by Holly Taylor
“It’s too soon,” Gwydion whispered, staring after Dinaswyn as she made her way down the stairs. “I’m not ready.”
“Be ready,” Amatheon said.
Addiendydd, Lleihau Wythnos—dusk
THE LAST RAYS of the setting sun filtered through the trees surrounding the clearing and the songs of the birds began to quiet for the night when Gwydion reined in his horse and dismounted. Behind him Amatheon did the same.
“I take it we are stopping here,” said Amatheon.
Gwydion said nothing. Amatheon sighed. For four days now they had been on the road to Tegeingl. In all that time his brother had barely spoken.
Amatheon had been patient, for that was his nature. But there was also a time for action. He was done waiting. Tonight he would get Gwydion to talk to him. He would not learn anything he didn’t already know, for he knew his brother very well. But maybe Gwydion, hearing his fears spoken aloud, would find some peace in that. Amatheon had a feeling that peace would always elude his older brother, and his heart ached with that knowledge.
Silently they set about making camp, their movements economical and smooth. The day had been warm and both men wore tunics laced up the front with no shirt beneath. Gwydion’s tunic of black with red lacing, the colors of the Dreamer, reached just below his upper thighs. His breeches were black and tucked in to black leather calf-length boots. His shoulder-length dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a strip of leather. His cheekbones stood out stark and hard, and the shadows under his silvery eyes showed that true, restful sleep continued to elude him.
Amatheon was dressed similarly, but where Gwydion wore black and red, he wore sea green and silver, the colors of the clairvoyant Dewin.
“You realize, of course, that we don’t have to do this. Camp out, I mean,” Amatheon said somewhat irritably. By the Law of Hospitality any farm hold, any village, any manor would take them in, feed them, treat them as honored guests, shelter them for the night, and send them on their way with full saddlebags—and no questions asked. Of course, they would no doubt be recognized, but their hosts would preserve the laws with the polite fiction that they did not know who their guests were. But every night they had slept under the stars at Gwydion’s insistence.
“What’s the matter, brother? Your bones getting old and brittle? Need a soft bed?”
“You’re just jealous,” Amatheon said smugly. “Because you’re older. And always will be.”
Gwydion did not answer, but set about scraping a pit for the fire. The clearing was small, surrounded by birch, rowan, and ash trees. Amatheon spread a cloth over a small, flat rock, and began cutting bread and cheese.
“Don’t really understand why you build a fire,” Amatheon said, “when you won’t even cook anything over it.”
“I told you,” Gwydion said absently, “that I hate to cook.”
“What you mean is that you don’t know how. I, on the other hand, am an excellent cook, and if you had brought anything else except dried meat, I’d show you.” The conversation had the comfortable ring of familiarity. They had said the same thing every night since leaving Caer Dathyl.
Gwydion gathered small branches and heaped them into the hollow. Holding his hands over the pit, he briefly closed his eyes, his breathing deep and slow. Then a small, flowerlike flame appeared in the middle of the branches. Shaped like a rosebud, it grew larger until the petals of fire burst from the glowing rose as the flame blossomed and the fire took hold.
“I do love watching you do that,” Amatheon said casually.
“Druids Fire-Weave all the time,” Gwydion pointed out. “It’s hardly new for you to see that.”
“Oh, yes,” said Amatheon. “But they don’t have your sense of style. You get that from Da, I see.”
Gwydion did not answer. Amatheon had not thought he would.
Twilight descended as Gwydion tended the fire, feeding small branches into the crackling flames. As he leaned forward to feed more branches, the firelight crawled hungrily over the double circle of opals hanging from the Dreamer’s Torque, symbol of Mabon, Lord of the Sun.
Amatheon’s torque of silver with its pendant of pearl glowed in the dusky twilight, the symbol of Nantsovelta, Lady of the Moon.
Slight rustles in the forest spoke of small animals making their ways back to their homes, or beginning their nightly hunt for food. Far off, a wolf howled at the ebon glory of the night sky. Gwydion continued to stare into the fire as if it held all the answers to his questions. He scratched his short beard absently.
“You always scratch that thing,” said Amatheon.
“It itches.”
At least it was an answer. “Why grow it then, if it itches?”
Gwydion shot a look to his brother, his gray eyes gleaming. “It does what it’s supposed to do.”
“Hide you, you mean?” Gwydion made no answer so Amatheon continued. “There are many ways to hide, brother mine, and you know them all. Tell me what’s wrong. What’s bothering you so? Maybe I can help.”
Gwydion was silent for a long time. Just when Amatheon was sure that his brother would not answer, Gwydion drew in a deep breath, then let it out with a sigh. He looked over at his brother, a hint of desperation in his gray eyes. “I’m the Dreamer now. And it’s . . . it’s too soon. I thought it would be years yet before this happened.”
“And?” Amatheon prompted.
“And I barely know what I’m doing. It’s too soon.”
“Come now, Gwydion. The Dreamer interprets the dreams that the Shining Ones send and acts—or doesn’t act—accordingly. What’s so hard about that?”
“You’re over simplifying,” Gwydion accused. “It’s a lot more complicated than that. Suppose I interpret something wrong? Then what happens? Look, here’s an example. Twenty years ago Dinaswyn has a dream. And she interprets that dream as telling her that Arianrod’s parents must go to Corania to spy on the enemy for a time. And they never come back. Now you tell me, did they never come back because Dinaswyn misinterpreted the dream? Or, were they supposed to go and never come back? And, if so, why?”
Amatheon shook his head. “You’re too impatient Gwydion. It’s too soon to know the answer to that.”
“Too soon? Twenty years?”
“A blink of the eye for the Shining Ones. You know that.”
“Amatheon, that’s not the point,” Gwydion said impatiently, waving away his brother’s comment. “The point is that the dreams are my responsibility now. Mine to interpret.”
“And?” Amatheon pressed.
“And nothing,” Gwydion muttered.
“And you might get them wrong, is that it? You might make a mistake. And if you do, what happens?”
Gwydion hesitated, then said in a rush, “Then I fail. And I can’t. I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Gwydion repeated, shocked.
“Yes. What’s so terrible about failing? People do it all the time and the world goes on turning. They pick themselves up and try again. Why should you be different?”
“Because I’m the Dreamer, Amatheon,” Gwydion said quietly. “The Shining Ones have sent me a dream. I have tasks to perform . . . things I must do, and do right.”
“Ah. So, lesser mortals can make mistakes?” Amatheon asked lightly. “But not you—you aren’t allowed.”
“I am one of the Great Ones now,” Gwydion said, staring into the fire. “I take my place with the Master Bard, with the Ardewin, with the Archdruid. Soon a High King will come and I will do all I can to protect him from whatever threatens him. In that—and in any other tasks the Shining Ones give me—I cannot fail.”
“What else is wrong?” Amatheon asked quietly. “That’s not all of it.”
Again the silence descended over them both as Gwydion left his brother’s question unanswered. “The torque becomes you,” Amatheon said at last.
“She didn’t want to give it up,” Gwydion replied. After a pause he went on, “They never do want to do th
e things they should.”
“They?”
“Women.” Silence again.
“It was a difficult thing for Aunt Dinaswyn to do. You know that. She had been Dreamer for many years. She never had anything else. Or anyone.”
More silence. Amatheon sighed and began again. “Arianrod was angry with you. But, as you say, she’ll take you back to her bed.”
Gwydion’s eyes brightened with amusement. “Did you think that was bothering me?”
“No,” Amatheon said quietly. “I don’t think anything Arianrod does would bother you. You would have to care about her first.”
Gwydion sighed. “I give her what I can.”
“No. You give her what you want to. Nothing more.”
“And you think it should be more?” Gwydion asked.
“No.” Amatheon said promptly, “I don’t. Not with her. She will only take and take, and then take some more.”
“You don’t make sense. First you seem to tell me that I should love her, and then you say that I shouldn’t. Is there a purpose to this, or are you just bored?”
“I only want to point out that it’s your habit. You judge all women by just a few. Arianrod is selfish and demanding. But all women are not like that. And Mam—”
“No.” Gwydion cut him off, eyes blazing. “I will not discuss Mam with you.”
“If you can’t talk about her with me, then with who?”
“Not with anyone.”
“Gwydion . . .”
“I said no. You weren’t there. You didn’t see. I . . . I can’t.” Again the silence, the wall, back higher and stronger than ever. Gwydion went back to staring at the fire.
Amatheon looked up at the stars, silently asking for patience. A few could be seen, but the trees around the clearing obscured most of them. Amatheon took a deep breath and held out his hand. “Come. Let’s Wind-Ride.”
After a momentary hesitation, Gwydion grasped his brother’s hand. “Where do you want to go?”
“I just want to get a good look at the sky. Follow me. With that, both men closed their eyes. Their breathing slowed until their chests barely moved. And when they were ready, a portion of their awareness leapt from their bodies, and soared up into the night sky.
As they flew upward, leaving their bodies sitting by the fire, Amatheon Wind-Spoke to Gwydion, his words echoing in his brother’s mind, “You see that? It is the constellation of Llyr the Great who first brought us into this land. And there, not far off, the constellation of Penduran reaching her arms out to Llyr. It was these two who saved a remnant of the Kymri when Lyonesse sank beneath the sea. These two, in partnership, taught their children well. And these children became the leaders of the next generation—the Dreamer who guides Kymru, the Ardewin who leads our clairvoyants, the Master Bard who heads our telepaths, the Archdruid who rules our psychokinetics. Without Llyr and Penduran, the Kymri would have perished.”
Gwydion replied, his mind-voice bitter, “Yes, I see those constellations. And there, do you see the constellation of Dahut, the woman whose evil caused Lyonesse to sink? Do you see her, too? Or only what you want to see?”
Abruptly, Amatheon returned them both to their bodies. As both men opened their eyes Gwydion rubbed his head gingerly. “You didn’t have to be so rough.”
“Maybe I did,” Amatheon said shortly. “Look, you can live your life any way you choose. I only want to point out that when you distrust half the human race, you lack balance. And without balance you can make mistakes. And mistakes, as you so recently pointed out, are not things you can tolerate.”
“Women do not deserve to be trusted,” Gwydion said shortly. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that, of all people.”
“All women are not like Mam,” Amatheon said. “They don’t all do what she did.”
“Well, I can assure you that no woman will ever have the chance to do to me what she did to Da,” Gwydion said coldly. “Ever.”
“Because you will never let one get close enough to touch your heart.”
“All I want is to be free, not to be entangled with a woman’s faithless heart. What’s wrong with that?”
Amatheon sat quietly, looking out into the night. At last he said, “Loneliness can be the price of freedom, brother.”
“A price I am willing to pay,” Gwydion said firmly.
“Then so be it,” Amatheon replied sadly.
Chapter Two
Tegeingl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 482
Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—dusk
Gwydion and Amatheon arrived at Tegeingl at dusk the following day. The strong, high stone walls loomed out of the gathering gloom, towering over the two men as they rode out of the forest and up the slight incline to the west gate. Tegeingl’s walls formed a huge triangle with three towers, one at each joining of the walls. The torches in these towers were just being lit and the city gates were closing for the night. One massive, iron door was already shut, and the other was halfway closed.
“Whoa,” Amatheon called out to the gatekeeper. “Not yet, man.”
The gatekeeper, a slender man with a long, mournful face peered distrustfully into the gloom. “Who goes there?”
“The sons of Awst,” answered Gwydion.
The man gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. “Almost shut the gate on you two.” He paused, eyeing them. “Might not have been a bad idea at that.”
“You’re hilarious, Donal,” Amatheon said dryly. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t see us coming.”
“Oh, I did. That’s why I almost shut the gate.”
Amatheon eyed Donal and casually blew on his nails and buffed them against his tunic. “May I remind you,” he said airily, “that you are addressing two of the Y Dawnus of Kymru?”
“Wonderful,” returned Donal, in a bored tone. “Can’t wait to tell everyone that I was lucky enough to speak to those with the gifts. That will make me the envy of all.”
“Smart mouth,” Amatheon returned, without rancor.
Donal pulled back on the door, widening it just enough to allow their horses to get through. Amatheon gave him a jaunty wave, which the gatekeeper ostentatiously ignored.
They rode east, down the main street of the city. Torches burned in brackets set at intervals on the outside of the stone buildings that housed the brewery, the smithy, and the public baths.
“Deserted,” Gwydion remarked, as they came to the empty marketplace. The wooden stalls were locked up for the night. From down one of the side streets, lined with wooden houses, a dog barked. Smoke filtered through the chimneys of the cheerfully lit houses.
“Of course it’s deserted. Everyone’s having his or her dinner. Everyone except us, of course.”
Gwydion eyed his brother’s lean frame. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
They passed Nemed Gwernan, the grove of alder trees where the eight festivals of the year were celebrated, and where the Queens of Gwynedd bore their children. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the darkening wood as they rode by.
“No one is there. Ygraine must not be in labor,” Amatheon said.
“A few more days yet, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has the child at the Calan Llachar festival.”
“What makes you think that? Did you dream it?”
“No, but this year there will be an eclipse on Calan Llachar, as there is every eighteen years. It seems momentous, fated, because Idris, Macsen, and Lleu were all born on Calan Llachar, all born on the day of the eclipse. If Uthyr’s son is truly the one he will be born then, too.”
They lapsed into silence as they passed Bryn Celli Ddu, the burial place of the Rulers of Gwynedd. The standing stones that marked the entrance to the barrows stood gray and silent, sentinels to another world. The only sound was of the horses’ hooves striking the cobblestones as they rode by.
And then they were at the walls of Caer Gwynt, the House of Winds, the fortress of the Rulers of Gwynedd. Torches burned on either side of the gate. The proud
Hawk of Gwynedd, outlined in sapphires on the silver-plated doors, stretched his wings into the night.
“Ho, there,” Amatheon called. The gate slowly opened, and a young man with golden hair and a sharp, intelligent face stepped out.
“Welcome, travelers,” the young man said, bowing. “King Uthyr ap Rathtyen var Awst welcomes the Dreamer of Kymru, Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon, the great Dreamer of Mabon the Bright.”
“How did you know I was the Dreamer now?” Gwydion asked curiously.
“Oh, Dinaswyn Wind-Spoke to Susanna a few days ago—she’s our new Bard here, by the way,” the young man said casually. “But you’re interrupting my speech,” Duach went on in a reproving tone.
“Oh. Sorry.”
With a flourish, Duach continued, “And welcome also to Amatheon ap Awst, one of the Dewin of the House of Llyr, beloved of Nantsovelta, White Lady of the Moon.”
“Nice, Duach,” Amatheon said admiringly. “Very nice.”
The young man grinned. “You like it?”
“Very much. You the doorkeeper now?”
“Just appointed last month,” he said proudly. “Come in.”
The two men dismounted as grooms came out to lead their horses to the stables that rested just inside the gate. Dogs from the kennel on their right began to bark as Gwydion and Amatheon followed Duach across the well-lit courtyard.
They passed a long, low, wooden building that housed the King’s warriors. No lights shone now in the windows, for they were all at dinner in the hall. As they passed the King and Queen’s ystafell they noticed that a light was glowing from a window in the second story of the polished wooden walls. “The Queen?” Gwydion asked.
“She’s not feeling well enough to leave her chambers.”
