by Holly Taylor
“A well at Afalon,” Amatheon said, wonderingly. “What better place to hide the sword than on the isle where no one ever goes? Do you all realize what tomorrow is?”
“Calan Gaef,” Cai said. “The winter festival. The festival of the dead.”
“The festival of Annwyn and Aertan,” Trystan said.
“Lord of Chaos and the Weaver of Fate,” Angharad put in.
“The god and goddess to whom it is said the High Kings owe their allegiance,” Gwydion said.
“And Afalon is their island,” Amatheon said gleefully. “It all fits. We’ve done it!”
THE WOLF SPRINTED through the woods of Coed Aderyn, hunting for his dinner. He moved swiftly and silently through the trees, like a silent shadow after his prey. The scent was strong and he followed it, sure-footed and graceful.
The rabbit bounded from cover up ahead and the wolf leapt. But the call took it by surprise and he twisted in midair at the strength of it.
He landed on all fours, crouched, his head cocked, his green eyes wide, his dinner forgotten. For it was time. Time to go northeast, to the place whence the call came, to the place he had been born to go.
He howled once, his head thrown back and lifted to the lowering sky. Then he turned away from his prey and loped off through the woods.
Chapter Twenty-one
Isle of Afalon Gwytheryn, Kymru Ywen Mis, 495
Addiendydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—noon
Not so fast,” Gwydion said at Amatheon’s statement of victory. “The well itself has yet to be found.”
“And the Guardians subdued, whoever they are,” Rhiannon reminded them.
“That is the task of the captains of Kymru,” Achren said proudly. “In this, as in all else, we will not fail.”
“None of us will!” Amatheon declared, his eyes shining.
Gwydion’s face became suddenly stern. “Us?” he inquired, his brow raised.
Amatheon’s bright smile faded. “Gwydion—”
“You are not going with us to Afalon,” Gwydion said firmly.
“You can’t do this!” Amatheon cried.
“Can’t I? Did you not promise me that you would leave us at my command?”
“Yes, but—”
“I command it. You will not come with us to Afalon.”
“But you need me there! The verse says:
The trees covered the beloved dead,
And transformed the Y Dawnus,
From their faded state,
Until the two were one,
In strength and purpose,
And raised up that which they had sought.
“Only two of us are needed to raise the sword from that well,” Gwydion pointed out. “Rhiannon and I can do it without your help.”
“Gwydion,” Amatheon said, his face pale. “You can’t mean to send me away.”
“You promised,” Gwydion said implacably.
Amatheon’s bright blue eyes pleaded with Gwydion, to change his mind, to not do this thing, to forget the last stanza of the song that spoke of death.
But this Gwydion would not, could not do.
Amatheon turned and mounted his horse. Angharad, her face pale, went to him, reaching up her hand to gently touch his face. He bent down and kissed her, long and slow. At last he released her. “When you are done send for me at Hetwin Silver-Brow’s court. I will come to Dinmael as soon as may be.”
“I will,” Angharad said softly. “Safe journey to you.”
“Rhiannon,” Amatheon said, “take care of my pig-headed brother. He needs looking after.” Before she could reply he turned to Gwydion. “Good-bye, brother.”
“Good-bye,” Gwydion replied his face still stern.
Amatheon turned his horse and rode east. Gwydion never took his eyes from his brother until the Earth’s curve took him out of sight. His face never changed as he watched Amatheon go.
It was his eyes that betrayed him.
Calan Gaef—early afternoon
TYBION WAITED PATIENTLY on the shore of Llyn Mwyngil. He knew the Dreamer and his companions would arrive any moment now. He knew that the instant they would have realized Afalon was their final destination they would have ridden hard, stopping only when too dark to continue. They would have risen at first light this morning, which would put them here at any moment.
He was right, for he saw them crest the rise on the horizon. There were only six of them now, for Gwydion had already sent his younger brother away, as Tybion had known would happen.
Tybion dismounted from his horse and walked to the boat moored at the edge of the lake. He loosened the rope that bound it to the shore. This was not the first time this morning that he had done this, of course. Earlier today he had rowed a passenger across the lake and to the shore of Afalon. He hadn’t wanted to, but he had been given no choice. For what would be, would be, as his father was fond of saying, and it was not Tybion’s place to affect events.
Still, he wished he could have prevented the passenger from going to the isle. And he wished he could warn the Dreamer.
But he could not. So when they reached him he silently handed the rope to Gwydion. Gwydion did not even bother to ask him how he had known to be there, how he had known to have a boat ready and waiting.
Without a word Tybion mounted his horse and left the Dreamer and his companions at the water’s edge.
For what would be, would be.
THE BOAT TOUCHED the coast of Afalon with a gentle bump. Cai and Trystan jumped from the boat and easily hauled it up onto the shore. Gwydion gestured for Rhiannon, Achren, and Angharad to exit the craft first.
He rose and set his feet on the shore of Afalon. That was when he knew, beyond all doubt, that this was the place. Power seemed to emanate from the very soil. He could feel it throbbing beneath the soles of his feet. Even the others seemed to feel it. Rhiannon was somewhat pale and the hands of his other companions hovered near their weapons.
Although his brother had left them only yesterday, Gwydion already missed Amatheon more than he had thought possible. He missed Amatheon’s cheerfulness, his bright eyes, his ready smile, and his laugh. Sometimes Gwydion thought that Amatheon had been given all those things that life had denied Gwydion—love, laughter, companionship. And even as he thought this he realized that life had not denied him those things—rather Gwydion had denied himself.
But what was done was done, and it was far too late to change. In any case, now was not the time to be thinking of those things. Although he had—ever since that night that Rhiannon and he had spoken together by the dying campfire. For that night Gwydion had almost forgotten his duty to Kymru. He had almost forgotten his obligation to find the sword, to keep Arthur safe against the day that he would be High King. He had almost forgotten all of it in Rhiannon’s emerald eyes. But he had stopped himself before it was too late, for to give into the lure of a woman was to abandon duty. His mother had taught him that.
“Are you sure we can do it?” Rhiannon asked sharply.
“What?” Gwydion said, for he had not heard the first part of Rhiannon’s question.
“I said, are you sure that without Amatheon we can still do what we are supposed to do?”
“We must,” Gwydion said simply.
“And where is the eye of Nantsovelta?” Cai asked, gesturing to the thick grove of apple trees that covered the island. Wind played through the trees, and the rustling of leaves made it seem as though the trees were whispering, gleefully holding a secret in their depths.
Gwydion looked at Rhiannon, for he had an idea that she would be the one who would lead them to it. For Rhiannon was Dewin, and Nantsovelta was the goddess they most revered. “Rhiannon?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “It pulls at me. As I think you knew it would.”
“Then lead on,” he said. “And we will follow.
She led them, without hesitation, through the trees. Overhead the sky was gray and overcast. The wind was cold and tugged at their cloaks, moaning in their ears. The app
le trees grew thickly and the underbrush was dense. Although Gwydion was sure there were a number of animals on this island they neither saw nor heard them as they made their way forward.
As they walked, Gwydion called to mind every word of the Battle of the Trees.
On winter’s first day
Shall the trees
Face the Guardians.
On winter’s first day
Shall the trees
Do battle.
The alder tree, loyal and patient,
Formed the van.
The aspen-wood, quickly moving,
Was valiant against the enemy.
The hawthorn, with pain at its hand,
Fought on the flanks.
Hazel-tree did not go aside a foot
It would fight with the center.
And when it was over
The trees covered the beloved dead,
And transformed the Y Dawnus,
From their faded state,
Until the two were one,
In strength and purpose,
And raised up that which they had sought.
On winter’s first day,
The one who is loved shall die.
And tears will overwhelm
The lonely heart.
Today was Calan Gaef, the first day of winter, and the first day of the New Year. In other parts of Kymru right now people were beginning to gather for the festival that would honor Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and his mate Aertan, the Weaver. These two ruled Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, the place where the dead went to await rebirth. The festival celebrated the time of year when Annwyn and Aertan walked the Summer Land, touching those chosen to return to Earth with a branch of yew wood. Tonight the Kymri would gather and call out the names of the beloved dead, in hopes that the two Shining Ones would choose those spirits to return.
According to the song, the Captains would face the Guardians. And they would do battle. In that battle someone who was loved would die. Now that Amatheon was gone, Gwydion faced that prospect with a less mournful heart. He would not wish death on any of his companions; but clearly, one of them would die today. Gwydion might be the one to take the journey to the Summer Land. He hoped not, for if he did he would feel his duty undone. But if it must be, it would be. As long as Amatheon was safe, that was all that mattered.
At last they reached a small clearing in what seemed to be the center of the island and they halted, looking around them. In the center of the clearing, was a pool of dark water. It was impossible to see what it held in its depths, or exactly how deep it was, for the weak light from the gray sky did not illuminate the well. Gwydion took a step forward and immediately halted as a hawk flew into the clearing with a fierce cry and came to rest between the well and Gwydion. Then a huge swan swooped down from above and joined the hawk. Next a golden horse entered the clearing and reared up, neighing aggressively. Last, a black wolf stepped from the trees, snarling.
“These, then are the Guardians. And the Captains are to fight them?” Rhiannon asked in a low tone as Gwydion slowly backed away from the well.
“The song says we will do battle today,” Achren replied. “But I have no stomach for one against these.”
“I do not think we are to fight them,” Cai said quietly.
“The song says—”
“That we will do battle today. But not, I think, with them.”
Cai stepped forward, warily eyeing the hawk. The bird spread his wings and hissed at Cai’s approach. Cai slowly divested himself of his weapons, all the while never taking his eyes from the hawk. He pulled his sword from his scabbard and laid it on the ground. He gently set down his spear and shield. He pulled two daggers from his boots and laid them down also. Defenseless, he faced the fierce bird.
“Hawk of Gwynedd,” Cai said softly, “you know me. I am Cai ap Cynyr, Captain of Gwynedd. Uthyr ap Rathtyen var Awst is my lord and my master. In the name of Uthyr PenHebog, he who is the Head of the Hawk, I command you to step aside.”
For a moment there was silence. Then the bird spread his wings and cried out. He launched himself into the air and came to rest in the branch of a tree.
After discarding his weapons Trystan stepped forward and addressed the golden horse. “Horse of Rheged, I am Trystan ap Naf, the Captain of Rheged. In the name of Urien ap Ethyllt var Gwaeddan, the PenMarch, the Head of the Horse, I command that you step aside.”
The horse bent his proud head and moved back away from the well.
Then Angharad came forward, also laying her weapons on the ground at her feet. “Swan of Ederynion, you know me. I am Angharad ur Ednyved. My lady is Olwen ur Custennin var Elwen, she who is the PenAlarch, the Head of the Swan. In her name I command you to step aside.”
The swan hissed, snaking its graceful neck toward Angharad. Then it, too, backed away from the well.
Achren, her spear and her daggers on the ground, addressed the wolf. “Wolf of Prydyn, I am Achren ur Canhustyr, Captain of Prydyn. My master is Rhoram ap Rhydderch var Eurneid. He is the PenBlaid, the Head of the Wolf, and in his name I command you to step aside.”
The wolf growled, then slowly backed away from the dark water.
Gwydion and Rhiannon started forward toward the well.
HE WAS WATCHING through the bushes, careful not to betray his presence. He saw the Captains call off the animals that guarded the well, one by one. He saw Gwydion and Rhiannon step forward, for they knew, now, that the water held that which they sought. He wondered, as he had often done during the last months, just what battle would transpire today. And who would die.
The buzz of the arrow was the only warning he had. He knew in that split second where the arrow was headed. And he knew he could not let it reach its destination. So he leapt up and stepped in the arrow’s path.
And that was when he felt the burning pain in his gut. He looked down to discover that the arrow was protruding from his side, to discover that blood spurted from his wound and splashed the leaves.
To realize, indeed, just who was going to die that day.
THE FOUR ANIMALS—the hawk, the swan, the horse and the wolf—suddenly tensed and cried out. The hawk screamed, the swan hissed, the horse whinnied, and the wolf howled. Gwydion and Rhiannon halted, sure that the animals were ready to attack.
And they did. They leapt into the forest. Gwydion and the others could just make them out through the trees as they closed in on a man who held a bow in his hands. The man tried to run, but the horse cut off his retreat. He turned to run the other direction, but the wolf was waiting for him. He turned again, and the hawk and the swan fell on him from above. The bird’s cries mingled with the man’s screams. The horse reared up and lashed out with his hooves, breaking the man’s bones. Then the wolf leapt forward, snarling, tearing the man’s throat out.
Suddenly the clearing erupted as men poured from the shelter of the dense undergrowth, launching themselves at Gwydion and Rhiannon.
As one the four Captains, the best warriors in all of Kymru, leapt for their weapons. Cai rolled and grabbed his daggers. As he rose he stabbed the first assailant in the gut with his left hand and slashed the throat of another with his right.
Angharad darted for her sword, grasped the hilt and swung it up in one, fluid motion. The blade caught one man in the stomach and he fell. She continued to turn, kicking out behind her with her right foot, catching another man in the jaw. As he flew back she reached forward with her blade and buried it in his guts.
Trystan leapt toward his weapons and grasped his spear. Rolling to the left he brought the point up and impaled an attacker. He raised his foot and pushed the dead man off the spear shaft to the ground. He whipped around and plunged the spear into another man’s back. The man arched in agony then swiftly died as Trystan yanked the spear out.
Achren, too, had leapt for her weapons but she found her way blocked. She lashed out with both feet, diving into the man who stood in her way. The air rushed out of the man’s lungs as he went down. Still rolling Ac
hren grasped a rock and brought it against the side of the man’s head as he began to rise. His head cracked open and he collapsed. She grabbed a dagger from the dead man’s belt and turned, slashing up, burying it in the stomach of the next assailant.
Eight men were down in a matter of moments, and the last two were still running toward Gwydion and Rhiannon. The two Y Dawnus stood their ground, each taking a dagger from their boots.
But suddenly the two men halted, frozen in their tracks. The first man had Achren’s dagger and Trystan’s spear through his back. And the second man had Cai’s dagger and Angharad’s sword in his guts. They both fell, dead.
For a moment the clearing was silent as they started at the bodies of the ten dead men who littered the once peaceful glade.
That was when Gwydion heard a sound, a faint call, a cry of agony. For many years—indeed, until he died—he would hear that cry echo in his soul. For he knew that voice as he knew the beat of his own heart.
The bushes rustled and a figure staggered out into the clearing. He lifted his arms toward Gwydion, pain in every line of his bloodied, suffering body.
“Brother,” he rasped as Gwydion rushed forward and caught him, gently lowering him to the ground.
“Amatheon,” Gwydion gasped.
Rhiannon put her hands to the wound and closed her eyes. Gwydion watched her face hopefully as she concentrated. But she opened her eyes from the Life-Reading and shook her head. The damage the arrow had done to Amatheon was too great to turn death aside.
“I came back,” Amatheon whispered. “I didn’t want to be left out.”
Gwydion tried to speak but could not.
“I heard the arrow. I knew it was for you. I had to stop it.”
“Oh, Amatheon,” Gwydion rasped. “Oh, my brother.”
“I am glad you weren’t hurt,” Amatheon said. “But I am sorry to leave you. And to leave Angharad.” He looked up and caught sight of her flame-colored hair. She sank to the ground, taking his hand in hers.
“Cariad,” Amatheon whispered.
“Beloved,” Angharad replied softly. “Farewell.” Tears steamed down Angharad’s face, but her green eyes were steady as she gazed down at Amatheon.
