The two men fell silent for a time. Finally, Gwydion spoke again, “What about you? How did you leave things at Y Ty Dewin?”
“As well as could possibly be expected. Cynan was quite reluctant to take my place. He felt that he wasn’t the right man for the job. And, of course, he’s right. But I can trust Elstar to keep Cynan from total disaster.”
“Cynan’s not stupid.”
“No. But he’s shy and easily intimidated. Fortunately, Elstar’s not.” Myrrdin shook his head. “Of course, she’s the one who really made it tricky for me to leave. She wanted to examine me, to determine the nature of my incurable illness. Of course I dosed myself secretly with a few very nasty concoctions so that I would seem to be suitably ill.” Myrrdin shuddered. “I’m glad that part is over. And when she was firmly convinced that I was ill, she was equally firmly convinced that going off alone to die was the wrong thing to do. In the end I simply slipped out at night, when I was sure everyone was asleep. I knew better than to fog the vision of the Dewin when they looked for me the next day, so I settled for the one where we gently encourage people not to look too closely, that there is nothing there to be interested in.”
Gwydion nodded. He had often used those masking techniques for his own movements. It did not do to use them too much, as they were very draining. But they came in handy sometimes.
“You are certain, then, Uncle, that you were not followed?”
“Positive. No one has any idea where I have gone. And, by the way, that’s a very sorry flock of sheep I found waiting for me here. Where on Earth did you buy them? It will take me years to make them profitable.”
Gwydion smiled. “Consider it a challenge.”
Myrrdin snorted. “A challenge, he says. How long will you stay?”
“I’ll be leaving for Caer Dathyl tomorrow morning.”
“What are your plans?”
“My plans are to stay put at Caer Dathyl and raise Cariadas until she is tested and goes away to school. I’m going to see to it that she has a happy childhood, with a father who’s always there.”
“You’d better get some sleep, then, if you’re leaving in the morning. Sorry I don’t have a bed to offer, but, as you see, we are not equipped for visitors.”
“Just a blanket in front of the fire is fine for me. I’d never ask you to give up your featherbed,” Gwydion said grinning.
“Old bones, Gwydion. I have old, tired bones.”
“Only when it suits you, Uncle. I’ll bet if that sweet Neuad were here you’d feel just a bit younger.”
Myrrdin scowled and threw a blanket at Gwydion. “Go to sleep,” he growled as he blew out the candles and crawled into bed.
Gwydion wrapped the blanket around him and settled down on the floor before the hearth.
Gwydion watched the firelight dart and flicker among the shadows. He felt odd and disjointed, the way he always felt when he knew that an important dream was waiting for him. Idly he wondered what the dream would be as his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. As he fell the Otherworld reached out for him, wrapped him in firelight, cloaked him in shadow, and took him away to hear the echoes of time within time, to walk through the walls between the worlds.
HE WAS A black raven with blood-red eyes. He surveyed the smoking battlefield below him. Bodies littered the landscape and he fluttered down to rest in the branches of a weeping willow tree, drawn here by the smell of death.
He saw a woman with her victorious warriors behind her standing on the bank of the river that bounded the battlefield to the east. She stared at the rushing waters and wept soundlessly, tears streaming down her beautiful face, with a look of regret even in her victory.
Unable to bear the grief on her face, he launched himself into the air with a cry and instantly found himself on the fringes of another battlefield beside a dark forest. He came to rest in the branches of a newly planted aspen tree that surrounded a freshly turned grave. Stones were piled to one side, waiting to be placed on top of the grave when it was filled. A league or so away a huge bonfire burned, fueled by the bodies of the dead warriors that had fallen in battle that day. He heard the harsh sound of a man weeping and the sound tore at his heart.
Again he shot up into the air, unable to bear the sounds of grief. And again he found himself at the scene of yet another battle. Bodies littered the plain, their blood soaking into the rich earth. Patches of Druid’s Fire still burned blue and orange above the ground. Two men wept in each other’s arms as they surveyed the smoking battlefield.
Their wracking sobs grated on Gwydion’s senses, and the smell of death clung to him. So, for the third time he flew, trying to get away from the stench of grief and sorrow.