Night Birds' Reign(114)

Gwen quickly turned to Rhiannon. “You’re leaving me here? Why?”

“I must. I must go to the Dreamer. He has laid a task on me that I must do.”

“You’re deserting me?” Gwen’s voice rose.

“No,” Rhiannon said pleadingly. “I’m leaving you with your father.”

“You planned this from the start,” Gwen accused. “You knew it all along. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Gwen, don’t take it this way, please. If I had a choice—”

“You have a choice! How can you do this? How can you leave me alone?”

“I wish I knew,” Rhiannon whispered.

“I hate you! I hate you!” Gwen screamed.

Rhiannon flinched as Gwen began to sob. “I do. I do hate you. You don’t care anything about me. You just leave me because I’m in the way.”

She reached out to take Gwen in her arms but was pushed away. Rhoram put his arm around Gwen’s shoulders as she sobbed and Rhiannon watched helplessly.

“I’ll take care of her, Rhiannon. Do what you must do,” he said softly.

Oh, gods. How could she leave them both, these two that she loved so much? But she must. She must. She turned and ran toward the stables, Gwen’s sobs echoing in her ears.

Addiendydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—dusk

ONE MONTH LATER, Rhiannon arrived in the tiny village of Dinas Emrys, sick at heart and weary beyond endurance.

She reined in her mount by the village well, hauled up the bucket, and watered her horse as the sun slowly sank behind the purple mountains. The people in the village were already at their evening meal, and the tiny square was deserted. She could hear faint laughter as families and friends gathered for the evening. The sound made her feel more lonesome than ever.

Her exit from Caer Tir had taken its toll on her. There were dark circles beneath her swollen eyes, for she slept poorly. She often thought she heard Gwen’s sobs again in the dead of the night. The cries echoed within her and the misery she carried made her heart feel as heavy as stone.

She wondered now where she would spend the night. On this journey she had not dared to sleep alone in the wilds. So every night she had invoked the law of hospitality, and gone to a nearby house for shelter. In every place the people were kind, attentive to her needs, and unquestioning, as the law demanded. Grateful, she had repaid them in the only way she could—she had played her harp and sung for them.

But tonight she was doubtful that she should even stop here in this tiny village. She was almost at Caer Dathyl; indeed, she would be there tomorrow. She was half inclined to keep riding for another league or so and camp for the night. And even more than half inclined to turn her horse around and go back to Arberth. For the nearer she came to Caer Dathyl and Gwydion, the greater her misery became.

Sighing, she made to remount when someone touched her arm. She jumped and turned to confront a young boy perhaps thirteen years old. He had auburn hair and dark eyes. He was slender, slightly built, and deeply tanned.

“Your pardon,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s all right,” she said evenly.

“My Uncle offers you the hospitality of our house for the night.”

She hesitated. “I thank your Uncle, but I am not staying the night here. Please tell him I am grateful but I cannot stay.”

“He said that if you were to refuse I was to ask if Hefeydd’s harp was being cared for properly now.”

“How did—” She halted. “Who is your uncle?” she asked carefully.

“My Great-uncle, actually. Come. He is waiting.”

In a daze she followed the boy. Who was he? There was an air about him—something that did not belong in this mountain village. And his Great-uncle—who in the world could that be? There were few people who knew about her father’s harp. She thought of one person in particular. Oh, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. For Myrrdin was dead. Wasn’t he?

The boy led her to a tiny hut at the edge of the village. An old man stood in the doorway, looking out at her. “Rhiannon,” the old man said tenderly.

“Myrrdin. Oh, Myrrdin.” She threw herself into his waiting arms and he held her gently as she began to weep.

The boy stabled her horse and returned with her saddlebags in tow. Bashfully, he handed her a tiny square of linen to wipe her eyes, and Myrrdin helped her to a bench before the crackling fire.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Oh, I think you do, child. Here, drink this.” Gratefully, she took a mug of ale from his hand and drank. As she tried to calm herself, she looked closely at the boy who was stirring a kettle of soup that boiled over the fire. There was something about that boy. Something elusive, but familiar.