Night Birds' Reign(44)

“Our ancestors built Caer Dathyl, an impregnable fortress in the mountains of Eryi. And Idris led his warriors in battle after battle against the hated Coranians and each time the Kymri won. For Idris was the High King and this meant he could gather the power of those with the gifts. He gathered the power of the Dewin and scouted out the enemy’s movements from many leagues away. He gathered the power of the Bards, and used it to speak with wolves and eagles that attacked the enemy at his order. He gathered the power of the Druids and raised fog and wind and rain to confound the enemy.

“And finally, after twenty years of constant battle, we had won. The land was ours. So our ancestors gathered in Gwytheryn, the land in the middle of Kymru. They built Cadair Idris, the Hall of the High King. They built Caer Duir for the Druids, Neuadd Gorsedd for the Bards, and Y Ty Dewin for the Dewin.

“By this time Idris, who had married Elen of the Roads, was the father of four children. So he divided Kymru into four parts. To Pryderi, his eldest son, he gave the land of Prydyn to rule. To Rhys, his second son, he gave Rheged. Ederynion went to his youngest son, Edern. And Gwynedd was given to Gwynledyr, his daughter. And Idris set Gwytheryn aside for himself and his wife, and for the Druids, Bards, and Dewin. And he gave Caer Dathyl to Llyr to be the home of the Dreamers. And that is the story of how Kymru came to be our land.”

He glanced down again; hoping to see that Arthur was at last asleep. But the boy was as wide-awake as ever.

“Tell me about Lyonesse, Uncle Gwydion,” Arthur begged.

“That story is far too long. You should be asleep.”

“But I’m not sleepy.”

“Hmm. Well, I won’t tell you about Lyonesse. Not tonight. But I’ll sing you a song about it. Listen, and I will sing what Math, the first Master Bard, wrote in mourning for his lost land.

There are three springs

Under the mountain of gifts.

Farewell to Slievegallion, to Aileach

And to Bri-heith, home of the lost Danans.

Your laughter is stilled; your joy is gone.

There is a citadel

Under the wave of the ocean.

Farewell to beautiful Temair,

White city of High Kings,

You are broken, crushed beneath the waves.

There are four fountains

In the land of roses.

Falias and Murius, Gorias and Finias

I remember your proud Lords and Ladies,

And hear the echoes of your dying song.

There is a place of defense

Under the oceans wave.

My heart calls for Lyonesse,

But I hear no answer.

I weep forever for what is no more.

The night was still when Gwydion finished singing. As the last words died away he glanced down at his nephew. Arthur had fallen asleep at last, listening to the tune of ancient sorrow.

Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon

THEY RODE INTO Dinas Emrys late in the afternoon. The small village clung tenaciously to the side of the mountain, like a man desperately clinging to life. Twelve primitive but snug thatched huts were perched on both sides of the road. Each hut had a small garden plot and a byre for sheep. A few cows, a small flock of hens, a well, and a very tiny grove of alder trees completed the settlement.

The mountains surrounded the village, not so much protecting it as ignoring it. The mountains in the distance rose blue and majestic purple in the waning light of the late afternoon sun. The closer mountains showed bare, dark rock, sporadically patched with carpets of green clover and overlaid with silver-blue ribbons of sparking streams.

Gwydion stopped the horse at the last tiny hut at the north end of the village. The rickety wood door opened, and Myrrdin stood in the doorway, waiting to welcome them.

Unbidden, Gwydion saw in his mind a picture of Myrrdin as he had last seen him in his quarters at Y Ty Dewin. He remembered the books, the tapestries and carpets, the beautiful tables of shining oak, the white, stone walls bathed in the light of a cheerful fire. Myrrdin didn’t belong in a place like Dinas Emrys. And, of course, neither did Arthur, the heir of Idris, the future High King of Kymru.

But Myrrdin was smiling as Gwydion handed Arthur down into the former Ardewin’s still strong arms. “Hello, Arthur. Do you remember me?”

Arthur nodded. “Great-uncle Myrrdin, the Ardewin.”

“Just Uncle Myrrdin, now. You are a clever child.” Myrrdin put Arthur down and turned to Gwydion. “Get down off that horse and come see our new house!”

“New?” Gwydion snorted. “This house was old before even you were born.”

“Thanks for reminding me how long ago that was. And I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Arthur and I have a fine house and a very fine flock of sheep.” Myrrdin looked down at Arthur. “Perhaps you would care to see the sheep later?” Arthur nodded, his eyes shining shyly at Myrrdin.