Night Birds' Reign(5)

Amatheon was dressed similarly, but where Gwydion wore black and red, he wore sea green and silver, the colors of the clairvoyant Dewin.

“You realize, of course, that we don’t have to do this. Camp out, I mean,” Amatheon said somewhat irritably. By the Law of Hospitality any farm hold, any village, any manor would take them in, feed them, treat them as honored guests, shelter them for the night, and send them on their way with full saddlebags—and no questions asked. Of course, they would no doubt be recognized, but their hosts would preserve the laws with the polite fiction that they did not know who their guests were. But every night they had slept under the stars at Gwydion’s insistence.

“What’s the matter, brother? Your bones getting old and brittle? Need a soft bed?”

“You’re just jealous,” Amatheon said smugly. “Because you’re older. And always will be.”

Gwydion did not answer, but set about scraping a pit for the fire. The clearing was small, surrounded by birch, rowan, and ash trees. Amatheon spread a cloth over a small, flat rock, and began cutting bread and cheese.

“Don’t really understand why you build a fire,” Amatheon said, “when you won’t even cook anything over it.”

“I told you,” Gwydion said absently, “that I hate to cook.”

“What you mean is that you don’t know how. I, on the other hand, am an excellent cook, and if you had brought anything else except dried meat, I’d show you.” The conversation had the comfortable ring of familiarity. They had said the same thing every night since leaving Caer Dathyl.

Gwydion gathered small branches and heaped them into the hollow. Holding his hands over the pit, he briefly closed his eyes, his breathing deep and slow. Then a small, flowerlike flame appeared in the middle of the branches. Shaped like a rosebud, it grew larger until the petals of fire burst from the glowing rose as the flame blossomed and the fire took hold.

“I do love watching you do that,” Amatheon said casually.

“Druids Fire-Weave all the time,” Gwydion pointed out. “It’s hardly new for you to see that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Amatheon. “But they don’t have your sense of style. You get that from Da, I see.”

Gwydion did not answer. Amatheon had not thought he would.

Twilight descended as Gwydion tended the fire, feeding small branches into the crackling flames. As he leaned forward to feed more branches, the firelight crawled hungrily over the double circle of opals hanging from the Dreamer’s Torque, symbol of Mabon, Lord of the Sun.

Amatheon’s torque of silver with its pendant of pearl glowed in the dusky twilight, the symbol of Nantsovelta, Lady of the Moon.

Slight rustles in the forest spoke of small animals making their ways back to their homes, or beginning their nightly hunt for food. Far off, a wolf howled at the ebon glory of the night sky. Gwydion continued to stare into the fire as if it held all the answers to his questions. He scratched his short beard absently.

“You always scratch that thing,” said Amatheon.

“It itches.”

At least it was an answer. “Why grow it then, if it itches?”

Gwydion shot a look to his brother, his gray eyes gleaming. “It does what it’s supposed to do.”

“Hide you, you mean?” Gwydion made no answer so Amatheon continued. “There are many ways to hide, brother mine, and you know them all. Tell me what’s wrong. What’s bothering you so? Maybe I can help.”

Gwydion was silent for a long time. Just when Amatheon was sure that his brother would not answer, Gwydion drew in a deep breath, then let it out with a sigh. He looked over at his brother, a hint of desperation in his gray eyes. “I’m the Dreamer now. And it’s . . . it’s too soon. I thought it would be years yet before this happened.”

“And?” Amatheon prompted.

“And I barely know what I’m doing. It’s too soon.”

“Come now, Gwydion. The Dreamer interprets the dreams that the Shining Ones send and acts—or doesn’t act—accordingly. What’s so hard about that?”

“You’re over simplifying,” Gwydion accused. “It’s a lot more complicated than that. Suppose I interpret something wrong? Then what happens? Look, here’s an example. Twenty years ago Dinaswyn has a dream. And she interprets that dream as telling her that Arianrod’s parents must go to Corania to spy on the enemy for a time. And they never come back. Now you tell me, did they never come back because Dinaswyn misinterpreted the dream? Or, were they supposed to go and never come back? And, if so, why?”

Amatheon shook his head. “You’re too impatient Gwydion. It’s too soon to know the answer to that.”