“When we bring the new food, we take away that which we have brought before,” Tybion said softly. “All is always ready there, for when the High King returns.”
“And just how,” Gwydion said, astonishment written on his face, “do you enter the mountain? For no one can enter there, not unless the Doors open for them. Which they will not do without the Four Treasures.”
“You are right,” Tybion said. “For the Doors do not open for us.”
“Then how do you enter?” Gwydion pressed.
“Ah,” Rhufon said, his eyes alight, “now that would be telling.”
Gwydion stiffened. The morning itself seemed to fall silent as the Dreamer and the Steward confronted each other. The birds had ceased to sing and even the oxen were stilled, frozen into place. Gwydion’s silvery eyes bored into Rhufon’s sapphire ones. But after a moment Gwydion relaxed. Achren did not know what he had seen in Rhufon’s wise, azure eyes; but whatever it was, it was enough.
“That would, indeed, be telling,” Gwydion said softly. “And that, for one of the House of Caine, would be a tragedy.”
“The Stewards of Cadair Idris are loyal to the High Kings of Kymru,” Rhufon said quietly. “And to none other.”
“So they are,” Gwydion replied the hint of a smile in his voice.
“We know what you seek,” Tybion said.
“Do you?” Gwydion said evenly.
“When you find Caladfwlch,” Rhufon said, “you must bring it to us.”
“Must I?”
“We will see to it that it is placed where it belongs.”
“And that is?”
“In the golden fountain that lies in the center of Brenin Llys, the throne room in Cadair Idris. There it will stay, awaiting the touch of the High King,” Rhufon said serenely.
“So it will,” Gwydion said. “It will indeed.”
Addiendydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—noon
THREE DAYS LATER they arrived at the battlefield of Galor Penduran. The confrontation had taken place on the fringes of Coed Aderyn, near the border of Gwytheryn and Prydyn. Coed Aderyn, Forest of the Birds, was aptly named, for birds speckled the trees, singing in their clear, sweet voices. Wrens and sparrows, thrushes and bluebirds sported through the flame-colored leaves, calling to each other.
“They seem to be restless,” Trystan said, gesturing to the birds.
“They are welcoming Rhiannon back,” Gwydion replied. “For Coed Aderyn was her home.”
“Is my home,” Rhiannon said sharply.
“Yes,” Gwydion said blandly. “Is your home.”
Achren shook her head, for these two never missed an opportunity to needle each other and she was not in the mood to put up with it. Truth to tell, she was nervous and she didn’t like feeling that way, for she had little experience with such an emotion. “Not now, for the Shining Ones sake,” she snapped. She had expected them to take issue with her but they did not. Perhaps they clearly understood and therefore declined to argue.
Trystan dismounted and went to her horse, offering his hand to help her dismount. Though she did not need the help she did not chose to disdain it, for it was kindly meant.
She stood still for a moment and briefly closed her eyes, gathering her strength. Then she walked forward and stood at the foot of the barrow that rested at the edge of the forest. Tall grasses fringed the ring of dark stones. Tiny rose-purple flowers of fireweed grew erect through gaps in the stones, like drops of blood. A yew tree, the tree of mourning, was planted at the head of the grave. Its needles were scattered in layers across the rocks as though the tree itself had wept for many years.
“So, this is Pryderi’s grave,” Achren said quietly.
“You have never seen it?” Cai asked softly.
Achren shook her head. “In Prydyn we do not speak often of Pryderi, our first King. His betrayal of the High King, his own father, is too shameful to be spoken of. We do not lightly invoke his memory.”
“Yet Penduran herself, she who was most injured by Pryderi’s actions, forgave him,” Amatheon pointed out. “For it was she that insisted this barrow be raised. Pryderi was a traitor and the law said he must be left where he fell. But she said no.”
“Penduran did indeed suffer greatly when Pryderi killed her husband,” Rhiannon agreed softly. “Many years after Llyr died she wrote:
Tell me, men of learning, what is Longing made from?
What cloth is put on it, that it does not wear out with use?
Gold wears out, silver wears out, every garment wears out—
Yet Longing does not wear out.
Great Longing, cruel Longing is breaking my heart every day;
When I sleep most sound at night Longing comes and wakes me.