by Holly Taylor
“Just a quick wash with a bucket of water would be fine for now. Do you have a few moments to talk?”
“I’ll make the time. Here we are,” Elidyr said as he opened the door to a small but pleasant chamber. The triangular window faced east, with a view of the huge birch grove where the festivals were celebrated.
Within the chamber a narrow bed was pushed against one wall. Small rugs in blue and white dotted the white stone floor. A narrow oak wardrobe stood next to a small table that held a basin and pitcher. Gwydion was grateful to see that the pitcher was full. He poured the water into the basin and splashed his face, drying it with a towel that lay next to the basin. Meanwhile, Elidyr poured wine into two blue glass goblets from a silver decanter that stood on a small table next to the door.
Gwydion took a small sip of the wine. His brows shot up. “Good stuff! Is this from Prydyn?”
“Straight from King Rhoram himself. Anieron said you’d be along soon, and he thought you might like it.”
“And how,” Gwydion asked carefully, “did Anieron know I’d be here?”
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself. But he probably won’t answer you.”
“I sometimes think that man knows everything there is to know about everything,” Gwydion said lightly, disguising how disturbed he was. “Tell me, have you heard from your cousin Rhiannon lately?”
Elidyr stared at Gwydion in surprise. “Rhiannon? No, have you?”
“Of course not. But I am looking for her.”
“Why?”
“I had a dream,” Gwydion said shortly. It was all that the Dreamer had to say to anyone to ensure full cooperation. Well, almost anyone. He had a hunch that Anieron would probably be another matter. But not Elidyr, of that he was sure.
“If you’re asking do I know where she is, the answer is no. No one does.” Elidyr frowned. “Except—”
“Except maybe your father?”
Elidyr shot Gwydion a sharp look. “Possibly. But I doubt you’ll find her. She’d sense you were coming and run.”
“Would she? Maybe she’s ready to be found.”
“You don’t know her,” Elidyr said shortly.
“Tell me about her. What’s she like?”
“I can tell you what she was like. What she might be like now, I wouldn’t even be able to guess.” Elidyr paused, then sat down on the hearth. “Rhiannon was anxious to please, and naturally kind-hearted. It made her easily hurt, her tender heart.”
“I hadn’t heard she was that tender,” Gwydion said shortly.
“Oh, but she was. That was the problem. When she gave her heart to Rhoram, and when he mangled it—as anyone but her expected him to do—she had no defenses.”
“I heard from Myrrdin she had quite a few defenses.”
Elidyr waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Surface only. Not even skin deep. A hard shell, certainly, but a thin one.”
“With you, perhaps.”
“Oh, yes, perhaps just with me. I loved her like a sister, you know.”
“Did you?” Gwydion had his own opinion about that, seeing the look in Elidyr’s eyes when he spoke of his cousin. “I understand she’d come here to try to see her father.”
“As much as she could that first year she was at Y Ty Dewin. She was only seven years old and would walk all the way here. She’d show up, usually in the middle of the night, and Wind-Speak to wake me up. I’d sneak out of the dorm and let her in. We’d raid the kitchen, then try to get Hefeydd to open his door and talk to her.”
“And did he?”
“Never. I used to beg her not to try. But she insisted. She always said that if he could just see her, he’d know what a good girl she was, and he’d love her. But after a while she realized it was useless and she stopped coming.”
Elidyr got up restlessly and went to look out the window. Without turning around he continued, “I can’t tell you what it was like to see her fight that losing battle. She’d show up exhausted, dirty, blisters on her feet. And when Hefeydd refused to see her, she would weep. I’d hold her until she stopped crying. If my Da were here, I’d take her to him. And he’d take her back to Y Ty Dewin in the morning. If Dudod wasn’t here, she’d sleep in his empty room. Anieron always knew that she was there—you know how he is—and he’d send her back in the morning with some other Bard who could be spared.”
“How often did she come here?”
“Every week,” Elidyr said tonelessly. “Every week for one entire year. I was so glad when she stopped coming. I missed her, but I was glad.”
“For her sake,” Gwydion said.
“Yes, for her sake,” Elidyr repeated.
“But not for yours.”
Still staring out the window, Elidyr said, almost dreamily, “I loved her, you see. But I never told her. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway, I suppose. She didn’t love me, probably never would have.
“But sometimes, I think that if I had told Rhiannon that I loved her, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen in love with Rhoram. And she wouldn’t have been hurt so badly; she wouldn’t have run away, she would have become Ardewin one day, instead of Elstar. Maybe I could have saved her, if I had tried.” Elidyr trailed off and there was silence.
Abruptly, Gwydion said, “It was her choice to run away, to play the coward.”
“Coward? Is that how you see her?”
“Don’t you?”
“You don’t understand anything.” Elidyr said flatly. “She was a brave little girl, and a brave woman. And she gave herself away to a careless man.”
“She ran away,” Gwydion insisted, just as flatly. “Ran and hid like a child when things didn’t go her way.”
“Oh, and you haven’t done that yourself in your own way?” Elidyr asked, his voice heavy with contempt.
Gwydion opened his mouth to say that of course he had never run from tragedy, to say that he had never been a coward. Yet his denials of cowardice died in his throat.
“Rest,” Elidyr said quietly, his brown eyes cool. “I’ll be back in an hour to take you to Anieron.” With that, Elidyr was gone, leaving Gwydion to the silence.
WHEN ELIDYR RETURNED an hour later, Gwydion coolly intimated that he was ready. Elidyr said nothing, merely motioning for Gwydion to follow him down the corridor. Elidyr knocked on Anieron’s door, waited a moment then opened it.
Anieron’s room where he received visitors was large. An oak table stood in the middle of the room with an ornate wooden chair behind it. Rows and rows of bookshelves jostled for place against the walls covered with large parchments containing the genealogical tables of the four royal houses of Kymru, as well as the House of Llyr.
A large, glass-fronted shelf held musical instruments—harps, pipes, and drums of all shapes and sizes. The floor was covered with a tapestry-like carpet woven to show blue nightingales, the symbolic animal of the Bards, in flight on a plain, white background.
A fireplace occupied most of the far wall where a fire burned cheerfully. Before the hearth two chairs stood, both cushioned in the white and blue of the Bards. A small table stood between the chairs, holding a silver decanter and blue-tinted goblets.
Anieron rose from his chair before the hearth. He was a tall man, and, although in his mid-sixties, he did not stoop. He wore a robe of blue and the ornate Master Bard’s torque of sapphires studded over a triangle of silver. His hair was a distinguished gray and he was clean-shaven. His green eyes were alert and piercing. He had a genial smile and a razor-sharp mind. Anieron radiated charm, as did his brother, Dudod. Unlike Dudod, however, he also radiated a sense of power.
Anieron smiled. “Ah, Gwydion, how very good to see you. Please sit down.” Anieron motioned to one of the chairs before the hearth. Elidyr withdrew, not even waiting for Anieron’s dismissal.
Still smiling, Anieron poured wine into one of the goblets and handed it to Gwydion. Then he sat down again in the other chair. Casually, he put his feet on the hearth and crossed his ankles. “To what do we owe the honor of your vis
it, Gwydion?”
“Why bother to ask? Don’t you already know everything?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Gwydion realized he had made a mistake by showing his irritation. He tried to mask it by casually sipping his wine, but it was too late for that.
“Do I detect a note of censure in your voice?” Anieron inquired softly. “Is that any way to talk to an old man?” Anieron still smiled, but his green eyes were cool.
Gwydion cursed himself for a fool. “Sorry,” he said with a smile. “To tell you the truth—”
“Yes, let’s try that, shall we?” Anieron interjected smoothly.
Gwydion took another sip of wine and tried to get a hold of himself. He had been very rattled by the news that Anieron had known he was coming. “To tell you the truth, Anieron,” Gwydion repeated, “I’ve come here for your help.” There, he thought, that should appease the old man.
But Anieron, his eyes cool as ever merely asked, “With what?”
“I’m looking for Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. I need to find her.”
Anieron leaned back and took another sip of wine. “Why?”
“I had a dream.”
Anieron waited with a look of polite attention of his face. “And?”
“And what?”
“And what was the dream?”
Gwydion took another sip. He had suspected that Anieron would choose to question him. There seemed to be nothing for it than to give Anieron a somewhat edited version of his need. Anieron would find out one way or another, if he didn’t know already.
“The Shining Ones sent me a dream. In it Bran the Dreamer indicated that I must find Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. She carries a memory, a clue, passed down subconsciously through his descendants.”
“A clue to what?”
Gwydion took a deep breath. “A clue to the location of the High King’s sword.”
He watched as Anieron, so dreadfully quick, pieced together the clues.
“Ah,” Anieron said. “So, Kymru is to have a High King again. Of course.”
Gwydion waited for Anieron to ask him who the High King was to be. But Anieron did not ask. Which only worried Gwydion more. No doubt that meant Anieron didn’t need to ask, because he already knew.
“In truth, Gwydion,” Anieron went on, “I don’t know where Rhiannon is, but—”
“But you know someone who does,” Gwydion finished for him.
“I believe so.”
“Dudod.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Traveling. I’ll get in touch with him and see if I can persuade him to talk. I make no promises.”
“I ask for none,” Gwydion said. “But I thank you for your help.”
Anieron smiled genially and sipped his wine. But did not answer.
GWYDION HAD BEEN back in his room for only a few moments when he heard a knock on the door. Elidyr poked his head in. “Visitor for you,” he said, his face expressionless.
“Who in the world—” Gwydion started, but got no further. A young girl ran in and leapt into his arms. Gwydion laughed with delight and hugged his daughter close. “Cariadas! What are you doing here?”
Smiling, Elidyr left, shutting the door softly behind him as Cariadas replied, “I came over with Elstar and her son, Llywelyn. And when I got here, they told me that you had shown up. Oh, Da, I’m so happy to see you!”
“Let’s take a look at you, my girl,” Gwydion said as he stepped back to gaze at his daughter. Cariadas was now almost ten years old and her face contained the promise of beauty. She had his gray eyes and her mother’s red-gold hair. At the moment her thick hair had come out of its careless braid and fallen down her back in tangled waves. She was slender and her skin was fair. She wore a plain Dewin apprentice robe of gray, bound at the waist with a leather belt. She was a sunny-tempered child and her delighted grin was infectious. Gwydion found himself smiling, as he hadn’t done for some time.
“You look beautiful,” Gwydion said. Oh, they changed so quickly when they were young. Since she was sent away to Y Ty Dewin at the age of seven he had only been able to see her briefly when she returned to Caer Dathyl for a few months during the end of each school year.
“You look tired,” she said critically. “Are you getting your rest?”
“Some, thank you,” he replied, amused at her concern.
“You really need someone to look after you. You know that?”
“You remind me of your mother when you talk like that.”
“Ouch,” Cariadas winced, for she knew how Gwydion had felt about Isalyn.
“It’s all right,” Gwydion said gently. “I was only teasing.”
“No you weren’t,” Cariadas replied. “But never mind. I’ve been put in my place, as I deserved. At least, that’s what Elstar always says!” She grinned at him and Gwydion laughed and hugged her again.
As they settled down on the edge of the narrow bed for a long talk Gwydion asked, “How are things at Y Ty Dewin?”
“Good. I love it there. Cynan is very kind to me—but he’s kind to everyone. Elstar is a little stricter. She’s worried I’ll think too much of myself.”
“Hard to believe,” Gwydion said.
She lightly swatted his arm, “How can you say that when you know that I am full of humility?”
“Full of something, anyway,” he murmured. “How are the lessons?”
“Oh, they’re fun. I’m very good at Wind-Riding and I’m getting the hang of Life-Reading. I really am.”
“Cariadas, I must tell you something in the strictest confidence.”
“Da, everything you do is in the strictest confidence,” she said, laughing.
“This is important, daughter.”
Cariadas stopped smiling and turned to him, her little face serious. “Tell me.”
“I will be doing a great deal of traveling this year. I’m not sure when I can be back to see you.”
“Where you are going?” she asked anxiously.
“I cannot be specific.”
“But Da, why can’t you tell me where you are going?”
“Cariadas, if I could tell you more I would.”
“You act like you don’t trust me,” she accused.
“I do trust you. But what you don’t know no one can make you tell.”
“Oh, Da,” she sighed, giving in, “you make me so mad, sometimes.”
“I have that effect on a lot of people,” Gwydion replied dryly.
She smiled. “But I love you anyway.”
“That’s an effect I don’t usually have.”
“Well you could,” she said, “if you took the trouble to be nice to people.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I’ll try to remember your advice. So, do you want me to escort you to the festival tonight?”
“Oh, yes. That will keep that nasty Llywelyn out of my face.”
“Oh, ho. Already you begin to break hearts.”
“He doesn’t have one to break. Why, he’s only four years older than I am and he’s always criticizing me: ‘Wash your face’; ‘Your dress is torn’; ‘Climbing trees at your age, how juvenile’; and on and on.”
Gwydion said, highly amused, “Perhaps I should give Llywelyn some advice on how to handle women.”
“No one needs advice from you on that subject,” she laughed. Before Gwydion could ask her what she meant, she jumped up. “I promised Elstar I’d let her get me ready for the festival. She says that a future Dreamer must look her dignified best on important occasions.” She made a face, swiftly kissed him, and was gone.
THE WAXING MOON had risen by the time the inhabitants of Neuadd Gorsedd had gathered in the sacred grove. The silver light of the moon glowed off the white trunks of the birch trees.
The clearing in the middle of the grove was filled with over a hundred Bards, journeymen and apprentices, all carrying birch branches and waiting for Anieron to arrive and begin the celebration. A huge bonfire made with birch wood was burning in the middle of the cleari
ng. A stone altar stood at the western end. A golden bowl full of seeds and a silver goblet of wine were laid on top of the stone. Eight unlit torches had been placed around the altar.
Gwydion stood with Cariadas near the altar proper. Gwydion was dressed in a formal red robe with black velvet trim. He wore the Dreamer’s Torque of opals and gold around his neck and his shoulder length black hair was bound back with a black ribbon. Cariadas wore a gown of red and the underskirt, showing just below the hem, was black. Her hair had been elaborately braided and tied off with red and black ribbons.
The night was silent, without even the slightest breeze to stir the branches of the trees. Overhead the stars glittered coldly. Anieron entered the clearing with Elidyr behind him. The Master Bard wore a cloak made of songbird feather—thrushes, sparrows, wrens, robins, and bluebirds. He carried a birch branch hung with dozens of tiny silver bells. As he stepped up to the altar, he shook the branch. The clear, ringing sound carried through the grove and up into the silent trees.
In his deep, powerful voice, Anieron began the festival. He gestured to the eight unlit torches. “This is the Wheel of the Year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals when we honor the Shining Ones.”
As he gestured and named each one, Elidyr lit the torches. “Calan Llachar,” Anieron intoned, “Alban Haf, Calan Olau, Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, and Alban Awyr, which we celebrate tonight.”
Again, Anieron shook the branch and the bells sang. “We gather here to honor Taran, King of the Winds, who woke the Great Mother from her enchanted sleep that the earth might be fruitful.”
“We honor him,” the crowd murmured softly, the sound of hundreds of hushed voices was like that of a rushing wind.
Anieron continued, “Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the Great Awakening. Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood. Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars. Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”
Again, the crowd intoned as one; “We honor the Shining Ones.”
In the sudden silence the clear, piping voice of Cynfar, the youngest son of Elidyr and Elstar, sounded like the bells themselves as he spoke his part in the ritual. “Why do we mourn? Why are we afraid?”
