, but neither of them had figured on Gwydion the Bard.
The bards were new then, founded by Taliesin just a decade earlier. Gwydion had been one of the first to earn the star, but he was not strict in his observance of the Bardic Code. He heard of the pigs, and travelled to Caer Arberth to see the unusual animals for himself. They seemed to him to be very fine, and he began plotting to steal them. He disguised himself, and went to Caer Arberth as a traveling musician. He charmed Pryderi into trading the pigs for twelve fine horses and twelve fine greyhounds, all with gold and jewel trappings. But even before the illusion had faded, Pryderi’s mind cleared, and he tried to rouse the men of Dyfed to give chase to the rogue bard. But his men were still bedazzled by the finery before them, a treasure more fit for the Ard Righ than a cantref Lord, and he was forced to go alone. He caught up to Gwydion as he was about to cross back into Gwynedd. Their battle was fierce, but Gwydion slew Pryderi and left his body on the border.
He brought the music to a close slowly, and still protected from the winds, he wondered about the choices he was making. His desire for Arianrhod made it easy to rationalize his actions, but Math’s lessons also let him understand that he was rationalizing. He grimaced at contradiction, but despite his fears, he knew where his heart lay.
He began playing again, this time practicing new magic that he hoped would balance his need to start a war with his greater need to stay alive.
Three weeks later, Gwydion and his cousin went hunting again, but this time, he led them to a small cave high on a mountain. “I think we'll be safe here,” he said by way of explanation.
Gilventhy lit a fire and put the rabbit they had caught on a spit of green wood. “I think you worry too much.”
“And you don't worry enough.” Looking out over the distant forest, Gwydion said, “You can't just go through life with no thought of tomorrow, Gil. There are plans to be made, and dreams to be fulfilled. And if you just wander along where the wind takes you, you won't ever be the type of man who is remembered.”
“Oh, you're one to talk,” Gil said. “You might not be led by the wind, but you're certainly led by your loins.”
“And that brings us to why we're in this damp cave,” Gwydion said with a smile. “Both of us want a woman, and we need the other's help.”
“So how are you going to start a war?”
“I won't confuse you with the details,” Gwydion said. “Suffice it to say that you'll be going with me back to Dyfed when we get a chance, and when we leave we should have an army chasing us.”
“When do we leave? Are we going to get to fight?” Gil asked, a hungry look in his eyes.
“Will you make up your mind what you want?” Gwydion asked irritably. “Either you go to war or you get Goewin. You can't have both.”
“Oh.” Gil poked at the fire and turned the rabbit. “Well, I guess Goewin is what I really want.”
“Good. We'll leave when I'm confident that Math doesn't suspect that we have ulterior motives. Now, about your sister...”
Gil shrugged. “I wish you'd go after Mari. She really likes you, and I think that you could have a good time with her.”
“Why do I feel like we have the same conversation over and over?” Gwydion said. “I told you that I'm interested in Arianrhod.”
“Well, I'm not sure how to help you. I really don’t know my sister that well.”
“No, but you know your family. How do you think they will react when we show up at Caer Don with an army chasing us?”
“There’s no question,” Gil said. “They’ll fight.”
“But will they go out and fight, or defend the Caer?”
Gil narrowed his eyes. “What are you after?”
“I want to get Ari alone, without a bunch of chaperones,” Gwydion explained patiently.
“Oh, is that all?” Gil said. “In that case, I’m sure we could encourage them to go out to fight. I can think of a half-dozen strategies that would call for it.”
“So can I, but this needs to come from you, and be believable.”
Gill scratched his ear. “I don’t see any problem with that. But will it be enough?”
Gwydion smiled and cut into the roast meat. “It's more than enough. And if we can arrange to have a harp handy…”
“You're good, but you're not a bard.”
“Maybe not. But it gives me a foothold, and that's all I need.”
Gil stuffed a piece of hot meat in his mouth and immediately began puffing to try and cool it down. “You're too cocky,” he said when he could use his tongue again. “You're going to fail one of these days, and I hope I'm nowhere even close.”
“Why? I thought you loved to see me humiliated.”
“Only when I'm the one doing it.”
Several days later, Gwydion approached Bran. “How would you like to take part in a little trickery on Lord Dyfed?”
Bran narrowed his eyes. “What are we talking about? Harmless fun, or something more serious?”
“Serious,” Gwydion said. “I want to teach them a lesson about messing with our border caers.”
“And you think you can?”
Gwydion shrugged. “I have to try.”
“Do you?” Bran asked.
Gwydion took a deep breath. “I swore that I would humiliate Lord Dyfed’s son. He’s very full of himself, and has been goading his lairds and chieftains to do more that steal cattle. We are very nearly at war down there, and if Kyrnin has his way, we soon will be.”
“Full of himself, do you say?” Bran smiled. “Don’t you think the same charge could be made against you?”
“Obviously. But this is my time to prove myself, not just to the people of Gwynedd, but to the whole of Cairnecht.”
“It’s a very big challenge you set,” Bran said. “Who else is going with you?”
“So far I’ve asked Gilventhy and you, and I’ll bet you know what Gil’s answer was.”
“I’ll bet he asked how much fighting there will be.”
Gwydion grinned. “You know him well. But even after I told him that we weren’t going to fight if we could help it, he agreed to come.”
“He’s betting that you’ll screw up.”
“And I’m betting on his prowess if I do,” Gwydion s
aid. “It’s a delicate balance, but I have made it work so far.”
Bran pursed his lips, thinking. “Who else will be going with us?”
Gwydion let out a sigh of relief. “I was actually hoping that you could recommend some people. I don’t want too many with us, but I have to be able to rely on their loyalty and their discretion.”
“Tall order,” Bran said. “Let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”
“And if Math says no?”
Bran grinned. “Then you’ll be on your own, I guess.”
They met together a week later, in the upstairs room of a public house. The landlord laid the table with wine and beef, and then bowed himself quietly out. Gwydion looked around at the men he would lead, and although he felt nervous, he did not let it show. Gil looked bored, picking at his meat with a dagger tip. Bran had adopted an air of relaxed interest, although his eyes were bright and sharp. The two men he had brought with him, Dirgan and Llygad, looked at him suspiciously. Taking a deep breath, Gwydion said, “We are met to discuss the problem of Dyfed.”
“Don’t be so pretentious,” Gil said. “We know why we’re here. What we want to know is whether or not you have a plan.”
“I do, actually,” Gwydion said. “But it involves illusion and deception, and I want to make sure everyone is okay with that.”
“What do you mean, illusion?” Dirgan asked. “Are you talking sleight of hand or real magic?”
“Real magic,” Gwydion said.
“And we’re going to deceive who, exactly?” Llygad asked.
“The entire court at Arberth,” Gwydion said. “But I am especially interested in making Kyrnin looking as foolish as possible.”
Dirgan and Llygad looked sideways at each other. “It is said that the Tanists of Gwynedd and Dyfed have no love lost between them,” Dirgan said.
Gwydion gave a short laugh. “I have sworn to humiliate him. He has sworn to see my life’s blood at his feet. Is that clear enough?”
“Quite,” Llygad said. “But why should we follow you? Why not Bran?”
Gwydion looked at the lieutenant. “Do you want to answer that one?”
“Nope,” Bran said. “You’re doing fine.”
“Thanks,” Gwydion said sarcastically. “I want you to follow me because you believe in me and my abilities. And because you respect my Uncle’s decision to make me Tanist.”
“Tell us what you have in mind, and we’ll decide,” Llygad said.
So Gwydion laid out his plan, which made Dirgan whistle in amazement. “You want to do to Kyrnin what Gwydion did to Pryderi.
“Sort of,” Gwydion said. “But I don’t want to kill Kyrnin. I want him to live a long time with the sting of what we’ve accomplished.”
“It’s almost like the cattle raid of Coomly,” Llygad said.
“Not even close,” Bran said with a snort. “It is gutsy, though.”
“I like it,” Dirgan said.
“Me too,” Llygad said.
“Then I can count you in?”
“Oh, I don’t think you could stop us now,” Llygad said.
“I have one other I want with us, a chieftain named Cofach,” Gwydion said. “He has plenty of experience driving cattle, and has his own reasons for seeking vengeance on Kyrnin.”
“A half a dozen men,” Bran said. “It’s a good group.”
“Ah, but how do we know you can pull this off?” Dirgan said.
Gwydion shape shifted into an old man right in front of them. His knees creaked, and his voiced did too as he said, “Take a look at your swords.”
Each man pulled a gold blade with a jewel encrusted hilt from his scabbard. Dirgan whistled again, and Llygad said, “It even has the weight of gold!”
“Does that convince you?” Gwydion asked.
“It does me,” Bran said. “And I had less reason to doubt than most.”
Gwydion transformed back to himself, and all the swords became plain steel again. “Anything else, gentlemen?”
Dirgan said, “When do we leave?”
“Two days,” Gwydion said. “Make sure you’re ready, because I will not wait.”
Chapter 6: Trickery
The six men travelled through Dyfed in a fine retinue. Gwydion had shape shifted into an older man, and the cold mornings bothered his joints, but he figured it to be a small price to pay. The others were more conventionally disguised with haircuts and shaves and the robes of foreign traders. They led a convoy containing six fines stallions with jewel encrusted saddles and bridles, and whose saddle bags bulged with smaller trade items. A falcon rode on each pommel, their hoods and jesses as jeweled as the horses’. The caravan shone like a star in the foggy hills of Dyfed. A harp bounced against Gwydion’s back, but he carried no weapons.
Word spread as they made their way to Caer Arberth, and people made their way from their farms and fields to point and gawk as they passed, and Gwydion heard the whispers on the wind passing speculation and rumor ever ahead of them.
As they rode through the city around Caer Arberth, they tossed candy and small trinkets to the people who lined the streets as though it was a parade. The children squealed in delight, and the adults nodded approvingly. At the gates of the Caer, Adaf challenged them just as he had when he had been looking down at the Tanist of Gwynedd, but Gwydion could swear the his tone was less threatening and more hopeful.
In a strong accent, Gwydion said, “I am Per Grojian, a trader from across the sea. I have come to trade with the king of this country, yes?”
“Do you come in peace?”
“In peace? Of course we come in peace,” Gwydion replied. “Why would you—ah! My men carry weapons, and you fear them. Well, that is as it should be, for we wish to be not attacked as we travel.”
“Would you be willing to enter unarmed?” Adaf asked.
“I suppose, if this is necessary,” Gwydion said. He turned and spoke a few words in gibberish, using a subtle command to make his meaning clear. The men pulled off their swords and bows, all rich with sparkling stones and gold inlay. “Ah, what insurance do you offer that we shall not be robbed of these things?”
“Dyfedians do not steal,” Adaf said coldly.
“I am sure,” Gwydion said. “Still, I know not your people or your customs. I must ask for something more, yes?”
“I am the chief warrior in all of Dyfed,” Adaf said. “I will take custody of your weapons myself. No other shall touch them while you are at Caer Arberth.”
“This is sufficient, I think,” said Gwydion. Adaf came and gathered their gear, trying hard to look unimpressed, and not succeeding. He led them into the courtyard, where the grooms took charge of the stallions a bit fearfully, and the trader’s horses with more surety. Gwydion watched it all closely, nodding when he was satisfied that the animals were well cared for—and that his illusion was holding. Something was interfering with his magic, and he had a sudden image of being trapped in the Caer with everything in its true form. He shivered and pulled his robe about him.
“Are you alright, Per Grojian?” Adaf asked.
“A bit chilled,” Gwydion replied. “This country is colder than my home, that is all.”
“Of course,” Adaf said. “Just follow me to the hall, where I’m sure you will be able to warm yourself sufficiently by the fire.”
“Many thanks,” Gwydion said.
When they entered the great hall, many people began jostling to look at the foreigners and their strange clothes and hair. Lord Gwillim, sitting at the high table, stood and pounded a tankard on the table until everyone settled down. “We will not treat our guests rudely,” he said. Adaf whispered in his ear, and Gwillim looked impressed at the weapons in his arms. “You are welcome to our Caer and our Cantref, Per Grojian. Would you dine with us?”
“We shall share meat, yes,” Gwydion answered. Bran and the others looked a little uncomfortable, but they all came up and took seats. Gwydion signaled them to follow his lead and to say nothing if possible.
“We have not this, ah, beer, in my country,” Gwydion said. “I am not truly sure I care for it as much as your people.”
“We have mead as well,” Gwillim said. He gestured to a servant, and several pitchers appeared on the table. Gwydion tasted it cautiously. “Ah, yes, much better. Many thanks, my lord.”
“It’s the least I can do for a guest.” He swirled the heavy liquid in his own cup without tasting it. “If you’ll forgive my directness, Per Grojian, why are you here?”
“Yes, of course,” Gwydion replied. “Forgive my rudeness. I have come because I have heard that you have here the finest cow in your country, and would be interested in a trade.”
Gwillim nodded. “That would be my son’s heifer. His name is Kyrnin, and you will have to speak to him directly.”
“You cannot speak for your son in this matter?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Gwydion shrugged. “We all have different ways of doing things. May I ask when your son may be present?”
“He should be along presently.” Gwillim gestured to Gwydion’s harp hanging from the back of his chair. “You carry a harp. I thought that was a Glencarish instrument.”
“Ah, no,” Gwydion said. “There is an excellent song about how it was given by the gods to my people. Perhaps you would like to hear it later?”
“I would like that,” Gwillim said. A servant came and whispered in his ear. “My son Kyrnin should be here soon, Per Grojian.”
“Excellent!” Gwydion said. “I hope his company is as pleasant as yours.”
Gwillim nodded at the compliment, and the meal continued. A few minutes later, Kyrnin came in, looking curiously at the strange faces around the table. “Father,” he said, taking his seat, “who are our guests?”
“This is Per Grojian, a trader,” Gwillim said. “He’s interested in your heifer.”
The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) Page 5
