He came to her then, held her and kissed away her tears. He told her he loved her and that she mustn’t go. That he could not bear to let her go. Not yet. These last two words he did not say, but she heard them clearly in his halting tones.
So as they made love she silently said farewell to Rhoram and to the peace and comfort she had known with him. That was all over now.
When he was spent and sleeping beside her, she intertwined with him as she had done so many times before, listening to his breathing, feeling the beat of his heart, and savoring the feel of his skin beneath her gentle fingers.
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,