by Holly Taylor
Servants began to bring in heaping platters from the kitchen. Steaming potatoes, still in their jackets, slabs of venison flavored with sage, great wheels of rich yellow cheese, and crusty loaves of bread were brought to their table. Gwydion loaded his plate, for he had been on the road a long time.
When the meal was done, and the goblets filled, he sat back in his chair, anticipating the nature of the evening’s entertainment. He assumed it would be a continuation of the earlier part of the evening—wrestling, dice, and music. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—it was Achren who took it upon herself to provide the night’s merriment. Years afterward, he was never sure exactly why she had done it. To enrage Efa, certainly. To jolt Rhoram, definitely. To irritate Gwydion, possibly. Perhaps all of the above.
“Gwydion is looking for Rhiannon ur Hefeydd,” she said in a penetrating tone. “Anybody have any ideas?”
Gwydion choked on his wine. Efa stiffened and dug her nails into the arms of her chair. And Rhoram slowly lowered his goblet set it gently on the table. He turned to Achren. “What did you say?”
“I said, Gwydion’s looking for Rhiannon,” Achren answered calmly, as though she had said nothing of great importance.
Blankly, Rhoram turned to Gwydion. “Why?”
“A dream I had told me to find her,” Gwydion said between gritted teeth.
“Why ask here? Why ask us?” Rhoram’s voice rose until he was almost shouting. “Do you think I know anything? Do you think that if I knew where to look I’d still be sitting on my backside in this gods-forsaken hall?”
“A miracle,” said Achren, her voice cutting through the air like a dagger. “It actually speaks. Just like it was alive.”
In fury, Rhoram turned to her, his once dead eyes glittering with rage. “You dare to mock me?”
“It even talks,” Achren went on, her tone was full of inexpressible contempt, “like it has a backbone. This is truly amazing. I wonder how it’s done?”
Rhoram threw his goblet at her, but she ducked. The goblet crashed against the far wall and rolled away. Everyone in the hall froze, staring at Rhoram. “You will pay for this, Achren. I promise you,” Rhoram said, his tone deadly.
“It speaks,” Achren repeated calmly. “Like a King. Finally. After all these years.”
Rhoram, quick as thought, grasped a knife from one of the empty platters. He leapt across the table, grabbed Achren by the arm and twisted her around, until his dagger was at her throat.
“What, Achren, do you think the payment should be for mocking me? You’re death, perhaps?” Rhoram asked, coldly, clearly, implacably.
“If I die, Rhoram,” she said calmly, as though she did not have a knife at her throat, “it will be payment enough just to know that Prydyn has its King again.”
For a long moment, it hung in the balance—Achren’s life and Rhoram’s living death. In the end, what happened in that moment was forever burned into Gwydion’s memory. For he saw the King of Prydyn choose to return to life.
Rhoram’s blue eyes began to glitter. Color returned to his face. He released Achren, spinning her away from him. She straightened then faced him, her head high.
In a carrying tone Rhoram said, “Achren ur Canhustyr, Captain of my teulu, PenCollen of Prydyn, you forget your place. I shall remind you. Tomorrow, at dawn, you will lead my warriors in a hunt. And you will bring back to me the heads of five wild boars. Five, mark you. I will accept nothing less. You will bring them to me by noon, tomorrow. Or you will leave Prydyn and never return.”
Rhoram turned to Gwydion, “Come with me, Gwydion ap Awst, we have business to conduct.” Then he firmly strode out of the now silent hall.
Gwydion followed swiftly. He looked back behind him as he went out the door. He saw that Achren was smiling with genuine pleasure, and that Queen Efa was looking at her husband’s Captain as though wishing her dead.
GWYDION HURRIED AFTER Rhoram, who marched down the steps of the Hall and suddenly stopped by the well in the deserted courtyard. Rhoram lowered the bucket into the well and pulled it up brimming with cold, clear water. Then, without further ado, he plunged his face into the water and came up again, gasping. “Gods that’s cold,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“What are you doing?” Gwydion asked in bewilderment.
“Waking up,” Rhoram replied. “Waking up after years and years.” He began to hum a little tune, still mopping at his wet face.
“Rhoram, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about what Achren did. What did you think I was talking about?”
“What exactly did she do?”
Rhoram’s smiled faded. His eyes were very blue and very serious. “She made me see myself and I didn’t like what I saw.” Rhoram returned to the hall steps and sat down, motioning for Gwydion to sit down beside him. The ceaseless song of the crickets could be heard in the distance. Overhead the stars gleamed impossibly bright in the night sky.
“Eleven years ago,” Rhoram said quietly, “I lost the woman I loved. The woman I still love. But I didn’t know it, not until it was too late. I made a horrible mistake. A mistake I can’t fix. And I let that mistake tear me to pieces. And that was the worst part. People make mistakes, you see, and live with them the best they know how. But my best wasn’t very good. Achren made me see that tonight. And so,” Rhoram went on, his voice firm, “from now on I shall do better.”
Gwydion hardened cynic that he was, believed that Rhoram would, indeed, do better. He had a fleeting thought that he hadn’t done any better than Rhoram had in living with the past. That thought flashed through his mind, and then was gone. “Can you talk about her?” he asked.
“All you want. But truly, I don’t know anything.”
“Tell me, Rhoram, what if you saw her again? What if she came back to you? What would you do?”
Rhoram was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “She won’t come back to me, Gwydion. She’ll never trust me enough to give her heart to me a second time. Believe this, for I know her. Once trust is broken, it’s gone for good.”
“Rhoram,” Gwydion said abruptly. “I need something.”
“It is yours, Dreamer, if I can make it so.”
“I need you to send Achren to Caer Dathyl. She must be there by Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos, in Ysgawen Mis.”
“Because?” Rhoram asked, his brows raised.
“I’d rather not say.”
Rhoram looked at Gwydion for a long moment. “Very well,” he said. “Come,” he went on lightly. “Let’s go back inside. I feel a need to play.”
“Play?”
“The harp. I’m very good at that.”
“What about Efa?” Gwydion said suddenly.
“What about her? We’ll go on together, as always. She has what she wants. She’s the Queen.”
“And you?”
“Ah, well. I’m the King. And there are some beautiful ladies in my court, don’t you think? I get by.” Rhoram grinned and stood up, reaching down a hand to help Gwydion to his feet. He stood there for a moment, looking at Gwydion. Then he said quietly, “If you find her, tell her I miss her and hope to see her again. And tell her I’d like to see my daughter, very much.”
Gwydion nodded. “Anything else?”
Rhoram shook his head. “I think not. It’s better that way.”
As they mounted the steps, Gwydion said quietly, “It’s good to see you again, Rhoram.”
When they reentered the hall the crowd was silent, listening intently to Sanon as she stood before the hearth, singing in a clear, sweet voice. Rhoram made his way through the crowd, picking up a harp that was sitting on one of the tables. He sat on the hearth, and played the tune to Sanon’s song. Sanon smiled at her father and kept singing.
What evil genius, Gwydion wondered, had prompted her to sing that song? She was singing of Cuchulainn, one of the kings of lost Lyonesse and of his doomed love affair. Cuchulainn had fallen under the enchantment of Fand, on
e of the Danans, the magic folk of that realm. Cuchulainn’s wife, Emer, had found out about the affair, catching the lovers together. Sanon was now singing Emer’s words to Cuchulainn.
What is red is beautiful,
What is new is bright,
What’s tall is fair,
What’s familiar is stale.
The unknown is honored,
The known is neglected.
We lived in harmony once,
And could do so again,
If only I still pleased you.
Gwydion eyed Rhoram as he calmly played the harp, shocked that the King had not even winced at the words. For one moment, Sanon almost faltered, but Rhoram’s smile encouraged her to go on. Gwydion made his way to where he saw Dafydd standing against the wall. “Where’s Efa?” Gwydion asked softly.
“She left as soon as Sanon started singing.”
“She’s still alive, then.”
“Right. If Efa had taken a swing at Achren, as she had wanted to, she wouldn’t be,” Dafydd grinned.
“Where is Achren?”
Dafydd jerked his head over to the dais. “Over there.”
“Thanks.” As Gwydion made his way toward Achren, Sanon was finishing up her song. King Cuchulainn had decided to stay with his wife, and Fand, the enchantress, was leaving.
It is I who will go on a journey,
Though I like our adventure best.
Alas for one who gives love to another
If it be not cherished;
It is better for a person to be cast aside
Unless he is loved as he loves.
Gwydion sat down on the empty chair next to Achren. She turned her head slightly to look at him out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing.
“Rhoram looks much better, don’t you think?” he asked.
“Better than I’ll look tomorrow after hunting down five wild boars,” she said dryly.
“It worked,” Gwydion replied.
Achren smiled slowly. “Yes. It did.”
“When was the last time you saw Rhiannon?” he asked suddenly.
Her dark eyes became distant with memory. “The night she left. I was on guard duty that night, near the outer gates of the city, when I saw her riding up. She had Gwen in a sling around her neck.”
“So she rode up to the gates,” Gwydion prompted. “What did she say?”
“Why, nothing. We looked at each other for a moment, then I opened the gates, and she rode out.”
“And that was it? Nothing else?”
“She stopped and smiled at me after she rode through. Tears were streaming down her face. But she smiled at me. And she waved good-bye.”
“And so you just let her leave.”
“She was my friend,” Achren said simply. “And it was what she wanted. That was good enough for me.”
Chapter Twelve
Llwynarth, Kingdom of Rheged and Coed Aderyn, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Draenenwen Mis, 494
Alban Haf—late afternoon
Thirty days later, weary and travel-stained, Gwydion arrived outside the gates of Llwynarth, the capital city of the Kingdom of Rheged.
He had left Arberth soon after his arrival, spending only a few days with Rhoram, withstanding the melting looks directed at him by Rhoram’s daughter and enjoying the spectacle of Achren ur Canhustyr returning muddied, exhausted, but triumphant, with the heads of five wild boars (and a few extra scars).
Despite his growing anxiety that he would never find Rhiannon, his trip across Rheged fed something in him. Rheged was renowned for its honey, its beeswax candles, its superb mead and ale, its golden wheat. The land itself seemed to be made of fire—wheat fields glistening under the hot sun, rich honey glowing with an inner light. Gwydion was the Dreamer and, as such, he owed his primary allegiance to Mabon of the Sun, the Lord of Fire. And Rheged was Mabon’s land.
Yet he did not expect to find any answers here to his most pressing problem—where to find Rhiannon. For here in King Urien’s court there were none who had known her well. Still, this trip throughout Kymru was giving him the chance to reconnect with all the Rulers of this land. Since it had recently become clear that he needed Kymru’s Captains at his side, it was as well that he had already determined to visit each Ruler. He needed the support of all of them both now and in the uncertain future. So he reconciled himself to this long journey, in hopes that it would bear fruit at a later time.
The gates of the Llwynarth were still open for it was only late afternoon and people were still going in and out of the city. Many of the people were from the outlying areas around the city, coming in to celebrate Alban Haf, the festival of Modron, the Great Mother, which would take place later tonight.
Llwynarth was built in the shape of a circle. Four watch-towers stood equidistant from each other around the circular stone walls. The stones had a golden cast to them, causing the walls to glow in the late afternoon sun. As he rode through the southern gate he left the main road, passing Nemed Draenenwen, the sacred grove of hawthorn trees. As it was early summer, the trees were coated with clusters of delicate white flowers.
“You honor us, Dreamer, with your presence.”
Gwydion recognized the call of Esyllt ur Maelwys, the King’s Bard. “How kind of you,” he answered.
“I’ve orders from Anieron to help you in any way I can. Do you need anything?”
“I need to see Urien and Ellirri.”
“I’ll send Trystan to escort you,” Esyllt replied.
Of course she would send Trystan. Trystan ap Nap was the Captain of King Urien’s teulu—and Esyllt’s lover. Everyone knew that. Everyone except, perhaps, March, Esyllt’s husband.
“Thank you Esyllt,” Gwydion said. “Remember me to March, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she replied shortly, and then the contact was broken. Apparently she and March were still married. He wondered why. In Kymru a couple could be divorced if they declared their marriage over by mutual consent, at any one of the eight festivals. If Esyllt didn’t love her husband, why didn’t she divorce him? And if she did love her husband, why did she keep Trystan as her lover?
He rode by Crug Mawr, the burial place of the Rulers of Rheged. The stones stood dark and silent—an incongruous note on this beautiful summer afternoon.
Gwydion was looking forward to spending some time with King Urien and Queen Ellirri. King Urien was a generous, good-natured, talented warrior, not overly clever or subtle. Subtlety came from his Queen, Ellirri of Gwynedd. She was full sister to Madoc and half sister to Uthyr. Gwydion had known Ellirri since childhood and he remembered her well—and fondly—from his visits to Tegeingl as a boy.
At last he reached the gate of Caer Erias, the King’s fortress. The gate was iron covered with gold leaf. On it was carved a rearing stallion, his mane flying in the wind, outlined in shimmering opals. The horse’s opal eyes glowed as Gwydion rode through the open gate.
There, true to Esyllt’s word, stood Trystan, the Captain of Urien’s warband, the PenDraenenwen of Rheged. Trystan was broad shouldered and muscular, standing just under six feet. He had brown hair and green eyes which shown with intelligence and humor. Trystan smiled and held Elise’s bridal as Gwydion dismounted. “Ho, Gwydion. How long have you been on the road, man?”
“Thirty days,” Gwydion said wearily, as he slid down from the saddle. “Where are Urien and Ellirri?”
“In the ystafell. But you’re not going there yet.”
“I’m not?”
“You,” Trystan said emphatically, “need a bath. And a change of clothing. Come on, it won’t take you long. They will still be there when you’re done.”
Too tired to argue, Gwydion acquiesced and turned back to Elise to unbuckle his saddlebags.
But Trystan had already done so, and given Elise’s reins to a waiting groom. Taking Gwydion’s arm, he led him past the stables and over to the bathhouse. He handed Gwydion his bags, then nodded to the door. “Bathe. Change.”
“Yes, Mam,” Gwydion grinne
d. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Wash your mouth out with soap while you’re at it,” Trystan said, grinning in his turn.
After his bath, Gwydion changed into more formal clothes, knowing that after the meal they would celebrate the festival. He put on his black robe with red trim and clasped the Dreamer’s Torque of opal and gold around his neck. Instead of tying his black hair back with a leather strip as he usually did, he used a golden ring studded with opals.
He was ready when Trystan reentered the bathhouse. Trystan nodded, “Better. Now you look more like the Dreamer and less like something the cat dragged in.”
“Thanks,” Gwydion said dryly. “Are Urien and Ellirri ready to see me now?”
“Yes. Leave your bags here. I’ll get someone to take them to your room.”
Gwydion followed Trystan out of the bathhouse. The men and women of Urien’s teulu had halted their afternoon practice and were making their way back to their quarters under the ceaseless prodding of Teleri ur Brysethach, Trystan’s lieutenant. Teleri was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall. She had dark brown hair, cut short to frame her face and fine, gray-green eyes. She eyed Gwydion and Trystan as they made their way across the courtyard, but did not speak to them, absorbed in her task.
Gwydion followed Trystan through the door to the ystafell, the Ruler’s private chambers. The ystafell was a large, two-story building, set across the courtyard from the teulu’s quarters. The main room on the lower floor of the ystafell was furnished formally, for this was where Urien and Ellirri usually received visitors on state business. Two large, canopied chairs, cushioned in red and white stood in the center of the room. The floor was covered with a cream-colored carpet woven with a dizzying array of red, circular patterns. The right wall was covered with a large tapestry of a rearing stallion, worked in gold and opal.
As they mounted the stairs the sounds of a wrestling match reached Gwydion’s ears. Trystan and Gwydion came to a halt in the first doorway at the top of the stairs. The room was bright and airy with a large hearth and a thick carpet of cream and red. At the moment the carpet appeared to be littered with bodies.
King Urien, his large face flushed with exertion and laughter was lying on his back grappling with his eldest son, Elphin. “No, lad, like this,” Urien instructed and, quite suddenly, Elphin was on his back with Urien looming over him.
