Gwydion braced himself and looked into this uncle’s eyes. They were undefeated and peaceful. The serenity in those dark eyes struck Gwydion like a blow. “Uncle, I—”
“It shall be as you say, nephew,” Myrrdin spoke within Gwydion’s mind. “May Nantsovelta forgive me my broken vow to her. And may Cadair Idris one day laugh again.”
Chapter Six
Tegeingl & DinasEmrys Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Ysgawen Mis, 486
Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—midnight
Two months later, Gwydion rode slowly up to the closed west gate of Tegeingl. Torches set in brackets on either side of the closed doors burned fitfully in the hushed night. Overhead stars glittered coldly. The light of the full moon poured from above, turning the road into a path of silver.
Gwydion halted his horse, Elise, and waited. Within moments the gates of the city opened slowly, just wide enough for he and his mount to ride through.
“Any trouble?” Gwydion quietly asked the men who had opened the gate.
Cai, Uthyr’s Captain, shook his head. The second man, Greid, the Master Smith, lifted Elise’ legs, one by one, and tied sacks to the animal’s hooves to muffle the sound. When this was done, Greid motioned Gwydion to proceed.
Gwydion passed through the silent streets of the sleeping city like a ghost. At last he reached the closed gates of Caer Gwynt. He waited for a moment, staring at the hawk with outspread wings incised on the gates of silver. A dark line parted the hawk in the center, as the gate silently opened.
Duach, Uthyr’s doorkeeper, held a lantern in his hand that he handed to Gwydion. He silently motioned that he would hold Gwydion’s horse and nodded toward the ystafell. Lights glowed at the windows of the two-story building that housed the King and Queen. Without a word Gwydion took the softly glowing lantern and made his way across the deserted courtyard.
As he approached the closed door of the ystafell, it opened, and Susanna, Uthyr’s Bard, motioned him inside. Her eyes were red from weeping and her face was white and strained. “He’s—he’s almost ready,” she said in a trembling voice.
“Has everything been done as planned?” Gwydion asked.
Susanna nodded. “Everyone believes that Arthur has been ill for the last three days. It helps that we have no Dewin here to examine him, since Cynan has left for Y Ty Dewin and Neuad has not yet arrived. We told everyone this morning that Arthur was worse, burning up with fever.”
“And the burial?”
“We made up the shroud this morning and stuffed it with stones wrapped in rags until it was just the right weight. We will tell them that Arthur died tonight, and have the shroud ready in the morning for burial in Bryn Celli Ddu.”
He didn’t want to ask it, but he did. “And Ygraine and Uthyr? How are they taking this?”
“Sending Arthur away is breaking Ygraine’s heart,” Susanna said, her tone accusing.
Accusing him of—of what, exactly? Did she really think that it was a pleasure for him to deprive Uthyr and Ygraine of their only son? Did she think he was doing this for a whim? Did people think he knew nothing of pain, of bitterness, of despair simply because he had learned not to show it? Did they think he didn’t live with agony each and every day, dream it each and every night? But he said none of those things, so bitter did he feel, so harsh was the flare of anger in his guts. To show this to Susanna—to show this to anyone, ever—would be showing too much.
“Children are sent away to be fostered all the time,” he said shortly. “Even if the circumstances had been different she would have had to let him go soon anyway.”
“It’s not just that and you know it. She’s afraid that she won’t see him again. She doesn’t trust you. And she loves her little boy more than she loves herself.”
“If that’s so,” Gwydion replied, even more coldly than he meant to, “then she’ll make this as easy as possible for everybody. I can’t help it if she’s wretched.”
“No,” Susanna said sharply. “But perhaps you could feel some pity for her.”
“There’s nothing I can do about Ygraine. And I can’t tear myself up over it.” Suddenly, his frustration, his anger boiled over. “I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t care if you hate me. I don’t care if everyone hates me. I do what must be done.”
“Would you care if Uthyr hated you?” Susanna asked quietly, her eyes malicious.
Gwydion clenched his fists. His face drained of all color. “Even that, Susanna,” he said in a level tone. “Even that is a price I will pay. If I must.”