Night Birds' Reign(147)
The sound of singing drifted toward them from somewhere up ahead. Gwydion called a halt, his hand lifted. “Amatheon?” he called.
Amatheon, who had been responsible for scouting ahead to the west, blinked, pulling his awareness back from the Wind-Ride. “Yes?”
“Who is that ahead? Why didn’t you warn us?” Gwydion asked sharply.
“It’s just a farmer and his family,” Amatheon said with a careless shrug.
“Doing what?”
“Plowing.”
The singing continued, a cheerful song, sung without instruments in a rich and powerful voice.
“Is it a caller?” Cai asked.
“Indeed,” Amatheon answered. “Singing the oxen along.”
“I didn’t think anyone lived around here,” Angharad said.
“Very few people do,” Gwydion said absently as he urged his horse forward to crest the rise ahead of them. “Most think the place haunted, since the death of Lleu so close by.”
“And so it is,” Amatheon said with a shiver. “Can’t you feel it?”
“What have we to fear from Lleu?” Trystan asked softly. “For does he not know our errand?”
They crested the hill and saw a field stretched out before them. Half of the field was plowed, the newly turned earth glistening in dark russet furrows. Two huge oxen pulled a plow guided by a middle-aged man with dark hair. The plow’s leather harness was strapped around his strong shoulders and his step was light as he guided the blade of the plow into the earth.
The caller, the man who sang ahead of the oxen, beckoning the animals forward, was an older man with long, silver hair. He had a smile in his voice as he sang in a rich, pure tone.
Saplings of the green-topped birch,
Which will draw me from the fetters
Repeat not they secret to a youth.
Saplings of the oak in the grove,
Which will draw me from my chains,
Repeat not thy secret to a maiden.
Saplings of the leafy elm,
Which will draw me from my prison,
Repeat not thy secret to a babbler.
The Wild Hunt with their horns are heard,
Full of lightning is the air,
Briefly it is said; true are the trees, false is man.
“Bran’s song,” Gwydion murmured, his face suddenly pale.
“It is a common song,” Rhiannon said sharply. “Many sing it.”
A young boy came bounding across the field, a jug in his hand. He drew up next to the two men and they halted. The dark-haired man smiled and took the jug from the boy, ruffling the boy’s hair as he did so. He then handed the jug back to the boy who scurried over to the silver-haired man. The old man took the jug and drank. As he did so he clearly saw Achren and her companions at the crest of the rise. The man smiled as Gwydion rode forward down slight hill, coming to a halt at the edge of the field, the rest of them following.
“You sing a song of Bran,” Gwydion said softly to the old man.
“I do,” the silver-haired man said, his blue eyes alight with something Achren could not immediately name. His voice was rich and smooth with a hint of hidden power. “And you are well met, Dreamer.”
“You know me,” said Gwydion flatly.
“And all your companions,” the dark-haired man said. “Amatheon ap Awst and Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. The great captains of Kymru—Cai ap Cynyr and Angharad ur Ednyved; Trystan ap Naf and Achren ur Canhustyr. You are all well met indeed.”
The silver-haired man smiled, even as Gwydion stiffened and Achren and the other captains laid their hands on their swords. “I am Rhufon ap Casnar,” he went on. “This is my son, Tybion, and my grandson Lucan.”
Tybion inclined his head while Lucan bowed awkwardly, his sandy hair getting into his wide, bright, blue eyes.
“And we have been expecting you, Dreamer,” Rhufon went on. “For we are of the Cenedl of Caine. The descendants of Illtydd, the last Steward of Cadair Idris.”
“Illtydd was killed when Gorwys took Cadair Idris,” Gwydion said flatly.
“But his son Samson was not,” Tybion replied, his eyes glittering blue as sapphire.
“Bran himself gave us this land,” Rhufon said, gesturing to the field and several like it that stretched out from the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. “When he had overcome Gorwys and shut up the mountain, he took Samson here. Bran charged him with continuing in his sworn task, as the heir of the House of Caine, to serve the High Kings of Kymru. And Samson wept, for the High King was dead, and he could not serve as he was born to do. But Bran said that was not so. That even in the absence of a High King the Stewards of Cadair Idris could serve.
“And we do. Every year we sow our crops. Every year we harvest them. Every year we grind wheat to flour. We cure pork and beef. We pluck apples and plums and other fruit. We brew ale and cider. And we take it all to Cadair Idris, against the day when the High King returns.”