Night Birds' Reign(146)

It was time. It was time to go northwest, to journey to the special place.

He did not hesitate, for that was not in his nature. He reared high; reaching for the sky, neighing fiercely then leapt forward, the leagues between him and his goal melting away as he ran.





Chapter Twenty


Llyn Mwyngil, Gwytheryn and Galor Penduran, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Collen Mis, 494



Gwaithdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—late morning

Eight days later they neared Llyn Mwyngil, the huge lake that lay southwest of Cadair Idris. It had been on the shores of this lake, Achren recalled, that Bran had found the dying High King, Lleu Silver-Hand; had, perhaps, spoken to Lleu in those last moments. If so, history had not recorded what had been said, for which Achren was profoundly grateful—it was only right that some things remained private.

The lake before them glistened beneath the cold sun, the waters shimmering like a handful of azure sapphires. Off the far northern shore of the lake a large island rested. The isle was covered thickly with apple trees as far as could be seen. The time for the apple harvest had come and gone, and there were no apples left on the trees or on the ground, though no man had taken the fruit. Only the animals ate the apples there—the Kymri left Afalon strictly alone, for it was said to be a holy place. It was the chosen place of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and his mate Aertan, Weaver of Fate, and no man or woman willingly encountered those two. Only the High Kings visited that isle, and even they had done so only at great need.

Behind them, to the east from where they had come, the long, now yellowing grasses of the plain were stirring beneath the hand of a chill wind. The sky overhead was a clear, crisp blue. It was so clear that Achren could still see the peak of Cadair Idris far to the northeast, and the topaz glow of Coed Llachar, the forest that abutted the deserted hall of the High Kings. The mountain had remained in sight as they had ridden across Gwytheryn over the past days, although it was many leagues away and they had not attempted to approach it. No one had even hinted that they wanted a closer look, for there was something about the cold, shuttered mountain that touched the heart, bringing a shroud of sorrow and loss to subdue the spirit. And that was something no one was eager to sample more closely without cause.

Within just a few days, Achren knew, they would cross out of Gwytheryn and into Prydyn, reaching the fringes of Coed Aderyn where the battlefield of Galor Penduran lay. And there she would likely see things that she had no wish to see. For that battle was surely the most heartbreaking of all the Battles of Betrayal. She was not looking forward to doing what she must do. But she would do it, for she had never turned away from her sworn duty.

And this was indeed a sworn duty, for her King had given his word that Achren would do whatever the Dreamer required of her. She had Rhoram’s honor to uphold—a cause dear to her.

Life had been much better ever since the Dreamer had visited Arberth. It had been Gwydion’s presence, his questions about Rhiannon, which had forced Rhoram to confront the truth of what he had become. It was that which had given Achren the impetus to shake Rhoram from his grief, to mock him back into life. Since that moment the Rhoram she had known years ago had returned.

He laughed again. He was enjoying life again with the old zeal—pursuing women, wine, and song without the underlying sadness he once had. And for that alone Achren was grateful to the Dreamer. For she had sorely missed the old Rhoram and was happy to have him back, once more interested in the world around him.

She knew he would wish to hear of everything—every word, every gesture, every expression—that her companions gave on this journey and so she had stored it all to tell him. When she returned they would spend many evenings drinking fine wine in the Great Hall and talking about this journey and other things until dawn surprised them.

At least, Achren thought, as she glanced ahead at her companions, the journey was now almost blessedly quiet, since Gwydion and Rhiannon were, once again, barely speaking to each other.

The silence had the merit of making it easier to concentrate. And quiet was necessary, for the land dipped without warning in this part of Gwytheryn. Achren was keenly aware that such terrain made them highly susceptible to ambush. The long grasses could easily conceal any number of warriors, and it was difficult to see what was beyond the next rise. Since Duir Dan they had all ridden warily, their weapons close at hand, their eyes sharp, their bearing alert. They were a formidable group, for four of them were the finest warriors in all of Kymru. The remaining three were exceptional in another way, for they were all adept at Wind-Riding; they now scouted ahead and behind, able to send their awareness many leagues away to scour the countryside for signs of trouble.