Night Bird's Reign by Holly Taylor

dance!” Cai shouted again. A few hardy souls grabbed Gwydion by the arms and hauled him up to a grinning Cai. Laughing, Nest and Cai each grabbed a hand.
    “Now, Dreamer, dance with us!” Cai said. Gwydion did, executing the complex steps perfectly.
    “Why, Gwydion, you’re a wonderful dancer,” Nest complimented him. “I never knew that!”
    “That’s because he never dances,” her husband replied.
    “Why not?” Nest asked curiously.
    “I don’t like it,” Gwydion replied shortly.
    “Dancing’s too fun, right? Never met a man who hated to have fun as much as you do. Except for Madoc.”
    “There’s no need to be insulting, Cai.” Gwydion said stiffly.
    “Come now,” Nest laughed. “If Cai didn’t insult you then you’d need to worry!”
    When the dance was over Gwydion slipped away from the ring. The sky was darkening perceptibly.
    “When’s the next one?” Cai asked to Griffi, nodding up at the eclipsing sun.
    “Exactly eighteen years from now,” Griffi replied.
    “I wonder where we’ll all be then?” Cai mused.
    “Oh, we’ll all be old and fat, I’m sure. Isn’t that right, Gwydion?” Griffi asked, grinning.
    Gwydion hesitated. He cleared his throat, absently scratching at his short beard. “Of course. We’ll all be old and fat. Particularly Cai, here.”
    “Why do you grow that beard if it itches?” Nest asked curiously.
    “I like it,” Gwydion replied shortly.
    “Sky’s getting darker,” Susanna said.
    “I’m going to the grove.” Gwydion announced. “That is, if the king of Calan Llachar will allow me?” He gave Cai a mock bow.
    “Indeed, you may go my good man.” Cai replied haughtily. “You may give Ygraine my best regards.”
    “Oh, sure. That’s one way to get beaten to a pulp,” Gwydion said sourly as he began to make his way out of the square. As he walked through the crowd he was so intent on his own thoughts that he did not notice that people instantly give way before him, fairly melting out of his path.
    As he neared the grove, the ring of alder trees shivered. The wind was coming up, as the sky grew dim. Making his way through the trees, Gwydion noticed that the birds had stopped singing. An unearthly silence was spreading over the grove, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves stirred by the stiffening breeze.
    Ygraine was walking the perimeter of the clearing, supported by Uthyr, who was speaking in low, encouraging tones. Her white over-robe discarded, she wore a short rose-colored linen shift, now drenched with sweat. Her hair was braided tightly to her scalp, and her still imperious back was to Gwydion.
    Amatheon stood by the altar stone, arms folded, absently eyeing the darkening sky. On the grass next to the stone a wool blanket had been spread, a low backrest squatting on the blanket. The back was covered with a cushion, the Hawk of Gwynedd embroidered on it in silver thread. The wooden arms were polished to a smooth, satiny finish.
    Cynan was standing on the other side of the stone, supervising a small fire, where a pot of water was boiling. Another pot of water sat on the ground close by. A tiny woolen blanket, a large golden bowl, and a jar of oil rested on top of the stone.
    “How goes it?” Gwydion asked Cynan.
    “Oh, hello, Gwydion. It won’t be long now.” Cynan’s eyes darted nervously across the grove to Ygraine. “I don’t think she wants you here.”
    Cynan looked decidedly uncomfortable. He, too, had seen the figures last night. Perhaps he also feels the tension in the air, Gwydion mused. Now that his hangover was beginning to subside, Gwydion was aware once again of the feeling that something—that someone—was coming.
    A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn quickly. He stared hard at the trees, but nothing looked out of place.
    “Who won the race, Gwydion?” Amatheon asked, joining them.
    “Cai did. Madoc came in second.”
    “Gwydion, I really don’t think Ygraine—too