“All right, Gwydion. Explain. And it had better be good,” Uthyr said grimly.
Gwydion hesitated, and then chose his words very carefully. “You know that the special talent of a High King is that he acts as a focal point. For instance, telepathy is limited in distance. A telepathic Bard can comfortably talk to another Bard up to fifteen leagues away. Beyond that, the conversation becomes garbled. Clairvoyant Dewin can see events that are happening at that moment up to thirty leagues away. And psychokinetic Druids can move objects only in their immediate vicinity—they have to actually see what they are moving. And the largest limitation of all is that groups can’t act together. A group of Dewin all trying to see one event can’t reach out any farther than thirty leagues.” Gwydion paused, then went on.
“But a High King makes all the difference. Alone, he has none of these powers. But his presence augments all of them. He can direct and amplify these powers through those that possess them. A High King could empower a group of Dewin to see events many hundreds of leagues away. Or allow Bards to communicate, in concert, all over the country. He can augment the powers of a group of Druids to move or to set fire to objects many leagues away that they can’t even see. With his help, Druids can bring a storm or fog. That’s why a High King acts as the warleader for Kymru. He can coordinate communication across the land, direct a battle taking place many leagues away, even start a fire in the enemy camp, without getting anywhere near the place.”
Gwydion paused again, looking down at the floor. “This is why a High King has been born to us now. Because sometime soon, we will have need of one.”
Ygraine, who had never taken her eyes off Gwydion, stirred slightly. “You have told us there will be a need for a High King. Why, then, must it be a secret?”
“The Protectors have come to me in my dreams. They tell me that there are traitors among us. If Arthur’s true nature is known, he will be in great danger. He will die.” Gwydion leaned forward in his chair, willing them to understand. “He must be protected. I beg you, let me hide him. Let me protect him.” He paused again, searching their faces. “I beg you,” he whispered.
“You think that Uthyr cannot protect his own child?” Ygraine asked coolly.
Gwydion’s gaze fell under Uthyr’s stare. “No,” Gwydion said softly. “He cannot. I must do this. The Protectors have given me the task.”
“You are telling me that I must send my son away? For you to bring up? You will teach and care for him? You?” Ygraine asked bitterly.
“No, not I. Myrrdin will.”
“Myrrdin? How can that be? He is the Ardewin. You can’t hide Arthur at Myrrdin’s side!” Ygraine exclaimed.
“I will persuade Myrrdin to step down as Ardewin and take up this task.”
“And where will Myrrdin take him should we agree to your plan?” Ygraine asked.
“There’s a small village that I know of, in Eryi. Myrrdin will take him there.”
“To do what?”
“To herd sheep,” Gwydion said simply.
“You want to raise my son as a shepherd?” Ygraine asked in outraged tones.
“For a time, yes.”
Uthyr, who had not spoken a word, suddenly stood. He strode to the window, opened the shutters and leaned out, his hands resting on the windowsill, his back to his wife and brother. The room was silent as Ygraine and Gwydion waited for Uthyr to speak.
“And will you tell him who he is?” Uthyr said quietly. “Will he forget us?”
“Myrrdin will be sure that Arthur doesn’t forget you.”
“And if we do not agree to let you do this, what then?” Uthyr asked.
“Then Arthur will die. The Protectors have told me so. In my dreams there is a figure of darkness that menaces Arderydd, the symbol of the High King. Only because I protect him is the eagle still alive,” Gwydion said simply.
Ygraine and Uthyr looked at each other. “I say no,” Ygraine said firmly. “Uthyr can protect his own son. We will see to it that Arthur will be safe.”
“Ah, Ygraine, you always did have such faith in me,” Uthyr said, a sad smile on his face. He turned to Gwydion, with anguish in his eyes. “Take him.”
“What?” Ygraine cried, stunned. “How can you—”
“I say yes. Gwydion dreams true. You seem to forget that, Ygraine. Whatever else you think of him, he dreams true.”
“Maybe,” Ygraine spat out. “But he doesn’t tell all he knows. I don’t trust him.”
“But I do. And I trust Myrrdin, too, to bring up my beloved son.” Uthyr’s voice broke. Clearing his throat, he went on. “It shall be done as Gwydion wishes. And what happened here today will never be spoken of.” Uthyr went to Ygraine and took her hand, kneeling down by her chair. “Ygraine, cariad, it breaks my heart, too, to send my son away. But if we don’t he will die. I believe this.”