“Dreamer,” Cynedyr went on, “I believe it would be best if me and my men stayed with you on this journey you are on, to guard you, though I do not pretend to understand what this is all about.”
Gwydion suddenly noticed that Cynedyr’s gaze was fixed on Rhiannon. Trystan, though he would have preferred Cynedyr’s company, smiled to himself. He was in no doubt as to how Gwydion would react now.
“I thank you for your generous offer,” Gwydion said evenly. “But we must refuse. For our purpose must be kept secret if we can make it so.”
“I understand,” Cynedyr said, clearly disappointed, but just as clearly not taking offense. “What, then, can we do for you all?”
“Will you and your men take on the task of disposing of these bodies?” Gwydion asked.
“We will, Dreamer,” Cynedyr replied solemnly.
“Speak of what happened here today to no one,” Gwydion warned. “I wish, for your sake, that you could tell the tale, for you saved our lives and we are more grateful than we can say. But it cannot be, for now.”
“I do not need to puff myself up by boasting of my adventures. As a matter of fact, there are a number of things that my own father still does not know.” Cynedyr grinned. “One more won’t hurt him.
THAT NIGHT TRYSTAN volunteered to stand watch. To his surprise, the others did not quarrel. Perhaps they understood his need to think of what had happened today and what would happen tomorrow.
They camped on the plain in the shelter of a ring of oak trees. Gwydion lit the fire using his gift of Fire-Weaving. Whenever they camped out Gwydion did so, calling the Druid’s Fire in elaborate ways, forming fiery rose blossoms and swords, glowing horses and trees, anything that came to mind. They had all come to the point where they looked forward to Gwydion’s nightly shows. All but Rhiannon. For she usually scanned Gwydion’s face at those times thoughtfully, as though seeking to confirm something she had guessed long ago. But what that thing might be, Trystan did not know. He did not think the others knew either—even Cai who was so good at reading the truth behind men’s eyes.
They had eaten a simple meal and had sat around the campfire for a while, speaking in desultory tones. At one point Amatheon and Angharad had risen and gone for a walk. They all pretended to believe as they had since Ymris, that a walk was all those two had in mind. It was true that they all seemed to have difficulty keeping a straight face at those times, but they did their best.
“Don’t stray too far,” Gwydion warned. “I have been Wind-Riding for the past hour or so and have seen no one. Nevertheless, be wary.”
“Could I perhaps persuade you not to Ride in our direction?” Angharad asked with a grin as she took Amatheon’s hand.
“But of course, Angharad,” Gwydion said airily. “Your wish is my command.”
The two had returned some hours ago and one by one Trystan’s companions had fallen asleep in blankets before the fire.
Overhead the waning moon continued to rise in the night sky. Stars glittered coldly and thickly across the heavens. Trystan walked the perimeter of the camp, taking care to keep the campfire in his peripheral vision, but not to look directly at it, for it would ruin his night vision if he stared at the flames for long.
Movement near the campfire halted him and he crouched down, his hand on his knife. But it was only Gwydion sitting up. The Dreamer freed himself from his bedroll and sat looking into the fire. Trystan wondered if Gwydion had dreamt something and, if so, what it might be. A flicker of movement and Rhiannon, too, sat up.
“Did you dream?” Rhiannon asked, softly so as not to wake the others.
Gwydion nodded. “It is of no matter. An old dream. One I have had many times before.”
“But one that still has the power to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?”
“I can see it in your eyes,” she said quietly. “Tell me.”
For a moment Gwydion hesitated. Then, to Trystan’s surprise, he answered her. “I am at Cadair Idris. It is night and the three High Kings come from their graves to stand before the Doors. They each draw a ghost of Caladfwlch from their scabbards and lay them on the ground. Arderydd, the High Eagle comes and tries to take them.” Gwydion halted.
“And then?” Rhiannon prompted.
“And then the shadows of the plain rise. They moan and twist together. They cry out, threatening the eagle. I leap in front of the shadows, to try to protect the eagle. And then . . .” Again, Gwydion fell silent.
“And then?” Rhiannon pressed.
“And then the shadow reaches for me. It reaches into my chest and tears my heart. It is so cold. The pain is like nothing I have ever known. It is a pain that makes me wish for death to stop it.”