“Tell me, Dudod,” Gwydion said, “In all your travels, have you ever run across your missing niece?”
The harp strings jangled as Dudod struck a sour chord. “No, Dreamer,” he said calmly, after a moment. “I didn’t know you were still looking for Rhiannon.” His light green eyes were bright with curiosity—and something else.
“Aren’t we all? She’s been missing now for over two years.” Gwydion paused. “Do you think she’s dead?”
“I do not,” Dudod said shortly. He gave Gwydion a long, considering look. “What’s your interest in this?”
“Only that she has managed to evade her duty. She was to be the next Ardewin.”
“Elstar takes that place now, so you don’t have to worry about it, do you?”
“Dudod,” Gwydion said in exasperation, “people have obligations, particularly Y Dawnus of the House of Llyr. She is a powerful clairvoyant and telepath both. And Kymru needs her.”
“Does it?” Dudod said shortly. “Or does it just offend you that she didn’t do what she was told?”
“Both. Tell me the truth. Do you know where she is?”
Green eyes met steely gray, as Dudod returned Gwydion’s stare. “I do not,” Dudod replied, his gaze unwavering.
“And if you did, would you tell me?”
“I might. If you gave me better reasons than the ones I’ve just heard.”
Before Gwydion could reply, a young woman entered carrying a tray piled high with bread and cheese. Her golden hair hung to her waist, shimmering against her journeyman’s robe of sea green. Her smooth skin was flawless, and her blue eyes were the color of the summer sky.
“Neuad,” Elstar exclaimed. “What are you doing? Journeymen aren’t servants!”
Neuad set the tray down in front of Myrrdin with a dazzling smile. Although she answered Elstar, she never took her eyes off the Ardewin. “I was in the kitchens when the order came so I just thought I would bring it up myself.”
As she continued to gaze worshipfully at the Ardewin, Myrrdin blushed. “Thank you, Neuad.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you have many things to do, so we won’t keep you.”
“Yes, Ardewin.” Her eyes never leaving him she backed out of the room.
Gwydion, his eyes wide, turned to his uncle. “I believe you have an admirer, oh great Ardewin.”
Myrrdin moaned as Elstar, Elidyr, and Dudod began to laugh.
“Oh, Gwydion, it’s so funny,” Elstar said, giggling. “She follows him everywhere.”
Myrrdin flushed. “I can’t help that,” he said testily.
“And the funniest part is how embarrassed he is about the whole thing,” Elstar went on, still laughing.
Myrrdin scowled at his heir then turned to Gwydion in exasperation. “It really is awful. She never takes her eyes off me, and she’s less than half my age. I’m old enough to be her father!”
“By the way, who is her father?” Gwydion asked.
“Hetwin Silver-Brow, Lord of Gwinionydd.”
Gwydion raised his brows. “Amatheon is Hetwin’s Bard. You’d better not let Hetwin’s son get wind of this. They don’t call him Cynedyr the Wild for nothing.”
“Oh, Myrrdin could take Cynedyr any day of the week. And she is beautiful. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy,”
Dudod said, with a grin.
“Stop that. It’s not funny.”
Dudod sobered instantly, showing an innocent face. “Of course not.”
“And no more cracks either,” Myrrdin warned.
“Now, now, Myrrdin. It’s not your fault that you’re irresistible,” Dudod said in a soothing tone.
Myrrdin sighed. “Well, she graduates tomorrow, and I’m going to send her to the farthest reaches of Kymru.”
“Oh, Myrrdin,” Elstar said, “you can’t do that. It will break her heart.”
“She’ll have to bear it,” Myrrdin snarled.
“I think you should keep her here. Just getting to really know you would cure her,” Gwydion contributed with a grin. “With a vengeance.”
“Ha, ha,” Myrrdin said flatly.
LATER THAT EVENING, Gwydion and his uncle walked in the gardens. The herb garden of Y Ty Dewin, where the physicians of Kymru learned to identify, harvest, distill, and preserve their herbal remedies, was legendary.
Trees of apple, willow, and hawthorn grew around the perimeter of the five-sided garden. Barberry and blackberry twined in glorious profusion over the low, stone walls. The shapely bell-like flowers of foxglove trembling slightly in the gentle night breeze. The heady aroma of various mints, of thyme, of rosemary, wafted in the night air. Five streams meandered throughout the garden, pouring into a deep, shining pond in the very center. The bright half-moon turned the streams into ribbons of silver.