Night Birds' Reign(51)
I often find myself remembering that terrible storm that frightened us so when we were children. And I remember so clearly that evening by the birch tree under the waning moon. How I wish that we could go back to that time together.
Blessing to you, brother, from
Gwydion
That should do it, he thought. He was quite sure that in a month and a half, in the month of Bedwen, the month of the birch, in the week of Lleihau, the waning moon, Uthyr would meet him at the blasted oak in Coed Dulas. That same oak which had been struck by lightning during a storm long, long ago, while he and Uthyr had watched with horrified eyes, on the day that Uthyr had saved Gwydion’s life.
He again perused the stairs that headed upward toward the bedchamber. Time to dream, he thought, as he folded up the letter, sealing it with wax from the candle. When he was done, he extinguished it. The dying fire glowed feebly, and the shadows multiplied.
He mounted the steps to the sleeping chamber. In the middle of the chamber lay a simple pallet, and next to it a small brazier burned. The roof was clear glass, allowing Gwydion to look up at the stars that wheeled overhead and at the waning moon. He discarded his robe and lay down naked on the pallet. He gazed at the stars that filled the winter night, trying to calm his breathing and clear his mind.
His gaze rested on the constellation of Ystwyth. It wound like a river of molten silver, flowing through the night sky. As his eyes followed the winding road of the huge constellation he thought of the twists and turns and winding paths he took to ensure that he did what was required of him. He wondered if it would ever be enough. In musing about these things, he fell into a troubled sleep.
HE WAS ALONE in a tiny clearing within a dark wood. The trees hovered threateningly over him, their limbs blocking out the sky. Here and there bright beams of sunlight laboriously made their way through the branches, splashing small bits of light at his feet. The twisted trunks cast black, silent shadows that stained the ground, doing their best to obliterate the little sunlight that got through their heavy guard. The forest was utterly silent. No birds sang and no small animals rustled through the undergrowth.
He was naked and he shivered, for the air was cold beneath the trees. He lifted his hands to call fire to warm him, but nothing happened. Frantically he tried to Wind-Ride, to send his spirit up over the trees in an effort to find his way out of this dark prison. But his spirit remained fettered to his chilled body. He tried to Mind-Speak, calling out with his mind for help to anyone who might be close enough to hear. But he could not. Even his mind-voice was trapped. All his powers had deserted him, and he stood naked and defenseless under the brooding, malevolent trees.
Suddenly a streak of silver light shot down from the sky and into the forest itself. The silver light transformed, coalescing into the form of a dragon. The forest was silent as the dragon looked at him with large, green eyes. Sunlight dappled her silver scales, and he saw that around her sinuous neck hung a silver torque with a pendant of luminous pearl.
“Come,” she said, speaking directly to his tired mind. Wearily, he managed to scramble onto her back. She shot from the ground and up through the trees.
And then they were out into the clean, crisp air, hovering far above the forest. He saw the dark forest beneath him, spreading like a stain on the green land. Ahead of him he saw a lake, glinting deep blue in the shining warm light of day.
Gently she landed by the lake and he dismounted, looking up at her. She lowered her head and gave him a mighty shove dumping him in the cool, clear water. He came up sputtering and he heard her laughter in his head, like the sound of silver bells. He grinned then, sharing in her laughter. He swam with delight, diving to the bottom of the lake and shooting to the surface to breathe the clean air. He cavorted in the water, feeling a joy he had never felt before. At last he made his way to the shore.
The dragon was gone. In her place was a man in Dreamer’s robes of black and red. The man’s long, auburn hair was clasped at the nape of his neck with a band of opals. His gray eyes, so like Gwydion’s own, shone silver.
Gwydion’s breath caught in his throat, for he knew this man. Bran ap Iweridd, the Dreamer to High King Lleu, held a book in his hands. The book had a binding of purple and gold and Bran held the tome out to Gwydion. Gwydion reached out, knowing that the book held the clue he had so desperately sought. But as his hands touched the book the scene melted, the book faded. He saw the brief image of an alder tree, silhouetted against a waxing moon. And then everything went dark.
HE WOKE ON his pallet with a start. It was night outside and he could tell that only a few moments had passed since he had fallen asleep. Cursing himself for a fool—for he recognized the book—he jumped up and hastily donned his robe, rushing down the steps to his study.