Over on the dais at the far right of the hall he saw Queen Efa sitting at the King’s table. She was a slender, petite woman with dark red hair and large brown eyes. Her gown was autumn green, embroidered lavishly with emeralds and gold thread. The man sitting next to her was her brother, Erfin ap Nudd, the Lord of Ceredigion. The two sat in splendid isolation as they chatted amicably together.
Gwydion peered ahead of him and recognized the woman who was shooting dice with such skill. It was Achren ur Canhustyr, Captain of Rhoram’s teulu, the PenCollen of Prydyn. This was one of the people that Gwydion now knew would help in the search for the sword.
Achren’s black hair was braided tightly back from her face and her dark eyes were sparkling with mirth. Her wide mouth was stretched in a grin at the continuous complaints of her companions that the dice were loaded. Gwydion had not seen her in some time, but the passing years seemed to have touched her lightly. Her slender, strong body, dressed now in black riding leathers, looked in as good a shape as ever. Her habit of eyeing everyone in sight, of always knowing what was going on around her, of seeming to have eyes in the back of her head, had also not changed. As she threw the dice she spotted Gwydion through the crowd, although he had only been standing there for a few brief moments.
Instantly she handed the dice to another warrior and was by his side. “Gwydion ap Awst. What a surprise,” she said calmly.
“I wouldn’t think so, Achren. Your people are too well trained for that. I assume you heard I was coming about a league away.”
“Two leagues,” she grinned, but the smile did not reach her dark eyes.
“Where’s Rhoram?” he asked.
Achren jerked her thumb at the crowd grouped around the wrestlers. And there he was, in the forefront, laughing and calling out bets (and insults, as the spirit moved him). His clothes were rich—a black tunic over an emerald undershirt. His breeches were black and tucked into long, black boots. The King’s Torque of gold, studded with emeralds, hung around his neck. He wore an emerald ring on his right hand. He was smiling, but Gwydion was shocked by his appearance. His sunken blue eyes glittered like a man with a high fever. His movements were sharp and restless. His skin was stretched tightly over his prominent cheekbones, and the tendons on his hands stood out far too sharply.
“Is he ill?” Gwydion gasped.
“In a manner of speaking,” Achren said dryly, but Gwydion saw the fear in her eyes. “I do so hope you keep that question to yourself.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Achren jerked her thumb to the spot where Queen Efa sat.
“Oh. Well.” He remembered something Tallwch had recently said to him. “We all make mistakes, don’t we?” he said inanely.
Achren, her eyes cool and hard looked him up and down, and her wide mouth quirked. “Very astute. Homespun wisdom is the best, isn’t it?”
He had forgotten that Achren’s tongue was sharp when she was annoyed. Remembering that Achren and Rhiannon had been good friends once, Gwydion said abruptly, “I’m looking for Rhiannon ur Hefeydd. What can you tell me?”
“Why?”
“I had a dream. She must be found.”
Achren studied him thoughtfully. “After the meal we’ll talk, if you wish.”
“Yes,” he said, “let’s talk later.” He studied Rhoram for a moment longer. “I guess I’d better go say hello. Who’s that lad standing next to him?”
“Geriant.”
“Little Geriant?”
“Not so little anymore, is he?” Achren asked.
Geriant was Rhoram’s oldest child by his first wife, Queen Christina of Ederynion. At seventeen, he was no longer a boy, but a young man. Like his father, he had golden hair and deep blue eyes. Unlike his father, he looked healthy, happy, and strong.
“Come on then,” Achren said. “I’ll take you to him.” She began pushing her way though the crowd. Gwydion looked around for Tallwch and saw him standing with the musicians at the fireplace. Tallwch raised his goblet and nodded to Gwydion.
He followed Achren. As they came up to the King the wrestling match ended. Rhoram had called a draw and his warriors shouted and complained. “I said a draw,” Rhoram shouted. “I can’t wait any longer—I’m famished.” The crowd moaned and hissed. Rhoram laughed. Then he saw Gwydion.
The laughter died and was replaced with a genuine smile of welcome. For a brief moment, Gwydion saw a glimpse of the man Rhoram had been long ago.
“Gwydion. Gwydion,” Rhoram said, coming up to him and slinging his arm around Gwydion’s shoulders, giving him a brief hug. “You are welcome here.”