Gwydion's thoughts ran him in circles for a long while before he fell asleep, and when he awoke the next morning, he felt as though the chase had continued all night. Questions. Answers. Obfuscation. Lies? She'd been testing his honesty, even after he'd sworn himself to it. What did that say about her own?
The questions continued to tumble over each other, like hounds after a scent, until Achren herself arrived once again at his door.
"Good morning, Warrior." Her greeting was stunningly casual, as though the previous night had laid no secrets bare. The knowing gleam in her eyes, however, mirrored the sharp light of truth.
Another healing session was at hand. This time, Gwydion braced himself for the sensuous deluge of enchantment. He must push back against it, could not allow it to flow any deeper than the healing of his wounds. But every touch unleashed another pulse of that seductive, golden glow. And it beckoned so sweetly, so benignly: imploring him to sink into its arms; promising to sooth his harried mind and body; reminding him of how starved he was for—
No. No. He began to invoke the word over and over in his mind until it built a wall against other thought. No. This was just another game. No. He must not underestimate the danger. No. He must not forget his duty, his purpose, and fall into self-indulgent idleness. No. No. No…
"How much more of this will I need?" he asked, as that defiant voice broke through.
Achren cast him a sideways glance. "More than will please your limited patience, no doubt. Why not enjoy the chance for rest? Have you not earned it?" Unhurriedly, she finished her work and began replacing his bandages.
"I am squandering time," Gwydion protested. "That never sits well with me."
"You are healing," she retorted. "Is that not a worthy use of time?"
With a quiet grunt of displeasure, Gwydion pushed himself upright and tugged back on his under-tunic. "I feel ready to leap out of my own skin," he grumbled.
Achren rolled her eyes ceiling-ward. "Well, I could put you to sleep for the entire time and quiet that frustration. But then I would miss your company, and you would be 'squandering' no less time than you are now. It seems a poor bargain."
Gwydion's scowl remained, and he heaved a sigh as he leaned back against the headboard. His gaze drifted to the tapestries across the room. With a flick of his chin, he gestured their way. "Those are some of the finest I have ever seen," he remarked, with genuine admiration.
Achren looked to them herself, almost luminous with pride. "They are impeccable, aren't they? I have no inclination toward weaving, but I do appreciate the craft."
"I do not recognize the stories, though," Gwydion continued. "Who do they represent?"
Achren's expression turned sly. "What? Do you not recognize your own forefather?" She waved a hand toward the second panel. "That is Belin himself, King of the Sun, come to visit Modron, the spirit of this land."
Surprise washed over Gwydion. "Belin? How have I not heard that tale?"
"Ask those who provided your education." Achren's chin assumed a vaguely haughty tilt. "I imagine at least one of your great bards knows which pile of dust they buried it under." She fell silent for a time, still gazing upon the tapestry, then rose abruptly. "Wait a moment," she said, and headed toward the door.
"Is there risk of me doing otherwise?"
She tossed him an amused glance over her shoulder, but said nothing and did not slow her stride.
Not long thereafter, she returned with a thick, leather-bound tome in hand. She passed it to Gwydion, along with a secretive smile. "Behold," she said, "the wealth of secrets kept from you."
He took the book gently and studied it for a moment, noting the unblemished cover and still-crisp pages. However young or old the tome might be, it had seen little use after its writing.
"You will find the tapestries' stories there, among many others," Achren continued. "Consider it a history lesson; perhaps that will satisfy your craving for usefulness."
Gwydion smile wryly. "One can hope. I thank you, Lady."
"My pleasure. I look forward to hearing what you think of it later. But now," she sighed, "I'm afraid I have more tedious business to attend to. It may occupy me well into the evening; if I cannot join you for supper, I will come afterward to see how you fare."
And so, Gwydion found himself alone once more. Curiosity ignited, he plunged immediately into the book. The text was rather terse and efficient, although not without its own sharp poetry. The lines stood like cliffs and crevasses, hard-edged and forthright, striking immediately with their sheer presence or absence. It was as though the author were thinking, with each pen-stroke, of how much history stood waiting to be told, hovering over their bent back as they scratched quill across vellum. Each word must bear weight. Each sentence must draw blood. Only after Gwydion had been climbing awhile, handhold by foothold, pages high, did he begin to notice the subtleties within the bold contours. When he finally reached the first peak, he saw the full sweep of land that the author had carved out.
It was familiar country: the same heather-mantled slopes and oak-deep valleys he'd traveled in his own time; the same mountain peaks spreading wide shoulders; the same rivers coursing down to the sea. Yet, the people who walked that land were strangers, their names foreign to his tongue and their customs novel. Like all humankind, they strived and struggled—sometimes against each other, and sometimes united against ill fortune. As the book began, their land itself was collapsing under a relentless onslaught…
… Day after day, the winds wailed and the sky wept, until all the earth was mud and even the rivers seemed to drown. Plants rotted in the fields. Starved birds fell from their boughs. Deer's ribs could be counted at one hundred paces. Still, the sun hid its face. The people trudged, and raged, and cowered. They cursed Modron, living essence of their land—then pleaded on their knees for her mercy. They huddled in the frigid darkness of winter and despaired. Yet Modron, herself, was abandoned. She could not kindle the earth with her heat alone, nor stem the endless torrent. She retreated inward and waited, waited, waited for the one her heart called…
At last her lonely ache was answered. From the Summer Country across the sea, Belin voyaged with sunlight on his back and warmth in his embrace. When he touched the shore, life sprang forth under every footstep. The clouds dried their tears. The wind held its breath. Even the sea stilled to a rolling murmur, in envious anticipation.
They were not left wanting. Modron emerged from her retreat to welcome Belin, rebuke upon her tongue but the sweetest of kisses upon her lips. He had been too long in coming; her reward must be the greater for it.
And so it was. The power of their love would have made the mountains tremble if stone but understood the joys of flesh. Their passion flooded the land and swept away death as surely as the rains had flooded it before, leaving vibrancy and greenness in its wake.
In that fertile soil, a child took root. And as that daughter grew, so grew the land. Where Morfydd walked, springs flowed and crops flourished. Where she rustled the limbs of trees, hearty game leapt forth. She taught the people new ways to birth metal from stone, and placed strong tools in every hand.
No longer did brother fight brother or sister against sister, well-fed as they were by the new bounty. They lifted Morfydd up in reverence—child of the earth and sun, born of the beloved ground beneath their feet. They danced her praise beneath fruitful boughs. Crowned her queen with a band of iron upon her brow. Fire made flesh; stone rendered soft; life from light, and soil, and rain—she guided them well, with a firm hand and a golden heart.
In time, she took the wisest of men and sat him beside her as counselor and companion. When one of them bent, the other bore up. When one reached skyward, the other lifted high. Together, they steered the people through days clouded and bright. And from among their children, the people chose their next queen—and from hers, the queen to follow. On and on, as the trees of the sacred groves laid down ring upon ring, the daughters of Modron and Belin governed and guarded their land…
Gwydion turned page after page, watching as each queen rose and reigned, and named her king, and passed her crown on to the next. Hours slipped by as stealthily as owl wings, all unnoticed. Only when his stomach growled did Gwydion realize that it must be near midday, if not already past. He ought to make some effort to stretch his legs again. With some reluctance, he closed the book and set it carefully aside.
His limbs were stiff as he clambered from the bed, but stronger even than the day before. The pain, too, had dulled from hot dagger points to a persistent but tolerable ache. Encouraged, he decided it was time to venture beyond the plush prison of his room—provided Achren's guards would permit it. He downed some of the breakfast left for him, long since gone cold, and hastened to don his outer clothes and boots. After some debate between caution and causing offense, he buckled on his sword as well.
The manservant tasked with waiting on him was sitting in the anteroom, as expected. He sprang to his feet and bowed deeply as Gwydion approached, but stepped back with equal alacrity when the prince waved him aside. Likewise, the two guards standing watch beyond the door acknowledged Gwydion respectfully, but made no attempt to bar his passage. They did, however, follow a few paces behind as he slowly made his way along the short corridor to the stair tower.
At the threshold, he paused. Up or down? Upward, perhaps; a high view of the place would help guide later exploration below. No sooner had he placed his foot on the stair, however, than he heard a stern grunt from one of the guards. Gwydion turned to face him.
"Not that way," the man growled. "Those are the queen's quarters."
"Where am I permitted?" Gwydion inquired coolly.
"Nearly anywhere else."
"Then why follow me?"
"For your safety, my lord."
Gwydion gave a curt laugh. "Of course—for my safety."
"Yes, Lord. You are free to see what you will, but there are those Her Majesty would prefer not to see you."
Gwydion's eyes narrowed. "Such as…?"
"Visitors."
"Of what sort?"
"Those having business with the queen."
"And do many such visitors pass through here?"
"Enough."
"I see," Gwydion replied, seeing mostly that he'd learn little of value from the guards. He turned around on the narrow landing, bracing himself against the wall for support. "Downward it is, then," he muttered, and proceeded to descend, step by cautious step.
Just one floor down, the stairway ended, forcing him out into another corridor, which ended in a second stair tower. Multiple passages branched off from that one, above and below, at angles so odd that the stair landings felt like mere cliff ledges. Proceeding upward brought Gwydion to a wall-walk that traversed the inner and outer wards, which led to another stair, which finally granted him access to a high watchtower. Truly, he thought, the place was as much of a maze at it had appeared from his bedroom window—and just as gloomy. Although the wing that housed the guest rooms and royal apartments had been plastered, whitewashed, and impeccably kept, not so the rest. The remainder of the castle was as bare and haggard inside as out. More than a few bird nests and enterprising weeds tufted from unrepaired gaps in the mortar. Handrails were missing along several stretches of stair, and every corner and ledge sported thick mantles of dust.
For all that the guard had claimed he was free to wander, Gwydion couldn't help but think that Achren had not intended for him to see this ragged underbelly of her stronghold. He thought back to his luxurious quarters, the sumptuous meals, the gleaming game pieces, Achren's fine gowns and gaudy display of jewelry… No, she had not expected for him to wander much beyond his room—at least, not yet.
Whatever that might mean, however, could wait. He tucked it into the back of his mind and surveyed his broader surroundings instead. The tall, gray fortress stood sentry upon the crest of a rugged hill, which fell away steeply on many sides. Much of the land below had been cleared, but a cluster of forest still huddled close to the sheerest hillside. Farther out, southward and eastward, he spied the rolling fields of the Valley Cantrevs. To the west, the Forest of Idris spread wide before the looming, hazy shadows of the crags that bounded Annuvin. Yes, he was in fact at Spiral Castle, Achren's primary stronghold; she'd not spirited him away to some lesser-known fortress in unfamiliar territory. That was boon, at least; if he managed to get beyond the outer walls, he could disappear quickly into land he knew so well.
He turned his attention to the castle itself. Its layout made a bit more sense from the higher vantage point, and he managed to locate the main structures within the jumble of smaller workshops and outbuildings. The great hall stood high-windowed and proud at one end of the outer ward. At the opposite end rose a stout and menacing gate house, which no doubt housed a sizable garrison. Gwydion spent a fair amount of time committing the placement and function of every building to memory, taking special note of the darker corners and alleys that might conceal his—or others'—comings and goings.
All was fairly quiet at the moment; just the daily routine of any castle. But then, as his gaze swept again past the great hall, a flash of regal blue caught his eye. There, being led into the hall by Achren's Chief Steward, was a short, sturdily-built man in attire clearly meant to impress.
Gwydion recognized him. As fleeting as the glimpse had been, he could not mistake Lord Cenau, a prominent figure at the court of Cantrev Penllyn in the north. His jaw clenched. There was no legitimate business to be had with Achren. But was Cenau here on his cantrev king's orders? Or behind his back?
For half a moment, Gwydion had a mind to follow after the man and see if aught could be overheard. Then he remembered his less-than-stealthy gait and the guards besides, and swallowed his urge for action. He would root out the truth as soon as he was able. For that matter, why not begin the search that very evening, with Achren herself?
As anticipated, the enchantress was late to arrive.
"Forgive me," she said as she swept in and joined Gwydion where he sat beside the fire. "Try as I might, I could not seem to hurry matters along today…"
"Your talks with Lord Cenau, you mean?" Gwydion kept his tone light, but he watched keenly for Achren's response.
Indeed, a fleeting wave of surprise rippled the surface of her calm. "You saw him?" she asked flatly. "Or was one of my servants presumptuously talkative?"
Gwydion chuckled. "Your servants are never talkative. No, I took a short walk this afternoon to test my strength. I spotted him entering the great hall."
"Did he see you?"
Gwydion shook his head. "I was atop one of the watchtowers. His attention was elsewhere."
Hearing that, Achren appeared to relax slightly. "So you managed a walk…" she noted. "You heal remarkably quickly; I expected you to be mostly abed for a full week, at least." The trace of a cold smile frosted her lips. "Perhaps the blood of Don and Belin runs stronger in you than might be expected after so many generations." She eased back in her chair. "But that is well. You must be pleased to regain some freedom."
"Certainly," he replied. Then, sensing Achren's attempt to bend the flow of conversation, he steered it back to his course. "Do you often have dealings with the cantrev lords and kings?"
Again, he felt her bristle. "From time to time," she acknowledged.
"To what end?"
She pursed her lips coyly. "You wish me to divulge private matters? That is not a very honorable request."
"Generally speaking," he amended. "What sort of business do they have with you?"
"Business that pays." She paused for a moment, until his staunch gaze goaded her into clarifying, dismissively, "A favor here, a minor spell there…"
"Or the gateway to an audience with Arawn, perhaps?"
Her expression hardened. "What do you think?" she answered drily. "You know full well that not all the lords of this land think well of the House of Don. Are you surprised that they might seek other alliances?"
Gwydion shook his head faintly. "Disappointed—but not surprised. The dragon of war has been stoking its fire of late. I've felt its breath as surely as in the air before battle; men are forming their lines."
"It is a perpetual story," Achren replied with a shrug. "Intrigue and bloodshed, subterfuge and treachery… that is what comes of holding a stolen land."
Her choice of words caught Gwydion's attention like a hook. "Stolen?" he asked, choosing to take the bait.
"Stolen," she reiterated.
"From whom? Arawn? 'Rescued' seems a more accurate term."
"Rescued, perhaps, but not returned to its rightful sovereign. And thus, stolen."
A glint of steel had entered Achren's eyes and voice. Gwydion held his silence, awaiting the explanation he knew she planned to give.
"You read the book I gave you?" she continued.
"Much of it."
"Then you now know the origin of my lineage. This land is my birthright; its very essence courses through my veins. After the Sons of Don helped wrest it from Arawn, it was meant to return to me. They kept it for themselves instead."
Gwydion's brow furrowed. "I do not understand..."
A few breaths passed before Achren continued; her tone softened, but lost none of its force. "Did you never ponder why your ancestors came to Prydain in the first place?" she asked. "Do you think they simply tired of their deathless existence in the Summer Country? That they just happened to arrive at a time when Arawn's grip was choking this land to death?" She leaned forward in her chair, as if to whisper a secret, but thrust the answer toward him like a spear instead. "They came at my behest."
For a moment, Gwydion was too stunned to respond. Then, the questions tumbled forth. "Why turn to them? How, from so far away? And what would compel them to answer?"
She straightened again in her chair. "Blood ties are strong, and magic even stronger," she said. "I need not send a ship to send a message—and Belin himself commanded them to answer it. His love for Modron, and her land and people, are no less than his love for Don and hers. When he learned that Arawn had overthrown me, had gained the Black Crochan and amassed an army of deathless Cauldron-Born, had begun to ravage all of Prydain, he could not stand idly by. He sent his sons, my cousins, to my aid."
"That explains why they came to Prydain, and why they fought against Arawn," Gwydion interjected, "but not your accusation of thievery."
"We made and sealed a binding vow: when Arawn was defeated, I would return to the throne and they must return to the Summer Country. But, in my foolish trust of them, I overlooked a subtle flaw in that agreement. Together, we pushed Arawn back—but we failed to defeat him fully. As such, they were not required to leave."
"A mere formality—"
"That did not stop them from exploiting it."
"But why deal with you so underhandedly?"
Achren laughed without mirth. "Why indeed? Power is a tempting thing. All the more so to them, I would think, since they had no hope of acquiring it in their homeland. Don and Belin, eternal queen and consort, would never cede their thrones."
By then, Gwydion's thoughts were reeling. The ancient ground he thought he knew so well seemed to have shuddered and tilted beneath his feet, warping all landmarks. It took him a moment to regain his footing. Even then, all he could manage was to wonder aloud, quietly, "Why was I never told of this?"
"Why would you be?" she retorted. "It is far more convenient to gloss over how and why the Sons of Don came to rule Prydain; to paint me as a bygone tyrant with no clear claim to the throne, Arawn as the skulking enemy, and themselves as the noble heroes who safeguard the land. And truly honorable man that you are, it would not occur to you to question that."
Gwydion inhaled deeply and exhaled heavily, as if a great and unbalanced weight had settled upon his shoulders. He leaned back in his own chair, as if its stout frame might brace him. "You give me much to think over," he said at last, ruefully.
"Truly," Achren agreed. "It has never ceased churning in my own mind."
Silence wrapped around them, then, as taught and heavy as rope, binding them together in mutual contemplation. It hung there for quite some time, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire that leapt and flickered in rebellious counterpoint. Gwydion continued to sit within it, wading through his thoughts, long after Achren had departed for the night.
Such a play of light and shadow, he mused, staring into the life-giving but equally lethal flames. They illuminate so much—yet never as clearly as the light of day... A warning seemed to dance within those flames, and it was not one he took lightly. Yet, nor could he glean any answers from them. In one hand, he held the so-called truth he had learned from the bards; in the other, the truth that Achren had given him. But the real truth… that hovered in the space between, in the gap still cloaked by shifting darkness. How could he step wisely forward if he could not bring that truth to light?