“Yes, the fortress of the High King. Come, let’s go talk to the Doors.”
“Talk to the Doors?” Arthur looked carefully at Gwydion to see if he was being teased. “How?”
“You’ll see.” Gwydion dismounted and helped Arthur down from his pony. Taking the boy’s hand, he curtly ordered Susanna and Cai to stay where they were. Susanna’s lips tightened and Cai’s face darkened, but they did not follow.
Gwydion helped Arthur mount the broken steps to the huge Doors, then pointed at the jeweled patterns that glittered and swirled. “Do you know what these mean?”
Arthur shook his head, never taking his eyes from the designs.
“These patterns represent the constellations named for The Shining Ones, and for the Four Treasures of Kymru. These are the Treasures,” he went on as he pointed to each pattern. “Here is the Spear of Opals. And here is the Stone of Pearls. This is the Cauldron of Emeralds. And this is the Sword of Sapphires. The Treasures represent the four elements that come together to make all life: fire, water, earth, and air.”
Arthur said nothing as he studied the designs. Gwydion continued to point out the constellations of the Shining Ones. Modron outlined in emeralds. Sapphires for Taran and pearls for Nantsovelta. Opals for Mabon. Rubies for Y Rhyfelwr, the Warrior Twins, Agrona and Camulos. Diamonds for Sirona of the Stars. Garnets for Grannos the Healer. Topaz for Cerrunnos and amethysts for Cerridwen, the Protectors of Kymru. Black onyx for Annwyn, the Lord of Chaos and bloodstone for Aertan, Weaver of Fate. “And this last one, Arthur, is made of emeralds, pearls, sapphires, and opals. It is the constellation of Arderydd, the High Eagle. The sign of the High King.”
As Arthur stared at the last pattern a humming sound came from the air around them, building in intensity, and the jewels began to glow.
Startled, Arthur stepped back quickly, but Gwydion held him still. “It’s all right, Arthur. It’s just the Guardian.”
A voice, light and musical, coming from nowhere, from everywhere, began to chant softly.
Not of mother and father,
When I was made
Did my creator create me.
To guard Cadair Idris
For my shame.
A traitor to Kymru,
And to my Lord and King.
The primroses and blossoms of the hill,
The flowers of trees and shrubs,
The flowers of nettles,
All these I have forgotten.
Cursed forever,
I was enchanted by Bran
And became prisoner
Until the end of days.
An empty silence descended, broken only by the moaning of the wind. Then, the voice spoke again, “Who comes here to Drwys Idris? Who demands entry to Cadair Idris, the Hall of the High King?”
“It is I, Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon, Dreamer of Kymru, who comes.”
“The halls are silent. The throne is empty. We await the coming of the High King. He shall be proved by the signs he brings,” the voice went on.
“We bring you no signs today. The Treasures remain hidden,” Gwydion said.
“Then you may not enter here. I must still wait in silence and sorrow the coming of the King,” the voice sighed, an echo of the mournful, empty wind that swept the plain. After a moment, the voice went on. “I know you, Gwydion ap Awst.”
Gwydion bowed. “And I know you, Bloudewedd ur Sawyl.”
“The name you give me is strange, Dreamer. It is long and long since I have heard it from the lips of the living.”
“Yet it was once your name, High Queen.”
“High Queen no more. The High King is dead and I wait in silence for the signs.”
“I come here not to bring the signs but to show you hope.”
“Hope grows old. Then it withers away. One silent day after another have I endured. The stars wheel overhead, ever changing and never changing. Season upon season and year upon year. In the beginning, with every rising of the sun I hoped. And with each setting of the sun hope died, until hope was no more. There was only silence.”
“Yet there is hope, even for one such as you. For I bring with me one who will end your long wait.”
The humming sound began again, building and building until the mountain seemed to ring with it. A bright, white light pierced Arthur as he stood within its startling glow. Then, just as suddenly, the light was gone.
“It is him,” the voice whispered. “Oh, Shining Ones, it is him at last.”
“It is,” Gwydion said calmly. “But it is not time yet.”
“But not long now,” the voice breathed. “Not as I have learned to measure time.”
“No, not long now.” Gwydion laid a reassuring arm across the boy’s thin shoulders. “But he’s young yet.”
Suddenly Arthur spoke. “Who are you?”