She laughed, for she did not fear him. Enraged, he lifted his hand to strike her, but caught himself. He had never struck a woman in his life, and he would not do so now. He rushed from the room and stumbled down the hall to his tower. He mounted the stairs, shaking. He made his way into the study and slowly sank into his chair. Unbidden, the memories flooded over him. Unwillingly, fighting every step of the way, he thought of his father, whom he had loved. And he thought of his mother and what she had done to them both.
HOW MANY TIMES when Gwydion was a young boy had he seen his father? He could count the times on one hand. For whenever Awst would come home to Caer Dathyl he only stayed a few days before Celemon’s anger, her emotional outbursts, her jealousy drove her husband away again.
Gwydion clearly remembered the time when he was only six years old. He hadn’t seen his father for over a year. Waking up early, he roused his younger brother, and the two of them made their way to the kitchens to see if the cook would give them a little something before breakfast. They had stumbled into the busy kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep. Awst had been there, sitting on the hearth. They hurled themselves into their father’s waiting arms, shouting for joy. Gwydion remembered the feel of his father’s strong arms about him, the love and pride and joy in his father’s face. Gwydion had felt safe, loved, and truly happy.
But only for a moment. For then Celemon had come down and everything had changed in an instant. Awst had reached out to hug her, and she had put her arm up to hold him off. She had begun to rant at him for staying away for so long, demanding to know if he had been with Queen Rathtyen in Tegeingl. He did not love them, she had screamed. He had two fine boys right here in Caer Dathyl, but he spent all his time with Uthyr, his son by the Queen. Within the hour Awst had left, driven away by his wife’s recriminations.
Soon after this, Gwydion, who had been tested and found to be the next Dreamer, had been sent to Y Ty Dewin to learn the ways of the clairvoyant Dewin. Amatheon had joined him there a few years later, for his brother was Dewin. Gwydion had spent four years there before going on to Neuadd Gorsedd to learn telepathy from the Bards, and later to Caer Duir to learn psychokinesis from the Druids.
During those years he and Amatheon would see each other when they could. And their father visited quite often, at whatever college Gwydion had been living in at the time. Sometimes Awst would take them both to Tegeingl. There they met Queen Rathtyen, who was not the horrible woman their mother had told them about. The Queen had been kind to them both. And her son, Uthyr, had also been especially kind to young Gwydion, who was shy and awkward, soon becoming a hero in his half brother’s eyes. Gwydion avoided going home to Caer Dathyl whenever he could, preferring to spend his holidays in Tegeingl with his father and brother, or at Y Ty Dewin, with his uncle, Myrrdin.
But then the day came when he was twenty years old and it was time to return to Caer Dathyl to complete his training with Dinaswyn. When he returned, he was greeted with reproaches from his mother for staying away so long. But Gwydion was no longer a helpless child and he defended himself. They had screamed and shouted until Dinaswyn had put an end to it by sending Celemon to her rooms and Gwydion to the garden.
For three years Gwydion trained with Dinaswyn in Caer Dathyl. He no longer suffered his mother’s rages in silence, and the two fought regularly. Occasionally Amatheon, now a journeyman Dewin, would get leave to visit Caer Dathyl. Gwydion was always glad to see Amatheon, and grateful to his brother for coming, for he knew Amatheon only did so because of his love for Gwydion.
In those three years his father did not come once. Until one day Gwydion awoke to find his father sitting serenely by his pallet. The two men spent the entire day together. His father had been proud of him, he said, proud to have sired such a fine man. And Gwydion had glowed under his father’s praise.
Now, thirteen years later, sitting by his lonely fire, Gwydion squeezed his eyes shut tightly. His breathing ragged, he tried to stop the remembering. But the memories came, crashing against his last defenses like ravening beasts, tearing the fragile peace of forgetfulness that he had built, oh so painfully, to shreds.
He remembered that Celemon had come down from her rooms that day. She had been smiling. She had drawn Awst’s bath, she had said. And she had held out her hand to her husband, saying she would help him bathe. She had kissed Gwydion gently and reminded him to change for dinner. She had tucked her hand into the crook of Awst’s arm and led him, laughing, into the house.
But when dinner was served, only Gwydion and Dinaswyn were there to eat it. He remembered how they had sat at the table until long after dinner was done. How the steward had come to them, worried because the door to Awst’s chamber was locked, and his knocking had brought no answer. How they had gone then to Awst’s room and knocked on the door. How the silence had frightened Gwydion. How he, now in a panic, had used psychokinesis to unlock the door that had been bolted from the inside. How in the large, copper tub set in front of the fireplace he had seen them. How the firelight had flickered over the blood-red water.