“You like solitude?”
“Yes,” said Arthur brightly. “Don’t you?”
“I don’t get much of it, really. There are always people around.”
“How do you stand it?”
“Well, you see, that’s something that every Ruler must get used to. One day, when you’re High King—”
Arthur’s face, barely discernible in the fading light became still. Uthyr stopped and gazed at his son in surprise. “That’s not something you want, is it?” he said gently.
Arthur said nothing, sitting as though made of stone. “Arthur, I’m your father,” Uthyr went on. “And I love you. You must know that. You can tell me things—things that are hard to say. And I’ll listen. You mustn’t think I won’t understand.”
After a moment, Arthur said clearly, “I’m not going to be High King. I’ve made up my mind. I want to be left alone. I just want to stay here in the mountains, forever.”
“Why?” Uthyr asked quietly.
“I . . . I don’t know anything about how to fight a war. I don’t know anything about being wise and—and kingly. I’m just a shepherd.”
“But you can learn,” Uthyr pointed out. “So that’s not really it, is it?”
Arthur swallowed and stared down at his feet, unwilling to meet his father’s eyes. “Tell me the truth,” Uthyr said softly.
“It’s—it’s too big for me. High King. It’s too big. I can’t. I’m not strong enough. I’ll fail.”
“And if you stay here and herd sheep, you won’t have to try. And then you won’t fail. Is that it?”
“Yes,” Arthur said frantically. “I won’t try. I won’t. No one can make me—not even Uncle Gwydion. No one.”
The two sat in silence for a long time. The stars wheeled brightly overhead; their shining patterns piercing the dark, velvet sky. “Myrrdin taught you the stars, didn’t he?” Uthyr said suddenly. Startled, Arthur nodded. “Look there, then.” Uthyr went on. “Do you see the constellation of Taran?”
Again Arthur nodded as he looked up at the sky. Uthyr continued, “Taran, King of the Winds, who represents the element of air, is honored especially in Gwynedd. You know that Caer Gwynt, our citadel in Tegeingl, means House of the Winds?”
Again, Arthur nodded.
“On the great doors to Caer Gwynt, there is a hawk. Now, the hawk is a fine hunting bird, but I think the finest hunting bird is an eagle. Here in the mountains you must see many eagles. So you know what they are like. They are proud, fierce, and beautiful in their freedom. If captured they pine away and die, for they cannot bear chains.
“You are like an eagle, my son: proud in your solitude, fierce in defiance of your fate, beautiful in your need for freedom. But the eagle is able to soar because of the air beneath his wings. He flies the sky because he can ride the winds of Taran from here to the ends of the Earth. Because this is how he was made.”
Uthyr paused and grasped Arthur’s hands tightly in his own. “I sent you away when you were a child to ensure that you would grow up to be like the eagle—noble, ferocious, able to ride the sky on the wind. All this you can be. But there is a price to be paid for everything. Nothing is free. The price I paid to keep you alive was to sever myself from you. I pay the price in heart’s blood because I love you so. And I will never stop loving you. Whether you are a High King or a shepherd. I ask one thing of you. When the time comes, weigh the price carefully. Because there is no wind for an eagle who breaks his wings. He is bound to the earth forever.
“You were born to be High King. I felt it even when you were in the womb, and I would put my hand on your mother’s belly, and know what you were meant to be. So I tell you this, to turn away from what you were meant to be is to break your wings, to be earthbound forever. I would not want that anguish for you.”
Arthur said nothing, but Uthyr noticed that his mouth was set in a stubborn line. He knew he had not convinced his son, for the aversion was too deep. But he hoped that a seed had been planted that would one day bear fruit in his son’s lonely soul.
“How is Mam?” Arthur asked, turning the conversation away from him.
“She is well. She asked me to tell you that she loves you dearly. And she made this for you.” Uthyr reached into his tunic and pulled out a woolen scarf of sapphire blue. “She told me to tell you to wear it whenever it was a chilly night. She also said to drink chamomile tea in the winter, to keep from catching cold.” Uthyr smiled. “Your mother is convinced that you can’t take care of yourself. But that’s not personal—she thinks the same thing about me.”