Night Birds' Reign(2)

At that moment the shadows on the plain began to twist and moan, melting together, forming a pool of darkness that coalesced at the bottom of the steps. Gwydion retreated, stepping backward up the stairs, his heart caught in his throat.

The shadowy darkness reared up, looming formless and menacing over Gwydion and the eagle, crying in a voice like the rushing of the wind across a dark sky, calling for the eagle’s blood.

The High Kings vanished, blown away on the winds that had risen. The shadow stretched out dark arms, reaching for the eagle, death in its cry.

“No!” Gwydion cried, as he sprang in front of the eagle.

The things dark arms plunged through Gwydion’s chest, parting his flesh like water. Icy cold terror gripped his heart and his back arched in pain.

“No!” he cried again as he fell to his knees, all strength drained from him. “No!”

“No!”

The echoes of his scream still ringing hideously in his ears, Gwydion sat up, his heart pounding, his lean body bathed in sweat although he felt cold inside. His dark, sweat-stained hair hung lank around his face, tangling in his short beard. His gray eyes, dilated with horror, were almost black. His chest heaving as though he had run many leagues, he did not hear the footsteps of the others as they pounded up the stairs and burst into the Dreamer’s chamber.

They rushed to his pallet, Aunt Dinaswyn reaching him first. Her long black and silver hair in disarray, she grabbed his face between her cool hands, steadying him. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice level. “Look at me, Gwydion. Tell me.”

When he did not answer immediately, she turned her head slightly to the young man behind her. “Amatheon, bring wine,” she snapped. Without a word, her youngest nephew turned to the small table by the door, grabbed up a goblet and pitcher, and poured. He brought the cup to Gwydion and placed it in his brother’s shaking hands.

As Gwydion drank, still trembling from the terror of his dream, Dinaswyn sat back on her heels next to his pallet. “Arianrod,” she said to the young woman who had halted by the door, “bring the Book of Dreams.”

Arianrod hesitated, her face pale and washed out by the moonlight. “Will he be all right?”

“Of course he’ll be all right,” Dinaswyn said, impatiently. “Go.” Without answering, Arianrod left the room.

Amatheon crouched down next to Dinaswyn as Gwydion remained on the pallet, trying to force his shaking body into some semblance of calm. They glanced at each other over Gwydion’s bowed head.

“You ever have a dream as bad as this?” Amatheon asked quietly.

Dinaswyn shook her head.

Arianrod returned clutching a leather book with an inkwell and quill balanced on top. She set them on the low table, picked up a taper and, touching it to the glowing brazier, lit the candles. Amatheon went to the table, opened the book and dipped the quill in the ink, sitting cross-legged on the bare floor. “Ready,” he said, his voice steady.

Dinaswyn stirred up the fire in the brazier, then turned to Gwydion. “All right. Tell us.”

Gwydion looked up from the depths of his goblet. In the fitful light from the burning brazier Ystafell Yr Arymes, the Chamber of Prophecy, seemed to have more shadows than could be accounted for. The clear light of the waning moon streamed through the glass dome overhead. The jewels, which studded the four round windows of clear glass set around the circular chamber, gleamed in the vagrant lights of moon and fire. There were sapphires for Taran of the Winds around the north window; and pearls for Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters to the east. Opals for Mabon, King of Fire framed the south window; while emeralds for Modron, the Great Mother surrounded the west. The jewels winked and glimmered slyly, as though holding a secret. The floor shimmered and shifted as light played over the onyx of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and the bloodstone of his mate, Aertan, Weaver of Fate.

As he gathered his thoughts, he looked up at the three people who waited to hear the dream.

Dinaswyn’s face was impassive. Around her slim, proud neck the Dreamer’s Torque glittered. Thick strands of gold intertwined to form a massive collar. The center clasp was formed of two circles, one inside the other; both studded with fiery opals. Firelight and moonlight turned her high cheekbones into sharp, hard angles. Her gray eyes, so like Gwydion’s, were cool and watchful. Yet in them he saw that she understood the power of the precognitive dreams that reached through time and space into the mind of the Dreamer. She understood, for as the Dreamer of Kymru she had guided her country for many years. Distantly, he wondered that he, the student, should have this dream, while she, the teacher, had not.