But when he had arrived in Arberth, Prydyn’s capital, he found that she had disappeared three days before. Rhoram had fallen in love with another woman, and Rhiannon, in a jealous rage, had left Arberth in the dead of the night, taking her child with her.
At first everyone had assumed that she had finally given way to Dinaswyn’s continued demands and left for Y Ty Dewin. But she and her baby girl never arrived there. The two had simply vanished. Even now, two years later, they still had not been found.
Just thinking about it could still enrage Gwydion. Rhiannon was irresponsible. Spoiled. She had refused to do her duty. Gwydion often wished that some day he would confront that stupid woman and tell her just what he thought of her.
He hadn’t thought much of King Rhoram’s behavior, either. The man had been frantic, tearing his kingdom apart to find Rhiannon, all after having fallen in love with another woman, which had driven Rhiannon off in the first place. Rhoram had published embarrassing, heartrending pleas for her return. Gwydion loathed a man who couldn’t make up his own mind. Worse still, he loathed someone who let himself be ruled by a woman’s whims. He already knew what that led to.
The King’s behavior had also exasperated Efa ur Nudd—the woman Rhoram had thrown Rhiannon aside for. But Efa was clever. She had aided Rhoram in his search and comforted the King when he returned empty-handed, again and again. Isalyn, Rhoram’s sister, had said that Efa wanted to be Queen and was just biding her time. For Isalyn had not liked Efa at all.
Isalyn. What a horrible time he had with her. At first he had been pleasantly surprised, for she had been beautiful and anxious to please. Then he had discovered that she had fallen in love with him. They had mated, as was his duty, and when she became pregnant Gwydion had prepared to depart, his task done. But, to his shock, Isalyn had gone into hysterics, begging him to stay with her—at least until the baby was born. Rhoram had added his pleas to hers and Gwydion had reluctantly consented to remain.
He had tried to stay with as much grace as possible but it had been one of the most trying times of his life. Her constant clinging, her anxious tears, her continuous need for reassurance had battered at Gwydion every day as he waited through the long months for his child to be born. He had chafed at his prison, eating his heart out in this enforced captivity and trying not to show it. But, in spite of his best efforts, Isalyn had known how he felt.
That last month before the birth she had finally stopped asking him what was wrong, merely looking at him with her sad, blue eyes. He had been there on the day of Cariadas’s birth, as she had wished. Isalyn had only screamed once, at the very end, and although this had elevated her considerably in Gwydion’s estimation, it was not enough to make him stay. He wondered sometimes if, at the last, she had been just as glad to see the last of him as he had been to go. Just a week after Cariadas had been born he was on his way home, vowing that Dinaswyn would never make him do this again. One child would have to be enough.
But soon after his return home, he received the news that Isalyn had died in a hunting accident, falling from her horse and breaking her neck, leaving his little daughter motherless. So he had returned to Prydyn for the funeral and taken Cariadas back home to Caer Dathyl.
Just one year old now, his daughter had captured his heart from the very beginning. She crowed with delight whenever she saw him, and he took her with him on his long, solitary walks through the mountains surrounding Caer Dathyl, carrying her in his strong arms, plucking wildflowers for her, making daisy chains for her to play with, marveling at her beauty. She had his gray eyes and Isalyn’s red-gold hair. And a grin that always reminded him of Amatheon. He wished she was with him now, but she was far too young for the five-day journey to Tegeingl.
He winced inwardly, knowing full well, now that he had his own child, just how Uthyr must feel about his young son. But he didn’t want to think of that now. He couldn’t. Or he would lose his nerve.
He wished Amatheon was here but his younger brother was in Rheged, for he had been posted to the court of Lord of Gwinionydd, Hetwin Silver-Brow. Amatheon seemed to enjoy his time there, finding a friend in young Cynedyr the Wild, Hetwin’s son. The two would often get into trouble, Gwydion had heard, but it was nothing they had not yet been able to talk themselves out of.
Absently, still staring into the flames, he fingered the opal and gold Dreamer’s Torque that hung around his neck, glittering in the firelight. He thought that he would be willing to trade this torque and all he had (except for Cariadas, of course) just to get a good night’s rest—one without dreams.