Night Birds' Reign(132)

“I hear Alun Cilcoed is very rich,” Rhiannon said idly.

“Yes, he is,” Angharad replied, turning slightly in the saddle to glance back at Rhiannon. “Most of the trees we use in producing paper in Ederynion come from his forest of Coed Ddu. He has a large paper-production yard just outside the gates of Ymris. And you know how much in demand parchment from Ederynion always is.”

“I suppose he must have a very large fortress, then,” Rhiannon went on. Her green eyes were gleaming as she met Angharad’s confused glance, then she cut her eyes to Amatheon, who was suddenly listening intently.

“Huge,” Angharad replied, still wondering just what Rhiannon was getting at. Whatever it was, Trystan, Cai, and Achren seemed to have already understood it—they were all trying to hide their grins.

“Too bad, then, that we won’t stop there. I hear Alun is known for his hospitality. Besides being able to sleep in a bed I have no doubt that he would supply us with privacy. Perhaps even giving each one of us our own sleeping chamber.”

“Really?” Amatheon asked his blue eyes alight as he glanced up.

“Honestly, Rhiannon,” Gwydion said absently as he carefully scanned the countryside, “you and your preoccupation with sleeping in a bed. I had no idea you were so fragile.”

“And I had no idea you were so paranoid,” Rhiannon replied sharply. “As if an occasional chance to sleep in a bed is hurting something. You know perfectly well that the Laws of Hospitality—”

“Are you really going to rant about that this entire trip?”

“I might,” she said sweetly, baring her teeth in a smile.

Amatheon went on, as though nobody else had spoken. “Our own rooms?” he asked Angharad.

“I don’t see why not,” Angharad replied.

“Gwydion,” Amatheon said eagerly, “I think it would be wise to stop and pay our respects to Alun Cilcoed. I really do.”

Gwydion halted his horse and the rest followed suit. He eyed his brother suspiciously. “Now you want to stop to see Alun Cilcoed? I hardly think—”

Gwydion stopped. He looked at Amatheon’s face. His eyes cut to Rhiannon and he scowled, opening his mouth to say something that would, no doubt, have been rude. But then he halted again as he followed Rhiannon’s gaze—for she was watching Angharad and Amatheon with a half smile on her face. Then it dawned on him. He glanced at Rhiannon who sat her horse with an air of innocence.

“Thank you, Rhiannon,” he said shortly. “Thank you very much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rhiannon said airily.

“Yes you do,” Gwydion insisted. But then he looked over again at Amatheon and his brother’s hopeful, fresh face. He sighed. “All right, then. We stop and see Alun Cilcoed.”

It took them less than two hours to come within eyeshot of the gates of Ymris. The city was large, almost as large as Queen Olwen’s city of Dinmael and it appeared to be just as busy. The huge gates were open and people streamed in and out, for it was market day and folk from many leagues around had come to town to buy, to sell and to trade. The stone whitewashed city walls gleamed under the clear sky.

Outside the walls was another much smaller stone enclosure. The gate of this structure was also opened wide and people were bustling in and out, some holding bundles in their hands.

Angharad nodded toward the smaller structure. “That is the paper mill. I suspect Alun Cilcoed is there right now.”

“Then by all means, lead us on to the paper mill. I certainly didn’t come this far out of our way to miss this,” Gwydion said sourly.

“Gwydion, you are a sore loser,” Rhiannon said tartly.

“As are you,” he said swiftly. “Witness the cave I found you in.”

“You—” Rhiannon began, her green eyes hard and angry.

“Don’t,” Amatheon said, reaching over and touching Rhiannon’s arm. His blue eyes were begging and, after a moment, Rhiannon nodded tightly and held her silence.

Angharad led the way as they rode in through the open gates into a huge courtyard. Wooden poles were set up through the yard. They served as a prop for a huge canvas tarp in the event of rain. But today it was clear, so the canvas remained rolled and stacked against one wall.

“How does this work?” Achren asked curiously.

“You’ve never seen paper being made?” Angharad asked in surprise.

“In Prydyn we make wine, not paper,” Achren pointed out. “Know much about making wine?”

“Not much,” Angharad admitted. She pointed to rows of huge, wooden tubs of water sitting to the left of the gate. “These tubs hold a mixture of linen, straw and wood. The metal pistons positioned above each tub are used to pound the mixture into a fine pulp. The pistons are powered by this team of oxen which circle the tubs.”