Chapter 13 Gwynedd
Gwynedd
The first telling we were not ordinary was when the flowers in our nursery refused to die.
Our nursemaid, Brica, had placed the vase of winter jasmine beside our bed four months prior, thinking the yellow flowers would brighten the nursery after my mother’s passing.
Every day Brica waited for the flower petals to wilt and bow against the weight of the world, but they never changed, remaining outstretched and coursing with life.
She reached out to touch a petal in marvel.
“These two must be charming the flowers just like the dogs.” Mari, our wet nurse, nodded to the floor, which was a weave of brown and black fur. Every one of my father’s Gordon setters had taken to sleeping in the nursery since our birth. All seven dogs were curled up beneath the cribs.
“And the birds,” Brica noted. Dozens of collared doves, starlings, and wood pigeons had been nesting all along the windowsill outside, placing their homes against the glass. More arrived every day.
“Maybe the wee ones can talk to the animals,” Mari said.
Brica laughed. “Speaking with animals only exists in the legends.”
“So it is my imagination, then?” Mari swept her hand to the window and the floor.
Brica let out a breath, unable to refute her. She knew we were calling the animals but tried to make light of it. “Then we must take good care of these two or they will sic the crows upon us.”
From the window she spied a large group of riders in the distance. The nursery was on the third floor and faced the backside of the lodge near the riverbank. She watched the band walking at a steady pace. “Morken is home.”
The day after my mother’s death my father had gone to his smaller residence in the royal town of Partick, the Kingdom of Strathclyde’s administrative center, where he often stayed for several weeks throughout the year to hold council with the king. This time he had been away for months.
Partick was eighteen miles to the north of Cadzow and took half a day to reach on horseback.
Last night a rider had arrived with the message our father would be returning home.
The lodge had become a beehive of activity as everyone in the village prepared to celebrate his return.
Janneth had been cooking in the kitchens with her helpers since dawn.
The aroma of fresh bread and garlic baking on the hot stones permeated the lodge.
The dogs were already standing and stretching, as if knowing their master’s homecoming was near.
A figure in white robes led the procession. “A Druid is with them,” Brica said in surprise. “An important one from the looks of it.” There was no mistaking the glint of Cathan’s gold headdress and neck plate.
Mari joined her at the window. “I hope Janneth knows the High Druid’s coming or she’ll throw a mighty fit she didn’t make the feast grand enough.”
“I wonder why he’s come.” Brica sounded nervous. “Do you think it’s for the children?”
Mari and Brica gave each other a look of alarm.
Their fears were confirmed when Cathan came up to the nursery, alone, soon after his arrival.
Without a word, he came to our cribs and gently felt our hands, our feet, our faces, and laid his palm on the crown of our heads.
Mari and Brica were both too afraid to speak.
Cathan had many talents. One was to peer into the hearts of a man or woman and know their spirit. “You have been good to them,” he said. “Both of you.”
Brica gave a wispy “thank you,” her eyes riveted to the gold crescent moon around his neck. Cathan looked with a smile to the dogs sitting at attention and the birds on the windowsill. Then he left. Brica and Mari stared at each other in question.
Brica finally said, “What do you think that was about?”
Mari shrugged helplessly. “You must go down to the hall and find out. Is he to take them to his island?” she fretted, twisting the ties of her apron around her finger. “I still have months of milking. I can’t leave Cadzow to go live on an island full of Druids!”
“Calm down, Mari. I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Brica shook her head, unable to fathom the possibility.
Then she saw the ring lying beside me.
“What’s this?” She picked up the ring and held it to the sunlight.
Strange fiery copper riddled the gold. Runelike symbols wrapped around the whole band in an engraving.
The design was unlike anything she’d seen before.
“The High Druid must have dropped it.” She could think of no other reason for its appearance.
“Take it to him,” Mari urged. “It will give you an excuse to find out what is going on.” She motioned frantically with her hands for Brica to go, as if she were an animal to be herded. “Go on! Shoo! Shoo!”
Brica pocketed the ring and hurried downstairs to the Great Hall, her heart now beating furiously both from holding the High Druid’s ring and being tasked to deliver it to him.
Whatever his purpose in the nursery had only confirmed what Brica already knew: Ancient magic coursed through our blood, and the High Druid knew it.
When Brica reached the Great Hall, cheers and laughter were erupting.
Oli was playing a bawdy song to the crowd.
The whole village had come to welcome their chieftain home, and the hall was bursting at its seams. Ale and wine flowed freely down the tables.
A feast was spread on all three tables with platters of roasted game, savories, and sweets.
Even Morken’s Gordon setters had come down to find scraps on the floor.
Morken sat at the head table with Cathan beside him, facing the band of musicians.
Brica made her way to their table, slowing as she drew near.
She steeled her spine and approached. “Excuse me, I believe you accidentally dropped this in Merlin and Gwynedd’s crib.
” She placed the golden ring on the table.
Cathan could only stare at the ring in astonishment. “No. I did not.”
“But . . .” Brica faltered. “The ring was not there before you came.”
Cathan picked it up with a noticeable quiver in his hands. In the firelight the copper-gold glowed with an incandescent hue.
Even my father, thickheaded as an ox, could sense there was something special about the ring. “What is that metal?”
Cathan was staring at the ring’s markings with wonder. “Orichalcum. The lost gold of Atlantis.”
Morken’s startled gaze lifted to his. Stories were still told of the sunken island city. All Bards could recount the epic tale. But no one had ever seen Orichalcum before.
Cathan placed the ring in my father’s hands with great care and folded his fingers over it. “A most precious gift has been bestowed upon your children. Keep the ring safe,” he advised him quietly. “Wait for Merlin or Gwynedd to find it. When they do, bring the children to me.”
Morken barked out a laugh in disbelief. “Your magic took my wife. It cannot have my children.” He pocketed the ring without another word.
The next morning, my father buried the ring deep in the woods where no one could find it. What he did not know is that objects have their own way of being found.
Five years later, the time came. I was running through the forest, past the creek, when something in the ground began calling to me like a song. The sound raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I told my brother, and we scurried like two animals to dig with our hands in the dirt.
I found the ring buried like a golden seed, and I squealed in delight. We decided we would give the ring to my father as a gift. We raced back to the lodge and found him on the field. Merlin ran up to him. “Father! Look! We found a ring for you.”
That is the first clear memory I have of my father—a warrior who commanded armies, being felled by a piece of jewelry.
“Merlin, where did you find this?” he asked in a hushed tone as he knelt beside us.
“Gwynedd found it in the woods.” Merlin pointed to me. “She . . .” He almost said I’d heard it singing but then stopped himself. We’d made a pact to keep our secrets.
My father gave me a searching look. “If I bury this, do you think you can find it again?”
We promised we would try, excited our father was playing a game with us for the first time. He called for his horse, instructing us we could set out to find the ring tomorrow.
The next morning the whispering song led me right to the spot. Even Merlin heard it this time. The melody stirred the leaves around us.
When we returned before midday with the ring, my father was dumbfounded. Two more days he buried the ring. Two more days we retrieved it for him. He then tried destroying the ring with his hammer and melting it in the fires, but the ring was indestructible, and he had to declare defeat.
On his following trip to Partick, he brought us with him. We had no idea why. All he said was Merlin and I were going to visit the Druids and it was a great honor.
The island where they lived was small and their last remaining sanctuary.
A young Druid ferried us across from Partick in a boat.
Never had I seen a more beautiful place.
Thistles, harebells, and primroses bloomed in the gardens, and thousand-year-old oak trees towered above us like guardians.
Ringed around the grove were cottages, and an observatory for the stars rose high above the treeline like a spire.
Cathan descended the stairs from the observatory and greeted us. He wore long robes like a woman, as did many of the men. He led us to his personal library, a vast room full of relics and art, musical instruments, and astronomical tools the likes of which I had never seen before.
Merlin scurried to produce the ring from his pocket and presented it to Cathan with great ceremony. “Father said we were to give this to you.”
“Why, thank you, Merlin.” Cathan placed it on the table. “It appears lost treasure has found its way to you and you to it. Shall we determine why?”
“Is it enchanted?” I asked.
“I would hope so, Gwynedd. I would hope so.” Cathan nodded. “Who is the one who found this ring?”
“I did,” I said. Happy warmth bloomed inside me that he had asked. “What do the symbols mean?”
“They are Atlantean. I believe it means, ‘Know the way.’”
Merlin and I stared at the ring in wonder.
Know the way.
Cathan went on. “One day its purpose will reveal itself to you. Until then, I will keep it safe.”
The ring remained with Cathan for many years until the time came for me to understand its purpose.
I share the story of the ring because it is the same ring on your finger.
A ring with extraordinary power forged to navigate a labyrinth.
A labyrinth in time created millennia ago for one singular purpose:
To protect a song.
A song that can break worlds or make them whole again. An ancient song of such unspeakable power it was split into parts and hidden in time. Now we must reassemble those parts to keep the Earth spinning.
The death of this planet has been orchestrated and foiled many times.
The scope of the ongoing battle between worlds and their dimensions cannot be contained within these pages.
For brevity’s sake, I can only stress if we do not find the song before the Winter Solstice, our world will be lost forever.
So read on and read quickly, and I will tell you what you must do.