He knew that there were heavy circles under his eyes. He knew he was too thin, for he hardly ever had any appetite these days. The constant repetition, the strain of reliving his first Dream, was grating on him. He had learned by now to keep his agonized tears locked firmly away, deep inside. But he had not yet learned how to live with the pain that the shadow brought to his heart, the pain he always brought back with him into the waking world in those first few moments when he started awake.
He glanced up. The waxing moon was on the rise. The stars of the Brenin’s Torque, grouped in a semicircle, hung in the sky like jewels strung on a necklace.
A new Brenin, a High King, for Kymru had been born at last. It had been a long time. The last High King, Lleu Silver-Hand, had died over two hundred years before at the hands of his wife and her lover. That was when Gwydion’s ancestor, Bran the Dreamer, had shut down Cadair Idris in a rage ensuring that none but a High King could ever open the Doors. He had set the soul of dead Lleu’s wife within Drwys Idris—the massive Doors of the High King’s mountain, giving her the task to guard the deserted hall until the High King came again. He had punished her lover, Gorwys, binding him to the land with the task to guard the shores of Kymru. He had hidden Caladfwlch, the High King’s sword. This would be another of Gwydion’s tasks—to find the sword.
If he could.
Gwyntdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—late morning
THREE DAYS LATER Gwydion arrived at Tegeingl. He dismounted as he approached the west gate, for the road was crowded with families who had come to have their children tested in the sacred grove this afternoon.
As he led Elise through the gates he made directly for the town smithy. He saw quite a few men and women gathered in front of the massive stone shed, talking, laughing, and greeting each other. The whole town was crowded and Gwydion knew this would make things all the more difficult for him. For the item that he had commissioned from Greid, the Master Smith of Gwynedd, was not for public eyes.
As Gwydion neared the smithy he saw Greid himself standing by the great anvil, laughing and joking with the crowd. His huge shoulders were bared and his sleeveless tunic of stiff leather was charred here and there, as was natural in the course of his work. He had a cup of ale in his right hand and he gestured with it often, spilling the contents as he bantered with his friends. Casually, Gwydion caught Greid’s eye. The smith nodded slightly and cut his eyes to the back of the shed, but did not stop his cheerful conversation.
“Stay here,” Gwydion said to Elise. “I won’t be a minute.” Elise eyed him doubtfully. Gwydion sighed in exasperation. “Just because I once forgot you were waiting . . .” His horse snorted, tossing his head.
Gwydion shook his head and walked around to the back of the smithy. As he did so, the door opened and Greid came out carrying a bucket in his right hand. In his left hand was a small, nondescript leather pouch. Casually, Greid slipped the pouch to Gwydion while brushing by him and continued out the back to dip the bucket in the full water trough. Gwydion tucked the pouch into a fold of his cloak and continued on around the smithy without stopping. As he came around the front again he went straight to Elise, grabbed the reins, and walked off.
“I told you,” he said smugly. Elise merely snorted. As he made his way through the marketplace he kept his head down as much as possible. The place was crowded with families in a holiday mood. Booths selling cheeses, breads, nuts, and ale had been erected and were doing brisk business.
As he left the center of town he remounted, for the crowd was thinning. When he passed Nemed Gwernan he noted that several families had already entered the grove and were waiting for Susanna, Uthyr’s Bard, to begin the testing. It would be a few more hours yet. Just enough time, he hoped, for him to do what he had to.
“Susanna,” he called out in the general direction of Caer Gwynt, Uthyr’s fortress.
“Gwydion? Where are you?” Susanna’s mind-voice sounded a little breathless.
“I’m just at the grove. Where is Uthyr?”
“He’s hunting for dinner tonight. He should be back within the hour.”
“And Ygraine?”
“In her chambers, with Arthur.”
Gwydion sensed that Susanna was distracted. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I’ll talk to you later,” she said hurriedly.
Gwydion smiled. Now he understood. “Tell Griffi hello, would you? And tell him I’m sorry for disturbing him.”
A slight pause. “He says that you didn’t disturb him in the least.”
“I thought not.”
The great gate of Caer Gwynt was open and dozens of people were streaming in and out. He rode into the courtyard and scanned the crowd. Seeing a familiar face, he dismounted and hailed the young man who was hurrying across the courtyard. “Duach,” he called.