May Earth Rise (12 page)

Ah, Rhiannon. As always he knew exactly where she was without having to check. And he knew she was watching him, without having to raise his head to see. She had been keeping her eye on him closely for the last few days. She was watching him because she knew him too well. She knew he was planning something, but she did not know what. She had no inkling that he had been in contact with Arianrod, but she knew enough to be sure he was planning something of which she would not approve.

Gwydion knew that no one would approve of what he meant to do. For he would spring the trap that Arianrod had thought to capture him with. He was not such a fool as Arianrod apparently thought he was, for he knew better than to fully believe her.

It was unlikely that Arianrod would so easily turn herself and Llywd Cilcoed over to Arthur. That she wanted protection for herself and her child from Havgan he could readily believe. She had always discarded her lovers before they could discard her. And Havgan must be tiring of his pregnant mistress. But Arianrod’s price did not seem to be enough. He was sure she had some plan to gain more. Which she would, if she held the life of the Dreamer in her hands. With that she could bargain with Arthur for anything she wanted for herself and her child—guarantees of protection, the comforts of life, whatever she thought she would need.

As surely as he knew his own name he knew that Arianrod was planning to double-cross both Llywd Cilcoed and himself, but he had not yet determined how. He had kept a close eye on her the past few days, surreptitiously Wind-Riding to observe her.

Last night he had Wind-Ridden and found her in a tiny clearing outside of Cil, just where she said she would be. There had been one other in that clearing—Llwyd Cilcoed, the one-time lover of Queen Olwen of Ederynion. Llywd had been staring blankly down at his tied hands. He had been pale and shocked as he huddled on the cold ground, looking over at Arianrod, who had sat smiling on a convenient log, trimming her nails with a gleaming dagger. Gwydion had seen the dull gleam of gray lead around the Dewin’s neck and, for a moment, almost pitied the man. He could think of few worse things than to be collared.

He had told Arianrod that he would not come to her alone. But he had, of course, lied. He would do this thing himself. He did not need anyone else’s help.

His horse lifted its head and snorted. He led the horse from the stream and fastened the reins to a nearby sapling. That done, he looked up and caught the gleam of Rhiannon’s emerald eyes fastened on him as the dusk deepened.

R
HIANNON KNEW BETTER
than to put any faith at all in the innocent looks of inquiry that Gwydion kept giving her whenever he would raise his head and see her staring at him.

He knew perfectly well why she watched him so closely. He was planning something. And she would not let him get away with whatever foolish action he was contemplating.

She knew him very well by now. Nothing he could say or do would surprise her. Indeed, it did not surprise her at all that, even after all their time together—almost six years—he would not share with her what he was thinking. He might trust her when the occasion seemed to demand it, but he would not think he needed her. Not now and not ever.

But he did need her. Not in the way she used to hope for, for Gwydion’s heart was closed and locked and she would not humiliate herself any longer by standing before that door and begging to be let in. It would not open—at least, for her—and that was an end to it.

No, he did not need her as his lover. But he did need her as his partner in this long and deadly game they played with fate. She would have thought that even a man as stubborn and prideful as Gwydion ap Awst would have understood by now that he could not do everything alone. Sometimes she thought he had learned that lesson, but then he would always go back to who he truly was. When he had publicly apologized for his unreasoning anger toward her when she had saved his life at the Storm Tree, she had thought for a brief time that his pride would allow him to at least acknowledge her as a trusted friend. But that had not lasted. None of the times he had been gentle with her—and there were a few—had ever lasted. He would always seem to come to some realization that he had been kind, and would repent of that. Why he did this she truly did not know. She doubted that she ever would.

But she was done with eating her heart out for Gwydion ap Awst, so she no longer cared why he insisted on keeping her and the rest of the world at arm’s length. Of course, she seemed to decide that she was through with him quite a lot. And then he would smile at her and his silvery eyes would glow and her wayward heart would skip a beat. Sometimes, like the time he had danced with her at Alban Awyr in Allt Llwyd, she had seen something in his face that made her heart beat faster. Sometimes she would lay awake and wonder what it would be like if she kissed him and let the passion she knew he had inside loose. And she did know that it was there, for she had felt it that day by the lake in Ederynion when he had forgotten himself long enough to kiss her.

But here she was again thinking about those things when she had vowed to stop thinking of them. For the hopes and dreams she had about being loved by the Dreamer were hollow. And always would be. She determined again, for the thousandth time, to remember that.

And remember that she would. But for now that was not her concern. Her concern was that Gwydion was planning something, thinking something, scheming something. And she would not let him out of her sight until she knew what it was.

G
WYDION LOOKED AT
Arthur as Llywelyn laid the last log for the fire. He wanted to give Arthur a chance to start the fire if he wished. Arthur returned Gwydion’s gaze and nodded to him. Gwydion stretched out his hand and huge, perfectly formed rose-blossoms, made of flames, bloomed over the wood. They floated down and touched the logs and fire burst forth.

“Very pretty, Da,” Cariadas said approvingly as she stretched out her hands toward the flames.

“Thank you,” Gwydion said gravely, although there was laughter in his eyes. “But it was not I that lit the fire.”

“But Arthur nodded to you! I thought he meant that you could do it and not him,” Cariadas protested, looking over at the High King.

“I did,” Arthur agreed. “But it was not I that lit the fire either.”

Sinend, the future Archdruid, looked up from her contemplation of the flames. “I did it,” the young woman said firmly.

They were all somewhat surprised, for Sinend rarely said anything, much less in such a firm tone.

“Because?” Arthur asked quietly, although Gwydion did not think Arthur was puzzled.

“Because I am the Archdruid’s heir,” Sinend said simply. “It is I who should Fire-Weave, for that is a druidic gift.”

“One that both the High King and the Dreamer happen to share,” Rhiannon said gently.

“Nonetheless, protocol states that, even in the presence of the High King and the Dreamer, the first right of refusal to Fire-Weave belongs to the Archdruid.”

“She’s right,” Cynfar said. “That is the proper protocol.”

“And I am happy to bow to that,” Arthur said with a smile. “I was not aware of that, for I am just an ignorant shepherd.”

“Arthur!” Sinend said, shocked. “You are not an ignorant shepherd. You are High King!”

“I was not offended, Sinend,” Arthur replied. “Merely stating a fact.”

“My intention, High King,” Sinend said earnestly, “was not to belittle you in any way! It was merely to—”

Arthur, smiling at the vehemence in her tone, held up his hand and Sinend fell silent. “Archdruid’s heir, that you should point out the proper method of showing respect to the Archdruid pleases me. The responsibility of leading the Druids back from their darkness, begun by your father, will later fall to you. I would not have servile Druids in Kymru. I would have ones that know their worth and their place. Ones that are proud to be what they are, and yet ones that acknowledge their true master. Ones that revere the Mother but serve their High King. And I see, now, that you are a worthy heir of the task to ensure that such Druids are made.”

“And,” Rhiannon said with a smile, “they were such lovely roses.”

Sinend, who had reddened with embarrassment at Arthur’s words, smiled shyly at Rhiannon.

“And I know whereof I speak,” Rhiannon went on. “I have traveled leagues and leagues and even more leagues with the Dreamer and have seen him start more fires than either one of us could count. And there would be new ways of doing that every day. Honeycomb and wheat fields, and fiery horses and swords and flame-colored waterfalls and I don’t know what all.”

Gwydion was still as Rhiannon spoke. He knew she was leading up to something. He could tell by the tone of her voice, although he did not think the others were aware of it yet—except, perhaps, for Arthur.

“Of course he would have to light fires,” Rhiannon went on, “because he insisted that we camp out every night. Never would he stop at a village or a farmhouse and invoke the Law of Hospitality. Even when we were at peace, he would not do that.”

“Why not, Da?” Cariadas asked curiously.

“Yes, why not?” Llywelyn asked, puzzlement in his steady brown eyes.

Gwydion gritted his teeth, knowing that he would not be allowed to answer that question. Knowing that Rhiannon would take it upon herself to do that.

“Oh, because he would never, ever trust anyone—not even the simple people of Kymru. He thought that they might ask him questions. Or perhaps talk about him when he was gone.”

“But the Law says people cannot ask questions of travelers who stop at their house for the night,” Cynfar protested. “The Kymri would never do that. If we were anywhere near a settlement, we wouldn’t be out here in the woods tonight.”

“Besides,” Rhiannon went on, “he would never want to be beholden to anyone—not even for a meal.”

“Rhiannon—” Gwydion began in a dangerous tone.

“A meal does not oblige you,” Llywelyn pointed out. “I don’t see—”

“Oh, that’s just something you have to learn about the Dreamer,” Rhiannon said airily. “He does exactly what he wants to do and doesn’t care if you don’t understand. In fact, he would just as soon you didn’t.”

“All right, Rhiannon,” Gwydion said harshly. “You’ve had your fun and made your point.”

“Have I?” she said swiftly. “Then why don’t you and I talk privately for a moment and you can show me that my point has been made.”

“By doing what?”

“By telling me the truth.”

“Very well,” he said abruptly. “Come with me.” He got up and strode away from the fire to the edge of the clearing. As he did so he clearly saw Arthur’s face. The High King had not spoken a word during Rhiannon’s musing-turned-tirade, had not even looked up from his contemplation of the fire. But he looked up now and something in his dark eyes made Gwydion wonder if Arthur didn’t know exactly what Gwydion was up to.

Rhiannon rose and furiously stalked over to Gwydion.

“Well?” she demanded her arms crossed. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“How about ‘how dare you talk about me that way?'” he hissed.

“It is the truth. And it is the truth that hurts the most, isn’t it?”

“I have had enough—”

“No, it is I who has had enough. You are planning something, Gwydion, and don’t bother to deny it.”

“I will deny it.”

She went on as though he had not spoken. “It is not that which is the most hurtful. It is that even now, even after all this time, you still cannot bring yourself to be honest with me. What more can I possibly do to show you that you can trust me? What more can I do?”

“Rhiannon,” he began, appalled to see the sudden gleam of angry tears in her eyes. “Rhiannon, I do trust you.”

“You are a liar, Gwydion, and we both know it,” she went on furiously. “How could you say that? You have never trusted me if there was a way around it. Over and over and over again in these past six years I have shown you that you can. But you refuse to. Over and over and over again in these past six years I have hoped that you would see how we could have—”

She broke off as though startled to hear what she was saying.

“How we could have what?” he asked, puzzled.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “It was never anything at all. As you have always strained to make so clear to me.”

“Rhiannon, what are you—”

“Never mind. Never mind any of it. Keep your secrets. I am done trying to make you see that you don’t need to. Done.”

She turned and stalked back to the campfire. Gwydion stood frozen at the edge of the clearing as he stared after her. What had she almost said? Could she have possibly meant—? No, she couldn’t have.

Arthur raised his head again from the fire and looked Gwydion full in the face. And Gwydion saw pity there. And understanding. And he even thought he saw the knowledge of what Gwydion was about to do, but he would never be sure of that.

And Gwydion, knowing that if he did not go now he would not go, knowing that it was far too late to change who he was, knowing, even, that he was being a proud fool, Shape-Moved, causing a bush on the other side of the clearing to rustle loudly.

And as the others around the fire leapt to their feet, drawing their weapons, he slipped away from the clearing like a ghost, rushing to meet the fate that awaited him in another clearing not far away.

R
HIANNON TURNED TO
where Gwydion had stood, slipping her dagger back into its sheath. Whatever had rustled the bushes was gone, and the others began to relax, turning to take their seats next to the fire.

Rhiannon’s eyes darted around the clearing, but Gwydion was gone. “That son of a bitch,” she said softly.

“What do you suppose it is he is planning?” Arthur asked.

“You knew he was planning something?”

“Of course. Since two nights ago. I could swear he left the camp that night to Wind-Ride.”

“But Wind-Ride to who?” she asked. “I believe that too, but who in the world could he have been talking to and what could they have been saying that he would not tell us of it?”

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t know. But I tell you that I don’t like what is happening here tonight one bit. Something is terribly wrong.”