Ch. 3: Return

Plucking a few chords on his harp, Taliesin laid the instrument on the table and picked up his quill to mark changes on the parchment before him. It was several days after his talk with Arianwen, and he was composing a poem while setting it to music. So intense was his concentration that he started upon hearing a familiar voice from the doorway.

"Father?"

On the threshold stood a bearded man wrapped in a travel-stained cloak. Throwing down his pen, Taliesin reached him in several strides.

"Adaon!" The two embraced, laughing. Taliesin finally detached himself and, placing his hands on his son's shoulders, held him at arm's length to see him better.

"Don't look too closely," begged Adaon, smiling. "And do not fear: I plan to get rid of this thing"—he touched the beard—"as soon as possible. It was, however, difficult to shave on the road. I would also welcome a bath." He wrinkled his nose slightly. "I washed as best I could in streams, but there is only so much one can do to keep clean that way."

Some time later Adaon emerged from the luxury of a warm bath and shave feeling considerably refreshed. While he had tried not to be taken aback by the beard—after all a common style for men—Taliesin was nonetheless relieved to see once more the sensitive planes of his son's face. Adaon, meanwhile, thanked his father for lending him some clothes so the ones he brought back could be washed and mended.

"My things were getting a bit threadbare," Adaon admitted, "although this, being new, is in good repair." He reached into his pack and held up a gray cloak edged with an intricately patterned border. Lifting out a similar garment in green, he handed it to his father. "This one is for you."

"Did you weave these yourself?" Taliesin asked admiringly. Seeing his son nod, he said, "Arianllyn will be excited to see what you have learned."

He had mentioned her without thinking, not as a ploy to bring the young woman to Adaon's attention but because it was natural to speak about her in connection with weaving. The effect of his comment upon Adaon, though, relieved Taliesin's suspense regarding his son's feelings about Arianllyn. Upon hearing her name, the young man's countenance became as radiant as hers had been upon hearing of his return. Swiftly, though, anxiety chased joy from his face. "How is Arianllyn?" Adaon breathed. "Is she well? Is she—" He broke off.

"Yes?" Taliesin prompted, trying not to sound too interested.

"Is she—I mean, has she had any suitors while I've been gone?" Taliesin was not used to Adaon stumbling over his words, but he now knew the reason for his son's awkwardness.

"She has had suitors," Taliesin admitted, adding quickly upon seeing Adaon pale, "though she's sent them all packing." He smiled. "In the gentlest of manners, of course."

Relief flooded Adaon's face. "Father, do you think I could—" His words were interrupted by a knock at the door. A servant entered, handing a sheet of parchment to Taliesin, who upon scanning it, announced, "News travels fast. The High King and Prince Gwydion have heard of your return and desire us to sit with them at the king's table tonight, as they wish to hear more of your travels. King Math also says"—he peered closely at the old man's writing—"that he is sending several tailors with some clothes they can alter at short notice for you to wear this evening. I suppose," he glanced down at his own plain garb, "I had better change into something more festive too. Lord Gwydion can rarely be bothered to wear rich attire, but the High King does have a fondness for it on special occasions. Apparently he considers this one of them."

Emotions clashed on Adaon's face. He looked disappointed—Taliesin suspected he had wanted to see Arianllyn immediately—though at the same time amazed that his homecoming would earn an invitation to the High King's table.

There is, in any event, no quarrelling with royalty. And, since the tailors were at the door almost before the messenger who bore the dinner invitation had left, Adaon had little opportunity to see anyone before evening. Feeling conspiratorial, Taliesin left the chamber to send a note to Arianwen informing her of Adaon's return and warning her that, due to the dinner with the High King, he probably would not be able to visit properly with Arianllyn until the morrow. Then, replacing his gray jacket with one of green velvet, Taliesin returned to the unusual sight of his son being fitted with fine clothes. It was not that Adaon possessed nothing beyond the plain garb favored by himself and his father, but he certainly had never had occasion to wear anything so impressive as the garments being prepared for him. When the tailors had completed their work, Taliesin was stunned by the contrast between the traveler wrapped in a dusty, stained cloak he had seen only that morning and the youth clad like a prince who now stood before him. Tastefully understated rather than ostentatious, the new jacket of deep blue cloth, shot with gold thread, brilliantly complemented Adaon's black hair and gray eyes. Taliesin looked forward to seeing Arianllyn's face when she laid eyes on his son.

Indeed, when father and son entered the Great Hall that evening, Adaon scanned the room as if searching for one particular face. He was slow in finding it, because so many people waved him over to welcome him back. Though obviously glad to see them, Adaon just as obviously strove to contain his impatience at the delay. Finally, he spotted the person he was looking for, and rushed to her side.

"Arianllyn!" Although the young woman was not as richly dressed as Adaon, she had taken greater pains than usual with her attire. Her hair was arranged in a more elaborate style than her characteristic braid, and the gown she wore, though deceptively simple, was a stellar example of her work at the loom. Arianllyn had a trick of interweaving many-colored threads so that cloth would appear a solid color when seen from one angle, but upon being viewed from another would shift into the iridescence of a rainbow. More than once Taliesin wondered if she had, on her own, rediscovered the secret skills of weavers that Arawn had stolen long ago. At any rate, when she leaned forward in her seat to greet Adaon, the green hue of her gown, which reminded Taliesin of herbs in a spring garden, glowed with glittering strands of blues and purples. The gaze—as shining as her garment—which she bestowed on the young man was every bit as warm as that he turned delightedly on her. Sitting next to Arianllyn, Arianwen, who had apparently noticed the look on Adaon's face, gave Taliesin a sunny smile of triumph over her daughter's head. Taliesin grinned.

Adaon had, however, only a moment to assure Arianllyn he would see her as soon as he could before proceeding to the head of the table where sat the High King and Prince Gwydion. Over the course of the dinner Taliesin had to jump into the conversation himself at several points so that Adaon could eat, because otherwise the young man would have been kept talking the entire time. One of the things Taliesin admired most about the aged King Math was his concern about the well-being of his humblest subjects, and the white-bearded ruler peppered Adaon with questions about the living conditions of the folk at whose sides he had labored on his travels. As he listened, Taliesin marvelled at all his son had accomplished, and noted with approval the humility with which he spoke of the hosts who had taken him in and taught him their crafts. While they were beneath him in birth, he evidently considered them not only his equals but, in many ways, his superiors. Adaon described the courage and determination with which the farmers of Prydain brought forth harvests when faced with daunting obstacles—the loss of the skills Arawn had stolen from them as well as the often arid soil which needed much coaxing to support crops. In the Free Commots, at least, war did not devastate the earth as much as it did in the rest of Prydain, where the frequent tussels of cantrev lords laid waste to all in their path. Yet even in the Commots bands of roving outlaws raided crops and villages. "If only a more secure peace came to this land," Adaon said, "we could do much to prevent the hunger and despair that spur such violence, as well as bring forth a richer harvest."

As Adaon spoke, Taliesin became aware of Lord Gwydion watching his son closely. Typically, the Prince of Don was more sparing of words than his voluble uncle. Yet the intensity with which he regarded Adaon was eloquent, if unsettling. Something like sorrow or even remorse stirred in the prince's green-flecked eyes, as if, even as he assessed the young man's abilities, he regretted his need to do so. Icy needles of fear chased up Taliesin's spine just as sleet drives against windows on a stormy night. Whether these shivers of unrest were caused by his poet's sensitivity to the emotions around him, or to his latent magic abilities, Taliesin could not tell. All he knew was that his chest tightened as he realized that, unless he were much mistaken, Gwydion would soon ask Adaon to fight for him again. He recalled Adaon's account of Gwydion's words before he left on his travels: "I wasn't sure if he'd need me again anytime soon. He's not sure either, but he wants me to do first what I have to." Recently, there had been signs that Arawn was finally flexing his muscles, drawing to him new adherents among the cantrev lords who might help escalate the conflict between Annuvin and the rest of Prydain. Rumors abounded of a terrifying war leader who might be the Death Lord's special champion. Given the mounting tensions, it was only too likely that Adaon would once again be called upon to join Gwydion's battle host.

Taliesin tried not to let his dismay show. He had, after all, to have expected this to happen, given the warrior culture he inhabited and its current emergencies. Yet like his son he yearned for peace, which in addition to other blessings would put an end to the constant worry that a male child would not survive his youth but fall, untimely, in battle. Sighing to himself, the Chief Bard moved disquiet to the back of his mind. Better by far to concentrate on the joy at hand than to fear the ever-uncertain future.

Even as he steeled himself to look as if nothing was bothering him, however, he heard something that caused him to smile without effort. The High King was thanking Adaon not only for the information he had imparted but for his hardihood in undertaking so ambitious and grueling a quest to begin with.

"You have done well, Son of Taliesin," Math said approvingly. He smiled. "And, I understand that during these two years you have been without a horse?"

Looking mildly surprised at this turn in the conversation, Adaon replied, "Indeed, sire, it would not have been easy for me to take a horse to some places I travelled. I would not," he laughed, "have relished bringing one on board a fishing vessel!"

"As I suspected," replied Math. "Then, now that you no longer have to concern yourself with boarding a horse on a ship, you will, I hope, do me the favor of allowing me to remedy your lack of a mount. I have a bay mare named Lluagor, a swift and proud animal bred of my own best steeds. She is yours."

Adaon rose and bowed deeply to the king. "Sire, I cannot thank you enough—"

"Except by enjoying my gift," Math finished for him. "Tomorrow go to my stables. A groom will introduce you two."

"And now," he continued, "before you leave us tonight, tell me something else. Did you have a harp with you on your travels? It is not," he said, smiling, "as if I am about to gift you with an instrument as well as a horse. Harps are your father's domain! But I wondered if you had a chance to compose any new songs on your travels. I understand that you had been writing some fine ones before you left."

"I did not have a harp with me," said Adaon, "though I was able to borrow one now and again. And, yes, I did write new songs, although without my own harp I had not as much chance to perfect them as I would have liked."

"Would you share one of them with us now?" asked the king. Adaon nodded. Taliesin quickly sent a servant to fetch his own harp from his chambers, marveling all the while at his son's lack of self-consciousness. Were the king to have asked him, at Adaon's age, to perform a song he had not been able to practice much he would have been rather nervous. If such was his feeling, though, Adaon hid it admirably. When the servant handed him the instrument, he stepped to the floor in front of the High King, tuned the harp, and brought it to his shoulder, closing his eyes as he did so. Irresistibly, Taliesin was reminded of his mother Cerys at her bardic exams, preparing to perform a song that stunned the Council of Bards with its beauty. Indeed, whenever he watched Adaon play the harp Taliesin most strongly perceived his resemblance to his mother. With his black hair and gray eyes, Adaon looked more obviously like his father (whose hair had been dark in his youth) than like Cerys, who had had light brown hair and gray-green eyes. Yet as Adaon sang Taliesin saw, as if in a shifting mirror, the lines of Cerys's face blending with that of her son.

The song that Adaon performed in the hushed Great Hall also reminded Taliesin of the composition Cerys sang at her exams, except that hers had been sad—a lament of a queen mourning her lost lover—and Adaon's was joyful, not a lay of battle or a song about anything at all except the beauty of the world. Yet, just as Cerys's voice and the tones of her harp had mingled so as to melt the hearer's heart, so too did Adaon's song and the vibrating chords soar as one in the lofty hall. When he had finished, there was a moment of silence before applause broke out. Upon hearing it, Adaon looked briefly embarrassed for the first time. Then, returning the harp to his father, he bowed to the royal family and left the Great Hall. On his way out, he stopped by Arianllyn, who, when Taliesin had glanced at her during Adaon's song, had looked as if she could scarce contain her love and pride. Now she beamed as Adaon invited her to come to the paddock the next morning to see Lluagor with him. Arianwen tried, and failed, not to look too smug at this turn of events.

The next morning Taliesin and Adaon arrived at the stables first and exclaimed with delight over the beautiful, and imposingly noble, bay mare. She took at once to Adaon, who led her out to the nearby paddock and, saddling her, rode its circuit a few times for them to get used to each other. Much as he admired his son's exceptional maturity and wisdom, Taliesin was glad to see Adaon as aglow as any youth with boyish enthusiasm over his new prize. As his son dismounted and led Lluagor to the paddock fence to tell his father excitedly how marvelous she was, Taliesin saw Arianllyn approaching and tactfully absented himself, saying he would come back in an hour or two to remind the young people of the midday meal. Somehow, he thought, they were not likely to be too concerned with such matters themselves.

As Taliesin left, Arianllyn approached Adaon smiling. Since the previous evening—including some hours in the night when she had been too excited to sleep—she hoped she had not misinterpreted the look on Adaon's face when he saw her again.. To behold him before her now, after his long absence, was like a dream—although thinking of dreams made her blush when she remembered the ones she had recently been having. It seemed even more unreal when Adaon invited her to ride behind him on Lluagor as they cantered around the paddock.

Yes, thought Arianllyn, this is unreal and real at the same time. Unreal, because it's marvelous after so long a separation to sit thus, spanning the waist of one's beloved; real, because fantasies don't feel so solid as this. There is, after all, something undeniably corporeal about a waist—even the waist of a lean person like Adaon.

Yet, while there are great pleasures riding behind one's beloved, there are drawbacks as well. For one thing, since one can only stare at his back one has limited opportunities for gauging his expression. Being unable to see Adaon's face made Arianllyn uncertain whether she dared clasp his waist more tightly or even lay her head against his shoulder. Were he not to feel about her as she did about him he could find such attentions disconcerting. So she contented herself—and there are less satisfying experiences—with drinking in the soft spring air while she gazed at his cloak.

This last activity, however, turned out to be more interesting than she could have imagined. When they dismounted, Arianllyn questioned him about the garment.

"Did you weave this yourself?" she asked.

"Yes," Adaon admitted, "though it is not nearly so good as anything you would do."

"It's not bad at all," Arianllyn said encouragingly. Holding her breath as she dared an intimate gesture, she leaned forward and traced with her finger the pattern of the border around his collar. "I like what you did here," she said, "it's lovely, and not at all the sort of thing that's easy for a beginner."

He was about to reply when a young man hailed Arianllyn as he strode toward the paddock.

He was tall, with a thin, sensitive face, startlingly blue eyes, and longish brown hair that, at the moment, looked interestingly windswept. As he approached Adaon and Arianllyn, his smile faltered as he glanced from one to the other.

"Hello, Arianllyn," he said a bit stiffly.

"Hello, Llawdden," she replied with a small smile. The two young men gazed warily at each other over Arianllyn's head. In the paddock behind them, Lluagor serenely cropped the grass.

"Greetings, Llawdden," said Adaon, without, however, his usual warmth. As if noting this, he asked more heartily "How are you? It's good to see you again."

Llawdden looked as if he were not at all sure he could say the same about Adaon. "Welcome back," he finally brought out. Then, turning to Arianllyn, he said, "I hoped I could accompany you on a walk in the gardens this afternoon."

She smiled a bit wearily. "That's a lovely idea, Llawdden, but I am not sure I have time today." She waited for him to take the hint and leave. She was not looking at Adaon, though if she had she might have been reassured about his feelings for her. He seemed distinctly unenthralled by Llawdden's proposal.

"Well," Llawdden finally said, "I hope we can get a walk in soon. Remember, I really would appreciate it if you could quiz me again about those dratted runes." He noted Adaon's blank stare and explained. "I've asked Arianllyn to help me prepare for my bardic exams, which I'm taking in about a month. She's been very kind in helping me out with the runes, as well as with memorizing those pages of dates." He considered a moment and then asked, "Is that why you've come home, Adaon? To take your examinations?"

Adaon gave the smallest of sighs. "No, Llawdden," he replied, "not yet. I still have things I hope to learn."

Llawdden looked puzzled. He seemed suddenly not so much a potential rival as a bewildered friend. "I don't understand. You can't fear that your father would be harder on you so that people would think he was being fair, do you? I'm sure he wouldn't—"

"No," said Adaon, patiently. "I don't think that. I just feel I need to wait."

Llawdden looked politely uncomprehending. "Well," he said, "I'd better be off now. Arianllyn, I truly could use your help soon—I'm getting jumpy, you know, now that the exams are fast approaching." He bowed to her and strode off.

There was a moment's awkward silence. Finally, Adaon spoke.

"You have an admirer." Belatedly, he seemed to realize he was frowning and tried to look as if he were teasing her, as they been wont to do before his departure.

"Yes," said Arianllyn, "he is a bit of a pest. Oh, he's very nice and all, but he can't take a hint. It's not that he isn't clever—quite the opposite—but he's tone-deaf when it comes to me. He begged me to help him with his exams—because I know so much,he says—and now I'm not sure how to ask him to stop seeing me. If I do it before his exams, I'm afraid he'll fall apart altogether. He really has been getting terribly nervous."

"Certainly, though, in all this time," Adaon asked, striving for a light tone,"you have had other admirers as well?"

Arianllyn looked at him sharply. "And you?" she asked. "What about you? In all your travels was there no one you were taken with?"

Adaon was about to speak when Taliesin came up. Seeing the tense glances passing between the young people, he looked as if he regretted his timing. "I thought you two might be hungry by now," he explained apologetically.

Arianllyn thanked him but excused herself. "I need to go back to the castle." She walked away swiftly. Taliesin tried not to look too curious about what had happened. He helped Adaon lead Lluagor back to the stables, noting his son's preoccupied air. As they walked back to the castle, Adaon questioned him.

"So," he asked, "is it true that Llawdden will be taking his bardic exams shortly? He seems to be preparing for them with Arianllyn."

Taliesin looked wary, as if he realized they were treading on several types of shaky ground. "Yes," he said quietly, "Llawdden has been studying with Arianllyn, though I gather he was the one who asked her, not the other way around. And he will be taking his examinations in a month. I shall be grateful," he admitted wryly, "for him to have them over with. I'm tired of him scuttling away like a frightened rabbit every time he sees me. He apparently thinks I am going to eat him alive when he appears before the council. Really, I'm sure he'll do quite well."

Adaon gave a forced laugh. "What, Father," he said, "are you neglecting an opportunity to urge me to take my own bardic exams?"

Taliesin halted, so that Adaon was obliged to stop too. "Adaon!" His voice was reproachful. "I said nothing!"

Adaon closed his eyes a moment and, when he opened them, looked both contrite and embarrassed. "I beg your pardon," he murmured. "I am not sure what came over me."

Ah, thought Taliesin, but I am. You're comparing yourself with a rival for Arianllyn's affections—and one, moreover, about to do something I would love you to do.

Aloud he said, "Think nothing of it. Shall we get something to eat?"

Reaching her chamber in the castle, Arianllyn only refrained from slamming the door with difficulty. Her mother, fortunately, was not in their rooms at the moment. Arianllyn would not have welcomed maternal fussing over her flustered state.

What, precisely, had gone wrong? She and Adaon had been having a wonderful time riding Lluagor, and then everything had turned sour. It hadn't helped that Llawdden had barged in, paying unwanted attentions to her as usual. Of course, if Adaon had been jealous of the young man, that would be a good sign. But did Adaon care about her in that way? His face had been so alight with joy when he saw her yesterday evening; but then Adaon naturally was a joyful person. And they had always been close—in that brother and sister way, of course. Although Adaon had seemed a bit put out by Llawdden's interest in her, he had gone on to tease her about her admirers in that old friendly tone they had so often used with each other in the past. Really, it was all so confusing.

Racking her brains to think how she could find out for certain what Adaon felt about her, Arianllyn remembered what she had heard about his mother Cerys. In an attempt to gauge his feelings regarding herself, Cerys had asked Taliesin for extra langage lessons. Then, when she realized he was too honorable to reveal his love while she was under his tutelage, she had ended the instruction and immediately made known her own desire. For a woman to take the initiative in such matters was highly unconventional, even shocking. Needless to say, Arianllyn had no patience with such old-fashioned attitudes. But she did have to admire Cerys's nerve in risking rejection by revealing her own love before she could be fully certain of Taliesin's.

It would appear, Arianllyn thought, that she had to take a leaf out of Cerys's book. Not to ask Adaon for lessons in anything—nor to offer him any, which given her expertise in a field he was seeking to learn would make more sense. She smiled at the image of her instructing Adaon at the loom. Given the way she felt at the moment, she would have much ado to keep from rapping his knuckles with her distaff. No, what she would have to do was to speak first—and risk the consequences. She might feel a fool if Adaon had never really moved beyond brother and sister love, but at least she would know where she stood.

Hmm, mused Arianllyn, how to manage this? She would not dine tonight in the Great Hall—there wasn't any privacy there anyway—but with her mother in their chambers. If Arianwen fussed over why Arianllyn should choose to absent herself from a space inhabited by Adaon, there was no harm filling her in on the plan. Arianwen would relish such scheming, anyway. Yes, Arianllyn would tell her mother she meant to give Adaon something to puzzle over. If he were genuinely in love with her he would worry about the meaning of her absence and be all the more likely to reveal his feelings when they next met. Then, the following morning, Arianllyn would pay him a little visit. She marvelled at her matter-of-fact unscrupulousness. It was amazing how easy it was to leave the man she adored cooling his heels while she waited for the perfect moment to spring upon him the news of her love.

Gwydion Prince of Don saw Adaon and his father—both in their usual plain attire—enter the Great Hall for dinner that evening. When the young man had seated himself his eyes travelled over the faces in the room, a small crease of worry or concern between his brows. Gwydion smiled. Having noticed him speaking to Arianllyn the evening before, he had a notion whom Adaon was seeking. Then, thinking of the visit he would pay after dinner to Taliesin's son, Gwydion sighed. He hated what he had to do.

When he was admitted later that evening to Taliesin's chambers—father and son bowing as he entered—he sensed immediately both men knew why he had come. Taliesin's normally serene expression was oddly closed, as if he were striving to contain his emotions. Meanwhile, regarding his prince all the while with his clear gray eyes—so like his father's—Adaon sank to one knee.

"I am at your command," he smiled. "Where are we going?"

Gwydion raised the young man and steered both father and son toward the table in the center of the room. When they had all seated themselves—Taliesin still looking grave—Gwydion filled them in.

"You are probably aware—at least you are, Taliesin, since you have not been traveling like your son—that in the last few months there have been strange disturbances, like embers that fan into flame, in parts of Prydain. All these years, of course, Arawn has not been twiddling his thumbs; there have been the attacks by Cauldron-Born or Huntsmen, the cases of cantrev lords seduced by the Death-Lord's promises, like the one Adaon fought with me several years ago. Yet—for all the tragic havoc they have wreaked—these have been relatively isolated strikes. But now we hear of larger, more vicious attacks, the more puzzling because the warriors who perpetrate them have no obvious leader. Nor are there clear signs the Huntsmen or Cauldron-Born are involved."

"We will, of course," Gwydion continued, "need to find out who is behind all this. In the meanwhile, though, villages and cantrevs require protection. I am fortunate in my allies: King Morgant of Madoc and King Smoit of cantrev Cadiffor have both sworn to aid me. I hope to call, too, on another gallant friend." He smiled. "That is, if I can pin him down. He spends much of the year as a wandering bard, although I fear"—he turned to Taliesin—"he did not pass his examinations some years back. His tongue has a tendency to run away with him—though it is no exaggeration to say his courage is of the highest."

"Ah," Taliesin murmured, a smile lighting his hitherto somber face, "Fflewddur Fflam, is it not?"

"Indeed it is," replied Gwydion, "though I hope I have not done him a bad turn in telling you he is living like a bard without actually being one."

"What was that, Lord Gwydion?" asked Taliesin. "I believe my ears are not what they used to be. I did not hear a word you just said." Then, when Gwydion and Adaon had laughed, he went on, "Not as if I can stop people who own harps from wandering around playing them. Even if they are somewhat unusual harps," he added, more to himself.

As Gwydion rose to leave, he said to Adaon, "We leave for the west of here in several days. I am truly sorry to cut short your homecoming." He paused, then looked intently at the young man. "Perhaps," he went on softly, "there is business you should attend to before you leave. I may not seem best suited to offer advice in such matters. But believe me when I say one should never lose a chance to speak one's truest feelings."

After the Prince of Don had left, Taliesin dared not look at Adaon. True, he hoped to speak of Arianllyn with his son—and quickly—but he hoped not to have to raise the matter himself. If only we did not muffle our desires with so many layers of self-doubt, he thought. Well, maybe Adaon had finally gotten the point.

The next morning Adaon accompanied his father to the Hall of Lore and sat opposite him, as—long ago—he had been wont to do for lessons. After Lord Gwydion had left the night before, Adaon had said nothing other than urging his father not to worry overmuch about him once he left with the prince. Now, the young man seemed on the verge of speaking. Finally, he did.

"Father, may I ask your advice . . . " But before he could finish came a knock at the door. Arianllyn entered, looking pale but determined. She twisted her clasped hands in front of her, then took a deep breath.

"Good morning," she announced. "Taliesin, I hope you will excuse me if I borrow your son for a while. Adaon," she said firmly, "please come to the garden with me." She took the young man by the hand and led him out the door without a word. Adaon looked more dazed than Taliesin had ever seen him.

What was it, thought Taliesin, shaking his head after the young people had left, that made the men of this household—brilliant though they were—need their women to take them in hand to show them the truth of their own hearts?

Smiling, he cast about for something to pretend to do while he waited for Adaon and Arianllyn's return.

Arianllyn did not halt until she came to a bench in the garden near the herb patch where, long ago, she and Adaon had weeded on a summer's day as he had told her about his mother's death. She remembered how, the sad talk over, they had gone on to hope their parents would fall in love. While those wedding plans had not worked out, Arianllyn thought, maybe the ones she now cherished would.

She motioned Adaon to sit on the bench. Then, she knelt in front of him—he not so much dazed now as devouring her with his eyes—and spoke.

"Adaon." She took another breath. "I need to let you know how I feel about you. I'm not sure if you feel the same about me—I know we always thought of ourselves as brother and sister, or as friends—but now—"

She stopped, winded. Adaon had launched himself from the bench and flung his arms around her. After she regained her breath, she gently released herself enough to see his face. What it told her made her very happy indeed.

"Arianllyn," Adaon murmured, catching her again in his arms, "I have been such a fool."

He laid much emphasis on the last word, though it came out a bit muffled as his face was buried in her hair. Then, he took her hand and, rising from the ground where they had both been kneeling, settled them on the bench.

"I only realized I loved you—not in a brother and sister way, I mean—during this past year," he explained. "I don't know why I had not known it before. I think I loved you that way all along—"

"As I did you," said Arianllyn happily. "Look, let's be easy on ourselves, shall we? We started as dear friends, and we still are. That's the best kind of love, when it's added to the kind we feel now."

"Well," said Adaon, "you needed to take the first step, just as mother did with my father. I don't know what it is with us men." He smilingly shook his head. "But I hope you will let me be first in one thing, at least."

He leaned forward and kissed her. A long moment later, Arianllyn said, "Mmm. I liked that. Can we do it again?"

Later that evening, four happy people gathered for a private supper in Taliesin's chambers. Arianwen and Taliesin beamed at the young people. Arianllyn and Adaon beamed at each other.

Their happiness was not perfect, of course, as is nothing in this world, and certainly not in Prydain at that moment. Before dinner, Adaon and Taliesin had gently informed Arianllyn and Arianwen of Adaon's imminent departure to fight with Lord Gwydion. And thus the many kinds of love that filled the room that evening—of lovers, of parents, of friends—were the more intense because of impending danger. Yet each person in the room was content to live in that moment alone. So they banished fear, and focused on joy instead.

There was a certain amount of story-telling—the story Arianwen and Taliesin told of their hopes that Adaon and Arianllyn would wed, the parents' story (garnering rueful laughs from the young people) of how they discovered their children's hopes for their own marriage. Adaon and Arianllyn each took turns telling how they had finally realized they were in love. They all pitied Llawdden.

"When should we tell him?" Arianllyn worried. "I'm afraid he really will fall apart. Oh well—we can't have him courting me now, can we? I'll just try to let him down gently."

"And," she added, "I do hope he can find someone else to study with."

Everyone wondered when the marriage would take place.

"It sounds," Adaon said slowly, "as if Lord Gwydion intends to keep me quite busy for this next year or so. And, I must confess I had wanted to travel a bit more—closer to home, though," he continued, seeing the women's faces. "I'll have to fit everything in around service with Lord Gwydion. And I would give up my plans to travel, save that they are not selfish ones—I'm not so much hoping to learn things as to use my knowledge to help others. Several nearby cantrevs have a history of bad crops, and I learned some skills in the commots that could be of assistance. Perhaps," he turned to Arianllyn, "we could do such work together, after we were wed. That is, if you wouldn't mind the hardship."

"As long as I was with you, I wouldn't," laughed Arianllyn. "But, while I'm waiting for you to get back from fighting, I have things to do here, too. I have decided," she announced, "to study for my bardic exams. That should keep me busy for a while, at least."

The others expressed their pride and delight at her resolution.

"Excellent," Taliesin declared, "we need more women like you! Alas, since my wife's time few have presented themselves for initiation."

"Well," said Arianllyn, "I realized, you know, when I was tutoring Llawdden how much I knew. Time to do something about it."

"Hmm," mused Arianwen, a mischievous light in her blue eyes. "Are you listening, Adaon? Arianllyn might beat you to the council hall if you don't watch out!"

"So she might," laughed Adaon, who seemed for once to enjoy comments about the exams. "She beat me to declaring her love—why not to that, too?"

"Don't worry!" Arianllyn smiled, turning to Taliesin, "when I'm ready, I may just drag him along with me!"

And once again they all laughed, their faces lit by the glowing candles on the table.

Epilogue: A Flame in the Wind

In years to come—after Adaon met his death in the quest to destroy Arawn's enchanted cauldron—the three people who shared dinner with him that night would recall the flickering candlelight, and think it the fittest emblem of their happiness over the marriage that was never to be. Like such fugitive perfection, our lives are a flame that all too quickly burns out. And yet it is not in shared brevity alone that the span of mortal years is like a candle. At a very few moments in our lives, our gentlest and fiercest joys draw a magic circle that, like the taper's glow, keeps at bay the great darkness pressing around us. True, whenever they looked back on that evening Arianllyn, Taliesin, and Arianwen wept over its lost promise. But even as they did so they remembered Adaon, and within them the light of life and love would flare up again, and they would shield its wavering flame from the wind with their sheltering hands.