“No, lad,” Myrrdin whispered. “Don’t ask this of me, I beg you.”
“I don’t ask it of you, Uncle. Kymru itself beckons you.” Unbidden, words came to him, as though from another place, at another’s command. “The mountains of Gwynedd where the eagles nest in their aeries beg you to do this. The sands of Ederynion that ebb and flow with the ocean tides; the glens and forests of Prydyn where the wolves hunt; the wheat fields of Rheged, shining like fire in the noonday sun; all these beg you. Cadair Idris itself begs to hear more than the silent wind; it longs to listen to music and laughter again. Do this. Bring up the High King in secret. Your reward—”
“Do not speak to me of reward,” Myrrdin flared. “Do not speak at all!”
“I understand—”
“You understand nothing, boy.” Myrrdin gazed at the great keep of Y Ty Dewin as Gwydion’s hand fell away from his arm. The white stones glowed silvery in the light of the moon. His gaze played over the garden, the stream, and, finally, to the moon herself. Myrrdin stood still as the moonlight washed over him and pooled at his feet.
Finally, he spoke, never taking his eyes from the glorious moon. His voice was quiet. “When I became Ardewin, I went to Nemed Onnen, Nantsovelta’s sacred grove of ash trees here. I spent the night in the grove alone, listening to the beat of my heart, to the voice of the Queen of the Moon. The moon was full, and she shone that night with a light that still breaks my heart to recall. She was so beautiful. I spoke to her in the silence. I vowed to lead the Dewin with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, until the day I died. I made this vow to Nantsovelta, to Kymru itself. And now you tell me to break it.”
The breeze chose that moment to send a gust through the garden with a gentle sigh. The stream laughed softly to itself. And the silver light of the moon shone, brave and quiet in the night sky.
Myrrdin turned to Gwydion, his eyes deep, dark pools, awash with agony. “I can’t do it,” Myrrdin said simply. “Good night.”
GWYDION SAT MOTIONLESS, his uncle’s departing footsteps echoing down the graveled path. He lifted his head and stared at the bright, shining moon. Suddenly, tears blinded him and the moon wavered, then spilled and ran down his face.
His uncle was right, he understood nothing. Nothing except that life could be so cruel.
She handed you a gift, then took away another. Or snatched it from you when you stretched out a hand to take it. She gave you pain to set you on your path then laughed when you fell on the way. And you fell and fell until your skin was scraped raw, until you were bruised and bloodied. And still she beckoned you on.
He thought of his own sorrows, his own festering wounds, how he had been unable to heal them and had now bled away too much of the man he might have been.
But he could not care about that. He could not care about Myrrdin’s happiness; he could not care for his own. He would complete the tasks given him by the Shining Ones, using anyone and everyone to do it. Somehow he would make Myrrdin do this thing.
Only the task had meaning. It was the only thing that ever would.
Suldydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—afternoon
GWYDION STOOD BY himself at the back of the Great Hall, waiting for the ceremony to begin. A low buzz of conversation floated up to the high ceiling of the two-storied, five-sided chamber. The white stone gleamed in the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles.
Benches were lined up in the center of the hall. Dewin, journeymen, and apprentices occupied the first group of benches, while friends and family members of apprentices who were graduating to journeymen filled the next rows.
A huge banner of a silver dragon on a field of sea green hung on the wall behind the dais at the far end of the hall. Two more long benches had been set next to the dais. The bench to the right of the dais was empty, waiting for the graduates to enter. The long bench on the left was filled with the heirs of the four kingdoms and their escorts.
Arthur sat solemnly with Susanna next to him and Cai standing behind them. Next to Susanna sat the young heir of Prydyn. Nine-year-old Prince Geriant ap Rhoram’s hair was golden like his father’s, his face open and warm, and his blue eyes sparkled with excitement.
Achren, King Rhoram’s Captain stood behind Geriant. Her black hair was braided tightly to her scalp, and her dark eyes were alert, constantly sweeping the hall for any sign of menace to her charge. Ellywen, Rhoram’s Druid sat stiffly next to Geriant. Her dark brown hair was pulled tightly back from her face and confined with an emerald clasp. Her gray eyes made Gwydion think of thin ice, the kind that covered a very deep river. One misstep and a man might drown.