by Holly Taylor
The next apprentice was a woman from Gwynedd, and Arthur stood to declare that Uthyr had given her a horse. His speech was letter-perfect, and, as the child spoke, Myrrdin watched him closely.
When the next three apprentices—two from Prydyn and one from Rheged—had received their horses and crystals and were assigned their posts, Elstar spoke, “I declare that these apprentices are now journeymen of Nantsovelta.”
The new journeymen returned proudly to their seats as the crowd whistled and clapped their approval. A few raucous comments were shouted, then Elstar rapped again on the floor with her silver staff for silence. Again, she turned to Myrrdin. “Three journeymen there are who seek to become Dewin. May I present them to you?”
At Myrrdin’s nod, the journeymen in robes of sea green stepped up before the dais. Gwydion knew the first two somewhat, for they were both from important families in Gwynedd. Regan ur Corfil was tall and slender, her wealth of dark brown hair spilling down her back. The other, Bledri ap Gwyn, had sandy brown hair caught up in a silver clasp at the nape of his neck, and his powerful shoulders strained against the cloth of his robe. The last journeyman was Neuad ur Hetwin, the woman who had been making sheep’s eyes at Myrrdin last night. Today she stood silently before him, not even daring to lift her eyes, the candlelight turning her hair to molten gold.
The three stood still as statues while Elstar spoke, “I declare to this company that these journeymen have served in their posts with honor for five years. They are proficient healers. They are strong clairvoyants and use their gifts only to serve. I deem these worthy of becoming Dewin. Will you accept them?”
Myrrdin stepped forward then, framing Regan’s face with gentle hands. “Regan ur Corfil, I deem you worthy of becoming Dewin, a true daughter of Nantsovelta.” He nodded to Arthur, who stood, clutching two rings in his tiny fist. The boy negotiated the steps to the dais laboriously then took his place beside Myrrdin. “My father, King Uthyr, declares that you are a true woman of Gwynedd and presents to you this ring of silver.” Arthur handed the ring to Regan and she put it on the fourth finger of her left hand.
Then Myrrdin spoke, “Regan ur Corfil, I give you this torque of silver and pearl. Wear it with honor.” So saying, he clasped the torque around her neck. “You will go to Ederynion, to the court of Queen Olwen in Dinmael, to serve her as Dewin. Serve with honor.” She bowed to Myrrdin, and stepped back from the dais.
“Bledri ap Gwyn,” Myrrdin said, his hands framing the young man’s face, “I deem you worthy of becoming Dewin, a true son of Nantsovelta.” Since Bledri was also from Gwynedd, Arthur again made his little speech and presented a silver ring. As Myrrdin clasped the torque around Bledri’s neck he said, “You will go to Rheged, to the court of King Urien in Llwynarth, to serve as his Dewin. Serve with honor.” As Bledri made his bow, Arthur returned to his seat, relieved that he had remembered his speech. Susanna smiled warmly at him, putting her arm around the boy’s shoulders.
Then it was Neuad’s turn. As Myrrdin framed her face with his hands the young woman blushed deeply. Elphin of Rheged rose and stood next to Myrrdin. “Neuad ur Hetwin,” Myrrdin said gently, “I deem you worthy of becoming Dewin, a true daughter of Nantsovelta.” Then young Elphin spoke, “My father, King Urien declares you a true woman of Rheged, and presents to you this ring of silver.” After presenting Neuad with her torque, Myrrdin paused. His eyes searched the crowd, and when he saw Gwydion at the back of the hall their eyes met and locked.
Gwydion’s eyes searched his uncle’s. He saw sorrow and he saw pain. But at the last, he detected Myrrdin’s faint, wry smile beneath his beard.
Myrrdin glanced down at Neuad’s white, set face. “Neuad ur Hetwin,” he said clearly, “You shall go to Gwynedd, to the court of King Uthyr at Tegeingl, to serve as his Dewin. Serve with honor.”
At that moment, Gwydion understood what his uncle was saying, and he closed his eyes briefly with the knowledge. As the new Dewin sat down, Myrrdin turned to the hushed crowd. “I send Neuad ur Hetwin to King Uthyr’s court, because Cynan ap Darun, the Dewin at Tegeingl, is being recalled to Y Ty Dewin. Cynan is a man of the House of Llyr, and he will take my place as Ardewin. I can no longer serve here.”
Myrrdin continued to speak in the shocked silence. “I have suffered in secret for some time of an illness I will not detail. I can suffer in secret no longer, as my condition is becoming worse. I am no longer fit to lead the Dewin. If there is anyone in this hall who has ever cared for me, you will let me go in peace.”
With that, Myrrdin started down the steps. Elstar, white faced, grasped his sleeve, but he shook her off. Pandemonium had broken out within the hall. Shocked faces started at Myrrdin as everyone spoke at once. But Myrrdin made his way down the hall, looking neither to the right or the left. Looking only at Gwydion. As he neared the huge doors, he stopped in front of his nephew.
Gwydion braced himself and looked into this uncle’s eyes. They were undefeated and peaceful. The serenity in those dark eyes struck Gwydion like a blow. “Uncle, I—”
“It shall be as you say, nephew,” Myrrdin spoke within Gwydion’s mind. “May Nantsovelta forgive me my broken vow to her. And may Cadair Idris one day laugh again.”
Chapter Six
Tegeingl & DinasEmrys Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Ysgawen Mis, 486
Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—midnight
Two months later, Gwydion rode slowly up to the closed west gate of Tegeingl. Torches set in brackets on either side of the closed doors burned fitfully in the hushed night. Overhead stars glittered coldly. The light of the full moon poured from above, turning the road into a path of silver.
Gwydion halted his horse, Elise, and waited. Within moments the gates of the city opened slowly, just wide enough for he and his mount to ride through.
“Any trouble?” Gwydion quietly asked the men who had opened the gate.
Cai, Uthyr’s Captain, shook his head. The second man, Greid, the Master Smith, lifted Elise’ legs, one by one, and tied sacks to the animal’s hooves to muffle the sound. When this was done, Greid motioned Gwydion to proceed.
Gwydion passed through the silent streets of the sleeping city like a ghost. At last he reached the closed gates of Caer Gwynt. He waited for a moment, staring at the hawk with outspread wings incised on the gates of silver. A dark line parted the hawk in the center, as the gate silently opened.
Duach, Uthyr’s doorkeeper, held a lantern in his hand that he handed to Gwydion. He silently motioned that he would hold Gwydion’s horse and nodded toward the ystafell. Lights glowed at the windows of the two-story building that housed the King and Queen. Without a word Gwydion took the softly glowing lantern and made his way across the deserted courtyard.
As he approached the closed door of the ystafell, it opened, and Susanna, Uthyr’s Bard, motioned him inside. Her eyes were red from weeping and her face was white and strained. “He’s—he’s almost ready,” she said in a trembling voice.
“Has everything been done as planned?” Gwydion asked.
Susanna nodded. “Everyone believes that Arthur has been ill for the last three days. It helps that we have no Dewin here to examine him, since Cynan has left for Y Ty Dewin and Neuad has not yet arrived. We told everyone this morning that Arthur was worse, burning up with fever.”
“And the burial?”
“We made up the shroud this morning and stuffed it with stones wrapped in rags until it was just the right weight. We will tell them that Arthur died tonight, and have the shroud ready in the morning for burial in Bryn Celli Ddu.”
He didn’t want to ask it, but he did. “And Ygraine and Uthyr? How are they taking this?”
“Sending Arthur away is breaking Ygraine’s heart,” Susanna said, her tone accusing.
Accusing him of—of what, exactly? Did she really think that it was a pleasure for him to deprive Uthyr and Ygraine of their only son? Did she think he was doing this for a whim? Did people think he knew nothing of pain, of bitterness, of despair simply because
he had learned not to show it? Did they think he didn’t live with agony each and every day, dream it each and every night? But he said none of those things, so bitter did he feel, so harsh was the flare of anger in his guts. To show this to Susanna—to show this to anyone, ever—would be showing too much.
“Children are sent away to be fostered all the time,” he said shortly. “Even if the circumstances had been different she would have had to let him go soon anyway.”
“It’s not just that and you know it. She’s afraid that she won’t see him again. She doesn’t trust you. And she loves her little boy more than she loves herself.”
“If that’s so,” Gwydion replied, even more coldly than he meant to, “then she’ll make this as easy as possible for everybody. I can’t help it if she’s wretched.”
“No,” Susanna said sharply. “But perhaps you could feel some pity for her.”
“There’s nothing I can do about Ygraine. And I can’t tear myself up over it.” Suddenly, his frustration, his anger boiled over. “I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t care if you hate me. I don’t care if everyone hates me. I do what must be done.”
“Would you care if Uthyr hated you?” Susanna asked quietly, her eyes malicious.
Gwydion clenched his fists. His face drained of all color. “Even that, Susanna,” he said in a level tone. “Even that is a price I will pay. If I must.”
Susanna said nothing for a moment, looking up into Gwydion’s white, set face. “It’s a price you won’t have to pay. You know Uthyr,” she said gently.
“Don’t pity me,” he said, between clenched teeth. “I don’t want it.”
A sound at the top of the stairs made them turn. Uthyr, gently holding a sobbing Arthur, made his way down the stairs. He held the child carefully, as though he was holding his own heart between his hands. Uthyr tried to smile when he saw his brother; but the smile was stillborn on his white, strained face. His eyes were dry, but they had the look of a man dangling from a gallows tree waiting desperately for the moment when his body would cease struggling and hang lifeless, twisting in the wind, his agony over.
Gwydion knew that if he looked at his brother’s eyes again, all his carefully won detachment, all his dedication to duty, all his walls would crumble into dust. And the future of Kymru would crumble with it. So he forced himself to look only at Arthur.
Uthyr gently deposited the sobbing child into Gwydion’s arms. He brushed his son’s hair lightly with the palm of his huge hand. “This is your Uncle Gwydion, Arthur. I know you remember him. Don’t be afraid. He’ll take good care of you. I’ll—I’ll come to see you as soon as I can. I promise.” But the promise was empty, and Arthur knew it. Gwydion could feel the child’s terror and pain as the boy shivered.
Gwydion looked down at Arthur, saying gently, “I will bring your father to visit, one day.”
Arthur, who knew a true promise when he heard one, lifted his head, stopped sobbing, and stared solemnly up at his uncle. “I promise,” Gwydion said again. Arthur twisted in Gwydion’s arms, turning to look to his father. Uthyr was looking back at Arthur with a glint of hope in his face, hardly daring to believe Gwydion’s words. “I’ll see to it, Uthyr. I promise,” Gwydion repeated.
Uthyr nodded, and reached out a trembling hand to cradle his son’s wet cheek. “You be a good boy,” he whispered unsteadily. Again, he tried to smile, but the smile never reached his tormented eyes.
Gwydion turned to go with the boy in his arms. As Susanna opened the door, he heard footsteps rushing down the stairs and then Ygraine was there, thrusting herself between Gwydion and the door. She wore a plain, shapeless gown of gray linen. Her hair was in disarray, and her feet were bare. Her movements were jerky and her eyes were bright, as though she burned with fever.
“Wait,” she said hurriedly. “I just thought of something. Alban Nerth! The Alban Nerth celebration is in six days.” She rushed onward, the words racing out of her mouth. “Why don’t we wait until then? You could help us celebrate. Yes, that’s what we shall do. You help us celebrate. And then—then you can take him.”
Arthur began to cry again. He reached out his small arms to his mother. “Mam,” he sobbed. “Mam.”
With a moan like a dying woman, Ygraine tore Arthur from Gwydion’s arms, holding on to the boy tightly. “No, no, I won’t let you take him!” she screamed.
But Uthyr, his face white and desperate, leapt to hold Ygraine as Susanna tore Arthur from the Queen’s arms. Ygraine screamed, twisting in Uthyr’s grasp, raking his drawn face with her nails, sobbing for her son.
“Come on!” Susanna cried. She ran with Arthur in her arms into the courtyard and Gwydion was right behind her. Duach, seeing their haste, swiftly opened the gate of Uthyr’s fortress.
As Gwydion mounted his horse, she tossed the boy up to him. Setting Arthur firmly in front on the horse’s back, he Mind-Shouted at Elise to go. The horse took off from the courtyard at a dead run. The city streets streamed behind them as they made for the west gate. Cai and Greid, hearing Elise’s muffled gallop leapt to open the gate and Elise shot through.
The horse did not stop running until they were far into the forest. As Elise slowed to a walk, Gwydion thought at first that Arthur was still weeping. But the harsh, dry, heartbroken sobs were not coming from his nephew’s throat.
They were coming from his own.
Gwaithdydd, Disglair Wythnos—early evening
AT DUSK THE following day they came to a clearing in the forest, and Elise simply stopped walking. Gwydion blinked in surprise. Arthur, who had been sitting quietly on the saddle in front of Gwydion, craned his neck to look back at his uncle.
“Oh yes, so it is. Thank you,” Gwydion said as he dismounted. He lifted Arthur from Elise’s back and set the boy on his feet.
Arthur, who had not said a word since crying out for his mother the day before, finally spoke. “Who are you talking to?”
“Elise has reminded me that it’s time to make camp. And he’s right. It’s late,” Gwydion replied absently, as he grabbed the saddlebags.
“He talks to you?” Arthur asked in astonishment.
More than you do, Gwydion thought to himself. But he was relieved to hear Arthur speak at last. “In a way,” Gwydion replied as he shuffled through the bags for something to eat—something that didn’t require cooking. “It’s something that telepaths can do with animals. You don’t exactly talk with them—by which I mean that animals don’t communicate with words. But you can sense what they are feeling, which is why they call it Far-Sensing. Telepaths talk to other people with their minds, too, which is called Wind-Speaking.” He set out bread and cheese on the top of a flat rock, and gestured for Arthur to begin eating. Gwydion himself wasn’t really hungry and he decided it would be a good idea to take a look around to be sure they were not being followed.
Without even thinking to tell Arthur what he was doing, Gwydion sat down on the ground, closed his eyes, and sent his awareness out of his body to hover over the clearing. He saw his own body sitting there, motionless and barely breathing, and Arthur’s astonished expression. He scouted the land around them. Far to the north he saw lights, and, investigating closer, found a small farmstead. No problem there, the settlement was over five leagues away. As he scouted east he came close to Tegeingl, but shied away from investigating further. He scouted south and west, but saw nothing to alarm him.
Satisfied, he returned to his body. As he did so, he became aware the Arthur was frantically tugging at his sleeve, begging him to wake up. Gwydion was appalled at the fright on his nephew’s face. The child must have been terrified, thinking that his uncle was deserting him, leaving him all alone in the great forest.
Hesitantly, Gwydion took the hysterical boy in his arms. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I should have explained. I was doing something we call Wind-Riding. It’s a thing that clairvoyants can do. We leave our bodies for a short time, and we can see other places far away. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
�
�I—I wasn’t scared,” Arthur lied.
“Oh, I know you weren’t. Probably you were just a little startled, weren’t you?”
Arthur nodded. “Could—could I do that?”
“Maybe someday. Clairvoyants can do another thing called Life-Reading. That’s when they lay hands on someone and can ‘see’ what might be ailing them. That’s why the Dewin are our doctors. Now, would you like to help me gather some wood for the fire?”
Arthur moved off, picking up branches from the forest floor and piling them in the center of the clearing, looking back often to be sure that Gwydion was still there. When enough wood had been gathered, Gwydion told Arthur to stand back. He stared at the pile of wood until it began to glow and then suddenly burst into flames.
“I’ve seen Griffi do that,” Arthur said in a confidential tone.
“Yes. Griffi is a Druid.”
“How do you do that?” Arthur asked, curiously.
“It’s something all psychokinetics do. It’s called Fire-Weaving. There are other things we can do, too, like moving objects with our minds. That’s called Shape-Moving.”
“You can do everything,” Arthur said, in an admiring tone.
“Some people have a combination of two gifts. My father was both psychokinetic and clairvoyant. Your great-uncle Myrrdin is clairvoyant and telepathic. But most people who have the gift are only one thing. People who are telepaths become Bards. Those that are clairvoyants become Dewin. And psychokinetics become Druids. But only the Dreamer has all three gifts, plus others besides. The Dreamers practice something called precognition, which is being able to see the future. Sometimes, if it’s very important, we can also do something called retrocognition, which is the ability to see events from the past. There are many Bards and Dewin and Druids in Kymru. But in each generation there is only one Dreamer.”
