I gave a secret to my daughter,
So secret that she did not know.
And to her grandson she did give it,
A secret those Dreamers did not know.
And to his granddaughter he did give it,
This secret that they did not know.
In her granddaughter lies this secret,
A secret that she does not know.
“And just what did that piece of nonsense mean?” Achren demanded.
“It meant that Bran had left a clue, a memory in the mind of his daughter. And this unconscious memory was so powerful that she passed it to her grandson and so on, all unknowing. As I traced the family tree I realized that the poem pointed to one of two women, Dewin in the twelfth generation of Llyr—Arianrod or Rhiannon. Naturally I tested Arianrod, but the memory was not in her.”
“That must have made her well and truly mad,” Angharad murmured. Rhiannon tried to hide her smile behind her hands, but Gwydion saw it. He raised his brow but both women looked at him in exaggerated innocence.
He went on. “So I knew I must find Rhiannon to get that memory. I did not know, at that time, who else was needed to accomplish the task of finding the sword. That understanding came later, as I stopped at Cadair Idris and spoke to the Guardian of the Doors. She, too, had a message for me from Bran given her when he bound her to the mountain. And the message was that I must ask the guidance of the High Kings themselves.”
They were silent as Gwydion described his night at Galor Carreg, the burial mounds of the High Kings. “At last they came, and they gave me a poem. This is what they said:
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.
“I knew then,” Gwydion went on, “that I would need the four Captains of Kymru. For they are the trees referred to in the poem. Cai is PenGwernan, the head of the alder. And Angharad is PenAethnen, the head of the aspen. Trystan is PenDraenenwen, the head of the hawthorn, and Achren is PenCollen, the head of the hazel. And, somehow, you would all be vital to finding the sword.”
“And the Y Dawnus identified in the next to the last stanza?” Cai prompted. “That would be?”
Gwydion had no intention of telling them that the High Kings had said another Y Dawnus was to come, compelled without knowing why. For he was acutely conscious of the song’s last stanza—that one who is loved shall die. He was horribly afraid that he knew who that would be. “That would be Rhiannon and myself,” he said, looking hard at Amatheon. “And no one else.”
But Amatheon merely smiled and did not answer.
“My quest for Rhiannon was successful and she has agreed to help us,” Gwydion said, inclining his head in Rhiannon’s direction.
“And her message from Bran?” Achren asked.
“Has yet to be heard.”
“Then how can you be sure she holds it?” Cai asked.
“Because she was almost killed to prevent her from sharing it,” Gwydion said.
“Obviously you won the fight,” Achren said to Rhiannon in a conversational tone.
Rhiannon nodded. “I used the move you taught me years ago.”
“I told you it would work,” Achren pointed out.
“So you did,” Rhiannon said with a smile.
“Are you ready, Rhiannon?” Gwydion asked.
“I am.”
“Amatheon,” Gwydion said, “be prepared to write down what she says.”
Amatheon picked up fresh parchment, ink and quill from the table and signaled to Gwydion that he was ready.
Gwydion left his chair and came to stand next to Rhiannon. “Face me,” he commanded, and gently placed his hands on either side of her head. “You are on a plain with wildflowers at your feet,” he began, his voice low and soothing. He guided her with his words across the plain into the rowan tree and to the well beneath the tree, the well of memory. “You stretch out your hand and cup the water in your palm. You drink.” He took a deep breath for this was the moment. “As you drink, what do you see?”
“I see a man,” Rhiannon answered, her voice dreamy. “He is dressed in black and opals. His smile welcomes me, but there is such sadness there I think my heart will break for him. Such sadness, such loss. And yet there is wisdom, payment for the grief, the sorrow he has endured.”