“She ruled in her father’s name for five more years, until 275. That year her sister, Gwladas came to visit. Gwladas was not happy in her marriage. Regan played on her sister’s unhappiness, seeking to get her cooperation in a scheme to murder their father. For Regan was tired of waiting for the rule of Ederynion to be wholly hers. If Gwladas would help her, Regan would make Gwladas her co-Ruler, and could leave her husband for good. Why Gwladas ever believed her sister, I’ll never know.”
“Her plan,” Rhiannon clarified, “was to have Gwladas murder their father. And ensure that Gwladas alone took the blame.”
“True,” Gwydion continued. “The sisters arranged for Llywelyn to take part in a hunt. Cacamri prepared and gave to Gwladas a skin of wine laced with poison. During the hunt Gwladas gave it to Llywelyn to drink. Llywelyn fell very ill, but made it back to Dinmael before he collapsed. At last he repented of his treatment of Luched and sent word to her, via the Bardic network. Luched, Dylan and Bran came to Dinmael as quick as they could and arrived so swiftly that Llywelyn was still alive.
“It was there that Bran discovered the truth of the matter. He caught Regan taking the Torque of Ederynion from her father’s dying throat. Then he found the poisoned wineskin, and tricked Gwladas into confessing. Regan, Gwladas, and Cacamri fled, but not before Cacamri tried to stab his father. But Dylan saved Bran’s life and the three murderers got away in the confusion, taking with them Regan’s warriors as well as Gwladas’s men.”
“Was Bran wounded?” Achren asked.
“His lover and his son had just murdered the King of Ederynion,” Trystan mused, “and his own son had tried to kill him. I’d say he was wounded.”
“Yes,” Gwydion agreed. “He was.” He paused and the breeze chose that moment to shake the aspens again, and they shivered as though in sympathy with Bran’s pain. “Bran, Dylan, Luched and her father’s loyal warriors followed the three, and brought them to bay here, at the fringes of Coed Ddu. The teulu’s fought through the afternoon as Luched led the battle against her sisters. She killed Mael, Regan’s Captain, and that ended the battle. Regan, Gwladas, and Cacamri were brought before Luched, Dylan, and Bran for judgment.”
“Bran would not plead for the lives of his lover and his son,” Rhiannon said quietly.
“No, he would not,” Gwydion said just as quietly. “It was Bran himself that upheld the law, for according to it, patricide is punishable by death. When Bran pronounced it, Gwladas and Cacamri pled with Bran to change his mind. But Bran was adamant, for it was indeed the law. So all three were condemned.”
“How did he justify that?” Cai wondered.
“He said that the only way the punishment could be remitted was via a High King. And with Lleu dead, there was no High King,” Rhiannon said.
“I suppose you think him wrong,” Gwydion said to Rhiannon, intently watching her face.
Surprised, she turned to him. “No, I don’t,” she said. “He was right. And how it must have hurt him to say it.”
“I didn’t think you would understand,” Gwydion said, his voice low.
“Didn’t you?” she replied.
The two eyed each other for a few moments. At last Gwydion held out his hand and she took it. Amatheon squeezed Angharad’s hand, then stepped forward and joined hands with Gwydion and Rhiannon.
Achren, Cai, and Trystan surrounded the three Y Dawnus. Then they all turned to her, waiting for her to join them, to complete the circle, to receive the message that Bran had sent them from the past.
She stepped forward and joined them, gently laying her hands on Amatheon’s shoulders. Suddenly darkness veiled her eyes, and she was falling, falling, falling into long ago.
A BRIGHT LIGHT almost blinded her after the darkness and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus. She was standing at the fringe of the forest, and the gravesite was gone, the spot unmarred and covered with green grass.
She raised her eyes and beheld a fierce battle taking place in front of her. Men with badges showing a silver swan on a field of sea green fought desperately with each other. Although they clearly gave out their battle cries, Angharad could hear nothing. Weapons clashed and rang, but all was silent as she watched.
Two women and a young man were standing in the center of the field, the battle raging around them. The first woman was tall and slender, and her auburn hair had come loose from its braid and flowed down her slim shoulders. Around her neck was an ornate torque of silver and pearls. Her eyes were dark and cunning, and she stood imperiously, unafraid, a dagger gripped tightly in her hand. The second woman was heavier, with brown hair and her gray eyes were fearful and full of tears as she cringed away from the battle. The young man’s hair was auburn and his eyes were gray, filled now with fierce battle-fever as he, too, crouched, ready to fight.