Night Birds' Reign(3)

Amatheon, Gwydion’s younger brother, looked at him calmly, with an encouraging smile on his fresh, young face. Amatheon wore the Dewin’s torque, strands of silver clasped with the shape of a pentagon from which a single pearl dangled. As he always did, Gwydion saw echoes of his beloved father in his brother’s face, in his clear, blue eyes. But he would not think of that now. His father’s death was still too raw, too painful to dwell on for long.

Lastly, Gwydion looked at Arianrod, his beautiful cousin. She was vain, selfish, and powerfully sensual. As he well knew, her long, thick, honey-blond hair was silken to the touch, and her almond-shaped amber eyes promised many things, all of which she could and would deliver—if she chose. He had shared her bed now for a few years, and he knew that he wasn’t the only one—which had never bothered him, for she had touched his body, but not his heart. Never, never would he allow any woman to have that kind of power over him, not after . . .

He shied away from that thought, as he always did. Now was not the time to think of his festering wounds that would never heal. Now was the time to tell of the dream. Gwydion sank back on his pallet and began to speak.


GWYDION FELL SILENT, staring into the brazier. The only sound was of the quill racing across the Book of Dreams, as Amatheon recorded the threat to the unknown High King.

“Interpretation?” Amatheon asked crisply, his pen poised.

Gwydion looked up quickly. “Guess,” he said bitterly.

“Interpret the dream,” Dinaswyn said, her tone clipped

Gwydion took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He raised his head and looked up at the night sky, past the uncaring stars that glittered through the clear ceiling of the shadowy chamber.

“The eagle. It was Arderydd. The symbol of the High King.” Gwydion shifted restlessly on his pallet and got to his feet. He began to pace the room. “Which means a new High King. They said it was time.”

“Which means war,” Arianrod said in a hollow voice. “High Kings are only born for warfare.”

“And born to be betrayed,” Gwydion said, his throat tight. “All three of the High Kings were betrayed to their deaths.”

He fell silent for a moment, thinking of those betrayals. Idris had died from wounds received in battle against his own son. Macsen had died in Corania where he had gone to fetch his bride, killed by Coranian oath-breakers. Lleu Silver-Hand had been murdered by his wife and her lover.

He closed his eyes briefly; his throat tight, for he still suffered from the raw wounds of betrayal himself.

“But who is the betrayer that endangers this High King to be?” Amatheon asked. “Who would wish him ill?”

“Who can tell?” Gwydion asked wildly. “Any one of Dinaswyn’s fellow Great Ones might perceive a High King to be a threat to their way of life, for now they are answerable to no one. Or, if it comes to that, any one of the Rulers of the four kingdoms might have cause. They, too, are used to doing things their own way. Perhaps they would wish ill to one who would rule them.”

“Was there nothing in the shadow that you could identify?” Dinaswyn pressed.

Gwydion shook his head. “Nothing. It was a figure made of darkness and it threatened the eagle. But who—or what—the figure stands for, I cannot tell.”

“Do you think it one person, or many?”

“I think . . . I think that it is one person. But I cannot be sure.”

“Than we leave it for now. If the Shining Ones had meant for us to understand who the shadow is, they would have sent some detail to help you. Perhaps they still will. We move on, then, to the identity of the High King.”

“Yes, who?” asked Amatheon curiously.

Gwydion continued to pace. “I don’t know.”

“For something that important, there must be a clue. There must be something,” Dinaswyn insisted.

“I tell you, there was nothing,” Gwydion said impatiently, still pacing.

“Color?” Dinaswyn asked.

“Color.” Gwydion paused, frowning, trying to remember. And he did. And as he did, he hesitated. Two out of the three people in the room he would trust with his life. But the third . . .

“Arianrod,” Gwydion said sharply, “go to bed.”

Arianrod bristled. “Why?”

“Because you aren’t doing any good here,” Gwydion said pointedly.

“I see,” Arianrod said, her voice beginning to rise. “You are getting almost as good as Aunt Dinaswyn in sending people away.”

“Arianrod,” Dinaswyn began. Her face was impassive but her voice strained, for the bone of contention between them was old and much gnawed over.