Night Birds' Reign(159)

All the while Gwydion held her with his eyes and did not let her look away. At Angharad’s words she flinched. At last she stepped forward and came to stand beside him. They both knelt down by the still water. He reached out and took her hands in his.


HE SAW A figure step into the clearing. The man had long, auburn hair that hung lankly around his shoulders. He wore an ornate torque of gold and opals around his neck. He was dressed in worn, dusty, black riding leathers. An old bloodstain covered the breast of the tunic, as though someone had lain his head on the man’s chest to die. He carried a sword sheathed in a scabbard decorated with runes of gold and silver. The hilt of the sword was fashioned like an eagle with outstretched wings. The eagle had eyes of bloodstone and wings studded with onyx. Light flashed off the emeralds, pearls, sapphires, and opals that were scattered across the hilt.

The man came to stand on the other side of the well, and stood looking down into the water for some time, his head bowed, his face hidden. At last the man released the sword. It plunged cleanly into the water with a bell-like sound that rang through the clearing.

Then the man lifted his head and looked straight at Gwydion and Rhiannon. Tears spilled down Bran’s drawn, set, grimy face. He gazed at them both then lifted his hand to them—in salute, in farewell, in the knowledge that they shared calamitous grief.

Then he was gone.


GWYDION WRENCHED HIS hands from Rhiannon’s. “It’s here,” he said. “I can raise it.”

“You need my help,” she said.

“I don’t,” he snapped. “The sword is at the bottom of this well. The only thing needed to get it to come up is a Shape-Mover. Which you are not.”

“And you are,” said Rhiannon in a monotone. “Nonetheless, you will need my help. The poem says—”

“I am done with that,” Gwydion said harshly. “I am done with it all. I will bring this sword back to Kymru. I will complete my duty. Alone.”

He turned back to the well and put forth his hands. He felt the sword beneath the water, slowly rising. But then it seemed to slip from his mind-hold, sinking back. He shook his head impatiently. He had lost his concentration, something that he hadn’t done in many years. Again he put forth his hand and called the sword to him. Again he could sense that it began to rise. Then again, he felt it slip away from him.

And then he knew. There did not seem to be any end to the cruelty of the Shining Ones. He turned to Rhiannon and opened his mouth to ask—or, perhaps, to beg.

But she had unsolicited mercy for both of them, and came to stand beside him before he even spoke. Her face was hard and angry, and she did not talk. But she took his hands in hers and gave him what she had.

And it was enough.

The sword rose from the well, whole and shining, as water streamed from the scabbard like a flow of bright diamonds.