Night Birds' Reign(138)

“And what did he do with our message?” Gwydion asked softly, after a moment.

“He buried it, at the foot of the stones.”

Gwydion went to stand before the grave. He stretched out his hand and the earth parted, just as Angharad had seen Bran do. Something glittered in the dirt, for the cloth that had covered it had long since rotted, and Gwydion reached down and picked it up.

Like the first piece they had found, this piece was gold and the curved arc of one side was rimmed with sapphires. On the lower left, lined in emeralds, were the letters “ovelta.” A cluster of pearls outlined with rubies formed a second arc on the pointed portion. A poem was incised on the piece and Gwydion read it aloud:

Woe that I ever was born

And my father and mother reared me,

That I did not die with the milk of the breast

Before losing my heart’s brother.

“Poor Bran,” Amatheon said quietly. “He had been grieving for Lleu, still, even as this new grief came to him.”

“Bran would always grieve for Lleu, I think,” Gwydion said, “first and foremost.”

“Forever,” Angharad agreed.


FAR TO THE north, on the shores of Llyn Wiber, a swan glided over the cool, clean water. Her feathers gleamed whitely in the sunlight and the water sparkled and shone beneath the sun’s golden rays.

And then the call came and the swan halted on the water, her head reared back in surprise.

It was time. Time to fly south, to journey to the special place. She did not know why she had to do this thing, only that it must be done, that the call could not be ignored.

She spread her huge wings and launched herself skyward with a cry of farewell to the other swans gathered there. She set her course south, and flew.





Chapter Nineteen


Commote Maenor Deilo and Duir Dan Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru Collen Mis, 494



Meriwydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late morning

Trystan rode at the rear of the party, lost in thought, for he knew they were coming closer to Duir Dan and knew that the next part in this quest was in his hands.

They had crossed the border from Ederynion into Rheged earlier that morning and rode now across the smooth plain. The seemingly endless flat expanse was covered with long grass, some brown and withered, some so bright a green it was like spying a nest of precious, glowing emeralds. Haycocks dotted the plain, glistening in golden mounds. A slight wind blew, swooping down over them, stirring the grasses into patterns whose meanings were elusive, impenetrable.

Gwydion led the party, as always, flanked by Amatheon on his left and Cai on his right. Cai was regaling the two brothers with some story, apparently having to do with Uthyr and his latest hunting expedition. It seemed to involve a wild pig, a bet, and a great deal of mud. Gwydion was actually laughing; something he so rarely did that it still astonished Trystan that the Dreamer even could.

Just ahead of him Angharad rode in the middle, with Achren on her left and Rhiannon on her right. Their conversation had to do with Amatheon and his skill in the art of love-making as compared to Gwydion’s. As near as Trystan could tell, Angharad seemed to be saying that while Gwydion might have more finely honed skills, Amatheon was more enjoyable due to the fact that there was, according to Angharad, love involved—something conspicuously absent in Gwydion’s bed.

It amused Trystan to notice that Rhiannon appeared to be contemptuous of Gwydion and his skills in that area, but she listened very closely all the same. Achren was clearly not minded to test Angharad’s word in this, but she was curious nonetheless and asked a number of pointed questions that anyone less forthright than Angharad would undoubtedly have refused to answer.

Trystan sighed to himself, for all this talk reminded him of Esyllt, King Urien’s Bard, the woman he had loved for what seemed now to be most of his life. He missed her, and even at this moment the memory of their many nights together stirred him. For she tempted him with her white arms, her silky light brown hair, her beautiful blue eyes, tempted him with her promises, with her low laughter, with her sweet kisses.

Yet promise after promise she had broken. Time after time she had given her word that she would divorce her husband, yet she never had, always drawing back from taking that final step, always pleading with him to understand, always telling him that she truly loved him, and him alone.

Trystan spied movement on the far western horizon. As he expected it was a herd of wild horses making their way through the tall grass. Herds of horses proliferated throughout Rheged, but none were finer than those that roamed the plains of Maenor Deilo.

A fierce neigh drifted across the plain as the lead stallion reared and called out. The herd swirled and eddied restlessly as the stallion continued to call out. And that, Trystan thought later, was all the warning they received. Later he marveled that the horse had sensed what was to happen, that the stallion had done his best to alert them. At the time, however, there was very little time for reflection, for it was difficult to think clearly when fighting for your life.