Night Birds' Reign(116)

Arthur paled, but he did not speak. Rhiannon answered, “I left my child. I left everything I hold dear. It means something to me.”

“So you say. But you were almost ready to turn back. And I tell you that you cannot. You have left your woods. And tonight I have heard you play your father’s harp. And so I know—you can’t turn back. Because you’ve come too far.”

“Myrrdin,” she said, the words tumbling out, “I dread tomorrow. I dread seeing Gwydion again. Letting him hypnotize me, rooting around in my soul for his precious clue. I hate him. I do. How can I go anywhere with him? He already despises me. He’ll gloat because he will think he has beaten me.”

“Hate him then, if it makes you feel better. He’ll care nothing for that. As for gloating, he would consider it a waste of time.”

This was not the understanding and sympathy she sought. Offended, she said indignantly, “You treat it as if it was nothing important.”

“It isn’t,” he said simply. “And you know it. Child, do you think our meeting was by chance? Do you think you would be led so far and allowed to turn back now? As for Arthur,” he turned to look at the boy who gave him back stare for stare. “As for Arthur, his time hasn’t come yet to decide.”

“I have decided. I have told you,” Arthur said stubbornly. “Over and over.”

“Oh, so you have. So you have. I forget sometimes,” Myrrdin said, smiling slyly at the boy.

Arthur unwillingly smiled back and shook his head. He turned to Rhiannon. “You see how it is? He never listens to a word I say.”

“Don’t worry about it. He does that to everybody. And he’s set in his ways. He’s very, very old, you know.”

“Come, enough compliments for one night,” Myrrdin said. “It’s time to eat.”

They ate and talked and even laughed a little, although Arthur was inclined to brood at first. Rhiannon spoke kindly to him and even teased him a bit so that, by the time the meal was through, they were friends. Arthur insisted that she take his bed, he could do very well by the fire, he said. He colored when he offered, and she thanked him kindly pretending not to notice his blush.

“Good night, child,” Myrrdin said and gently kissed her forehead. “It has been a pleasure to see you after so many years. I know we shall meet again.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, we shall. And perhaps you will play your harp for me again.”

“Da’s harp, you mean.”

“No, it is your harp now. Good night, my dear.”

Meriwydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—late afternoon

THE NEXT DAY Rhiannon arrived in Caer Dathyl. The late afternoon sun shone on the cold, gray stones of the fortress as she reined in her horse and dismounted. The fortress was built in the shape of a circle, with the round three-story Dreamer’s tower jutting out defiantly toward the sky. She assumed that Gwydion was in the tower now, and, having seen her ride up was gloating over his victory.

She started up the stone steps to the huge, closed, golden doors of the fortress. The left-hand side was etched with the sign for the rowan, one vertical line slashed by two horizontal ones, all outlined in glittering opals. The right-hand side was covered with a glowing representation of the constellation of Mabon, also outlined in opals. Her heart in her throat, she raised her hand to knock.

But before she could do so, the doors opened slowly. It was not Gwydion, whom she had expected but rather Dinaswyn. Her face was proud and cold, as though carved from the same stone as Caer Dathyl itself. Her gray eyes, so like Gwydion’s, glittered and her silvery hair was braided and wound about her head. She was wearing a plain gown of black with a linen shift beneath it of bright red.

“Welcome, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd var Indeg. Welcome to Caer Dathyl,” Dinaswyn said in a cool voice. With a formal gesture, she held out a golden goblet jeweled with opals that flashed in the sunlight.

Rhiannon took the cup and sipped. “My thanks, Dinaswyn ur Morvryn var Gwenllian,” she said, just as coldly.

“You wish to see Gwydion,” Dinaswyn stated.

“I do,” Rhiannon replied evenly.

“Then come with me.” Well, Rhiannon had not expected a warm welcome from Dinaswyn—no one in his or her right mind ever expected that. She shrugged and followed the former Dreamer through the entrance hall and out into the central courtyard. In the center of the circular courtyard stood a grove of rowan trees forming yet another circle. The rowan trees were bright with clusters of red berries, and birds flew ceaselessly about them.

“He is in the grove,” Dinaswyn said, her manner still cool and formal.