by Holly Taylor
He stirred briefly as she got out of bed, but did not wake. Softly, swiftly, she gathered some clothes, and a few treasures—her Dewin’s torque, an ivory-backed mirror and silver comb that he had given her, a golden bowl, her father’s harp—making an untidy bundle. She got into her riding leathers, picked up her boots, and quietly crept from the room, looking one last time at his beloved face, so defenseless in sleep. So young. She had thought he was a man, but he was just a boy.
She made her way to the nursery where the children slept. She smoothed the blankets over young Geriant, and kissed little Sanon’s forehead. And then she turned to the cradle where her own little daughter slept. Gwenhwyfar was only six months old and already a beauty with her soft down of blond hair and wide, blue eyes. Lighting a candle she held it near so she could see her daughter’s face for one last time.
Her mind was made up now. She would leave Rhoram but not to take up her duties as the future Ardewin of Kymru. No, she was done with that. The world had nothing to offer her anymore. She would hide away, go to a beautiful place that she knew. She would leave the pain behind.
Deep down she knew that beneath her self-pity vengeance lay, frigid and unforgiving. She would make them all sorry. All. Rhoram and his faithlessness. Dinaswyn and her precious plans. Myrrdin who surely despised her for letting her father die alone. She would shut them out. All of them. Now and forever.
Except there was little Gwen sleeping in her cradle. A child who surely needed her mother.
Without stopping to think about what she was doing—for she knew if she hesitated she would not, could not, do it—she wrapped Gwen in her small, woolen blanket and picked her up. The child did not wake.
Clutching her bundle in one hand and her baby in the other, she carefully made her way out of the ystafell and into the courtyard.
She made her way to the stables where she saddled her horse and stuffed her belongings into the saddlebags she found there. She fashioned a sling out of the blanket and tied it around her neck to hold the baby.
Tallwch was at his post when he saw her riding across the courtyard toward him. He bowed, opened the gates to Caer Tir and watched her go in silence, the glitter of tears in his wise eyes.
She rode through the dark and silent city to the outer gates. And there, Achren stood, alone. Like Tallwch, Achren said no word, but silently opened the gates. After she was out of the city that she had loved but which was now hateful to her, Rhiannon turned back to look at Achren. The tears spilled down her face so that it was difficult to make out her friend who stood so silently at the open gate. But she tried to smile. She lifted her hand in farewell and Achren saluted her and tried to smile in return. Then, slowly, Achren closed the gate. And the sound of the gate’s closing found an echo within her as her own heart closed in sorrow, in pride, and, most of all, in cold, hard vengeance.
IN HER CAVE where vengeance had led her, Rhiannon dragged herself back from the past. The fire had died down to glowing coals. And she knew where she was. She was at a crossroads. A decision was being asked of her, and she did not want to make it. It pressed on her in the silence.
Quietly she stood and walked to the shelf where her father’s harp stood. She stared at it for a long time. Slowly she reached a trembling hand toward the instrument. Gently, she stoked the frame of seasoned oak. Carefully, she picked it up and held it against her for a moment. Hesitantly, she moved toward the hearth and sat down, still cradling the harp in her hands.
Tentatively she began to turn the pegs, tightening the strings. They did not break. She plucked one string and to her astonishment it rang out in a clear, proud note.
One by one she tuned the strings. When all was in readiness, she hesitated for a long time. But then, as if impelled by a force greater than herself, she softly began to play an air that she had heard long ago, a song sung by Queen Deirdre of Lyonesse, Deirdre of the Sorrows; a song of the glen where she had lived with her lover, until the lover had been killed by treachery.
Glen of the silent blue-eyed hawk,
Glen with rich bounty from every tree.
Glen sheltered by peaks on every side,
Glen of the blackberry, wild plum and apple.
Glen of the tangled branching yew,
Glen of mists and white-winged swans.
Glen of the clear brilliant sun,
Glen of the graceful women, perfect as pearls.
As she sang softly of this perfect place, a place that only love could make she had a new thought, startling in its truth and simplicity. Poor Da. He had found such a glen with Mam, and then lost it when she died. Poor Da.
Her father had been a broken man. He had not been able to bear the blows that life had dealt him. He had lost the only thing that was dear to him and the loss had hollowed him until he was nothing but an empty shell. It was not a father who had rejected her, but a walking corpse—a body that had continued to breathe long, long after its death.
In the end he knew. But she was too prideful, too stubborn, too set on revenge. Oh, Da, forgive me, she thought. I didn’t understand.
And as she forgave him she made the turning at the crossroads.
She sighed and set the harp back on the shelf. She knew what she must do. She lifted the blanket that shut out the waterfall and stepped out into the night. She swiftly made her way down the slippery rocks and knelt by the pond. The full moon rode the sky proudly overhead. Nantsovelta, she prayed silently, give me the strength to do what I now must do.
It was the Lady of the Waters herself who saved Rhiannon’s life that night. For at that moment she felt the sense of danger, of death lurking just behind. She raised her hand to her throat, and it was that which kept her alive. For her hand kept the descending garrote from instantly strangling her.
She struck at the figure that stood behind her kneeling body, aiming with her elbow into his groin. The man grunted and his hold on the garrote loosened slightly. She sprang up, pulling her knives from her boot tops and whirling to face her assailant.
He crouched in knife-fighting stance as he dropped the garrote and pulled a knife from his belt. They circled each other, each looking for an opening. He feinted and she leapt back. But she knew better than to let him follow it up and she feinted left while she kicked out with her right foot, catching him on the knee. He went down and she leapt on top of him, burying her knife in his chest.
Blood spilled from the wound, over her hands and onto the damp grass. “Who are you?” she panted. “Why did you try to kill me?”
She did not think he would answer, but he did. “For the clue you hold,” he rasped. “For the memory from Bran.”
“To keep me from helping the Dreamer. How did you know he did not get it today?”
“I saw him leave,” the man gasped, “in a rage. He would not have been angry if you had given it to him.”
“Who sent you? Who seeks to keep the Dreamer from finding the sword?”
But the man did not answer. Instead, he gave a sigh as blood bubbled from his lips. And he died.
She got to her feet, her other knife still clutched in her hand, the first knife buried in the dead man’s chest. She would bury him tonight, in the woods. Gwen must not find out what had happened.
Tomorrow she and Gwen would start for Arberth. Gwen would be returned to her father before going on to Y Ty Dewin and then to Caer Duir for the training she needed to have. Rhoram would care for Gwen during this first, most difficult time of adjustment.
And she? She would not, could not, stay in Arberth. She would not, could not, take Gwen with her where she was going. For she had a task to complete. A payment to make for running away all those years ago.
She would journey to Caer Dathyl, to the Dreamer. She would give up the memory she held. She would do whatever she needed to do to find the sword.
She would run no more.
Chapter Fifteen
Arberth, Kingdom of Prydyn and Dinas Emrys and Caer Dathyl, Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Gwinwydden and Ysgawen Mis, 4
94
Addiendydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—early evening
Preparations to leave the forest took two weeks, for Rhiannon was not certain when she would return. Gwen would not come back. She did not tell her daughter that. She only said that they were going to see King Rhoram for an indefinite period of time.
She packed all the perishable food and sealed up the barrels of flour and meal. She altered one of her dresses for Gwen. She hauled out the old saddlebags and packed them full with their best clothes, her Dewin’s torque, some things that Rhoram had given her long ago, and her Da’s harp, carefully wrapped in a length of woolen blanket.
When all was ready they left the wood. They traveled for some days on foot to Cil, where they purchased horses. Rhiannon traded her golden bowl for two fine mounts and a few other items.
During their trip Rhiannon talked of Geriant and Sanon, Gwen’s half brother and half sister, and how they had loved Gwen when she was a baby. She spoke fondly of Achren, of Tallwch, of Dafydd Penfro. She spoke of Rhoram in glowing terms. She said next to nothing about Queen Efa, only that she had not known her well.
It was a fine summer evening when they reached Arberth. It was still light outside, for the sun would not set for another hour or so. There was time for Rhiannon and Gwen to visit the bathhouse before showing themselves at the gates of Caer Tir.
The bathhouse contained four bathing rooms, four steam rooms and a large common room. The floor was tiled in creamy sea green with a latticework of wood set between each tile. There were cupboards and shelves filled with towels, robes, and jars of creams and herbs.
After they had bathed Gwen sat as still as she could while Rhiannon combed out her long, blond hair, teasing the tangles out gently. As she smoothed her daughter’s bright hair she marveled, “It’s the exact shade of your father’s.”
“Do I look like him?” Gwen asked anxiously.
“You’ve his golden hair and blue eyes. Now, let’s get you dressed.”
Rhiannon pulled out a fine, blue gown and a long linen shift of lighter blue. Gwen put on the shift and Rhiannon threw the gown over her head and helped settle it into place. The light blue shift showed at the top of the laced bodice of the gown, and the tight-fitting sleeves of the shift showed beneath the looser sleeves and at the hem. The gown was embroidered with silver threads at the hem and neckline.
“You look very fine, my Gwen. Very, very fine.”
“Do I?” Gwen asked anxiously.
“Missing something though. How about this?” She clasped a necklace around Gwen’s neck, a small sapphire, set in a circle of silver dangled from a thin silver chain.
“Your Da gave this to me the day you were born.”
“Oh, you should wear it!”
“No, I wear my Dewin’s torque. You wear this.”
Rhiannon put on a fine, pearl-colored shift beneath a gown of emerald green. Tiny pearls dotted the hemline. Around her neck she clasped her Dewin’s torque. Then she pulled out a lovely hair band of emeralds and pearls and set it over her hair.
“Oh, Mam,” Gwen breathed. “You look beautiful.”
As she examined herself in the mirror she thought that there might be something to that. The jade hue of her gown and the emeralds in her hair made her eyes appear greener than ever. Her long, wavy, black hair hung rich and full to her waist. The pearl color of the shift gave her skin a lustrous sheen.
She turned to Gwen, and was horrified to see tears in her daughter’s eyes. “Oh, Mam,” Gwen breathed, “I’m afraid.” Having said it, the words began to tumble out, and the tears began to flow. “I’m afraid. There will be so many people there and I’ve never been around other people before. I’m afraid I’ll do something stupid. And they will laugh at me. Maybe Da won’t like me. Maybe—”
Rhiannon took Gwen into her arms and patted her, all the while speaking in soothing tones. “Cariad, I know you’re scared. But you are Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon. You are a Child of the House of Llyr. That alone commands respect from all you meet. And remember, your Da is a good, kind man. He wants to see you more than anything in the world.”
“How do you know?” Gwen asked tearfully.
“I know him,” Rhiannon replied firmly.
“But it’s been so long. Maybe he’s changed.”
“Some things never change. Now dry your eyes and take a deep breath.”
“You’ll stay right next to me, won’t you? You won’t leave me?”
“Of course I won’t,” she said without hesitation, pushing the truth to the back of her mind, so Gwen would not see it in her eyes.
THE GATES OF Caer Tir were still open, but the courtyard was nearly deserted, for most of the inhabitants of the fortress were gathered in the Great Hall. As they walked their horses through the gates Gwen stopped to stare at the snarling wolf’s head, outlined in onyx with emerald eyes that was carved on the golden doors. She swallowed hard.
Suddenly a deep voice spoke, “Do not be afraid of the wolf, child. Those of the House of PenBlaid, the Head of the Wolf, know he is their ally—not their enemy.”
Wildly, Gwen looked around as a man who stepped out of the shadows by the gate. He was of average height, with short, brown hair, and brown eyes. “Welcome back to Caer Tir, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. Welcome back, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon.”
“Tallwch,” Rhiannon said with a smile. She held out her hands and Tallwch took them and kissed them lightly.
“I knew you’d come back, one day,” he said.
“Oh, you always did know everything.”
“That is exactly what Gwydion ap Awst said to me when last he was here.”
“Did he?” Rhiannon said coolly.
“He was looking for you. I take it he found you.”
“He did indeed. Where is Rhoram?” Rhiannon asked before Tallwch could question her further.
“In the Great Hall. I suggest you allow me to announce you. It’s better that way.”
Offering one arm to Rhiannon and the other to Gwen, he rather grandly escorted them to the half-open doors of the hall. The noise was immense. There seemed to be a great deal of shouting, laughing, talking and singing.
“Is something special going on tonight?” Rhiannon asked curiously, while Gwen cringed with the assault on her ears.
“Oh, it’s always like that.”
“Since when?”
“Since Rhoram needed as much diversion as possible to prevent him from having to talk to the Queen.”
Rhiannon, her heart beating uncomfortably fast, struggled to maintain her outer composure. Sternly she reminded herself of three things—Rhoram had a wife, Rhoram could not be trusted, and there had been an attempt on her life to prevent her from aiding Gwydion ap Awst.
The noise was beginning to quiet down. “We’ll just wait until Ellywen gives the blessing. That will be the best time.” Tallwch said calmly.
They edged toward the doors as they heard a woman’s voice, cool and hard, reciting the evening prayer.
The peace of light,
The peace of joys
The peace of souls
Be with you.
“Awen,” the crowd replied.
“Stay behind me,” Tallwch said, leading them into the now quiet hall.
The first person she saw was Rhoram, sitting at the table on the dais. His hair was still bright gold, and he was richly dressed in a tunic of emerald green. His long fingers toyed with his jeweled goblet, the emerald ring around his finger glittering. He was looking down into the cup and smiling faintly, as though the blessing amused him.
She saw Queen Efa sitting stiffly beside him. She wore a niam-lann, a circlet of gold around her forehead, a cluster of emeralds resting above her brow. She wore long, golden earrings and rings without number. Her dress was green and gold.
The table was full of those she knew—Sanon and Geriant, whom she barely recognized, so grown were they. Achren with her crooked smile. Dafydd Penfro, Rhoram’s counselor. So many others she remembered.
> Into the silence, Tallwch suddenly boomed, “Guests come to your Hall, great King. Noble guests of the House of Llyr.”
Rhoram looked up. “Gwydion? He was just—” Rhoram stopped abruptly as Rhiannon and Gwen came forward to stand by Tallwch.
“These are your guests. Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg, Dewin of Kymru. Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram var Rhiannon, Princess of Prydyn.”
The hall fell silent as people froze in astonishment. Then Sanon and Geriant erupted from their chairs and rushed pellmell down the length of the hall, throwing themselves into Rhiannon’s open arms.
“You came back,” Sanon whispered. Rhiannon kissed the top of her bright, golden head, and Geriant, grinning like a mad man, said nothing but hugged her tightly.
“I came back. And I brought your sister with me.” Gesturing to Gwen, who was standing behind her, she pulled her daughter forward.
“Gwenhwyfar, this is your sister, Sanon. And your brother, Geriant.”
There were tears in Sanon’s eyes and in Gwen’s too, as Sanon gently hugged her.
“You are welcome here, sister,” Geriant said with a smile.
Rhiannon looked up at the dais and saw Rhoram getting to his feet. Efa frantically clutched his arm, but he loosened her hold gently, almost absently.
Slowly, he made his way down the hall, never talking his glittering eyes from her. He was pale and his face was expressionless. For one horrible moment, Rhiannon was sure that she had miscalculated. Then she saw the welcome in his sapphire eyes.
Like a man who is fearful that he is only dreaming, he reached out his hand to caress her cheek. “Rhiannon. Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. You came back,” he said slowly.
She nodded and started to speak. “For—for a while. I—” but no further words materialized. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she could not think. “I bring you a gift.”
“A gift. A gift greater than you?”
“I bring you your daughter.” She reached out and drew Gwen to her side.
“Gwenhwyfar.” He looked down at her for a long time. “Oh, my child. How beautiful you are,” and he drew her into a tender embrace. He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them they had the sheen of tears. There were tears in Gwen’s eyes as she clung to her father.
