Night Birds' Reign(45)

“Now,” Myrrdin said, taking Arthur’s hand, “let me show you the place. You’ll like it. And we certainly don’t care what Gwydion thinks, do we? We can very well do without his opinion.” Arthur giggled as they went inside.

The floor was of smooth wood, and the walls showed fresh plaster. A large fireplace occupied the far wall, and the stone hearth sported a few iron pots and pans and a small iron pot bubbled on a spit over the cheerfully cracking fire. A split oak table and bench occupied another wall. Two narrow mattresses stuffed with goose feathers were laid against the next wall, covered with colorful woolen blankets. Herbs were strung across the low ceiling to dry.

Incongruously, a large oak chest stood next to the door. It was carved with details of exotic flowers, trees, and animals. Gwydion recognized it from Myrrdin’s chambers at Y Ty Dewin. Myrrdin saw Gwydion looking at the chest and smiled. “My father made it for me, many, many years ago. He was the Archdruid, Arthur, so he was very busy, but he loved to work with wood whenever he got the chance. I found that I simply couldn’t bear to part with it.”

Myrrdin went to the chest and opened the heavy lid. One whole side was crammed with books. There was a space for Myrrdin’s clothes, as well as some clothes for Arthur that Gwydion had purchased and sent on ahead. There were two cups made of silver and inlaid with pearls. There was a basic torque of silver, one pearl dangling from it. It was the kind of torque that every Dewin wore, for Myrrdin had left the elaborate Ardewin’s Torque behind at Y Ty Dewin for Cynan to wear. But even wearing this simpler torque would be denied him here. He must be just an old shepherd living with his grand nephew. Of course, eventually the people of Dinas Emrys would piece together that Myrrdin was much more than that—if they hadn’t already. But that was to be expected in a small village. The people of Dinas Emrys held aloof from strangers. They would discuss Myrrdin, but only among themselves. After a time, when they had accepted him, they wouldn’t even do that much.

Gwydion didn’t bother to tell Myrrdin that he should not put either his torque or the rich cups in such an easily accessible place, because Myrrdin already knew that full well. Gwydion knew that soon, when Myrrdin had been able to come to better terms with this new life, his uncle would hide away these items in a safer place.

The fire crackled cheerfully, keeping the hut warm as dusk descended over the mountains. After Gwydion had stabled Elise they settled down at the table. A small cupboard yielded ale for Gwydion and Myrrdin and fresh ewes’ milk for Arthur. Myrrdin occasionally stirred the boiling pot of soup over the fire. The smell was delicious.

“We’ll eat soon, Arthur,” Myrrdin smiled. “I’ll bet that while you were on the road with your Uncle Gwydion you didn’t get a hot meal.”

Arthur gave a small, hesitant smile. “Uncle Gwydion doesn’t like to cook,” he volunteered.

“So he says, Arthur, so he says. But the truth is that he doesn’t know how!”

Gwydion replied in mock indignation, “I do so!”

“Ha!” At this Myrrdin ladled the soup out into small hollowed-out loaves of bread. All three of them fell to the delicious dinner with a will. After they had sipped the last drop, they ate the bread and Myrrdin set out a wheel of rich cheese.

Arthur’s eyelids began to droop and he gave a jaw-splitting yawn. “Time for bed, boyo,” Myrrdin said gently, and scooped the boy up, laying him gently down on one of the feather mattresses. Myrrdin drew the woolen blanket up to under Arthur’s chin, and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night.”

“Uncle Myrrdin?” Arthur said, his words slurred with sleep.

“Yes?”

“When will my Da come?”

“I’m not sure, Arthur. As soon as it is safe.”

Arthur considered this information. “He won’t forget me, will he?”

“Never,” Myrrdin said firmly. “Not even for a moment.” With that reassurance, Arthur fell fast asleep.

Myrrdin rose from the floor by Arthur’s side and made his way slowly back to the table. He picked up his mug of ale and took several swallows. “Was it bad?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gwydion relied quietly as he stared into the crackling fire. “I promised Uthyr I would bring him here, one day. And I will. But not for many years, I think. Most people will believe that Arthur died, of course. But there will be some that won’t. And those are the ones who will be watching Uthyr’s and my movements very carefully for some time to come. It will be long and long before either of us come to Dinas Emrys.”