Was Susanna really telling him that he should care about people’s love lives? He was supposed to be concerned about this along with all the other duties of the Dreamer? Susanna wanted him to care if some woman was happy? “She is doing her duty. Most of us can never ask for, or have, anything else,” he said shortly.
“You know, Gwydion, you are one cold bastard.” Susanna stood, looking down at him. “Even if you are the Dreamer of Kymru. Or maybe because of it.”
As she swept away from the table, somebody called out, “A song, Susanna. A song!” The shout went up around the hall. Susanna smiled tightly, as someone brought her harp.
“Chose a song, Gwydion,” she called her smile mocking. “What song shall I sing for the mighty Dreamer? Do we not all live to serve you?”
But he would not be mocked—not by Susanna, not by anyone. “I call for Bran’s Song,” he said.
Susanna’s smile faded away. The hall grew hushed as people wondered why the Dreamer should ask for that song. Into the sudden stillness, Susanna sang.
Saplings of the green-topped birch,
Which will draw me from the fetters,
Repeat not thy secret to a youth.
Saplings of the oak in the grove,
Which will draw me from my chains,
Repeat not thy secret to a maiden.
Saplings of the leafy elm,
Which will draw me from my prison,
Repeat not thy secret to a babbler.
The Wild Hunt with their horns are heard.
Full of lightning, the air,
Briefly it is said; true are the trees, false is man.
False is man, Gwydion thought to himself. Very false indeed.
BY THE EARLY morning hours, the gutted candles were flickering feebly in Uthyr’s chambers. A huge bed with an oak frame and a thick mattress stood against the wall, covered with a blue silken bedspread with the Hawk of Gwynedd embroidered on it in silver thread and brown silk. Bearskin rugs were scattered on the polished floor. The fire in the large fireplace had burned down to glowing embers, casting its light fitfully over the three men gathered there.
Gwydion sat cross-legged on the stone hearth, cradling a gold cup of barely touched wine in his hands. Amatheon reposed on Uthyr’s most comfortable chair, for he had declared that the youngest never got anything good and dared his brothers to prove him wrong. Uthyr himself sat on a low stool, drawn up close to the hearth. The three brothers had talked far into the night, and dawn was now not far away.
Uthyr stirred slightly. “And so, soon after I received the Ruler’s Torque, King Rhodri just left. Didn’t say good-bye to anyone. Just left.”
“I’m sorry for that. Deep down he is a good man, I think,” replied Amatheon.
“He was jealous of my mother and your father. You can’t blame him, really. I think he truly loved her,” replied Uthyr.
“Rathtyen did love Rhodri, I think. As much as she could,” said Amatheon.
“Not enough for him.” Uthyr sighed, and glanced at Gwydion, who was sitting quietly, half turned on the hearth to gaze into the fire.
Gwydion’s hands were clasped tightly around the cup that he held. They are getting close, he thought. Too close. Any minute now they will start talking about how Rathtyen died of grief. Start talking about how Da died. About how—not even to himself would Gwydion finish that thought. He swallowed hard and turned to Uthyr, desperate to change the subject.
“And Ygraine?” he asked. “How is she?”
Uthyr chuckled. “Oh, fine, fine. She threw her brush at me this morning.”
“Ah,” Amatheon smiled. “The same as ever.”
“Yes, well,” Uthyr shifted on the stool and touched his ear thoughtfully. “Of course, she’s a little slower, what with the birth being only a day or two away. The brush barely nicked my ear.”
“That must have truly made her mad,” Gwydion smiled, scratching his beard.
“Why do you grow that thing if it itches?” Uthyr asked curiously. Amatheon’s eyes gleamed.
“I like it,” Gwydion replied defensively.
“The birth,” Uthyr said, after a pause. “Have you seen nothing?”
Gwydion hesitated. Was Uthyr’s child truly the one? He could not be sure. He trusted Uthyr completely, but there was nothing to be gained by speaking out of turn. “Were you expecting something?” he hedged.
“Sometimes,” Uthyr said hesitantly, “I put my hand on Ygraine’s belly and touch the baby growing there. And sometimes, I think I feel something very . . .”
“Something? What?” Amatheon asked, leaning forward to stare intently at Uthyr.
Uthyr closed his eyes and was silent. Then he spoke in a hollow tone. “I see a throne in the shape of an eagle. It is all of gold. And there are eight steps leading up to it. Each is inlaid with precious stones—one is of topaz, one of amethyst. One of emerald, and one of pearl. One of ruby, one of onyx, one of opal, and one of sapphire. They glitter in the golden light that floods the room. But the room is empty.”