The Curses of Arianrhod (A Bard Without a Star Book 4) Read online

  Chapter 2: The Ousel

  They had a following wind on the return trip, and Gwydion and the boy landed back in Bangreen four days later. He deliberately landed on a deserted, gravelly beach several miles from the nearest town or village, and left the currach where he pulled it out of the water. The boy scrambled after him. “Don’t you want to tie it to a rock or something?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “To go back to see my mother.”

  Gwydion sat on a salt encrusted rock and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know if there’s any point,” he said. “I have tried everything I can think of, including talking to her, and it’s only getting worse, not better.”

  He looked up, and it took him a moment before his eyes would focus on the boy. He pulled him into a hug, and said, “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “It’s okay,” the boy said, hugging him back. “You’re my Da. You’re the bravest, smartest man in the world. You’ll figure it out.”

  Gwydion held the boy tight, marveling at his simple faith. “I sure hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I am.”

  Gwydion laughed. “Alright, little one. Let’s make the boat secure, and then we’ll see what happens next. Just stick close, and tug my cloak often.”

  They followed a faint path inland, and made their way to a more well-travelled road going north and south. Gwydion turned to go north, but felt a tugging on his cloak. “Da, I think we should go that way,” the boy said, pointing south.

  “And why is that, little one?”

  The boy shrugged. “It just feels right.”

  Gwydion felt irritated, and picked the boy up, intending to follow his original plan. But as soon as he did, he felt the same thing the boy had spoken of: south seemed right, and north seemed wrong. “That’s amazing,” he said.

  The boy laughed and hugged his neck. “I told you we would figure it out.”

  “We?” Gwydion said. “I think it’s mostly you.”

  They started south, and just when Gwydion was starting to think about stopping for the night, they heard a faint cry. “What was that?” the boy said.

  “I’m not sure,” said Gwydion. “Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

  “Up there,” the boy said. “In those bushes.”

  Gwydion looked at the bramble patch the boy pointed at. When he heard the cry again, he saw a rustle in the branches. “I think you may be right. Stick close, while I take a look.”

  Gwydion peered into the bushes, and saw a sparrow struggling to be free. “You certainly have gotten yourself wedged in there, little one,” he said. “I wonder how you managed that?”

  “I was trying to get away from a falcon that wanted me for dinner,” the sparrow said.

  “You talk?”

  “As well as you do, Gwydion ap Don.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  The little bird clicked his beak, and Gwydion realized it was a chuckle. “All birds know the famous Raven of Glencairck,” he said.

  Gwydion bowed. “I should have realized, with the way birds gossip. Now, let’s see what I can do to get you out of there.”

  It took him almost thirty minutes, and his hands looked like he had wrestled a cat, but he freed the small bird. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, hopping onto Gwydion’s shoulder. “My life is yours, for any service I might give you. But tell me, who is this fine young lad?”

  Gwydion looked around for a moment before he remembered his son. “You can see him?”

  “Plain as an egg in a nest,” the sparrow said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “He’s been cursed.”

  The sparrow whistled sadly. “He’s such a fledging to be bearing so much.”

  The boy watched him intently. “I never knew birds talked.”

  “In human speech, few of us do,” the sparrow said. “But I learned the trick of it some years ago from a wizard.”

  “Do you talk to people much?” the boy asked.

  “Compared to other birds, no,” the sparrow said.

  “I’m wondering why the curse doesn’t affect you,” Gwydion said.

  “Maybe because birds do not need names as much as humans do,” the bird said.

  The boy scrunched up his face. “How do you know who you are?”

  “The same way you do,” the sparrow said. “Even if no one else knows me, I know myself. It’s all I need.”

  “So what should I call you?”

  “Whatever you like,” the bird said with a whistling laugh.

  The boy held out his hand, and the bird hopped onto it. “I think I’ll call you Beaky.”

  “It suits me well,” the bird said. He whistled a merry tune, then said, “Now, since you have shown me such kindness, perhaps I can show you some in return. Not too far from here, there lives a very wise old bird, the Ousel of Penwyth, who might be able to help you break this curse.”

  Gwydion said, “Not too far in bird terms or human terms?”

  “Bird terms, of course.”

  “Of course,” Gwydion grunted. A thought struck him. “Does the Ousel live near the sea, perchance?”

  “Everywhere is close to the sea in Penwyth,” Beaky said. “Why?”

  “Because,” Gwydion said, “We have a fine boat near here, which would help us get there faster.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Beaky said.

  They didn’t get back to the beach until the next morning, but Gwydion noticed that having Beaky around made it easier to remember the boy. The talking bird drew his attention naturally, and then he would see the boy and remember who he was. He also felt relief that someone was looking out for his son who could remember him.

  The currach was right where they had left it, and Beaky circled the mast as Gwydion pushed it into the surf and rowed past the breakers. Then the sparrow came down and alighted on the boy’s knee. The bird told him to steer south, and stick to the coast line. Then he started telling the boy stories about the birds: how the owl became a night hunter, how the canary learned to sing, and how the wren became the king of all birds.

  “And what about the Ousel?” the boy asked. “What kind of bird is he?”

  “A blackbird,” Beaky said. “Looks somewhat like a raven, but he’s much bigger, and much older. They say he hatched when Bangreen first rose from the sea, and has watched every battle ever fought on our shores.”

  “Does he know much of Glencairck?” Gwydion asked.

  “He knows a lot about everything,” Beaky said. “He speaks the language of every creature, and every language of men. He can take any form, and has at one point or another. But he is a bird, through and through.”

  “This ought to be interesting,” Gwydion said.

  They sailed for two days, with Beaky regularly flying high into the air to gauge their progress. Finally he said, “I think there’s a good place for boats up ahead.”

  Gwydion guided the currach to a tiny cove that had a sandy beach surrounded by high rocky cliffs. “Is there a way up?” he asked as he pulled the boat out of the water and took the boy in his arms.

  “Over this way,” Beaky said, and led them to a barely visible path. As they climbed, the way grew smoother and more obvious, until they made it to the top where the path became wide and well worn.

  The ground stretched away in a flat moor, covered with heather and dotted with boulders. A single tree grew in the middle of it all, incongruous with its tall waving branches and thick green foliage. “Is that the Ousel’s home?” Gwydion asked.

  “You thought he would live on the ground?” Beaky said.

  “I never know what to expect anymore,” Gwydion answered.

  As they hiked over to the tree, Gwydion began to appreciate just how large it was. By the time they stood next to the trunk, he was looking up at the lowest branches. A dozen men would be needed to ring the trunk, and a thick carpet of dead leaves covered the ground. “Wait here,” Beaky said, and flitted up into the greenery.

  Gwydion heard him
chirping high above, and an answering rumble that was deeper than he had ever heard from a bird. Beaky came back and said, “The Ousel will see you now.”

  Without a thought, Gwydion shapeshifted into raven form. He experienced a moment of disorientation as he remembered everything about his son in a rush. “Should I try to get my son up there as well?” he asked the sparrow.

  “No, no,” Beaky replied. “I’ll keep the lad company while you talk.”

  “Thank you,” Gwydion said, and flew up into the leaves.

  The Ousel sat in a green hollow near the top of the tree, where the branches formed a ball the shielded him from the sun and wind, but still spoke of the outside world with rustling leaves. He stood taller than a man, with slick black feathers streaked with grey and great amber eyes. Gwydion landed at a respectful distance, and bowed low.

  “Welcome, Gwydion ap Don,” the Ousel said. His voice creaked with age.

  “Great Ousel,” Gwydion replied. “I come seeking wisdom.”

  “What vexes the Raven of Glencairck, that he seeks help?”

  Gwydion cocked a suspicious eye at the old bird. “I think you know,” he said. “So why ask?”

  “Because the telling sometimes helps the mind to work,” the Ousel answered. He ruffled his feathers.

  “My son is cursed by his mother to never have a name,” Gwydion said.

  “Never?”

  “Not unless she gives him one.”

  “And you came to me because...?” the Ousel said.

  “Because I have tried to find a solution to this riddle, but I am too affected by the curse itself, I think,” Gwydion said. “I forget him as soon as he leaves my sight, and it is becoming harder to remember him even when looking right at him.”

  “You remember him now.”

  “As a raven, yes,” Gwydion said.

  The Ousel clacked his beak. “So raise him as a bird.”

  Gwydion sighed. “I thought of that as I flew through your tree. And even though he may be able to shapeshift later, he cannot yet.”

  “You could change him,” the Ousel said.

  Gwydion shook his head. “It is better to let him choose. And at some point, he might like to walk among men as a man himself. No, I would rather break this curse than simply dodge its effects for a short time.”

  The Ousel bobbed his head. “You do well for a man,” he said. “Your reasoning is sound, and you have answered many of your own questions. Now, come fly with me.”

  He launched himself through the top of the tree, not spreading his wings until he was clear of the leaves. Gwydion followed quickly, feeling dwarfed in the shadow of wings that stretched a hundred feet wide. The down sweep alone buffeted Gwydion about like a gale. He fell back and used his quicker acceleration to get above the Ousel, staying near the great amber eyes.

  “Very good,” the Ousel said. He spread his wings wide and drifted on the wind. Below them, caers and duns formed small patchwork quilts between desolate stretches of moor or thick forests. “I came out of my shell before men ever walked upon this land, and have watched their folly and glory as they have lived, loved, fought and died. Your situation is neither the most nor the least grievous.”

  “I am simply trying to help my son,” Gwydion replied.

  “I didn’t say your motives were ignoble,” the Ousel said. “Your motives speak well of you, and all you have learned. But this curse, while not trivial, is by no means insurmountable.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  The Ousel said, “For you? Trickery.”

  Gwydion could hear the gentle chuckle in the words. “I am trying to live an honorable life,” he replied. “I want my son to have a good example.”

  “You worry about your son going through the difficulties you went through,” the Ousel said.

  “I want him to be better than I was.”

  “Let us speak of your fears a moment,” the Ousel said. “I have seen untold creatures born, watched their lives as they passed through childhood and into adulthood. Good parents have had wicked children, who have in turn had good children. There is no direct correlation between where you come from and where you're going, because the journey affects each of us unexpected ways. How angry were you at your parents, who died when you were not much older that your son is now?”

  “You know of my parents?” Gwydion said.

  “I know a lot about most things,” the Ousel said. “You were not quite six when the consumption swept through Gwynedd, and left some families completely alone while others died out entirely. Your uncle took you in then, and began grooming you to succeed him. But I know you resisted him and most everyone for several years.”

  “I felt so lost without them,” Gwydion said, barely louder than the wind. “It felt unfair. I lost two sisters as well, and yet my cousin Gilventhy kept both of his sisters and his parents.”

  “He did lose two older brothers,” the Ousel said.

  “Which is how I was able to let him in at last,” Gwydion said. “By recognizing his pain, that everyone had lost loved ones, not just me.”

  “But look at your son” the Ousel said. “He has been rejected by his mother since before he was born, yet he is neither bitter nor surly. He is even at this moment making friends with a small sparrow that will probably be important to him all his life.”

  Gwydion flew along in silence for a bit. “So I should use the skills I have, and not worry that he will be influenced by them.”

  “Oh, he’ll be influenced,” the Ousel said. “Just in his own way. You worry about honor in dealing with Arianrhod, but you are not being dishonorable by tricking her. You are merely using guile and intelligence when honesty and raw power accomplish nothing. Look down.”

  Gwydion looked over the Ousel’s shoulder, surprised to see the blue ocean below. But he also saw a grey island with a stone pier and stone seawall. “Caer Sidi,” he said.

  “Arianrhod is even now looking up at us, though she only sees me,” the Ousel said. “And she has no idea how high we are. She thinks I am a crow, or some seabird she has never seen. And if she suspected it were you, she would have every archer fire until you were dead or they had run out of arrows.”

  “It’s not a matter of dishonor,” Gwydion said. “It’s a matter of survival.”

  “Hunger always trumps manners,” the Ousel said. “The honor is the eating, not the etiquette.”

  Caer Sidi disappeared behind them, and the Ousel began a long slow bank back to the north. Gwydion said little as they flew over Glencairck, then over the mountains back to Bangreen. When they reached Penwyth, the Ousel closed his wings and plummeted down, snapping them open only moments before hitting his tree. He hovered a moment, then dropped into the leaves.

  Gwydion followed in slow spirals, using the descent to think about what the Ousel had said, and what he had not said. He landed back in the same perch that he had left, and said, “I have one more question: how do I trick her into giving a stranger a name?”

  “That’s the beauty of it,” the Ousel said. “She does not have to say, ‘His name is...’ She merely has to say ‘He is...’ And because she made the curse, and is the only one who can break it, she can always see your son. Your job is to trick her into spending time around the boy so that she may say the words to break the curse. You will know when she has, because all your memory of your son will return in an instant.”

  “I wish I could stay as a raven during all this,” Gwydion said. “I told him I would call him Melyn the day I met him, the day he was cursed. I’m sure he thinks I have forgotten, and when I am a man, I do forget.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he feels, but it breaks my heart.”

  “He is a good boy, who loves you tremendously,” the Ousel said. “He is also quite wise for his few years. He knows how hard you are trying, and does not think of forgiving you, because he thinks you have done nothing wrong.”

  “How do I raise a child like that?”

  The Ousel chuckled. “If I knew the an
swer to that, I would be wise indeed.”

  Chapter 3: The Trick

  They went back to the boat after a night spent under the great tree, listening to the Ousel tell stories from the beginning days of both Glencairck and Bangreen. The boy listened with rapt wonder, and Gwydion had to agree: he had never heard the stories before, of the days when the Three Queens of Glencairck and the Three Kings of Bangreen lived together harmoniously. It had been before the mountains had been raised, and before the forests had grown. He told them of how the harmony had been broken by jealousy and stubbornness, and how the two countries had been at odds ever since. Gwydion thought to himself that it felt much like his relationship with Arianrhod: loving at first, but now acrimonious to the end of his days. He sighed himself to sleep.

  In the morning, after they set sail, he began planning how best to trick Ari into spending time around them. Beaky gave him advice. “Your job is to remember that you are trying to spend time in her presence to break a curse,” the sparrow said. “If you try to remember what the curse is, or why it is even important, you will forget everything.”

  “It’s hard,” Gwydion said, hugging his son tight. “I can feel the curse getting stronger. If I do not make an effort to notice him, he slips from my mind like morning mist.”

  Beaky bobbed his head. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

  “You have done well by us so far,” Gwydion said. “Now, to figure out how to lure her out of the caer.”

  “Why not be invited in?” Beaky said.

  “Because I don’t want to have to fight my way out when we break the curse.”

  “Excellent reason,” the little bird said with a whistling laugh.

  “You would also be very out of place if we went indoors,” Gwydion said. “I need you nearby and accessible, in case you see me forgetting what I need to do.”

  “Another good point,” Beaky said. “So, what weakness might we exploit to draw her forth?”

  Gwydion stroked his beard. “I’ve been giving that some thought,” he said. “I’m thinking we should play on her vanity...”