He was doing to die. He knew it. He couldn’t hold on.
Just then, he looked up at his hand that was slowly slipping away from the bush.
And a gnarled old hand came out of nowhere and grasped his.
“Myrrdin,” Arthur gasped.
Slowly, ever so slowly Myrrdin pulled Arthur back up to the cliff edge. The wind howled more fiercely than ever cheated of its prey. At last Arthur lay on the ground, anchored by Myrrdin’s steady hands. As Arthur struggled to his feet he grasped the scarf still tangled in the bush and yanked it free.
The two made their way down the mountain, bracing each other against the now weakening wind. For the wind, knowing it had lost its prize was giving up and slinking away, to wait, perhaps, in some dark place for the chance to try again, one day.
Chapter Eleven
Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn and Arberth, Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 494
Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon
Gwydion stayed for some weeks in Gwytheryn. He spent a few more days in Neuadd Gorsedd, then backtracked to Y Ty Dewin to spend the rest of the time with Cariadas. As a matter of form he told the Ardewin, his uncle Cynan that he was looking for Rhiannon. But he had not expected Cynan to be of any help, so he was not disappointed when that was indeed the case.
He had finally left Y Ty Dewin two days ago and now he rode easily through the tall grasses that covered the deserted plain where Cadair Idris stood. Cold and empty, the mountain waited silently for the High King to return.
Gwydion halted his horse at the bottom of the eight stone stairs that led up to the doors. Once bright and shining, the stairs were now dull and dirty. Rockrose had twined this way and that through cracks in the broken steps, the red flowers like spots of blood scattered carelessly on an abandoned carcass.
Slowly he mounted the stairs, the breeze sobbing in his ears, his eyes on the huge iron, jewel-encrusted Doors that barred the way into the mountain. At his approach a humming began, building in intensity as the jewels on the Doors glowed increasingly brighter. The voice of the Guardian of the Doors blended with the mournful breeze and echoed off the shuttered mountain. “Who comes to Drwys Idris?” the disembodied voice asked. “Who demands entry to Cadair Idris, the Hall of the High King of Kymru?”
“It is I, Gwydion ap Awst. But I do not demand entry.”
“The halls are silent. The throne is empty. We await the coming of the King. Without the Treasures you may not enter here.”
Silence settled over the mountain like a pall broken only by the moaning of the wind. Gwydion waited patiently. At last she asked, “Why have you come, Gwydion?”
“I was near the mountain and had an urge to visit on my way to Arberth.”
“And what is in Arberth?”
“Clues, I hope, to the whereabouts of Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. I must find her, as she holds the key to the location of Caladfwlch.”
“Ah,” said Bloudewedd. “So it is time to find the sword.”
“Do you know anything of it?” he asked hopefully.
“I do not,” Bloudewedd replied shortly. “Bran recovered the sword from Lleu on the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. And it has not been seen since.”
“All I can hope, then, is that Rhiannon’s clue will be sufficient.”
“But it will not be,” Bloudewedd said crisply.
“What?” he sputtered. “What do you mean?”
“Bran had left me a message for you, when he infused my spirit into these Doors.”
“A message?” Gwydion repeated, astonished. “And it is?”
“That if you wish to find the sword, you must seek guidance from those who once wore it.”
“From the High Kings themselves? But they are . . .” He trailed off, turning to look at the silent stones of Galor Carreg, the burial mounds of the High King’s of Kymru. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I see.”
“Yes,” said Bloudewedd quietly. “I believe that you do.”
THE SUN SLOWLY sank past the horizon and the moon rose, full and glorious. From somewhere across the plain a wolf howled mournfully.
Gwydion sat on the ground in front of the burial chamber itself, surrounded by the silent and dark massive standing stones that guarded the dead. The entrance to the chamber was a pit of darkness, only the fringes of the opening lit by the silvery moon.
Gwydion had dug a shallow pit before the entrance in the shape of a figure eight, the symbol for infinity, the sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos. He had snapped off portions of the yew and hazel trees that were planted on either side of the entrance and filled the shallow pit with the wood. The yew was Annwyn’s tree and the hazel belonged to Aertan, the Weaver of Fate, Annwyn’s mate. These two ruled Gwlad Yr Haf, the Land of Summer, the place where souls journeyed at their physical death to await rebirth.