Night Birds' Reign(9)
The banner of the Hawk of Gwynedd, shimmering brown on blue silk and worked with sapphires and silver thread, hung on the west wall. Under the banner the dark, polished wood of the King’s table shone in the firelight.
Surrounded by people, King Uthyr sat at the table, his massive oak chair tilted back precariously, his legs stretched out and crossed negligently at the ankles, resting on the table’s surface. He was paring his nails with a knife and laughing at something, his even, white teeth gleaming in his tanned face. His brown hair with just a touch of red was tied back with a thin silver chain, and his auburn beard was closely cut. Around his neck he wore the silver Torque of Gwynedd, studded with sapphires. He wore a huge, sapphire ring on his right hand. His blue tunic was embroidered with silver and worked with sapphires, and his breeches were brown. His leather boots were turned down at the top to reveal a lining of blue cloth. Uthyr’s deep set, dark eyes under heavy brows glanced toward the door and widened at the sight of Gwydion and Amatheon.
“Brothers,” he roared as he leapt from his chair and over the table. His long strides ate up the distance between them and, as he reached them he enveloped each brother in a fierce bear hug, actually lifting them off their feet and swinging them around.
“Little brothers!” he said, setting them back on their feet with a thump. “The Shining Ones bless you both for coming.”
“Uthyr, you’ve got to get over this shyness of yours,” Amatheon said, grinning, while Gwydion tried to set his rumpled tunic to rights. “And your tendency to treat important men like the Dreamer with overwhelming respect. It gives the wrong impression.”
Uthyr grinned back and flung his arms around their shoulders. “We’re just about to eat. Come, you two sit with me.”
As they made their way through the press, the warriors of Uthyr’s teulu shouted greetings and a few good-natured, rude remarks. “Hey, Gwydion,” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. “Learned to use a sword yet?”
“No,” Gwydion shot back. “Have you?”
“Amatheon,” a warrior called, “ready to lose at dice?”
“Ready to take your money,” Amatheon retorted with a grin.
Amid the laughter and jokes, they slowly made their way down the length of the hall. As they neared the King’s table, a young man with curly red hair and an engaging grin in a freckled face rose from the table and bowed. His brown, hooded robe, embroidered in green around the hem and sleeves, proclaimed the man to be a Druid. The pendant on his slender golden torque was a circle inside a square, with an emerald glittering in the center. “Griffi ap Iaen,” the Druid said, offering a slightly exaggerated bow, along with an impish grin.
A young woman in a sleeveless gown of blue over a snowy white smock rose from a graceful curtsy. Her girdle was a fine silver chain, wrapped once at the upper waist and doubling back over her hips. The front of her bodice was laced with white silk ties, and her torque had a triangular pendant from which a sapphire dangled. Her long, red-gold hair was loosely wrapped with a blue ribbon. She had a generous mouth and bright, blue eyes under slender red-gold brows. She held out her hand to Gwydion. “Susanna ur Erim, Uthyr’s Bard.”
“Been here long?”
“No, I just arrived last month.” Her eyes cut to Griffi. “I haven’t been here much longer than he has.” As she looked at the young Druid, her eyes glowed, finding an answering glow in Griffi’s fresh face. She bowed to Amatheon. “You are both most welcome here.”
A tall, older man with dark hair lightly silvered and mild gray eyes stood by diffidently, patiently waiting to be noticed. He wore a sea green tunic and his torque was silver with a pentagon-shaped pendant, a single pearl dangling from it. Amatheon caught the man’s eye and grinned. “Uncle Cynan! You look well,” he said, slapping the man’s back. “Being Dewin here must agree with you.”
“It does, Amatheon, it does.” He smiled, and made a slight bow to Gwydion. “Greetings to you, Dreamer,” he said.
“So formal, Uncle Cynan? I remember when you dawdled me on your knee and fed me sweets.”
“Oh, yes. That always made Celemon angry.” At the mention of his mother, Gwydion froze. Amatheon’s eyes cut sharply to Gwydion, but he did not speak. Cynan colored slightly and looked to Uthyr. Absorbing Amatheon’s more relaxed stance, Uthyr laid a light hand on Gwydion’s arm. “Come, I have somebody else for you to greet.”
Uthyr led Gwydion to a man waiting at the other end of the table. The man stood stiffly, a fixed smile on his face. His reddish gold hair hung in curls to his shoulders. His red tunic and leggings were embroidered with silver-threaded hawks. His boots were red, dyed to match the tunic and the tops were turned down, showing flashing rubies. His blue eyes were cold.