And again he was not successful. He found himself alighting on a yew tree that had been freshly planted over a newly dug barrow. This battlefield was the worst of all. There were dozens of fires set to consume the dead warriors’ bodies. The men in the victorious army wept without ceasing as they gathered the bodies and fed them to the flames. Smoke stained the sky above the battleground. A man, his tunic and trousers dirty and bloodied, his head bowed and his shoulders shaking with grief, knelt next to the fresh barrow, his hand resting lightly upon the newly turned earth. The man lifted his grief-stricken face and shouted his raw sorrow to the uncaring, smoky sky.
Gwydion, laying before the pallet in the tiny hut in Dinas Emrys wept in his sleep, wept for the grief and sorrow he had seen in these places of death, wept until he could weep no more and the tears dried on his drawn, sleeping face. Wept for their sorrow—and for his own.
Three days later word reached the man that Arthur of Gwynedd was dead. He would have liked to believe that for he had his suspicions about the boy from the start.
Still, it could be true. And the fact that Myrrdin had announced an incurable illness and subsequently disappeared could also be true.
But he could not be sure. So he would watch the Dreamer carefully. Watch him until the Dreamer thought he was no longer watched.
And then the man would watch some more.
Part 2
The Dreamer
Alas for one who gives love to another
If it be not cherished;
It is better for a person to be cast aside
Unless he is loved as he loves.
The Song of Fand
Chapter Seven
Caer Dathyl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Helygen Mis, 494
Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late evening
The fortress of Caer Dathyl brooded in solitary splendor at the summit of Mynydd Addien. Proud and silent, the keep rose up like a fist out of the snowy mountain itself. The light of the waning moon glittered over the snow-covered walls. A single, round tower arched out of the stone walls, like the head of an eagle when it sights its prey. This was the Awenyddion’s Tower, the tower where the Dreamers dreamed their dreams and suffered their nightmares.
Gwydion sat by the hearth in his study on the second floor of the Tower, sipping wine out of a golden goblet studded with opals, staring into the flames of the crackling fire. The firelight played harshly off Gwydion’s handsome face, carving deep lines around his stern mouth and brow. His keen gray eyes glittered like ice, and the dark hair at his temples and within his closely cut beard was touched here and there with silver.
The restless flames tossed light and shadow over the round chamber, illuminating portions of the room one moment, wrapping them in darkness the next. The room had no windows, for it was completely lined with row on row of bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by the study door, the stairway to the upper-level sleeping chamber, and the small fireplace. The round, low ceiling was hung with clusters of small, silvery globes representing all the constellations that glittered in the sky over Kymru. The door to the study was carved to represent the four phases of the moon, each outlined in glowing silver—Disglair for the full moon and Lleihau for the waning, Tywyllu for the dark of the moon and Cynyddu for the waxing.
Large wooden chairs brooded silently at each end of the long table in the center of the room. The table was covered with books—some open, some stacked high, others hanging precariously near the edge where Gwydion had thrown them in exasperation after repeatedly failing to ascertain the whereabouts of Caladfwlch, the sword of the High Kings of Kymru.
Again and again he would remind himself that, when the time was right, the Shining Ones would put the proper clues in his path. But this thought always failed to comfort him. He was tired of being a pawn in the hands of the gods who made him wait and wait and wait while he inured himself at Caer Dathyl, trusting no one, reading his books, living with his nightmares.
He had read every book in this library—and every book in the three colleges—that pertained to Bran’s movements just after the murder of High King Lleu. By now Gwydion felt that he as an authority on Bran the Fifth Dreamer. But this brought him no closer to understanding exactly what Bran had done with the sword.
Bran had found Lleu dying on the battlefield at the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. At that time Lleu still had Caladfwlch. Although it was known that Bran had spoken to the dying High King, it was not known what the two men said to each other. All anyone knew about the location of the sword was that it was no longer there by the time his murderers returned the next day to inter Lleu in Galor Carreg.
When Bloudewedd, Lleu’s wife, and Gorwys, Bloudewedd’s lover had murdered Lleu and taken over Cadair Idris, they had also taken the other Great Ones prisoner. They put Arywen, the Archdruid, Taliesin, the Master Bard and Mannawyddan, the Ardewin into the cells located beneath the throne room. They had collared the three Great Ones with enaid-dals, and the necklaces had effectively cut off their ability to use their gifts to free themselves. Bloudewedd and Gorwys had thought themselves safe.