“From the physical wound or the wound to his heart?” Amatheon wondered.
“Both, I believe,” Gwydion said gently. “Gilfaethwy, Penduran’s brother, was captured a few days later, for he had run from the battlefield. He was brought to Cadair Idris, where Gwydd, Llyr’s son, and the new Dreamer performed the rite that infused Gilfaethwy’s spirit into the Doors of Cadair Idris. Though his body was dead his spirit was denied the chance to rest in the Land of Summer until his place would be taken by another traitor.”
“I often think that is the most horrible punishment imaginable,” Trystan murmured.
“So did Goewin, the woman Gilfaethwy had raped. It was she who thought of it,” Gwydion said. “After the battle they burned the dead in pyre’s. And, as we have said, Penduran insisted that Pryderi be properly buried. But she did not bury Llyr here. She took his body with her back to Caer Dathyl and buried him in Aelwyd Cerdinen, the burial mounds she raised for him in the center of the fortress. All Dreamers have been buried there since.
“They named this place Galor Penduran, Penduran’s Sorrow,” Gwydion finished, gesturing to the battlefield. “It is said that, in the night, just before dawning, if one listens closely, one can hear the sound of Penduran weeping still over Llyr’s dead body.”
“Do you believe that?” Rhiannon asked, her voice shaking.
He looked over at her for a long time before answering. “No,” he said gently. “For Penduran and Llyr are surely joyous together in Gwlad Yr Haf, and she weeps no more.”
Rhiannon dashed the tears from her face and tried to smile. “Perhaps you are right,” she said.
“A first,” Gwydion teased, much to Achren’s surprise.
“So it is,” Rhiannon agreed with a wider smile this time. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
“It’s time,” Achren said restlessly. “I am ready.”
“Then let us begin,” Gwydion said, holding his hands out to Rhiannon and Amatheon. The three Y Dawnus joined hands and the four captains took their places around them. Cai, Angharad, and Trystan, their eyes clear with understanding, waited for Achren to join them.
Achren stepped forward determined not to wait any longer. She would see what she would see. She would taste whatever grief and sorrow waited in the past and return to the light of day, bringing the knowledge they needed with her.
She was ready. So when the darkness took her the moment she laid her hands on the others, she was not surprised at its swiftness. Only at its ferociousness, as she plunged through time and out the other side.
THE PINPRICK OF light grew larger as it moved swiftly toward her through the tunnel of night. The light burst upon her, and she threw up her hands to shield her eyes. The brightness faded somewhat until she could focus her eyes on what was before her.
The meadow, still bright and fresh glowed strangely in the uncertain light from above, for a storm was brewing. Violet clouds piled overhead, and lightning laced the sky.
Men and women, their spears in their hands, their swords belted at their sides, arrayed in black and green, mounted their horses. They were a pitiful few compared to the host that faced them. Yet Achren felt a dim pride in them, she who had always been ashamed. For they faced the clearly superior foe and did not run.
The army they faced was indeed formidable. Warriors in the gold and silver of the High King, in the red and white of Rheged, the brown and blue of Gwynedd, the sea green and white of Ederynion, also sat rock-steady on their mounts, their weapons ready.
A pool of brown-robed Druids stood off to one side of the battlefield, joined by blue-clad Bards and Dewin in robes of sea green.
A man stepped out in front of the large host. His hair was dark and his gray eyes glowed in the lowering afternoon light. Around his neck he wore a massive torque set with a huge emerald, a pearl, a sapphire and an opal. In the center of the torque was a figure eight, the symbol for infinity, studded with dark onyx. His face was stern, although Achren could see grief in his silvery eyes.
The man’s four Great Ones stepped out from the army to stand behind him. Achren saw a man in red and black with a torque of fiery opals at his throat and a cloak of raven feather clasped around his shoulders. He held the hand of a woman in sea green and silver with a cloak of white swan feather, a torque of pearls glowing around her proud neck. Next came a young man wearing a torque of glowing sapphires and blue and white robes beneath a cloak of songbird feather. Lastly came an older man in robes of forest green and brown, a heavy cloak of bull’s hide and a torque of emeralds clasped around his powerful neck.