Night Bird's Reign (52 page)

“Pryderi rose in the saddle, and threw his spear at his mother. But Idris was faster. He called on the power of the Druids and Shape-Moved the spear, causing it to miss Elen and fly high into the air. He then called on the Druids again and the spear burst into flame, the ashes harmlessly floating back to Earth.

“ ‘Father!’ Pryderi called. ‘If you wish to stop me, you must kill me!’ With that Pryderi and his men leapt forward crying their fierce war cries. The battle began and it was ferocious, brutal. Men died by the score so fiercely did the men of Prydyn fight that superior enemy. Idris fought with Caladfwlch in his hands, cutting his way through the press toward his son. Llyr the Dreamer was by his friend’s side, ensuring that Idris came through unharmed to confront Pryderi. The men who battled around them slowed and then halted as they stepped back to watch the confrontation between father and son, for they knew that this would decide the battle.

“Pryderi swiped viciously at his father with his sword, and drew blood from his father’s side. But the wound did not stop Idris. Tears streamed down his drawn face as he lifted his sword to smite his son. But Llyr, wishing to spare his friend, leapt forward and furiously planted his dagger into Pryderi’s heart. Fast as lightning, Pryderi dropped his sword and plucked the dagger from his chest. He lunged forward and plunged the dagger into Llyr’s breast. The two men fell, clutching each other, their blood mingling together as they died.

“Penduran cried out and ran through the now still battlefield until she reached her husband’s body. She lifted him up from the blood-soaked ground, cradling his head against her breast. Her tears flowed down her face and onto Llyr’s. He tried to smile up at her, but he did not have the strength. Instead he whispered something to her, something that no one else could hear. Whatever it was, it seemed to comfort her, for she tried to smile back at him, so that, as the light fled from his eyes, her smiling face was the last thing he saw.”

Rhiannon was openly weeping now. Trystan and Cai had bowed their heads, touched by this tale of grief. Angharad and Amatheon stood entwined, comforting each other with their nearness.

Only Gwydion did not seem to be having trouble, for his voice was firm and even. Achren glanced over at him and saw that she was wrong. For she saw the anguish, the echo of old grief in his silvery eyes even though it could not be heard in his voice.

She was the only one who seemed unmoved, for she stood dry-eyed. And that was not the case at all. The story always had the power to move her, but never to tears. Rather anger at the waste of it all. And shame for the first King of Prydyn.

“The battle was over,” Gwydion continued softly. “The men of Prydyn threw down their weapons. Idris ordered that they be given quarter, for he had managed to stay on his feet, despite his wound. He ruled Kymru for only one year after that, and then died.”

“From the physical wound or the wound to his heart?” Amatheon wondered.

“Both, I believe,” Gwydion said gently. “Gilfaethwy, Penduran’s brother, was captured a few days later, for he had run from the battlefield. He was brought to Cadair Idris, where Gwydd, Llyr’s son, and the new Dreamer performed the rite that infused Gilfaethwy’s spirit into the Doors of Cadair Idris. Though his body was dead his spirit was denied the chance to rest in the Land of Summer until his place would be taken by another traitor.”

“I often think that is the most horrible punishment imaginable,” Trystan murmured.

“So did Goewin, the woman Gilfaethwy had raped. It was she who thought of it,” Gwydion said. “After the battle they burned the dead in pyre’s. And, as we have said, Penduran insisted that Pryderi be properly buried. But she did not bury Llyr here. She took his body with her back to Caer Dathyl and buried him in Aelwyd Cerdinen, the burial mounds she raised for him in the center of the fortress. All Dreamers have been buried there since.

“They named this place Galor Penduran, Penduran’s Sorrow,” Gwydion finished, gesturing to the battlefield. “It is said that, in the night, just before dawning, if one listens closely, one can hear the sound of Penduran weeping still over Llyr’s dead body.”

“Do you believe that?” Rhiannon asked, her voice shaking.

He looked over at her for a long time before answering. “No,” he said gently. “For Penduran and Llyr are surely joyous together in Gwlad Yr Haf, and she weeps no more.”

Rhiannon dashed the tears from her face and tried to smile. “Perhaps you are right,” she said.

“A first,” Gwydion teased, much to Achren’s surprise.

“So it is,” Rhiannon agreed with a wider smile this time. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

“It’s time,” Achren said restlessly. “I am ready.”

“Then let us begin,” Gwydion said, holding his hands out to Rhiannon and Amatheon. The three Y Dawnus joined hands and the four captains took their places around them. Cai, Angharad, and Trystan, their eyes clear with understanding, waited for Achren to join them.

Achren stepped forward determined not to wait any longer. She would see what she would see. She would taste whatever grief and sorrow waited in the past and return to the light of day, bringing the knowledge they needed with her.

She was ready. So when the darkness took her the moment she laid her hands on the others, she was not surprised at its swiftness. Only at its ferociousness, as she plunged through time and out the other side.

T
HE PINPRICK OF
light grew larger as it moved swiftly toward her through the tunnel of night. The light burst upon her, and she threw up her hands to shield her eyes. The brightness faded somewhat until she could focus her eyes on what was before her.

The meadow, still bright and fresh glowed strangely in the uncertain light from above, for a storm was brewing. Violet clouds piled overhead, and lightning laced the sky.

Men and women, their spears in their hands, their swords belted at their sides, arrayed in black and green, mounted their horses. They were a pitiful few compared to the host that faced them. Yet Achren felt a dim pride in them, she who had always been ashamed. For they faced the clearly superior foe and did not run.

The army they faced was indeed formidable. Warriors in the gold and silver of the High King, in the red and white of Rheged, the brown and blue of Gwynedd, the sea green and white of Ederynion, also sat rock-steady on their mounts, their weapons ready.

A pool of brown-robed Druids stood off to one side of the battlefield, joined by blue-clad Bards and Dewin in robes of sea green.

A man stepped out in front of the large host. His hair was dark and his gray eyes glowed in the lowering afternoon light. Around his neck he wore a massive torque set with a huge emerald, a pearl, a sapphire and an opal. In the center of the torque was a figure eight, the symbol for infinity, studded with dark onyx. His face was stern, although Achren could see grief in his silvery eyes.

The man’s four Great Ones stepped out from the army to stand behind him. Achren saw a man in red and black with a torque of fiery opals at his throat and a cloak of raven feather clasped around his shoulders. He held the hand of a woman in sea green and silver with a cloak of white swan feather, a torque of pearls glowing around her proud neck. Next came a young man wearing a torque of glowing sapphires and blue and white robes beneath a cloak of songbird feather. Lastly came an older man in robes of forest green and brown, a heavy cloak of bull’s hide and a torque of emeralds clasped around his powerful neck.

Then a woman made her way through the army, riding a pure white mare. The woman wore tunic and trousers of silver and gold. She wore no ornaments and no cloak. Her rich, auburn hair, lightly touched with frost, was loose and flowing down her slender shoulders. Her eyes were fixed on the figure of a young man who stood to the forefront of the opposing army. She looked neither to the right nor to the left as she rode past the others. The dark-haired man with the silvery eyes reached out his hand to her as she rode by, but she did not halt and he let her go, slowly lowering his hand.

She rode across the meadow toward the army that stood there with the trees at their backs. The young man detached himself from the army and rode out to meet her. He wore tunic and trousers of black and green. The cuffs of his black leather boots were studded with emeralds. On his head he wore a war helm fashioned like the head of a wolf with emerald eyes, and a torque of emeralds hung around his neck. They faced each other in the center of the field. Although they spoke Achren could not hear them, for the entire vision was unaccompanied by sound.

Suddenly, swift as thought, the man drew back his spear and threw it at the woman. Although she could not hear, Achren saw the dark-haired man cry out. He lifted his hand and the spear shot up into the sky. He gestured again and the spear burst into flames. The woman turned her horse and rejoined the army. Tears rained down her drawn face and she halted before the dark-haired man. She reached out her hand and lightly touched his cheek. He took her hand and pressed a kiss on her palm. Then he released her and turned back toward the field.

He pulled his sword from the belt at his side and raised it high. At that moment lightning flashed and crawled over the blade. The hilt was fashioned like that of an eagle with outstretched wings. The eagle’s eyes were bloodstone and its wings were studded with onyx. Precious jewels of emerald, pearl, sapphire, and opal covered the remainder of the hilt. The dark-haired man cried out what must have been the call to battle, for he ran forward and the rest of his host followed.

The two armies met in the center of the field with a clash that Achren could not hear but could feel, so powerful was it. The battle was fierce and brutal and blood immediately began to soak into the blameless ground. The dark-haired man, with the man in black and opals at his side, cut his way through the melee, making for the man with the wolf’s helmet.

At last the two men met and as they did so the battle halted around them. The man with the wolf’s helmet raised his sword and swiped viciously at the dark-haired older man. Blood spouted from the man’s side and the younger man smiled, although the smile was tinged with latent grief, like a film of spiderwebs over fresh leaves. But the wounded man was strong and he raised his eagle’s sword to strike. But before he could do so, the man in black and opals leapt forward and plunged a dagger into the younger man’s heart. The man in the wolf’s helmet threw back his head in pain. He whipped the dagger from his heart and plunged it into the breast of the man in black. The two men went down, even as the dark-haired man dropped his sword and reached out to cradle them both.

The woman in the swan feather cloak came running heedlessly through the litter of dead bodies that lay across the meadow. She sank down and took the man in black and opals into her arms. The dying man tried to smile, and spoke something, the woman bending low over him to hear his last message. She smiled down at him then and the smile remained fixed on her face until the light fled from the man’s eyes.

She looked over then, at the man in the wolf’s helmet. He was still alive and, as their eyes met, tears began to stream down his face. The woman reached out and gently laid her hand on the young man’s cheek. The lines of rage faded beneath her palm and his face smoothed out as his eyes closed in death.

The woman rose and faced the dark-haired man who clutched his wounded side. He lifted his head and cried out soundlessly to the storm above. And the rains came down, as though trying to wash away the blood, the grief, and the horror of that day.

The scene faded and another took its place. Bonfires were lit to consume the dead, piled together in the center of the field. A cluster of people gathered around a barrow freshly dug on the fringes of the forest. The woman with the pearl torque stood at the foot of the grave, flanked by the dark-haired man and the woman in silver and gold. The three stood silently, beyond tears. At last the woman with the pearl torque loosened herself from her companions and turned to go. She mounted the box of a rough wagon. In the wagon was a body, shrouded in black cloth. The woman lifted her hand to the couple that stood at the foot of the grave, then turned away even as they returned her gesture of farewell.

Then the scene shifted again. The fires were long gone and the scarred ground was once again clean. The grass was long and green around the silent grave and tiny blossoms of fireweed glowed under the fresh, blue sky. A man wearing a robe of black and red rode alone across the meadow. Around his neck he wore a massive torque of opals and gold. His long auburn hair was tied back and fastened at the nape of his neck with a golden clasp.

He halted his horse next the grave and sat there for a few moments, looking down at it. At last he dismounted. He took something from his saddlebag. She could not see what it was, for it was wrapped in dark cloth. He went to the head of the grave, kneeling down at the base of the silent yew tree. He stretched out his hand and the earth opened up just enough to allow him to deposit his bundle. Then he rose and gestured again and the earth covered the item, rippling and flowing over it as though the hole had never been.

He stood for a moment, looking down at the grave. Then he raised his head and appeared to look right at her. His silvery eyes, so like Gwydion’s, were filled with tears. His mouth was twisted, etched with the echoes of grief still lingering over the grave. His eyes held hers and she saw beyond the grief to the wisdom that was there. And when she did, he smiled. Then the darkness spiraled down.

W
HEN SHE CAME
to Cai was supporting her head while Rhiannon held a cup to her lips. “Drink,” Rhiannon commanded while Angharad mopped Achren’s face with a square of linen.

Obediently, Achren drank. “Why are you doing that?” Achren asked Angharad in surprise. “I don’t have a fever.”

“You were crying.”

“I was?”

“Yes, Achren, you were,” Gwydion said quietly. “Was he?”

“Yes,” Achren answered. “He stood by the grave and wept. And then he looked at me. And I saw what was behind the tears.”