Cry of Sorrow (62 page)

“Arywen, Fifth Archdruid,” Gwen cried out. “Guardian of the Cauldron.”

“Bran,” Gwydion called. “Fifth Dreamer, Guardian of the Spear!”

The names mounted up, tumbling one after another from the throats of the Kymri. Cariadas called out for Llyr, the first Dreamer, and Sinend for Govannon, the first Archdruid. Elidyr called for Math, the first Master Bard, and Elstar for Penduran, the first Ardewin. Then Rhoram cried for Pwyll, the second King of Prydyn, and Owein called for Rhys, the first Ruler of Rheged. Morrigan called for Gwynledyr, the first Queen of Gwynedd, and Lludd for Edern, first Ruler of Ederynion. Gwydion and Rhiannon called out Amatheon’s name at the same time.

And then Arthur called out again. “I ask for the return of Idris, the first High King of Kymru!”

The others fell silent at this, as the name of Idris seemed to reverberate throughout the hall. The golden walls seemed to shiver, then to glow even brighter.

At last, Gwydion went on. “We invite the dead now to feast with us.” He threw the bread into the fire. “I give you grain, for the element of fire. I give you wine, for the element of water,” he continued as he tossed the contents of the small jar into the flames. Then he threw the salt into the fire. “I give you salt, for the element of earth. I give you honey, for the element of air,” he said, as he unwrapped the honeycomb and threw it into the fire. “May this feast seem good to the dead, and may they be drawn back to us. Let us rejoice. One year is turned, and another begins.”

   And then they all began to sing:

“In Gwlad yr Haf are fruit and fish and pools
.

In Gwlad yr Haf sweet are the cries of dapped deer
.

In Gwlad yr Haf are blue-eyed hawks, woods and flowers
.

There await graceful, pearl-like women
,

There await strong, diamond-hard men
.

There the dead await

Aertan’s nod
,

Annwyn’s touch
,

To be born again.”

   Had this been another time, they would have begun the dancing and singing that the festival required. But Gwydion called for silence.

“Arthur,” Gwydion said gravely. “It is time.”

“I
DON’T LIKE
it,” Havgan said. “One moment they’re fighting us tooth and nail, and the next they vanish.”

From the sky overhead thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. In the murky light, only Coranian warriors, nursing their wounds, could be seen at the crossroads.

“We heard them sound the retreat,” Sigerric agreed. “But why?”

“And where was the Dreamer?” Havgan demanded. “He should have been here. It was his challenge.”

“Perhaps,” Sigerric said slowly, pulling the boar’s helmet from his sweat-soaked head, “Gwydion was busy elsewhere. And this battle—”

“Was simply a distraction. To get us away from—”

“Cadair Idris,” Sigerric finished.

“The Treasures,” Havgan breathed, fire and hate in his amber eyes. “They have found them. And gone to Cadair Idris. And the Doors will let them in.” Havgan shouted for his horse, and as he mounted, he called out to Sigerric. “I will see them die this day. I swear it!”

“How?” Sigerric called as he mounted his own horse. “The mountain will never let you in!” But Havgan was already gone.

“It will never let you in,” Sigerric whispered, as he followed Havgan from the field of battle. “Never.”

G
WYDION REACHED FOR
the cup that stood on the rim of the fountain. It was a large, four-sided cup, fashioned of gold. Each side contained the sign etched in jewels for the four gods and goddesses of the elements. One side was covered in pearls, for Nantsovelta of the Waters; one in sapphires, for Taran of the Air. One side glittered with emeralds, for Modron of the Earth; and the last with opals, for Mabon of Fire. Gwydion dipped the cup into the fountain, filling it with the sweet, clear water. He opened the pouch on his belt and drew out the leaves of Penduran’s Rose that he had collected months ago in Gwynedd. He crushed the leaves between his palms and put them in the cup.

And then he handed the cup to Arthur. “When you are ready, drink. Penduran’s Rose will prepare your mind to receive the power from the Treasures.”

Arthur took the cup and stared into its depths for a moment. He glanced at the others who waited—the rulers and the Y Dawnus in their alcoves, here to witness this event. He looked at Gwen, and she smiled tremulously at him. He looked at Rhiannon, and her green eyes were calm. He looked at his mother and sister as they stood in the alcove and saw their love for him in their faces. He looked at Myrrdin, and he saw the rightness, the sureness of it all in his teacher’s eyes.

Lastly, he looked at Gwydion, into the gray eyes of the man he had hated for most of his life, at the man whose plans and schemes had brought him here, ready to risk his life on this throw. And Arthur did not, at this last, resent it. He was neither angry nor afraid. He was beyond all that now. Instead, he accepted what must be, what had been marked for him since the day of his birth.

And so he drank.

He set the cup down on the rim of the fountain. At first, he felt no different. But then something began to happen. He felt his senses sharpening. His sight became unnaturally clear, his hearing sharper. His sense of smell heightened, and he could taste the Rose as it lingered at the back of his throat. He ran his fingers over his tunic, and marveled at the feel of it.

Gwydion nodded toward the Treasures gathered before the throne. “You know what to do, Arthur,” Gwydion said.

“You have not told me,” Arthur replied dreamily.

“You do not need to be told. It is in you, this knowledge. Do as Idris did, as Macsen did, as Lleu Lawrient did. Do as you were born to do.”

Gwydion was right. He did know what to do. As if in a dream, Arthur picked up the Sword of Taran and guided its tip into an almost invisible slit within one of the silvery junctions on the Stone. The Sword slipped into the Stone with an audible click, and both Stone and Sword began to hum. The sound was low pitched, and then it began to build. The Sword and the Stone began to glow. Arthur reached for the Cauldron and held it in his left hand. He placed his right hand into the bowl, and felt a tiny prick on his finger, as he had somehow known he would. The bowl shimmered, and began to dance in his hand. When the Cauldron stopped spinning, he picked up the Spear. With the Cauldron in his left hand, and the Spear of Fire in his right, he mounted the Stone, standing to the right of the upright Sword.

The Treasures pulsed and glittered. The humming grew louder. Those watching were bathed in the strange light of the sapphires, the emeralds, the pearls, and the opals. The figure eight, sign of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, etched in onyx on all four Treasures, glowed darkly, a glittering shadow.

I
N HIS MIND’S
eye, Arthur saw the pure white stag bound ahead of him, shooting across the plain of Gwytheryn.

Cadair Idris rose at Arthur’s back as he leapt after the stag. He skimmed through the long, green grass. Wildflowers dotted the plain, shimmering in the golden light.

Arthur ran, the earth firm and fruitful beneath his feet. The wind whistled past his ears. The golden sun warmed him as, laughing, he jumped across a sparkling stream.

He followed the stag as it neared the lake of Llyn Mwygil. The stag leapt high, impossibly high, in the air and sailed across the water, landing lightly on the island of Afalon, the holy place of Annwyn and Aertan.

Determined to follow the stag, Arthur leapt through the clean, cool air, soaring across Llyn Mwygil and landing lightly on the island.

The isle was quiet. The stag had disappeared. Emerald green trees flashed in the golden light. The waters sparkled.

He could no longer hear the stag. Indeed, the golden afternoon was now completely silent.

And then the agony took him.

I
N
C
ADAIR
I
DRIS
, Arthur stood unmoving, his dark eyes wide, his face without expression. Ygraine took a step toward him, then stopped. Gwen stood stiffly, her hands clenched into fists with the effort not to reach out for him. Gwydion reached out and took Rhiannon’s hand.

The strange light intensified. The Treasures throbbed with a rhythm that spoke of another time and place far beyond Cadair Idris, in another world.

Just at the edge of vision, four figures suddenly appeared.

“Oh, Gwydion, they have come,” Rhiannon whispered as she saw them.

The Guardians of the Treasures had, indeed, come to Cadair Idris to witness the Tynged Mawr.

Mannawyddan, the Ardewin, watched calmly with his mild blue eyes. Arywen, the Archdruid, watched with hazel cat eyes, her long black hair like a shadow. Taliesin, the Master Bard, his green eyes sad and wise, watched unmoving. And Bran, the Dreamer, the man who had set these events in motion with the death of his High King so long ago, watched with his gray eyes blazing.

Suddenly, from nowhere, from everywhere, a bright, white light cut through the air, pinning Arthur where he stood. Within that light, Arthur’s body began to shake, and he cried out in agony.

W
HEN THE PAIN
came, Arthur stiffened and cried out. His cry cut through the still air over the island, startling a flock of crows that suddenly took wing. They wheeled overhead, echoing Arthur’s cry.

The pain twisted through his guts, and he fell to his knees, clutching his belly. He threw his head back to scream again, and it was then that he saw them.

The Shining Ones had come, bringing darkness with them.

I
N
C
ADAIR
I
DRIS
, Gwydion said softly, with tears in his silvery eyes, “Oh, gods, I did not know it would be like this.”

Sweat and tears poured down Arthur’s face. His features were twisted in pain. Again, he cried out.

“No!” screamed Ygraine. “Stop! It’s killing him!” She took a few running steps toward her son, but Morrigan held her mother back.

“Leave him be!” Morrigan cried. “Let him finish!”

“Get him out of there!” Gwen called out. “Gwydion, get him out!”

And Gwydion took a step forward, but Rhiannon held him back.

“Wait!” she called. “Don’t touch him. Wait!”

A
NNWYN
, L
ORD OF
Chaos, was cloaked in writhing black, as though the shadows themselves had come to veil him. His hands were stained with blood. His dead-white face was patterned with spirals and circles of tiny onyx beads. His dark eyes sparkled wildly. He held a yew branch in his red hands.

Aertan, Weaver of Fate, was clothed in misty white. Her eyes were bloodstone—green chalcedony flecked with red jasper. Her thin hands were crisscrossed with a dizzying array of threads. Her fingers flashed in and out among the threads so quickly he could not follow her movements. But from her hands a tapestry was taking shape, trailing from her fingers and spilling to the ground behind her. Arthur caught a glimpse of horsemen and battles, of sweet lovers and long summer days, of bloodstains and grinning skulls.

“Child of Idris, child of Macsen, child of Lleu Silver-Hand,” Aertan called. “You have come to us at last.”

“What is happening?” Arthur gasped, clutching his head as a spike of hot pain shot through his skull.

“It is the Tynged Mawr,” the Lord of Chaos said, his voice like the screams of the dying. “It is the magic of the High Kings. It is unleashed inside you. It courses through your veins. It seeks to know you, to test you. To see if you are worthy.”

“The pain,” Arthur gasped. “I cannot—”

“You must.”

“Lord of Chaos,” Arthur whispered through his agony, “why do you seek to torment me?”

“Ah. Arthur ap Uthyr var Ygraine, how little you have listened to your teachers. Do you think me evil?”

“There is blood on your hands.”

“And that matters? Ah, but you are young. How but by dying do men reach the Land of Summer? How but by suffering is wisdom gained?”

“You have not understood, Arthur ap Uthyr,” Aertan said, bright threads flowing through her fingers and flashing in the sun. “My Lord’s mark is on the Treasures. It is he who grants you the gifts of the High Kings. It is he who stands with you to rid Kymru of the enemy.”

“Your torments, Arthur, are of your own making,” Annwyn said softly. “It is made of those times you thought to run. It is fashioned of those times you have turned away. It is shaped by those times you had thought to be less than you were meant to be.”

“Your pain, Penerydd, is of your own making,” Aertan said gently.

Arthur gasped, again clutching his belly. “Please make it stop. Make an end to it.”

“Ah, young one, that we will not do,” Aertan said. “For a destiny must be allowed to unfold. As yours does now.”

“Please,” Arthur begged, tears streaming from his eyes, sweat pouring from him. “Please.”

And then he saw the truth in their strange, glittering eyes as they stood before him, silent and still. They would not help him because they could not. The pain was his. He alone had fashioned it in his refusals to embrace his destiny, in his insistence on his own rights, his own freedom.

And so, at last, he relinquished his own desires and instead embraced his place on the Wheel. He rose, ignoring the pain, and faced Annwyn and Aertan. He bowed to them and raised his face to the sky, spreading his arms in surrender.

“The struggle is finished,” he whispered through his pain. “It is done. I will be what I was born to be.”

I
N THE HALL
of the High Kings, the white light began to dim, and the throbbing began to fade. Slowly the light died; the hum quieted. And Arthur still stood on the Stone, the Spear and the Cauldron in his hands, the Sword by his side. His shaking had stopped, and he made no sound.

Slowly he stepped down from the Stone. Slowly he set the Cauldron and the Spear on the floor. Slowly he grasped the Sword and pulled it from the Stone, then set the Sword down.