He located the book instantly. It was an innocuous book, a brief history of Kymru written for schoolchildren. But as the book was written when Bran himself was a child, and ended with the death of High King Macsen, Gwydion had rarely given it a second glance. Now he cradled the book in his hands, sitting by the hearth. He gestured absently and every candle in the room lit up. He opened the book but stopped, for he felt a bump in the binding, something that should not have been there.
He set the book down on the hearth, its cover open. Gingerly he gave the binding a twist. The parchment that was glued to the leather of the back cover split slightly to uncover a differently colored parchment beneath. Hardly daring to breathe, Gwydion gently pulled out the second parchment.
The handwriting was somewhat faded, but Gwydion had no trouble deciphering the message.
I gave a secret to my daughter,
So secret that she did not know.
And to her grandson she did give it,
A secret those Dreamers did not know.
And to his granddaughter he did give it,
This secret that they did not know,
In her granddaughter lies the secret,
A secret that she does not know.
Of course. Bran had planted in his daughter’s mind a clue, a piece of subconscious information she had carried without being aware of it. And that information had been passed down from generation to generation through a process that only those of the House of Llyr possessed. The question was who was it in this generation that, all unknowingly, carried Bran’s clue to the location of the sword?
He located and pulled out the Book of the Blood, the charts that traced the bloodlines of the House of Llyr. Referencing the poem, he saw that Bran had given the message to his daughter, Dremas, the next Dreamer. And she had passed it on to her grandson, Amatheon, the Eighth Dreamer. He, in turn, had passed it on to his granddaughter, Darun, the Tenth Dreamer. Darun had two granddaughters still alive. One was Arianrod, who was here in Caer Dathyl right now. He hoped with all his heart that she was the one who held Bran’s message, for the other granddaughter was Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. And Rhiannon had disappeared from the face of Kymru years ago, and since then there had not been the slightest whisper of her whereabouts.
Even the fact that the animal in his dream was a silver dragon did not reveal which of these two women held Bran’s message. Although the silver dragon was the emblem for the Dewin, it was a creature that accurately described both women.
It galled him that his quest for the sword should be dependent upon a woman. But that it should be dependent upon those two women galled him even more. For Arianrod was vain and selfish, and Rhiannon was childish and irresponsible. Rhiannon had fallen in love with the King of Prydyn, and refused to accept the task of Ardewin, the task for which she had been born, later disappearing in a fit of pique and taking her infant daughter with her.
He hoped he was not going to have to search the length and breadth of Kymru for her. The last dream image of the waxing moon and the alder tree clearly told him that he must begin the search for the sword by the fourth week of Ysgawen Mis, the month of the alder tree. It was now winter, and Ysgawen Mis was in the fall, but that would barely be enough time if he must accomplish the task of finding Rhiannon—a task at which all of King Rhoram’s men had failed eleven years ago.
He sighed. He had successfully avoided Arianrod until now. But this would not get any better for waiting. He would have to test her now, tonight, and hope that she was the one.
HE DESCENDED THE stairs of the tower with Druid’s Fire cupped in his hand to light the way. At the first level he turned left down the dark, rounded corridor. He passed Dinaswyn’s rooms. No light shown beneath the door as he crept silently by. He came to the door of Arianrod’s chambers and stopped. Light glowed beneath the door. He hoped she was alone. It would be awkward to get her attention if she had a man with her.
He knocked and within a few moments the door opened. The chamber, shaped like an arc, was lit with dozens of candles. On the far wall was a large, four-poster featherbed, with a headboard rounded to fit against the wall. Hangings of sheer, rose-colored silk wafted around the bed, drifting to the polished oak floor. Her rose silk bedcover shimmered in the candlelight, reflected in the ornate mirror that adorned the wall over the headboard. Large wardrobes covered another wall, filled, Gwydion knew, with countless gowns, presents from her many lovers. A large dressing table and chair were against the last wall, and the table was covered with small glass bottles and carelessly strewn jewels.
Arianrod herself glowed in the candlelight like a precious gem. Her honey-blond hair, thick and wavy, hung like a shimmering curtain down to her thighs. It was the kind of hair that any man would ache to run his hands through. And Gwydion had, often enough.