“We cannot say,” Lleu replied softly. “But be assured that the soul of that one shall dwell among the dead in the Summer Land in joy and peace.”
“Do not fail, Dreamer, in this quest,” Idris said sternly. “For without the sword a High King cannot forge the powers of the Y Dawnus into a weapon against the enemy. And this is a weapon that the Kymri must have.”
“For the enemy is coming,” Macsen said.
“Coming for you all,” Lleu said.
Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon
TWO DAYS LATER, as he was riding by Coed Aderyn, his horse began to slow. “What are you doing?” Gwydion asked. Elise tossed his head and snorted.
Oh, yes, they were nearing a wood. “Thank you,” Gwydion said politely. He had mentioned to Elise that he wanted to go slowly through any wood for he thought it likely Rhiannon would be hiding in one. Forests were, after all, the best hiding places.
His plan was simple. Ride through and Wind-Speak for Rhiannon. She was a telepath as well as a clairvoyant, and she would not only hear him, she would be able to respond. Of course she would be warned that she was being looked for. But there was also a chance that she would answer. She might be very tired of hiding and need only an excuse to come out—an excuse that would allow her to keep her dignity. Although her dignity was not of the slightest importance to him, he assumed it would be of importance to her. If she did not answer, and was warned, that would be all right, too. For she might run again, and she would be less careful in her panic. She might even be careless enough to allow her trail to be followed.
And so he began to call, casting his Wind-Speech as far as he could. “Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. It is the Dreamer who calls you. I have dreamed of you. In the name of the Shining Ones I charge you to return to the world, for a mighty task awaits you.” A bit pompous, he thought. But it got the point across. And offered a challenge that she might respond to.
He halted Elise, and waited. But there was no answer. Slowly, he rode on.
RHIANNON WAS HUNTING when she heard the call. The words echoed in her head, and the stag she had been stalking bounded away before she could bring it down. Curse the Dreamer, she raged. She ran for cover beneath a twisted hedge. If he were Wind-Speaking, perhaps he would be Wind-Riding as well. He might see her.
Fuming, and, she had to admit, frightened, she crouched down. Delicately, she began to Wind-Ride, hoping to spot him. If she were careful, he would sense nothing. She would be careful. It was what she was best at, after all.
She pulled her awareness from her body, and her spirit rose up to hover over the trees. She felt his presence some miles to the south. Silently she flew toward him and, within moments, she caught sight of him.
He had a short, dark beard that he was absentmindedly scratching as he rode. She wondered irritably why he grew that thing if it itched. His gray eyes were alert, but they did not see her as she hovered at the very edge of his awareness.
She studied his face. It was stern and cold, set within the harsh cast of his ruthless will. Yet he was handsome, she’d give him that. And she was sure he could be charming, if he chose to be. Just long enough, no doubt, to trap his prey.
She pondered what he would do if she answered. He seemed to be calling in a general way, perhaps not really even expecting a reply. She would love to shock him.
She almost did. She almost answered, almost told him what she thought of his ridiculous, pompous message. But at the last moment, her native caution stopped her.
What in the world had she been thinking? She must be mad. Come out of hiding after all these years? Never. One day she would send Gwenhwyfar back into the world, because she had to. But she, personally, would not go. Not for all the mighty tasks, not for all the Shining Ones. Not for anything.
Slowly, delicately, she withdrew back into her own body. And remained hidden under the brush until Gwydion was far, far away.
Gwyntdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos—early evening
THREE WEEKS LATER, just as dusk was descending, Gwydion reached the city of Arberth, the capital of the Kingdom of Prydyn. The countryside outside of the gates to the city was given over to acre upon acre of grapevines. It was spring so the vines were barely budding.
The city walls were rectangular, with the longer western side perched on the very top of the ragged cliffs leading down to the sea. As he neared the eastern side of the city he could faintly hear the sound of the surf pounding the shore to the west, creating a ceaseless, wordless harmony to the far-off, lonely cry of the gulls.
As the city watchmen took their places, torches were just being lit in the circular towers that rose from the four corners of the city walls. As he rode up to the gate the two men who were just closing it for the night stopped and let Gwydion ride through. He had put on the Dreamer’s Torque a league or so back so that people would be sure to recognize him. That recognition would get him through the city gates and the gates of Caer Tir, the King’s fortress, with no questions asked. He nodded absently to the two men, but did not stop.