Night Birds' Reign(13)

Amatheon said nothing, his face carefully still. Gwydion was also silent, looking at his half brother without expression.

“You know something,” Uthyr said flatly. “You both do. I just described the throne room of the High King’s at Cadair Idris that has been shut up now for over two hundred years. And you both just sit there and look at me as though you cannot imagine what I am talking about.”

Gwydion sighed and placed his hand on his brother’s arm. “Uthyr, if I truly knew, if I had truly seen, if there was anything I could tell you, I would. But there is not. The child isn’t even born.” Gwydion paused. “But brother, I tell you this. Trust no one. Tell no one what you have told us. It could be dangerous—for all of us.”

“I have told no one,” Uthyr answered. “Not even Ygraine. I thought that perhaps it was nothing. Only fancies.” He looked Gwydion square in the face. “If you tell me it is dangerous, then it is. I will say nothing.”

“It’s late,” Amatheon said, rising. “We should all get some sleep.”

“Yes,” said Uthyr, “And the Calan Llachar hunt will begin soon. Why don’t you both sleep here? You can bed down in front of the fire. To tell you the truth, I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”

“I think we’ll just stay here, then,” said Gwydion, as he rose from the hearth.

“Arday will be disappointed,” Amatheon said, his eyes glinting in amusement.

Uthyr and Amatheon laughed, and even Gwydion smiled sourly. Gwydion stretched and laid down on the rug as Uthyr threw another bearskin over him. Silently, Gwydion began murmuring the Dreamer’s Prayer, calling on the Shining Ones to protect him and enable him to dream true.

Annwyn with me lying down, Aertan with me sleeping.

The white light of Nantsovelta be in my soul,

The mantle of Modron about my shoulders,

The protection of Taran over me,

And in my heart, the fire of Mabon.

If malice should threaten my life,

Then the Shining Ones between me and evil.

From tonight till a year from tonight,

And this very night,

And forever.

Awen.

With that, Gwydion fell asleep. And dreamed.


HE WAS STANDING in a forest clearing. The trees were fresh and green. Even the bark seemed to glisten in the light of the sun that streamed through the trees, bathing the forest in a golden glow. The ground beneath his feet was covered with marigolds and the delicate white flowers of the rowan tree. They made a carpet of silver and gold on the forest floor.

In the distance, he heard the sound of a hunting horn. It echoed, again and again, shattering the still air. He heard the baying of hounds, coming closer. He heard a rustle in the leaves overhead. Looking up, he saw a young eagle, terror in its eyes.

“Are they hunting you, little one?” Gwydion asked, lifting his arm out to the young bird. “I will not harm you. I will save you from them.”

To his surprise, the eagle flew to him and perched on his shoulder, its talons digging into his flesh. He could feel the bird trembling as it pressed itself against his neck.

“Do they hunt you? Hush, I am here.” He gently lifted the bird from his shoulder and cradled it in his hands, stroking its blue and brown feathers. “I will not let them hurt you.”

The horns, the baying, came closer. The eagle shifted restlessly, but Gwydion held the bird firmly. “No, no, young one. You are safe with me. They will bypass us.”

He sent a thought to the baying hounds, telling them to pass by, that there was no one there. But instead, the baying became even more insistent. He could hear horses now, crashing through the trees.

Suddenly the hounds leapt into the clearing. Gwydion gasped in surprise, for all the hounds were white, with red ears. They seemed to grin at him, surrounding Gwydion and the young bird that he held in his hands.

“This eagle is under my protection,” Gwydion said sternly. “You may not touch him.” The hounds backed away a little then continued to circle, panting and baying for their master.

And then their master was there, his white horse stepping delicately into the clearing. The horse wore no saddle or bridle. The rider’s chest was bare, and his breeches were made of deerskin. His leather boots were studded with topaz gemstones. He had the face of a man but his eyes were the topaz eyes of an owl, staring at Gwydion, unblinking. Most alarming of all, he had antlers growing from his forehead, like a stag. The rider seemed to glow in the light of the sun.

Oh gods, thought Gwydion. Oh gods.

“Yes, gods are here,” uttered the rider. “I am Cerrunnos. I know you, Dreamer.”

Gwydion swallowed hard. “I know you, Cerrunnos. Lord of the Wild Hunt, Protector of Kymru.” Gwydion managed a bow, of a sort, careful to keep the eagle out of reach.