Night Birds' Reign(7)

Gwydion replied, his mind-voice bitter, “Yes, I see those constellations. And there, do you see the constellation of Dahut, the woman whose evil caused Lyonesse to sink? Do you see her, too? Or only what you want to see?”

Abruptly, Amatheon returned them both to their bodies. As both men opened their eyes Gwydion rubbed his head gingerly. “You didn’t have to be so rough.”

“Maybe I did,” Amatheon said shortly. “Look, you can live your life any way you choose. I only want to point out that when you distrust half the human race, you lack balance. And without balance you can make mistakes. And mistakes, as you so recently pointed out, are not things you can tolerate.”

“Women do not deserve to be trusted,” Gwydion said shortly. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that, of all people.”

“All women are not like Mam,” Amatheon said. “They don’t all do what she did.”

“Well, I can assure you that no woman will ever have the chance to do to me what she did to Da,” Gwydion said coldly. “Ever.”

“Because you will never let one get close enough to touch your heart.”

“All I want is to be free, not to be entangled with a woman’s faithless heart. What’s wrong with that?”

Amatheon sat quietly, looking out into the night. At last he said, “Loneliness can be the price of freedom, brother.”

“A price I am willing to pay,” Gwydion said firmly.

“Then so be it,” Amatheon replied sadly.





Chapter Two


Tegeingl Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 482



Meirgdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—dusk

Gwydion and Amatheon arrived at Tegeingl at dusk the following day. The strong, high stone walls loomed out of the gathering gloom, towering over the two men as they rode out of the forest and up the slight incline to the west gate. Tegeingl’s walls formed a huge triangle with three towers, one at each joining of the walls. The torches in these towers were just being lit and the city gates were closing for the night. One massive, iron door was already shut, and the other was halfway closed.

“Whoa,” Amatheon called out to the gatekeeper. “Not yet, man.”

The gatekeeper, a slender man with a long, mournful face peered distrustfully into the gloom. “Who goes there?”

“The sons of Awst,” answered Gwydion.

The man gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. “Almost shut the gate on you two.” He paused, eyeing them. “Might not have been a bad idea at that.”

“You’re hilarious, Donal,” Amatheon said dryly. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t see us coming.”

“Oh, I did. That’s why I almost shut the gate.”

Amatheon eyed Donal and casually blew on his nails and buffed them against his tunic. “May I remind you,” he said airily, “that you are addressing two of the Y Dawnus of Kymru?”

“Wonderful,” returned Donal, in a bored tone. “Can’t wait to tell everyone that I was lucky enough to speak to those with the gifts. That will make me the envy of all.”

“Smart mouth,” Amatheon returned, without rancor.

Donal pulled back on the door, widening it just enough to allow their horses to get through. Amatheon gave him a jaunty wave, which the gatekeeper ostentatiously ignored.

They rode east, down the main street of the city. Torches burned in brackets set at intervals on the outside of the stone buildings that housed the brewery, the smithy, and the public baths.

“Deserted,” Gwydion remarked, as they came to the empty marketplace. The wooden stalls were locked up for the night. From down one of the side streets, lined with wooden houses, a dog barked. Smoke filtered through the chimneys of the cheerfully lit houses.

“Of course it’s deserted. Everyone’s having his or her dinner. Everyone except us, of course.”

Gwydion eyed his brother’s lean frame. “Hungry?”

“Always.”

They passed Nemed Gwernan, the grove of alder trees where the eight festivals of the year were celebrated, and where the Queens of Gwynedd bore their children. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the darkening wood as they rode by.

“No one is there. Ygraine must not be in labor,” Amatheon said.

“A few more days yet, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has the child at the Calan Llachar festival.”

“What makes you think that? Did you dream it?”

“No, but this year there will be an eclipse on Calan Llachar, as there is every eighteen years. It seems momentous, fated, because Idris, Macsen, and Lleu were all born on Calan Llachar, all born on the day of the eclipse. If Uthyr’s son is truly the one he will be born then, too.”