Night Birds' Reign(153)

Then the scene shifted again. The fires were long gone and the scarred ground was once again clean. The grass was long and green around the silent grave and tiny blossoms of fireweed glowed under the fresh, blue sky. A man wearing a robe of black and red rode alone across the meadow. Around his neck he wore a massive torque of opals and gold. His long auburn hair was tied back and fastened at the nape of his neck with a golden clasp.

He halted his horse next the grave and sat there for a few moments, looking down at it. At last he dismounted. He took something from his saddlebag. She could not see what it was, for it was wrapped in dark cloth. He went to the head of the grave, kneeling down at the base of the silent yew tree. He stretched out his hand and the earth opened up just enough to allow him to deposit his bundle. Then he rose and gestured again and the earth covered the item, rippling and flowing over it as though the hole had never been.

He stood for a moment, looking down at the grave. Then he raised his head and appeared to look right at her. His silvery eyes, so like Gwydion’s, were filled with tears. His mouth was twisted, etched with the echoes of grief still lingering over the grave. His eyes held hers and she saw beyond the grief to the wisdom that was there. And when she did, he smiled. Then the darkness spiraled down.


WHEN SHE CAME to Cai was supporting her head while Rhiannon held a cup to her lips. “Drink,” Rhiannon commanded while Angharad mopped Achren’s face with a square of linen.

Obediently, Achren drank. “Why are you doing that?” Achren asked Angharad in surprise. “I don’t have a fever.”

“You were crying.”

“I was?”

“Yes, Achren, you were,” Gwydion said quietly. “Was he?”

“Yes,” Achren answered. “He stood by the grave and wept. And then he looked at me. And I saw what was behind the tears.”

“What?” Gwydion said, his tone eager. “What was it?”

“Wisdom.”

“For which grief is the price,” Cai said quietly.

“Is it worth it, then?” Trystan asked. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“Sometimes we all wonder,” Cai replied.

“Where is it?” Gwydion asked, abruptly.

“At the base of the yew tree,” Achren answered wearily.

Gwydion rose and went to the tree, kneeling down at its base. With a gesture the ground split neatly. Gold winked at them, and Gwydion reached down and pulled the last piece of the puzzle from the earth.

Like all the others it was in the shape of an arc, what they now knew to be the final quarter of a circle. The golden, arched border was covered with sapphires. On the lower portion of the arc were the letters “Nants” filled in with emeralds. The pointed portion was covered with pearls, outlined on one side with rubies.

Rhiannon, looking over Gwydion’s shoulder, read the poem aloud:

Into his grave he is gone,

No more talk about him;

Earth’s crop,

Which generation by generation

Slips away into oblivion.

“Poor Bran,” Trystan said.

“But strong,” Achren put in. “So very, very strong.”

The other captains nodded, for they, too, had seen Bran, and had sensed in him the same trait that Achren had detected—an implacable will, potent enough to lure them into the past.

“Put it with the others, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said. “And then let us see what we have eyes to see.”

Amatheon pulled the three other pieces from the saddlebags and brought them to his brother. Gwydion held all four pieces in his hands, pressed tightly together. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. For a moment the gold seemed to shimmer in his hands. The broken lines melded together, once again forming a single piece.

Gwydion held out the now whole circle for them to see. At the top were the words “seek the eye of,” with “Nantsovelta” written at the bottom. The pearls and rubies at the bottom of each pointed piece now clearly formed an apple, split in half. At the center of the apple was a pentagram outlined in onyx and filled with fiery opal.

“Afalon,” Gwydion breathed.

“Apple-Lane,” Amatheon agreed. “Of course.”

“The eye of Nantsovelta,” Rhiannon put in, “means a well. Nantsovelta, the Goddess of the Waters. Eyes are metaphors for wells.”

“A well at Afalon,” Amatheon said, wonderingly. “What better place to hide the sword than on the isle where no one ever goes? Do you all realize what tomorrow is?”

“Calan Gaef,” Cai said. “The winter festival. The festival of the dead.”

“The festival of Annwyn and Aertan,” Trystan said.

“Lord of Chaos and the Weaver of Fate,” Angharad put in.