by Holly Taylor
“But how?” Ygraine asked.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just say that I will be assisting Susanna very closely this afternoon. And leave it at that.”
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the children of Tegeingl were tested by Susanna, assisted closely by Gwydion ap Awst. In an unusual move, Susanna handed the tool to Gwydion to hold after each test was completed as she spoke gently to each child. Two clairvoyants and one telepath were identified, but Prince Arthur proved to have no special talents.
Nobody noticed that Greid, the chief smith of Gwynedd, watched the Plentyn Prawf with a quizzical look on his face. But some people did comment that Gwydion ap Awst must have been mad to wear long sleeves in such hot weather.
No remarked, for no one there knew, that the Dreamer of Kymru had always been good at sleight of hand.
Chapter Five
Cadair Idris and Y Ty Dewin Gwytheryn, Kymru Draenenwen Mis, 486
Gwyntdydd, Disglair Wythnos—mid-afternoon
It was a small party that left Tegeingl a few weeks later; just Gwydion, Arthur, Susanna and Cai. Susanna left her baby son behind with his father, Griffi, and, although Gwydion tried to ignore it, he was aware of Susanna’s anguish. He had felt it himself when he left Cariadas behind at Caer Dathyl. He tried not to think too closely about how this would be nothing to what Uthyr and Ygraine would feel just a few months from now.
Arthur, young as he was, had proven himself to be his father’s son. Every day he rode stoically on his small pony. Weary with travel, he fell asleep each night right after dinner, while Gwydion stared into the campfire each night, trying not to remember the look in his brother’s eyes at the news that his son was to be taken from him.
Four days from Tegeingl they reached Gwytheryn, the High King’s country located in the center of Kymru. When they came to the junction of Sarn Gwyddelin and Sarn Ermyn they turned eastward, making for Caer Duir, where the first of the three annual graduation ceremonies would be held. The route they were taking would lead them just past Cadair Idris, the shuttered mountain fortress of the High Kings of Kymru.
In mid-afternoon they exited the forest of Coed Llachar and reined in their horses to gaze in wonder at the mountain that loomed above them. The fortress rose majestically from the sea of wildflowers that covered the plain. Purple cornflowers, blue delphiniums, white snapdragons, and bright yellow tansy waved gently in the light breeze. Daisies and golden globeflowers bent and twisted under the hooves of their horses. The breeze sighed in remembrance of loss and sorrow, of loneliness and failure, of the death of dreams. But the mountain itself seemed to reach up and pierce the sky, as wild hope pierces the heart, and sets it to beating again.
To the east of the mountain the standing stones of Galor Carreg, the burial mounds of the High Kings, rose from the carpet of wildflowers, dark and silent. In their depths rested the bodies of Idris, the first High King and his High Queen, Elen of the Roads. Macsen, the second Brenin, also rested there, as well as Lleu Silver-Hand, the last High King of Kymru.
White alyssum and red rock rose twined over the once white stones of the eight steps leading up to Drwys Idris, the huge Doors that guarded the silent mountain, opening only at will of the Guardian. And the Guardian would open only to the one who brought her the lost Four Treasures of Kymru—the Cauldron, the Stone, the Spear, and the Sword. These Treasures would test a person who claimed kingship. And, if he survived the testing, he would be acknowledged as High King.
Gwydion glanced to his right, where Susanna and Cai had reined in, Arthur between them. The boy seemed even smaller and frailer within the dark shadow of the mountain. “Do you know what this is?” Gwydion asked him.
Arthur nodded. “Cadair Idris.”
“Yes, the fortress of the High King. Come, let’s go talk to the Doors.”
“Talk to the Doors?” Arthur looked carefully at Gwydion to see if he was being teased. “How?”
“You’ll see.” Gwydion dismounted and helped Arthur down from his pony. Taking the boy’s hand, he curtly ordered Susanna and Cai to stay where they were. Susanna’s lips tightened and Cai’s face darkened, but they did not follow.
Gwydion helped Arthur mount the broken steps to the huge Doors, then pointed at the jeweled patterns that glittered and swirled. “Do you know what these mean?”
Arthur shook his head, never taking his eyes from the designs.
“These patterns represent the constellations named for The Shining Ones, and for the Four Treasures of Kymru. These are the Treasures,” he went on as he pointed to each pattern. “Here is the Spear of Opals. And here is the Stone of Pearls. This is the Cauldron of Emeralds. And this is the Sword of Sapphires. The Treasures represent the four elements that come together to make all life: fire, water, earth, and air.”
Arthur said nothing as he studied the designs. Gwydion continued to point out the constellations of the Shining Ones. Modron outlined in emeralds. Sapphires for Taran and pearls for Nantsovelta. Opals for Mabon. Rubies for Y Rhyfelwr, the Warrior Twins, Agrona and Camulos. Diamonds for Sirona of the Stars. Garnets for Grannos the Healer. Topaz for Cerrunnos and amethysts for Cerridwen, the Protectors of Kymru. Black onyx for Annwyn, the Lord of Chaos and bloodstone for Aertan, Weaver of Fate. “And this last one, Arthur, is made of emeralds, pearls, sapphires, and opals. It is the constellation of Arderydd, the High Eagle. The sign of the High King.”
As Arthur stared at the last pattern a humming sound came from the air around them, building in intensity, and the jewels began to glow.
Startled, Arthur stepped back quickly, but Gwydion held him still. “It’s all right, Arthur. It’s just the Guardian.”
A voice, light and musical, coming from nowhere, from everywhere, began to chant softly.
Not of mother and father,
When I was made
Did my creator create me.
To guard Cadair Idris
For my shame.
A traitor to Kymru,
And to my Lord and King.
The primroses and blossoms of the hill,
The flowers of trees and shrubs,
The flowers of nettles,
All these I have forgotten.
Cursed forever,
I was enchanted by Bran
And became prisoner
Until the end of days.
An empty silence descended, broken only by the moaning of the wind. Then, the voice spoke again, “Who comes here to Drwys Idris? Who demands entry to Cadair Idris, the Hall of the High King?”
“It is I, Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon, Dreamer of Kymru, who comes.”
“The halls are silent. The throne is empty. We await the coming of the High King. He shall be proved by the signs he brings,” the voice went on.
“We bring you no signs today. The Treasures remain hidden,” Gwydion said.
“Then you may not enter here. I must still wait in silence and sorrow the coming of the King,” the voice sighed, an echo of the mournful, empty wind that swept the plain. After a moment, the voice went on. “I know you, Gwydion ap Awst.”
Gwydion bowed. “And I know you, Bloudewedd ur Sawyl.”
“The name you give me is strange, Dreamer. It is long and long since I have heard it from the lips of the living.”
“Yet it was once your name, High Queen.”
“High Queen no more. The High King is dead and I wait in silence for the signs.”
“I come here not to bring the signs but to show you hope.”
“Hope grows old. Then it withers away. One silent day after another have I endured. The stars wheel overhead, ever changing and never changing. Season upon season and year upon year. In the beginning, with every rising of the sun I hoped. And with each setting of the sun hope died, until hope was no more. There was only silence.”
“Yet there is hope, even for one such as you. For I bring with me one who will end your long wait.”
The humming sound began again, building and building until the mountain seemed to ring with it.
A bright, white light pierced Arthur as he stood within its startling glow. Then, just as suddenly, the light was gone.
“It is him,” the voice whispered. “Oh, Shining Ones, it is him at last.”
“It is,” Gwydion said calmly. “But it is not time yet.”
“But not long now,” the voice breathed. “Not as I have learned to measure time.”
“No, not long now.” Gwydion laid a reassuring arm across the boy’s thin shoulders. “But he’s young yet.”
Suddenly Arthur spoke. “Who are you?”
“I am the Guardian. I am Drwys Idris.”
“I mean,” Arthur explained, flushing in embarrassment, “who were you?”
“Ah,” the Doors sighed. “I was Bloudewedd ur Sawyl var Eurolwyn, High Queen to Lleu Lawrient, many, many years ago.” Bloudewedd’s voice softened. “In this mountain we lived and ruled together.” Her voice faltered. “A very long time ago.”
“But—but you’re still alive.”
The voice laughed a wild sound that pierced like a knife through the soul. “I am neither alive nor dead. My spirit is bound to this mountain, cursed to guard the Doors until the High King returns. I cannot return to Gwlad Yr Haf to be reborn for another turn of the Wheel. This is what Bran did to me.”
“But why?”
“For revenge. Because I plotted the death of Lleu Silver-Hand. And I succeeded.”
“You killed him?” Arthur gasped.
“My lover and I did. And we were punished. My spirit was bound to the mountain. And Gorwys, my lover, was set to guard the shores. His task is to rise and warn the Kymri should invaders set foot on this land. And mine is to guard the Hall of the High King, until the next High King comes to claim the throne.”
“And she cannot be released, Arthur, by any but the Dreamer, and then only at the High King’s command. If released, another traitor must replace her. It is their punishment,” Gwydion said solemnly. “Tell me, Bloudewedd, why did you do it? Why did you murder your own husband?”
“Lleu and I cared for each other. But Gorwys—” The sound of that dead name seemed to warm the cold voice, as embers are warmed by the memory of fire. “Ah, when I met him I forgot everything. Honor, duty, they were nothing to me. There was only desire. It meant nothing to me that he was my own sister’s husband. Gorwys wanted me. I could deny him nothing, he held my heart in the palm of his hand.”
“And now? Have you repented of your crime?” Gwydion demanded. “Or would you do the same again?”
The Doors were silent for some time. A mournful wind whipped across the plain, carving patterns in the wildflowers. A hawk, wheeling overhead, gave a lonely cry.
At last the Doors spoke. “I have no answer to that. Except to say that we are what we are. And that, Dreamer, is what the silence has taught me. We are what we are.”
Meirgdydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—afternoon
TWO WEEKS LATER, having attended the graduation of the Druids at Caer Duir and the Bards at Neuadd Gorsedd, they arrived at Y Ty Dewin.
The huge, three-story, five-sided building of white stone glowed in the light of the afternoon sun. The banner of the Dewin, a silver dragon on a field of sea green, fluttered from the watchtower at the top of the keep.
As they neared the main entrance, young novices in silver-gray robes came up to take their horses. As they dismounted, a woman descended the front steps. She had long, light brown hair, tightly braided and wound around her head like a coronet. She wore a rich gown of sea green trimmed in silver. Around her neck was a silver torque with one large pearl. Her blue eyes held a smile as she greeted the party.
She bowed slightly to Arthur. “Greetings, son of Uthyr ap Rathtyen, King of Gwynedd. I am Elstar ur Anieron var Ethyllt, the Ardewin’s heir. I welcome you to Y Ty Dewin in the name of Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters.”
Arthur, who had been well schooled in his reply by Susanna, bowed to the woman. “I greet the children of Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters, Queen of the Moon, in the name of my father, Uthyr PenHebog, the King of Gwynedd. May we enter here?”
“Enter and be welcome to the house of Nantsovelta,” Elstar replied formally. Then she smiled. “You did very well, Arthur ap Uthyr.”
Slowly Arthur smiled back. “Thank you,” he said simply. Fair as always, he went on, “Susanna taught me.”
“And did an excellent job,” she said, smiling at Susanna and giving her hand in greeting to Cai. She turned to Gwydion. “Your presence here lights my life and gives wings to my soul, oh great Dreamer. The fire of your eyes pierces my heart, and the power of your towering spirit warms my innermost being.”
“Very nice, Elstar. You wouldn’t be making fun of me would you?”
“I? Never. I adore you now and always,” Elstar said, batting her lashes at him.
“Well, just don’t tell Elidyr,” Gwydion said, naming Elstar’s husband. “He’d chop me in two.”
“Nonsense. He’d have someone else do it for him. A Bard has to be careful of his hands. You must all be weary. Come, I’ll show you to your rooms. By the way, Gwydion, Myrrdin wants to see you right away.”
Gwydion nodded, as they were led through the huge doors of the college. The left door showed the sign for the ash tree, the tree sacred to Nantsovelta—one vertical line slashed with five horizontal lines of silver, all outlined in pearls. The right door displayed the constellation of Nantsovelta, also outlined in pearls.
Entering the cool building they took the stairs to the right of the entrance hall. “Yours is the first suite on the right here,” Elstar explained, when they reached the second level. “The other heirs are housed in this corridor. Next to you is Geriant of Prydyn and his party. Then Elen of Ederynion. And then Elphin of Rheged.”
She held her hand out to Arthur. “Come, let’s go meet the Ardewin. You too, Gwydion.”
Gwydion nodded for Susanna and Cai to settle in then followed Elstar and Arthur down the corridor to the open door of the Ardewin’s chambers.
The room was bright, lit with the beeswax candles of Rheged, which augmented the light shining through the tiny glass windows. The walls were covered with tapestries made by the master-weavers of Gwynedd, bright colors woven to show scenes of forests, lakes, and mountains. The floors were covered with carpets in shades of green and silvery gray. A sideboard with glass decanters spun by the glassmakers of Ederynion stood to the right of the door, and the light played off the dark violet glow of the wines of Prydyn.
Myrrdin, the Ardewin of Kymru, splendid in a rich robe of silver, sat at a small table before the hearth, frowning down in concentration at a playing board. His gray hair and short, gray beard glowed silver in the light. A younger man dressed in Bardic blue sat opposite, smiling slightly at Myrrdin’s frown. An older man, tan and lean, reclined before the hearth, idly strumming on a harp, completely ignoring the two young boys who wrestled on the rugs.
“Llywelyn, Cynfar, stop that at once,” Elstar commanded. The two boys sat up and hastily rearranged their clothing, trying without success to look innocent.
Myrrdin glanced over and, catching sight of Gwydion, leapt from the table with a smile on his face. “So, boyo, you’ve come to see your old uncle at last!” The two men hugged briefly, and then Myrrdin drew back to get a good look at Gwydion. The concern in his uncle’s eyes told Gwydion clearly that the signs of strain and sleeplessness on his face had been noted. But Myrrdin forbear to comment and turned to Arthur, gazing down at the boy for a long moment. He stooped down and took the boy’s hand. “Hello, Arthur. I’m Myrrdin ap Morvryn, your great-uncle.”
“The Ardewin,” Arthur said.
“Yes,” Myrrdin smiled.
“My father says to tell you hello.” Arthur paused. “Hello.”
“So, you are a man of your word. I like that. Perhaps you would care to meet two young scamps that I know,” he said, motioning for the two boys to come over. The elder boy looked to be about five years old, the younger one about three. “This is Llywelyn,” Myrrdin said, touching t
he older boy’s shoulder. “And this is Cynfar. Elstar is their mother. And Elidyr over there is their father. He is the heir of the Master Bard. I’m sure you saw him just a few days ago at Neuadd Gorsedd, didn’t you?”
Arthur nodded, as the younger man bowed briefly and smiled. Myrrdin motioned to the older man who was still strumming his harp. “And this is Dudod ap Cyvarnion. The Master Bard is his brother. He is Elidyr’s father, and the Granda of these two imps.” Dudod nodded and smiled, but did not cease playing.
Myrrdin turned to the children. “Now, you boys go outside. Why don’t you show Arthur the gardens?”
As the children left Elstar called after them, “And don’t get too muddy, and don’t be late for dinner!”
“You’re wasting your time, Elstar. They’ll do both,” Dudod said.
“Well, with you as an example, Uncle—” She shook her head.
“So, Gwydion, how was the testing at Tegeingl?” Myrrdin asked.
“Pretty good. Susanna found two Dewin and one Bard.”
“Wasn’t Arthur due to be tested this year?” Myrrdin asked.
“Yes indeed. No special talents,” Gwydion lied smoothly. He turned to Dudod. The older man was lean and his face was tanned. Laugh lines bracketed his finely cut mouth. His fingers were long and supple, as they danced over the harp strings. His light brown, sun-streaked hair was caught at the back of his neck with a plain leather thong, and his light green eyes brimmed with life. He wore brown riding leathers and his soft leather boots were dyed Bardic blue. “What have you been up to, Dudod?”
“No good, as usual,” his son, Elidyr, answered for him. “Flitting around Kymru from place to place. He’ll never settle down.”
“Tell me, Dudod,” Gwydion said, “In all your travels, have you ever run across your missing niece?”
The harp strings jangled as Dudod struck a sour chord. “No, Dreamer,” he said calmly, after a moment. “I didn’t know you were still looking for Rhiannon.” His light green eyes were bright with curiosity—and something else.
“Aren’t we all? She’s been missing now for over two years.” Gwydion paused. “Do you think she’s dead?”
