Night Bird's Reign by Holly Taylor Page A

late,” Cynan sighed.
    Slowly, with Uthyr’s aid, Ygraine crossed the grove and stood before the three men. Uthyr looked anxious and weary, but he stood firmly by his wife’s side.
    “What are you doing here?” Ygraine asked. “I told Cynan to allow no one else.” She stopped abruptly, a spasm of pain rippling across her face. Then she turned her cool, dark eyes on Gwydion.
    “Let me guess,” Gwydion said. “You want me to leave.”
    “Out.”
    Gwydion withdrew from the grove without argument. He wasn’t going to tangle with her over such a minor issue. He could observe the birth from the shelter of the surrounding trees. Quietly he returned to the edge of the clearing, screening himself behind the trees. The sky drew darker by the minute. Soon they would have to light the torches. He squinted up at the sky. The sun was almost two-thirds covered now and the wind was picking up.
    “Didn’t go too far, did you?” Amatheon spoke in his mind.
    “No one’s going to keep me from this, brother. Or don’t you recall who is being born today?” Gwydion replied.
    “I know.”
    Uthyr continued to walk with Ygraine at a steady pace around and around the grove. Amatheon and Cynan lit torches as the sky continued to darken.
    Flicker. Again that movement—just out of one’s range of sight. Gwydion turned his head quickly, but could not see anything out of the ordinary. Yet there was something there. He knew it. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he shivered as the darkness continued to swallow the grove.
    “Now, I think.” Ygraine said to Uthyr. He guided her to the blanket and helped her down onto it. She lay propped up against the backrest, her hands gripping the wooden arms, her legs drawn up and apart, as Amatheon knelt in front of her. Cynan dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water, and gently sponged her face.
    “All right, Ygraine,” Amatheon said quietly. “Push.”
    Ygraine took a deep breath and bore down.
    “Again,” Amatheon said.
    The wind moaned through the trees. To Gwydion it sounded like a howling beast. Or horns, he thought suddenly, the horns of the Hunt.
    Flicker. Again the brief movement at the edge of his vision. And again, nothing there. The darkness was almost complete. A thin, fiery ring was all that remained of the sun, the center filled with darkness.
    Then the light was gone. The stars seemed to spring from the sky, shining coldly in the sudden night.
    “Again,” Amatheon ordered.
    Ygraine took a deep breath and pushed. “Now. Oh, Shining Ones,” she gasped.
    Suddenly, in the very center of the grove, two figures appeared. To Gwydion’s eyes, they seemed to glow in the darkness. One figure had antlers springing from his forehead, untamed topaz eyes glimmering. The other was a woman with long, black hair and a pitiless, amethyst gaze. His dream had come to the grove as Cerrunnos and Cerridwen, standing motionless, stared down at the woman on the blanket.
    Neither Uthyr nor Ygraine gave any sign that they saw the two glowing figures. But Gwydion saw Amatheon’s and Cynan’s eyes widen, and heard them draw in a quick breath. But at Uthyr’s anxious, questioning gaze they shook their heads, indicating that nothing was amiss.
    Then Cerrunnos raised a horn to his lips, and, as Ygraine’s single, shocking scream tore through the air, he blew the horn. The two sounds mingled in a dreadful counterpoint, and then the grove was quiet. The figures were gone. A small, pitiful wail rose up into the dark sky.
    “A boy,” Amatheon called out in delight. “A beautiful, sturdy, healthy boy.” Gently, he laid the squirming baby on Ygraine’s belly. She reached out a trembling hand to the child. “A son,” she whispered. She turned her head slightly to look at Uthyr, crouched next to her. “My love, we have a son!”
    Uthyr stared at the baby, then gently kissed Ygraine’s forehead. “Yes, cariad. We have a son this day.”
    Amatheon reached for the child. With woolen thread he