At last he reached the gate of Caer Erias, the King’s fortress. The gate was iron covered with gold leaf. On it was carved a rearing stallion, his mane flying in the wind, outlined in shimmering opals. The horse’s opal eyes glowed as Gwydion rode through the open gate.
There, true to Esyllt’s word, stood Trystan, the Captain of Urien’s warband, the PenDraenenwen of Rheged. Trystan was broad shouldered and muscular, standing just under six feet. He had brown hair and green eyes which shown with intelligence and humor. Trystan smiled and held Elise’s bridal as Gwydion dismounted. “Ho, Gwydion. How long have you been on the road, man?”
“Thirty days,” Gwydion said wearily, as he slid down from the saddle. “Where are Urien and Ellirri?”
“In the ystafell. But you’re not going there yet.”
“I’m not?”
“You,” Trystan said emphatically, “need a bath. And a change of clothing. Come on, it won’t take you long. They will still be there when you’re done.”
Too tired to argue, Gwydion acquiesced and turned back to Elise to unbuckle his saddlebags.
But Trystan had already done so, and given Elise’s reins to a waiting groom. Taking Gwydion’s arm, he led him past the stables and over to the bathhouse. He handed Gwydion his bags, then nodded to the door. “Bathe. Change.”
“Yes, Mam,” Gwydion grinned. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Wash your mouth out with soap while you’re at it,” Trystan said, grinning in his turn.
After his bath, Gwydion changed into more formal clothes, knowing that after the meal they would celebrate the festival. He put on his black robe with red trim and clasped the Dreamer’s Torque of opal and gold around his neck. Instead of tying his black hair back with a leather strip as he usually did, he used a golden ring studded with opals.
He was ready when Trystan reentered the bathhouse. Trystan nodded, “Better. Now you look more like the Dreamer and less like something the cat dragged in.”
“Thanks,” Gwydion said dryly. “Are Urien and Ellirri ready to see me now?”
“Yes. Leave your bags here. I’ll get someone to take them to your room.”
Gwydion followed Trystan out of the bathhouse. The men and women of Urien’s teulu had halted their afternoon practice and were making their way back to their quarters under the ceaseless prodding of Teleri ur Brysethach, Trystan’s lieutenant. Teleri was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall. She had dark brown hair, cut short to frame her face and fine, gray-green eyes. She eyed Gwydion and Trystan as they made their way across the courtyard, but did not speak to them, absorbed in her task.
Gwydion followed Trystan through the door to the ystafell, the Ruler’s private chambers. The ystafell was a large, two-story building, set across the courtyard from the teulu’s quarters. The main room on the lower floor of the ystafell was furnished formally, for this was where Urien and Ellirri usually received visitors on state business. Two large, canopied chairs, cushioned in red and white stood in the center of the room. The floor was covered with a cream-colored carpet woven with a dizzying array of red, circular patterns. The right wall was covered with a large tapestry of a rearing stallion, worked in gold and opal.
As they mounted the stairs the sounds of a wrestling match reached Gwydion’s ears. Trystan and Gwydion came to a halt in the first doorway at the top of the stairs. The room was bright and airy with a large hearth and a thick carpet of cream and red. At the moment the carpet appeared to be littered with bodies.
King Urien, his large face flushed with exertion and laughter was lying on his back grappling with his eldest son, Elphin. “No, lad, like this,” Urien instructed and, quite suddenly, Elphin was on his back with Urien looming over him.
King Urien had brown, sun-streaked hair and velvety brown eyes that seemed small in the expanse of his large, good-natured face. He was tall and broad and as strong as an ox. His eldest son, Elphin, would look exactly like him in ten years. Elphin was only nineteen years old now, and his skin was not yet weather-roughened like his father’s. He was muscular, but not yet as broad.
“Owein,” Elphin cried out between bouts of laughter, “Help me!”
At his call Elphin’s younger brother, Owein, a lad of seventeen years, launched himself into the fray, landing on his father’s back and knocking him to one side. Owein had reddish brown hair and his mother’s deep blue eyes. His leap was accomplished in swift, competent silence, the strength in his leap belaying his slender build.
Urien roared as Owein pinned him to the floor and Elphin, now released, sprang up to continue the match. “Two against one, eh?” Urien cried.