Night Birds' Reign(4)

“Wait and see, Gwydion, what your welcome is the next time you are begging for a place in my bed,” Arianrod went on, as though Dinaswyn had not even spoken. “If you are expecting . . .”

“As always I expect nothing from you,” Gwydion said swiftly. “Not even the common courtesy to do as I ask.”

Fuming, Arianrod left the chamber, slamming the door behind her.

Amatheon whistled and shook his head. “You are a brave man, Gwydion. There aren’t many who would give up the chance to spend their nights with Arianrod.”

“I didn’t give up the chance,” Gwydion said absently. “She’ll take me back.”

“Because it’s not really you she’s angry with,” Dinaswyn said quietly. “It’s me.”

“And that will never change,” Gwydion said.

“Unless you somehow produce her parents for her, safe and sound after all these years,” Amatheon said. “And I don’t believe you can do that.”

“I sent them away,” Dinaswyn said, “to Corania, as my dream demanded that I do. I cannot help it if they didn’t come back.”

“True, Aunt,” Amatheon said. “So when will you stop trying to make it up to Arianrod?”

“We have wandered far from our task here,” Dinaswyn said sharply. “The question was, who is to be the next High King of Kymru?”

“I know who,” Gwydion said quietly. “The eagle was brown. And his tail feathers were blue. Bright, sapphire blue.”

“Blue and brown. The colors of Gwynedd,” Amatheon said slowly.

“Uthyr of Gwynedd’s son?” Dinaswyn inquired.

“Uthyr doesn’t have a son!” said Amatheon.

“Not yet. But Ygraine’s time will be soon. Their first child is due within the week,” Dinaswyn replied.

Gwydion stopped pacing. “My brother’s son,” he whispered. “The High King.”

“Maybe,” Dinaswyn said cautiously.

“Maybe? You just said . . .”

“You have to be careful with these things,” she said mendaciously. “Dreams are rarely so straight-forward. You should know that by now.”

“Dinaswyn,” Amatheon said abruptly. “Did you dream at all tonight?”

She stiffened as she turned to face her youngest nephew, rage in every line of her body. She stared at him, but she did not speak.

“Did you?” he asked urgently.

“Amatheon . . .” Gwydion began.

“Did you?” Amatheon pressed.

Slowly the fury drained from her as she looked into Amatheon’s blue eyes. “No,” she said finally. “I did not dream. The dreams have passed on tonight, in Gwydion’s first night alone in the Chamber of Prophecy. Gwydion is the new Dreamer of Kymru. My work is done.”

“Done?” Gwydion was stunned. “But I have another year of training yet!”

“No,” she said. “You don’t. The dream was yours. And so is the burden that goes with it. You are the Dreamer now.” She fumbled at her neck, releasing the catch on the torque. The necklace came off and she clutched it tightly for a moment. Firelight washed across the golden surface and glittered on the double circle of blazing opals. She thrust the necklace into Gwydion’s unwilling hands. “It’s yours, now. Take it. Take it all.” Her head held high and her face a frozen mask, she left the chamber.

“It’s too soon,” Gwydion whispered, staring after Dinaswyn as she made her way down the stairs. “I’m not ready.”

“Be ready,” Amatheon said.

Addiendydd, Lleihau Wythnos—dusk

THE LAST RAYS of the setting sun filtered through the trees surrounding the clearing and the songs of the birds began to quiet for the night when Gwydion reined in his horse and dismounted. Behind him Amatheon did the same.

“I take it we are stopping here,” said Amatheon.

Gwydion said nothing. Amatheon sighed. For four days now they had been on the road to Tegeingl. In all that time his brother had barely spoken.

Amatheon had been patient, for that was his nature. But there was also a time for action. He was done waiting. Tonight he would get Gwydion to talk to him. He would not learn anything he didn’t already know, for he knew his brother very well. But maybe Gwydion, hearing his fears spoken aloud, would find some peace in that. Amatheon had a feeling that peace would always elude his older brother, and his heart ached with that knowledge.

Silently they set about making camp, their movements economical and smooth. The day had been warm and both men wore tunics laced up the front with no shirt beneath. Gwydion’s tunic of black with red lacing, the colors of the Dreamer, reached just below his upper thighs. His breeches were black and tucked in to black leather calf-length boots. His shoulder-length dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a strip of leather. His cheekbones stood out stark and hard, and the shadows under his silvery eyes showed that true, restful sleep continued to elude him.