Night Birds' Reign

by Holly Taylor

  Trystan spotted the tall, slender marker that stood in splendid isolation in the middle of the plain. The dark stone stood silently. The sides of the tower were carved with whorls and circles, while tiny figures did their deadly dance of battle in between. Yellow corydalis twined around the base of the obelisk, seeking, perhaps, to brighten the midnight stone.

  They drew near to the marker and silently dismounted, coming to cluster at the stone’s slender base.

  “Tell us,” Cai said, not taking his eyes from the stone. “Tell us exactly how it happened.”

  “Cadwallon and Caradoc were the twin sons of Rhys, the first King of Rheged,” Gwydion began. “Their mother was Ellylw, the daughter of Govannon, the first Archdruid of Kymru. The twins had been very close as young boys. If one began a sentence, the other one had finished it. They were inseparable and their love for each other was pure and strong. Cadwallon, the elder by only a few moments, was destined to be King of Rheged, yet any jealousy the two boys were capable of remained dormant. Until the day that they met Eilonwy, the daughter of Gwydd, the second Dreamer.”

  The wind blew mournfully past the stone and the sun overhead seemed to draw back, paling slightly, taking some warmth from the golden afternoon.

  “For they both loved her passionately the moment they saw her. And she returned the love of Cadwallon, but not that of Caradoc. Caradoc was devastated when Eilonwy agreed to become Cadwallon’s wife. He convinced himself that the only reason she had done so was because Cadwallon would be King. If not for that Eilonwy would have loved him, Caradoc, and they would have been happy forever. So thinking he began to brood. He left Llwynarth for he was not willing to see his brother and his new bride so happy. He lived alone in a manor some leagues away from the city, and did not come often to see the couple. But then he took thought and realized that there was a way he could be King, in spite of his brother. So he rode to Ederynion and presented himself to the Rulers of that country, and caught the eye of Gwenis, their daughter and heir. He charmed her, he wooed her, and he won her. But he was not in love with her, although Gwenis understood this to her sorrow far too late.

  “As the years went by the two brothers had children. Cadwallon and Eilonwy had two little girls, while Caradoc and Gwenis had two little boys. Eventually Rhys of Rheged died, and Cadwallon took his place as King. His mother, Ellylw withdrew from Rheged in sorrow, and went to live with her brother who was now Kymru’s Archdruid in Caer Duir. Seven years later the King of Ederynion died, and Gwenis became Queen, so Caradoc was at last King.

  “And still it was not enough. He had his wife’s love, but did not want it. He had sons, but did not care for them. He had the rule of a country, and it did not bring him joy. He began to try to persuade Gwenis to let him lead a force into Rheged. He pressed her, saying that he was truly the elder but the malice of his mother’s serving woman had prevented it, for she had switched the two babies at birth, declaring Cadwallon the elder, though this was not so. And Gwenis, although she did not believe him, pretended that she did, for she still hoped to win his regard. Against her better judgment she gave him what he wanted, and called the muster, charging her husband to lead them into Rheged and take back what was rightfully his.”

  “I am surprised High King Macsen didn’t do something then,” Achren said. “He was Gwenis’s brother and surely he knew what was happening.”

  “He did know,” Amatheon put in.

  “And he did indeed do something,” Rhiannon said. “He—”

  “Do you two mind?” Gwydion interrupted acidly. “Every time I try to tell a story of the Battles of Betrayal, you two jump in.”

  “I told you,” Amatheon said earnestly, “we had a teacher that was very taken with the Battles. She would drone on about them all the time.”

  “Until we could drone on just as well as she,” Rhiannon said. “But of course you want to be the center of attention, Gwydion. I must have forgotten that, though how I could do that is puzzling. Forgive me, and do go on.” Rhiannon’s tone was just as acidic as Gwydion’s, clearly showing she had not at all forgotten about Gwydion’s behavior last night.

  Gwydion shot Rhiannon a hard look but did not chose to answer her. Instead, he continued with the story. “Caradoc took his army across the border into Rheged and they were met right here by Cadwallon and his army. The two lined up against each other a half league apart here on this plain. Caradoc had his Captain ride forward, declaring that his cause was just, declaring him to be the elder, declaring him to be the true King of Rheged. Cadwallon’s answer was to throw back his head and laugh in contempt at this claim. Enraged, Caradoc gave the order to fight.

  “The two armies began to gallop toward each other, weapons drawn, fierce battle cries on their lips. They engaged with a fierce clatter. Men and women began to fight and began to die. Suddenly, a wall of flame leapt up from the ground itself. Druid’s Fire burned bright blue and orange and the heat seared the warriors, causing them to halt and retreat as quickly as they could. The wall of fire lowered, but still burned. From the west hundreds of black-cowled Druids poured onto the plain. They were led by two shrouded figures. One remained at the head of the Druids that now clustered on the side of the battlefield. The other marched forward to stand between the two armies as the flames sank and died to embers. The figure pulled back its hood, and the twins gasped. For it was Ellylw, their mother, and her face was stern and implacable. The figure that led the Druids also pulled back his hood and they saw it was their uncle, Sandde, the Archdruid.

  “Ellylw walked forward in the sudden silence, stepping over dead warriors until she stood before Caradoc. He remained on his horse looking down at his mother who stood at his stirrup. ‘My son,’ she said softly, ‘what do you do here?’ And Caradoc tried to tell her that he was truly King of Rheged, but he faltered before her clear gaze; she who knew best of all that his story was a lie. She spoke gently to him as he fell silent, of his days as a boy at his brother’s side. She spoke of the love they once had for each other, of the love she knew still lived, though quenched and silent, as the Druid’s Fire now was, but ready to spring up again, as the Fire still was. Caradoc listened to her, his face bitter at first. But as she spoke, reminding him of times past, his face changed. Tears gathered in his eyes and began to spill down his white, drawn face. At last he dismounted from his horse. He discarded his helmet, his sword, his spear and his shield. He took the dagger from his boot and plunged it into the ground. He took his mother in his arms and gently kissed her forehead. Then he walked forward, unarmed, defenseless, skirting the dead and the dying, walking toward his brother’s army.

  “And Cadwallon, seeing his brother coming, leapt from his horse, instantly discarding his own weapons. Crying out his brother’s name he swiftly crossed the plain and the two eagerly threw themselves into each other’s arms, laughing and crying at once. Caradoc begged his brother’s pardon, offering himself up as prisoner to be killed or whatever Cadwallon willed. But Cadwallon refused, saying that the best place for his brother was back in Ederynion with the wife and children who loved him so. And Caradoc agreed that this was where he belonged, consenting to return home and saying that now he would truly love the family that loved him. He needn’t look any further for his happiness. Their mother joined them there and embraced them both, and the tears of all three mingled on their faces. Caradoc, true to his word, returned home, his heart released at last from its frost.”

  “And whose idea was the monument?” Angharad asked.

  “Macsen’s,” Amatheon replied before Gwydion could answer. “For with Macsen’s power as High King the Druids raised this stone from the bowels of the Earth that very day. And carved it, too, with the power of their minds amplified through Macsen.”

  “Who was, no doubt, holding the sword we seek at the time,” Achren mused.

  Gwydion nodded. “Yes, for all High Kings must do that for their powers to succeed.”

  “Then let us do what we must to find this sword, then,” Trystan said
. “For my turn has come and I am ready to take it.”

  Rhiannon, Gwydion, and Amatheon knelt and joined hands as they did so. Then Achren, Cai, and Angharad clustered around them, laying their hands on their shoulders, leaving space for Trystan to come forward.

  Trystan took a deep breath. Cai and Angharad gazed back at him with sympathy, for they knew the feeling he would soon experience. Achren waited patiently, knowing her turn would soon come. Trystan walked forward, and placed his hands on the shoulders of the three Y Dawnus.

  And the darkness swallowed him whole.

  HE SAW TWO armies spilling across the plain, one from the north, the other from the south. Hundreds of warriors with their antlered helmets galloped to form two lines that stretched across the plain. Their hair was braided and bound for battle. The tunic and breeches of those from the south were red and white, while the clothing of those from the north was sea green and white. The warriors in red wore the badge of the rearing stallion, while those in green wore the badge of the white swan. Each man and woman, no matter which side they were on carried bows with quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders, as well as short spears, small shields, and swords.

  Men and women seemed to be taunting each other, shouting the kind of cries that were preludes to battle. But Trystan could not hear them, for everything was silent. The silence in his ears seemed to press against him, thundering in his head.

  Overhead the sky was clear, the bright blue unmarred by even the smallest cloud. The sun beat down almost mercilessly over the plain, as though Mabon, King of the Sun and Lord of Fire was himself displeased. As well he might have been for he was the god most revered in Rheged and that land had been invaded with no cause.

  At last the warriors were ready and they faced each other, their weapons gripped firmly, their horses rock-steady as they waited for the signal. A man rode to the front of the line of the northern warriors. On his head he wore a helmet fashioned of silver in the shape of a swan with outstretched wings. The swan’s eyes were two emeralds that seemed to glitter viciously under the golden sun and the entire helmet was studded with luminous pearls.

  A second man rode to the front of the southern line. He wore a helmet of bright gold covered with gleaming opals and fashioned like the head of a fierce stallion. The stallion’s eyes were fiery opals that flashed fire at the swan.

  A herald rode forward from the northern line and spoke some words Trystan could not hear. The man in the golden helmet laughed, throwing his head back to the sky. The man in the pearl-encrusted helmet stood in his stirrups and shouted something. Then both lines were on the move, leaping forward to shed each other’s blood. They engaged fiercely, and the blood began to flow, soaking into the once pristine ground.

  Then a bright blue and orange line of fire sprung up from the very bowels of the Earth and the two armies halted, confused and frightened. Horses bolted and men could not control them. Brown robed Druids poured onto the plain, pooling like a shadow on the edge of the battle. One robed figure detached itself from its fellows and made its way to the center of the line of fire. Then the figure threw back its hood.

  Her hair was rich gold, streaked with veins of bright silver and tumbling down her slender shoulders. Her eyes were like the blue of cornflowers but the expression in them was anything but flower-like. This woman was intensely determined. She would not be stopped, would not be turned aside. The warriors would bend to her will, and that was the end of the matter.

  She walked forward toward the northern line and the man in the pearl helmet sat stiffly on his horse and watched her come. The two spoke for a long while and then the man leapt from his horse, tears streaming down his face, into the woman’s arms. He threw down his weapons and walked forward, past the woman, across the plain, heading straight for the golden-helmed man.

  When the man with the helmet of gold saw the first man coming, he instantly leapt from his mount, also divesting himself of his weapons. The two men met in the center and threw their arms about each other. They wept, their tears mingling together. The woman walked forward and joined them and they swept her into their embrace.

  The woman said something to the two men and motioned them back from the spot they were standing. She signaled again, to the shadowy pool of brown-robed Druids. For a moment no one moved. Then Trystan felt a shaking beneath his feet. Men, women, and horses were tumbled about as the shivering plain struggled to give birth.

  A crack appeared just at the spot where the two men had stood only a moment before. It yawned wider still, and from the depths of the Earth a huge, black stone rose, breaking through the Earth’s crust, reaching for the sky. When it was as tall was three men, the stone halted and the Earth stilled.

  At another gesture from the Druids the stone seemed to shape itself under the hammer of an unseen hand. Tiny whorls and circle appeared, covering the monument. Small figures of warriors sprang into being, brandishing their weapons up and down the side of the stone. Then the stone shimmered and solidified, the final surface glittering like dark glass. As one the warriors turned west, for they knew that this was Macsen’s work, their High King and they bowed in reverence.

  Then the scene shifted. The warriors, horses, and Druids were gone. A lone rider crossed the plain. His long auburn hair was bound at the nape of his neck with an opal clasp. Around his neck he wore an ornate torque of opal and gold. He came to a halt at the base of the stone and dismounted, looking long at it, unmoving.

  At last his shoulders heaved with a sigh, and he turned to his horse, reaching into his saddlebags. He drew out something wrapped in a dark cloth and held it gently in one hand. With the other he gestured and a tiny fissure appeared in the base of the stone itself. He deftly slipped the slender bundle into the stone. He stepped back and, at his gesture, the stone neatly knit together again.

  He turned away from the obelisk and remounted his horse. He sat his horse for a moment then looked over at the place to the side where Trystan stood. The man looked at him for what seemed like a very long time with his silvery, sad eyes. Then the man smiled. And the plain faded away.

  WHEN TRYSTAN OPENED his eyes he was laying on the ground. Amatheon supported his head and shoulders while Rhiannon held a cup to his lips. He drank greedily, knowing that the contents would help prevent his head from splitting in two. Eventually.

  He sat fully up, still cradling the wooden cup in his hands, his head bent. At last he looked up carefully at the others who clustered around them.

  “Where?” Gwydion asked.

  “In the base of the stone itself,” Trystan rasped.

  “And Bran?”

  “Smiled at me. He did not weep this time. But his eyes were sad.”

  “He missed Lleu,” Gwydion said softly.

  “And always would.”

  Gwydion rose and went over to the base of the stone. “Show me exactly where.”

  Trystan supported by Amatheon and Cai rose and went to stand next to Gwydion. “There,” he pointed, his voice still shaking and his knees weak from his enforced Walk between the Worlds.

  Gwydion bent down, gently placing his hand on the place where Trystan had indicated. A gap appeared in the stone and Gwydion reached in and pulled out something that glittered in the sunlight.

  It was in the shape of an arc, as the other two pieces were. It was made of gold and the curved border was rimmed with sapphires. At the top of one straight side ‘eye of’ was written in tiny emeralds. The pointed portion, like the others, shone with pearls outlined with tiny rubies. As with the others, a poem was incised in its golden surface. Gwydion read it aloud:

  The sun rises when the morning comes,

  The mist rises from the meadows,

  The dew rises from the clover,

  But, oh, when will my heart arise?

  “Poor Bran,” Rhiannon said quietly. “Poor man.”

  Gwydion did not answer, only went to his saddlebags and pulled out the other two pieces. He placed the three pieces together, with the piece from Gw
ynedd on the upper left, the piece from Rheged on the upper right, and the piece from Ederynion on the lower right. The three pieces were clearly forming three-quarters of a circle. The center of the upper portion now read: “Seek the eye of.” But just what the object that the pearl and rubies at the center was forming, they could not be sure.

  “One piece left,” Trystan murmured.

  “Mine to find,” Achren said. “At Galor Penduran.”

  “The battle where Llyr our first Dreamer lost his life, where his wife, Penduran grieved,” Amatheon said. “I do not envy you the sight of that, Achren. Not at all.”

  SOME LEAGUES TO the southeast a horse galloped across a plain in Ystlwyft. He ran freely, the wind rushing through his mane, the sun shining above, and the field glistening at his hooves.

  Then, all at once, his heart gave a mighty leap and he came to a dead stop, his head cocked. For he had heard a call, a call he did not understand, but could not ignore.

  It was time. It was time to go northwest, to journey to the special place.

  He did not hesitate, for that was not in his nature. He reared high; reaching for the sky, neighing fiercely then leapt forward, the leagues between him and his goal melting away as he ran.

  Chapter Twenty

  Llyn Mwyngil, Gwytheryn and Galor Penduran, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Collen Mis, 494

  Gwaithdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—late morning

  Eight days later they neared Llyn Mwyngil, the huge lake that lay southwest of Cadair Idris. It had been on the shores of this lake, Achren recalled, that Bran had found the dying High King, Lleu Silver-Hand; had, perhaps, spoken to Lleu in those last moments. If so, history had not recorded what had been said, for which Achren was profoundly grateful—it was only right that some things remained private.